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“I’m not a good dancer.”
She startled, and her goblet of wine teetered dangerously before she recovered and placed in on the table. They were the first voluntary words he’d spoken to her since their vows. It was as dour a confession as one might expect from such a man. The stories of the war, his recent victory had made her expect someone far more like Brandon. Perhaps even, merely a younger version, with all the fury and his fair share of charm. Meeting him mere hours ago had been a surprise. A warrior perhaps he may be, but the man who kissed her hand had no teasing glint in his eye, no self-satisfied smirk on his lips. There was no boldness, no hidden, entrancing danger. Cat had struggled to find a smile herself, perhaps he could sense that she looked for Brandon in his face. Perhaps in hers, he saw only his brother’s betrothed.
“You must be weary, my lord. There is no need to dance tonight.”
“I—” He cleared his throat. “My apologies. I—I meant to ask if you would do me the honor. I was not offering my excuses, I was intending to prepare you. I would not want to embarrass you, but a bride should dance on her wedding.” He sighed, perhaps disappointed for some reason or another. If Cat hadn’t known better, she would have guessed that he was nervous.
“Then we shall dance, my lord, and worry out the steps together.”
He was not as tall as his brother she realized, when she placed her hand on his arm. She told herself not flinch when his hand settled on her waist, but there was some part of her that had not yet been convinced there was no disloyalty to her betrothed now that Eddard, not his brother, was her husband. To her disappointment, he was not as handsome as Brandon, and she felt guilty that it had been one of her first thoughts upon meeting him, but the Stark look was still there, the long face, the piercing grey eyes. Suddenly, she felt a burning in her eyes, a tightening in her throat. She’d laughed while dancing with Brandon once upon a time, now he was gone, and her husband who so woodenly moved her about the floor now, would in a matter of days ride to war, might soon follow his brother into death. There had been so little time with her former betrothed, she had not truly known Brandon, she knew Eddard not at all. Loss, and an overwhelming fear, swallowed her nonetheless.
“We do not have such fine singers in Winterfell, or such gatherings often, but there is beauty in the North. I hope to show it to you one day.”
This time she was not as startled when he spoke. Rather, she was touched. Mayhap he was not opposed to this marriage, merely struggled as much as she this day. He too had lost Brandon. She pushed her thoughts away and attempted a smile, “One day soon.” She saw some lightness in her face then, no laughter or flash of a brilliant smile, but a quirk to his lips, a brightness in his eye. Hope may have dawned on him for the first time since this dreadful war began. Perhaps it would dawn on her as well.
Not in the moment, no, presently, her husband was proving just how not mistaken in his dancing ability he was. She'd never had a partner who was as clearly discomfited, he winced more than once at a turn. His eyes followed the other dancers, to make sure he was in step, and she could not help but think it strange that a man who led men into war and to great victory, had so little confidence when it came to moving her through the steps of a dance. He was so miserable, she might end his suffering and prevent her own. She took a breath, "Would--do you--"
"My lady?"
"Might we end this dance early and escape the bedding ceremony?"
His solemn face was unreadable, but his response was immediate, "Of course."
The passage to her room was lit but deserted. She should make conversation, find something, anything to alleviate the silence. The only words that came to her were condolences she had already offered. If it had been Brandon, there would have been a jovial bedding, there would have been laughter, crude comments, there would have been joy. Instead, there was the scuff of their feet against the stones, the whisper of her sleeve as it brushed against him, a determined and unbroken stride with nary a cheeky comment, not even a look, from her husband.
It felt like a forbidden tryst when they came to her room. No man had ever entered with her, but whatever reluctance she felt, it was nothing to her husband's. She had to gently tug on his arm to get him to follow her. Robert's ways were well known, Brandon had been brash, and she could only assume he'd behaved as any young man, she had expected something of the same from Ned. It occurred to her now that perhaps he needed to be led in some matters. Just as he fumbled through a dance, he seemed likely to fumble through the bedding. Although to guide him through this herself, she would not know where to begin. Lord Eddard was studying a tapestry, so intently, she felt certain he was searching it's threads for an excuse to avoid looking her now they were alone.
Action was easier than words. If he would not address her, she would simply undress herself. Her gown was half off her shoulder before he realized what she was doing and interrupted, “There is no need, no need of that tonight.”
"If you don't intend to--" Her face hardened. "Shouldn't you have rejected this match before the wedding?"
"No, I had no intention of--I do not--my apologies. I--" Her husband's mild manners were disrupted by some great distress, his cool demeanor shaken. He stormed to her window and flung it open, taking deep gasps of the evening air as if he has been suffocating all this time.
"Are you well? Should I call for--"
"It is my brother you look for in my face."
Her hands clutched at her gown holding it tightly to her chest. Her thoughts had wandered, it was true. She'd hoped this man wouldn't be aware of how much. Brandon would not have--
"Today, my brother occupied your thoughts. As he did mine." Ned ran his hand over his patchy beard.
It was freshly trimmed. As silly as the thought was, it pleased her he'd made an effort. Beneath it, she saw surprisingly pale, round cheeks. A weary boy face, poorly disguised as a man's. If he would not have her, what would happen of this marriage. What if he thought to leave her, sleep elsewhere? What if the castle might learn what they had not done this night? She could not allow that. What would her father say? She had the strongest desire to curl into a ball upon her bed and weep, but a stranger stood in her room, seemingly as close to tears as herself.
This should have been a time for mourning, instead, it was her wedding night. And her husband could not bring himself to touch her.
