ARC II: THE ERA OF EXPANSION AND THE ANNIHILATION OF THE GREYJOYS
Chapter 17: The Sin in the Godswood
POV: Catelyn Tully (289 AC)
Foolish.
That was the word that best described me. Foolish for believing that Robert's sudden affection during the campaign would last any longer than a bard's strum. Foolish for thinking that the clang of steel and the burden of war had changed anything fundamental in my husband's nature. Foolish, above all, for allowing hope to bloom once more in my chest, only to watch it wither, trampled and forgotten like all the other times.
The royal wheelhouse pressed forward along the mystical Kingsroad. The path, once a mere track of packed dirt and mud, now showed itself proudly paved with great blocks of runestone, whose ancestral carvings glowed with a faint, bluish light beneath the pale Northern sun. Through the polished glass window, I observed the transformed landscape, feeling the contrast of the outside world with the winter freezing my own soul.
During the Greyjoy Rebellion, I had accompanied Robert to Casterly Rock—a political decision that, at the time, seemed to work a true miracle in our marriage. He had taken me to his chambers three times during our stay in the Lannister stronghold. Three times in two months. For any other noble wife, such a number would be a cause for mockery; for me, accustomed to total indifference, it was a rebirth.
I remember how he held my hand during the banquets hosted by Lord Tywin. He would consult me on military strategies—or pretend to, which was already more consideration than I had received in nine years of marriage. He had even praised the fit of my gown one evening, a compliment so sudden and clumsy that my hands trembled, nearly spilling wine across the table. Robert, revigorated by the call to arms and the promise of blood, had seemed like the clear-eyed warrior my father, Hoster Tully, had promised me when he handed me over to the new king.
But the reality of the South exacts its toll swiftly. It all fell apart within the first week of our return to King's Landing.
It took nothing more than his discovery of a new brothel on the Street of Silk for the unspoken promises to evaporate. Within three days, Robert returned to bed drunk before nightfall. Within a week, the whores circulated through the Red Keep with an audacity that rivaled that of my ladies-in-waiting. Within two weeks, the spark in his eyes vanished whenever he looked at me. I had become invisible once more. An expensive, ostentatious piece of furniture on the Iron Throne.
And now, a moon after the crushing victory over the Ironborn, we were crossing the borders of the North. We were traveling to the independent kingdom that a boy had torn from the clutches of the Seven Kingdoms. We were going to celebrate a victory that was not ours, in a campaign decided by weapons we did not understand, before a King who owed allegiance to no man.
I remembered that boy perfectly: Arawyn Stark.
During the chaotic days of the Rebellion, when my sister Lysa married Jon Arryn and alliances laughed at logic, the young monarch of the North had come to Riverrun. A child of only six years of age, yet gifted with stormy grey eyes that seemed to perceive the weight of centuries. My father, in a pragmatic and desperate move to bind the independent North to Southern interests, had arranged a private meeting. I was the bride offered, my heart still in pieces over the cruel death of Brandon Stark, wearing mourning clothes for my wild wolf.
And the child had rejected me. Not out of the petulance common to young boys, but because he refused to accept my father's terms. He had stood before me for a long time, his crown of ice gleaming beneath the light of Riverrun's torches, making it clear that he would not bind his kingdom to the political ambitions of House Tully, turning down the alliance completely.
Arawyn departed the following morning. My father, enraged by the lost opportunity but always strategic, sealed my betrothal to Robert Baratheon in less than a moon. After all, Robert needed a queen after Lyanna Stark chose the dragon prince, and I was a Tully whose duty was to obey.
Now, nine years later, that boy was the absolute sovereign of a transformed realm. And I was returning as the queen of an empire he refused to recognize.
The Realm of Runes and Ned's Past
The wheelhouse jolted with an almost supernatural smoothness; the gears and springs of Northern rune-steel equipping the royal vehicles absorbed the impacts of the road's imperfections as if we were floating. Through the window, the opulence and stability of the North were rubbed against my face. The roads were flawless, colossal bridges were reinforced with steel beams engraved with runes of sustenance, and the villages boasted markets full of vigor.
The Northern people displayed runic marks carved into their very skin with a mystical pride. At one of the stops, I witnessed a wonder that defied the Faith of the Seven: a twelve-year-old boy, with bluish lines glowing on his arms, hoisted an adult ox above his head to move it across a pen, setting the immense animal on the ground without a drop of sweat or arrogance. It was the pure manifestation of the Winter Throne's power. Robert merely roared with laughter at the sight, calling it "Northern trickery," but dread settled deep within my chest.
