ARC II: THE ERA OF EXPANSION AND THE ANNIHILATION OF THE GREYJOYS
Chapter 18: Hidden Desires
POV: Arawyn Stark year: 289 AC
The Northern night possessed a clarity that the men of the South would never be able to comprehend. From the high window of my solar in Winterfell, carved from dark stone and reinforced with the subtle contours of thermal insulation runes, I observed the firmament. It was a rare, clear night. The moon gleamed like a polished silver coin, surrounded by a myriad of stars that blinked coldly, like diamond shards sprinkled over black velvet. The air slipping through the crevice brought the distinct scent of the North: ancient earth, pine needles, distant snow, and the pungent aroma of firewood burning deep within the castle.
Behind me, resting upon the fine linen sheets and wolf peles of my bed, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms slept the deep sleep of the exhausted.
Catelyn Tully. Or Catelyn Baratheon, as the maesters of the Citadel insisted on recording her in the official parchment of the Iron Throne. To me, she was simply the eldest daughter of Riverrun, a woman whose twenty-five years of age represented the absolute peak of her beauty and physical form. It was an outrageous waste, a heresy against nature itself, that such a magnificent body and complex mind were being neglected and ruined by an idiotic pig like Robert Baratheon.
I never made an effort to hide my contempt for the Usurper of the South. There is nothing to like about Robert. He possesses, I admit, an overwhelming charisma when it suits him—that boisterous warrior camaraderie, the ability to hug a common man, drink until he drops, and make him believe they are brothers in blood. It was this magnetism that ignited the Rebellion and united distinct kingdoms under the banner of the crowned stag. But beneath the facade of a legendary hero, Robert was nothing more than a broken man, a drunkard incapable of ruling himself, let alone a continental empire.
My abilities as a warg had evolved drastically over the last few years. I was no longer the boy who merely shared the eyes of wolves or crows; the blood of the First Men and the purified runic magic flowing through my veins had expanded my mind to an almost divine echelon. I was capable of brushing against the surface thoughts of those around me, reading the hidden currents of the human mind like a maester reads an open book. And when the royal retinue crossed the Neck, Catelyn's mind was the first I made sure to probe.
After our last true encounter in Riverrun, eigth years ago, when I repudiied the ambitious terms of Hoster Tully and firmly refused the marriage alliance he tried to force upon me, I did not imagine the young woman would still carry so much repressed "goodwill" toward the North. To herself, Catelyn tried to justify her daydreams as innocent fantasies, small distractions to endure the loneliness of King's Landing. But the walls of her mind, when stripped bare by my subtle intrusion, revealed nothing puritanical. She fantasized about wolves. She craved, in the depths of her neglected flesh, the firmness and control that the South had never known how to give her.
I do not consider myself an inherently cruel man. There is no mindless malice in my actions. However, seeing a woman so beautiful, holding the title of queen while begging for a shred of dignity in a sham of a marriage, I could not resist the impulse to offer her consolation. The Godswood had been only the beginning. The weirwood tree stood as the ultimate witness to the collapse of her hypocritical morality based on the precepts of the Faith of the Seven.
During the remainder of the Southerners' stay in Winterfell, the castle transformed into a hive of activity that violently contrasted Southern culture with the traditions of the independent North. Robert, unable to remain confined within stone walls without a flagon of wine or a violent distraction, demanded that celebrations be held. We organized a tournament, but not in the effeminate fashion that King's Landing usually applauded. We held it in the true style of the North.
The arenas of Winterfell witnessed competitions that prioritized raw strength, endurance, and a connection to the earth. There was the tossing of colossal logs, where men with runic marks of strength sculpted into their muscles competed to see who could fling entire pine trees to impossible distances. There was wrestling in the mud and packed snow, where nobles and smallfolk clashed without armor, testing the pure vigor of their bodies.
Only the joust was maintained with an importance equal to that of the South—a concession so that the hedge knights and great lords of the Stormlands and the Reach would not feel completely humiliated. Robert watched everything from the stands, roaring, wagering gold coins his treasury did not possess, and drinking the strong Northern ale until his eyes turned bloodshot.