It was a wedding neither expected, a wedding night neither wanted, yet she could not accept defeat. Fearless leader of men he might be, but tonight in her chambers, he seemed prepared to retreat. He'd caught her off-guard at every turn today. Although, she should have known he was not at ease upon entering her chambers, or during the meal, or even earlier, when he had stood silently next to her with nary a smile. He had not even been comfortable holding her to dance. “You must bed me. All would be naught if you do not.”
"I do not leave for some time. Perhaps we could sleep now and another night--"
"Your consideration speaks well of you. However I--"
"You had no say when betrothed to one Stark son, or in the marriage to another. I will not bed an unwilling woman. I cannot."
"I am willing, my lord."
Unmoved, he looked from the window rather than to her. "My sister," he said, in a deep voice, strained with emotion, "She did not want to marry the man she was betrothed to. She told me. Now, she has been kidnapped by another. You may not have chosen my brother, but at least you had met, and he charmed you. I fear that I am not capable of such."
She flushed. She had not been so transparent in her disappointment, she was sure. Apparently, his eyes missed little.
“Of course I would not force you. I know not what you feel about...anything that has happened. I merely wondered if we might take some time to…to get to know each other first and then in a day or two...."
Catelyn joined him at the window. "I knew I would marry someone of my father's choosing. I've known that all my life. I have accepted it." She hesitated, but placed her hand on his arm, to recall him from the painful memories which troubled him so. Eddard surprised her then, again, by offering his hand. She hesitated only a moment, before placing her own in his. Not a tall man, shorter than Brandon, his hand dwarfed hers all the same. She did not consider herself a fine lady, but she became sensible of how delicate and soft her hands were, as his rough, thick fingers held them tight. His thumb stroked across her knuckles, and she choked out the words, “I always do my duty, my lord. I would not shirk it tonight.”
He spoke gently, soothingly, "No, I did not think you would. We are strangers, you and I. Worse, once destined to become family by other means. It would not please me for tonight to be a tainted memory."
"We cannot help what has brought this marriage about or what will follow. But you took me to wife mere hours ago, and I wish you to honor that, and me, by consummating this marriage."
"I would not hurt you, my lady," softly.
"You will not," firmly, and with some frustration.
At last she felt the full force of Stark eyes upon her. He looked at her intently, and in the grey of his eyes, she found grief. "I fear that by touching you, I do."
From the darkness beyond her window, the river seemed to slow in order to match her husband’s mood, a somber flow, rather than the vigorous roar she preferred, or the delicate melody that so often sung to her in dreams. Cat could give in. They could sleep innocently, side-by-side without touching. If they had time to grieve together, perhaps time would lessen their guilt. But he would away to war, she had already lost one betrothed, she may very well lose a husband as well. There was no alleviating their suffering, no promised future in which they were untouched by troubles. Only, a child, an heir to house Stark, it would be a comfort to a man who had lost much of his family. And to her, a son she might hold in her arms. No, this could not hurt her. She wanted to, more than she had ever dreamed. This stranger who refused to touch her, he was not the cause of her pain, he couldn't be. She tugged on his hand, "Dance with me again."
"I thought we already established that I cannot dance."
"If you hold me very close, I promise, you shall."
She reached her hand up to his shoulder, slid it further, until it tangled in the hair on his neck.
His hand found her waist, slid further, pulled her against him, slowly, cautiously, as if he thought she would think better of her demand.
Boldly, she came much closer than he intended, allowed her breasts to brush against his chest. She half expected him to withdrawal, to gently dissuade her in another way. Instead, he held her to himself, and a curious flush flooded over her. Suddenly, she struggled to meet his gaze. "When we move together, you will find that there are no longer wrong steps." Embarrassingly, her reassurance came out in a shy, breathy voice she could not recognize as her own. Whatever discomfort he'd felt tonight, he successfully made her feel as equally flustered. One shoulder of her loosened gown began to slide, revealed her pale skin. She made no effort to adjust it, not when he focused on the faint freckles that emerged to the sun's call, the delicate line of her collarbone, the rise and fall of her chest, her soft curves, barely concealed.
"I am a creature of duty, my lord." It could not be called a dance, rather, they swayed together. It made Cat tremble.
“I would wish it be more than that between us.”
She could feel each of his fingers against her ribs, his breath warm on her cheek. He'd bathed too, before their wedding, the fresh scent of soap overwhelmed her as his arms enveloped her. She told her heart to still, to not be a foolish thing. Just as stubborn as she, it refused to listen, proceeded at a wild gallop, although their gentle movements had ceased. Embarrassed by his confession, Ned forced himself to look at her all the same, and the strange warmth of his body, the ways hers responded, had her eyes fall to her feet.
“As would I. Tonight, please accept our duty, and in time, mayhap it will be more.”
His thumb had a scar, she could feel it on her chin as he lifted her face ever so gently. “I will give you more than duty, my lady.”
“Is it not enough to be a fierce fighter in Robert's Rebellion?" She furiously blinked away tears. Relief that she had won, nerves, for all her determination, and affection, that a stranger would offer her sentiment, despite his reticent nature. "Must you also play the romantic hero to my maiden?"
“Alas, it was -- others who could play that role. I am no singer, I cannot enchant you, I can barely dance for you. However, I keep my promises. We do not know each other well, but you will learn, I’m a man of my word.”
When he looked into her eyes then, she did not think he saw memories of another man, only himself reflected in their deep, Tully blue. When he traced his thumb down the curve of her cheek, he must, surely, he must only be seeing her. He was not bold, he was sincere. She rose up on her toes to bring her lips to his in a soft whisper of a kiss, “I believe you.”