Yet, nothing prepared me for the shock of sighting Moat Cailin.
The ancient fortress in ruins described in the maesters' books no longer existed. In its place rose three colossal towers of dark stone, interconnected by shimmering runic walls that guarded the Neck like gods of stone. And in the main courtyard, waiting for the royal retinue, stood Eddard Stark.
Beside him stood his two wives. Cersei Lannister displayed a feline beauty and wore a crown of gold and rubies worthy of an empress, while Ashara Dayne displayed her violet eyes with a quiet, mysterious dignity. Both carried the title of Lady of Moat Cailin. A polygamous marriage that scandalized the High Septons of the South, but here functioned in perfect, outrageous harmony.
At the sight of that scene, a wave of bile and rage rose in my throat. I clenched my fists so hard that the seams of my gloves nearly gave way.
It should have been me. By the Seven, it should have been me in that courtyard.
Destiny had stolen every card from my hand. Brandon had been executed in the South; Arawyn had rejected my father's alliance in my youth; and Robert... Robert had never devoted a look of true love to me, muttering Lyanna's name on our wedding night while his wine-soaked breath choked me.
I had never known Ned Stark deeply. When the war ended, he had already married Cersei in a masterstroke by Lord Tywin, and soon after, Ashara Dayne joined them in the North. On the coldest nights in the Red Keep, I found myself fantasizing about the quiet wolf. I imagined what my life would have been like if I were in Cersei's place, sharing my days with a man who respected his wives and ruled with runic honor. They were foolish fantasies, I well knew, but they were my only defenses against loneliness.
"Welcome to Moat Cailin, King Robert, Queen Catelyn," Ned greeted, his solemn voice emanating an authority and firmness that the South could never bend. "Receive our hospitality before you proceed to Winterfell."
The banquet at the Moat was a silent punishment. Cersei spoke with expertise about the castle's defenses and the healthy children she had given her husband, while Ashara analyzed me with an intelligent gaze. The next day, the retinue pressed on to the heart of the North, with both ladies riding proudly beside Eddard.
The Gathering at Winterfell and the Feast of Ice
When the immense runic walls of Winterfell rose on the horizon, the sheer scale of the place forced me to swallow my pride. The main gates were made of an unknown metal that gleamed with its own light.
In the courtyard, we were received by Lyanna Stark. She was accompanied by her son, Prince Aemon Targaryen, whose dark hair contrasted with the violet eyes of Valyria. Lyanna's presence there was an open wound for Robert, who stared at her with the same foolish expression of old, completely ignoring my presence at his side. Aemon offered us the traditional bread and salt. I saw Robert's jaw tighten as he accepted hospitality from the hands of the dragon prince's son, but the king swallowed his pride for the sake of the upcoming feast.
We were led to separate chambers. Robert made no mention of sleeping with me, hurrying instead to find his flagons of wine. My quarters were majestic, warmed by a runic hearth of bluish flames and adorned with a large mirror with a mystical frame that reflected every detail of my body.
During the afternoon, I endured the presence of the Northern ladies in the great hall. Cersei Lannister flaunted her loftiness, commenting on the delights of Northern life, while Ashara Dayne maintained her enigmatic posture. Even Elia Martell was present, living under the protection of the rune-wolves with her daughter Rhaenys. And Lyanna, without saying a single word, obliterated my self-esteem merely by existing as the eternal ghost of Robert's desire. At least in the courtyard, my only solace proved strong: my son Gendry ran and played with Robb Stark and Aemon Targaryen. My boy was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, the only fruit of my duty that brought me peace.
At night, the Great Hall of Winterfell transformed into a display of absolute power. Runic lanterns bathed the environment in a cold blue light, and the tables overflowed with meats and vegetables impossible to grow in winter, all yielded by the kingdom's magical glass gardens.
At the center of it all, elevated on the throne of runic weirwood, sat King Arawyn Stark.
At fifteen, he already possessed the stature and monstrous musculature of a mythological warrior. His shoulders were broad, his arms looked as if they were carved from stone, and his long dark hair framed a face of severe lines.
What astonished me most was his crown. While the South covered itself in gold and precious stones, the Crown of Winter on Arawyn's head was forged of pure, eternal magical ice. It did not melt; it glowed with a celestial blue pulse and contained tiny runic carvings that told stories of forgotten times. Before the majesty of that ice, Cersei's jewels and the gold of the South seemed like mere trinkets for children.
Arawyn emanated a devastating physical and mystical strength. And below him, at the royal table, Robert Baratheon looked like nothing more than a decrepit man drowning in excesses.
As the hours passed, my husband drank greedily and attempted to make advances on the castle's maidservants. But the women of the North were proud, protected by the power of their own runic marks. The first, a young redhead, dodged Robert's touch on her hip with a look of absolute disgust. Another, older, evaded his hand with such dexterity that she left him reaching into empty air while she continued to pour wine. They did not fear the king of the South.
Eventually, Robert found a younger, more vulnerable servant who yielded out of fear or ambition, allowing him to pull her onto his lap.
I raised my chin, sustaining my mask of a haughty queen, but inside I was bleeding. It was at that exact instant that the grey eyes of Arawyn Stark locked onto mine.
The impact was immediate. The young king saw right through me. He discerned the well of humiliation, loneliness, and repressed lust that I had carried for six years. But there was no pity in his gaze; there was a predatory amusement, a spark of dark desire, and a cruel irony. He remembered turning down my father's alliance and now savored my emotional ruin. Arawyn raised his silver goblet toward me in a silent toast, his lips curving into a dangerously masculine smile. I averted my eyes, trembling.
When the feast concluded, Robert stumbled toward the kitchens with the maid, and I retreated to my isolated chambers. Before the runic mirror, I faced my reflection.
I wore a babydoll made of the finest Northern silk, a fabric so smooth it felt like running water against my skin. However, it covered very little. The thin straps left my shoulders completely bare, the deep neckline hinted at the firmness of my breasts, and the hem ended right at the middle of my thighs. I had bought it in the vain hope that Robert would look at me with desire, but I was alone. At twenty-five years old, my body still boasted generous curves, long legs, and a mature beauty, but none of that mattered to the drunken stag.
A wave of fury and impulsiveness overtook me. I would not spend the night there, waiting for his return with the scent of another woman on his skin.
I grabbed a heavy Northern wool cloak, with runes of warmth woven into the hem, threw it over my shoulders, and left the chambers. My feet guided me almost unconsciously through the quiet corridors and inner courtyards of Winterfell, illuminated by the bluish lanterns, until I found myself before the entrance to the Godswood.
I had been raised in the Faith of the Seven, anointed with the holy oils of the Andals, and entering that pagan sanctuary felt like heresy. But Winterfell's sept had been decommissioned for the study of runic magic, and the wood was the only place that promised me silence.
I stepped into the ancestral forest. The air smelled of damp earth and ancient leaves, free from the stench of King's Landing. I walked to the central clearing, where the immense Heart Tree loomed. Its bone-white trunk and blood-red leaves gleamed under the light of the full moon. The face carved into the wood seemed to weep a dark sap, hardened by time.
Feeling the internal heat of indignation overcome the night's chill, I untied the knot of the wool cloak, letting it slide from my shoulders.
The rustic fabric fell onto the dry leaves with a soft whisper. The freezing Northern breeze hit the thin silk of the babydoll, pressing the translucent fabric against my hardened nipples and outlining the curves of my body. I approached the pool of black water at the feet of the heart tree, staring at my own reflection. I was the queen of the Seven Kingdoms, but there, stripped of my pride, I was merely a starving, forgotten woman.
"A dangerous sight for a wood so ancient, Queen Catelyn."
The deep, resonant, and heavy voice echoed through the trunks, making my heart leap. I startled, pulling the silk against my chest in a desperate reflex of modesty, and turned toward the darkness.
Stepping out from the shadows, the colossal figure of Arawyn Stark materialized beneath the moonlight. He had discarded the runic armor from the feast, wearing only a simple tunic of dark linen that could barely contain the astonishing musculature of his shoulders and arms. He walked with a feline, predatory grace. Upon his head, the Crown of Winter glowed with a subtle pulse.
"King Arawyn..." my voice failed, turning into an anxious whisper. "I... I did not know of your presence. I beg your pardon for the intrusion. I was just leaving."
I tried to stoop to gather my cloak, but his speed was superhuman. Before my fingers could touch the wool, Arawyn crossed the clearing. He stepped firmly onto the edge of the cloak, pinning it to the ground, and reached out his rough, strong hand, holding my chin with an unyielding steadiness.
"Why such a hurry, Catelyn?" his grey eyes locked onto mine, burning with an ancient, overwhelming intensity. "You fled your chambers to escape the stench of wine and the maids your husband preferred. And now you want to flee the only place that offers you the truth."
My cheeks burned with shame. He had witnessed my humiliation. I tried to look away, but his fingers on my chin forced me to face him. His body emanated an extraordinary heat, a runic vitality that contrasted with the freezing air of the woods.
"The king should not seek me here," I argued, short of breath, feeling the wind slightly lift the silk of my garment, exposing my bare thighs. "I am Robert's wife. The queen of the South."
Arawyn let out a low laugh, a guttural sound that vibrled against my skin. He released my chin and slid his hand slowly down my neck, tracing the line of my exposed clavicle. His skin was hot as embers, and the touch sent an electric shiver down my spine.
"Robert is a corpse that refuses to lie in the grave, and the South is an illusion I chose to ignore," Arawyn murmured, bringing his face close to mine, his warm breath touching my lips. " years ago, in Riverrun, my crown demanded a different path than your father's schemes. But the old gods have a peculiar sense of humor. They brought you back to me. Not as an untouchable queen, but as a starving woman."
"No..." I protested, but the sound came out weak, almost like a groan. My fingers, instead of pushing him away, gripped the linen of his tunic, seeking support against his massive chest.
"Yes," he countered, with absolute certainty.
Arawyn did not ask for permission. He wrapped one of his colossal arms around my waist, lifting me off the ground with terrifying ease. My legs instinctively wrapped around his wide hips as he pressed me against the rough, ancestral trunk of the weirwood. The contrast between the cold bark of the tree against my back and the burning heat of Arawyn's body nearly made me lose my senses.
He captured my lips in a devastating kiss. There was no polite hesitation of a nobleman or the clumsy brutality of Robert; it was the absolute possession of a predator claiming its prey. His tongue invaded my mouth hungrily, and I found myself responding with a savagery I never knew I possessed, moaning against his lips as my hands buried themselves in his dark hair.
With his other hand, Arawyn gripped the thin silk of my babydoll and, with a single upward motion, tore the fabric with ease, leaving me completely naked beneath the moonlight and under the watchful gaze of the face carved into the tree. My moral barriers, the teachings of the Seven, the guilt of breaking my vows... everything melted away under the intensity of that Northern fever.
He positioned himself between my open thighs and, without further ado, possessed me with overwhelming force.
A sharp cry escaped my throat, echoing through the canopies of the godswood, but Arawyn muffled it with another deep kiss. The sensation of his colossal manhood filling me completely was a shock of pure pain and pleasure, something so intense that my nails tore into the skin of his shoulders, leaving red marks that immediately began to bleed. He did not seem to care. On the contrary, the scent of blood seemed to further stir his transcendental nature.
His movements were rhythmic, powerful, and relentless, each thrust driving me against the weirwood with such force that the red leaves above us began to rain down upon our sweating bodies. I clung to him like a shipwrecked soul in the middle of a storm, surrendering myself entirely to that frenzied rhythm. My mind, previously tormented by paranoia and religious repressions, emptied of everything that was not Arawyn's heat, the sound of our panting breaths, and the violent pleasure rising in waves through my womb.
I was sinning. I was committing the greatest of treasons in the eyes of the men and gods I knew. But in the depths of my repressed soul, a dark and delicious realization bloomed: this was exactly what I had secretly desired through all my years of loneliness. I wanted to be taken. I wanted to be possessed by a strength Robert had never shown. I wanted to be the plaything of this wolf king.
The climax came like an explosion of light and heat that caused me to arch my back spasmodically, while Arawyn let out a low roar and poured his warm seed into the depths of my being, claiming me completely against the sacred wood.
We stayed there for long minutes, breathless, our bodies joined as the sweat evaporated in the cold Northern air. Slowly, Arawyn placed my feet back on the ground, though he kept one hand firmly pressed against my waist, keeping me from collapsing from exhaustion.
I looked at the ground, seeing the shreds of fine silk tangled with the red leaves and my wool cloak. My dignity as queen of the South was in pieces, but my body trembled with a satisfaction I had never experienced before in all my existence.
Arawyn leaned in, whispering near my ear in a voice cold yet heavy with dark promises:
"This is only the beginning, Catelyn. You came to the North as Robert's guest... but know that when the time comes, you will belong to these woods. To me. And to my wives."
He stepped away slowly, picking up my wool cloak from the ground with a calm gesture and draping it over my bare shoulders to shield me from the returning cold. Before I could fashion any word of protest or supplication, he turned and vanished into the shadows of the godswood, leaving me alone before the weirwood, whose red, weeping eyes now seemed witnesses to my sweet, sinful, and ultimate decline.