The ultimate event of the tournament, however, was the great mêlée, the generalized chaos that traditionally concluded the games. It was an exhibition of military might that the South would not soon forget. I entered the arena personally, donning my combat armor and leading the men of my Black Guard—elite warriors whose bodies were temples of protection and agility runes.
The outcome was a choreographed massacre. No deaths occurred, for the Old Gods demanded tributes of blood but forbade the murder of guests under the laws of hospitality, but the Southern knights were swept from the arena like dry leaves before a blizzard. The heavy dent marks, the prints of Northern boots, and the stench of terrified piss left impregnated in the gold and silver-ornamented armor of the Southern knights were answer enough for anyone who dared question the sovereignty of the Winter Throne. We broke them with our bare hands. Robert watched the spectacle with a clenched jaw, realizing, perhaps for the first time in years, that his Iron Throne was nothing more than an uncomfortable chair in the face of the true power ruling beyond the Neck.
In the joust, the victor was Ser Jorah Mormont. The wolf of Bear Island rode with obstinate fury and, after unhorsing the last competitor from the South, received the crown of flowers to choose the Queen of Love and Beauty. It was a moment of unintentional comedy that shattered the political tension of the event. Mormont, with his usual lack of courtly tact, guided his horse to the royal dais and extended the crown to a young lady of House Hightower who had come with the retinue—a pretty girl, but whose seat happened to be dangerously close to my aunt, Lyanna Stark.
For a few moments, silence fell over the courtyard. Due to the proximity of the chairs, the smallfolk and the lords of the South thought he was going to have the audacity to crown Lyanna. Worse: the crown delivered by the organizer was made of winter roses, the very same blue flowers Rhaegar Targaryen had used to set the realm on fire at Harrenhal. Uncle Ned Stark's face in that millisecond was a masterpiece worth every minute of that tedious tournament. His features paled, his hand instinctively darted to the pommel of Ice, and his eyes nearly popped out of his skull before Ser Jorah corrected his stance and deposited the flowers into the Hightower girl's lap. I looked to the side and saw Aunt Lyanna give an enigmatic smile, while Robert choked on his own wine, oblivious or perhaps painfully aware of the ghost that had just hovered over the arena.
While Robert, his knights, and his boisterous court were occupied with hunts in the wolfswood and the festivities of the tournament, I was occupied with his queen.
In the isolated chambers I allocated to her under the pretext of offering "royal privacy," Catelyn Tully learned the true meaning of the word possession. That woman likely bedded more in a single week with me than in all the six years of her failed marriage to the Baratheon. And I will not lie to myself saying I wasn't enjoying the arrangement; I wouldn't waste my time and energy if there weren't genuine pleasure involved.
After all, even though she was frequently eclipsed by the feline exuberance of Cersei Lannister or the ethereal, mystical dignity of Ashara Dayne in the courtyard of Winterfell, Hoster Tully's eldest daughter was a beautiful woman. The years of neglect, the bitterness of living in a corrupt court, and the weight of a horrific marriage had not diminished her attributes. In fact, perhaps they had made her even more appetizing. There was an urgency in her flesh, a nearly savage desperation in every whimper she tried to muffle against the pillows while I took her with the force her body so deeply craved. Catelyn was the forbidden fruit of the South, breaking her own divine laws upon the altar of my weirwood.
Now, I found myself standing once more by the window of my solar. The scenery had changed. The moon and stars that previously decorated the sky had been swallowed by a dense mass of grey clouds, the harbinger of a typical blizzard beginning to howl through the towers of Winterfell.
In the bed, my companion beneath the sheets could not sleep, despite her body being visibly exhausted from the hours we had spent together. She knew what the dawn would bring. The next day, the Southern retinue would begin its long journey back to the warm, hypocritical lands of King's Landing.
Her suffering was palpable, emanating from her mind in waves of anxiety and melancholy that I could read without any effort. After a long period of silence, broken only by the crackle of wood in the hearth and the howling of the wind outside, Catelyn moved between the sheets. She sat up, pulling the wolf pelt cover to the height of her full breasts, her undone auburn hair falling over her pale shoulders.
— Arawyn... — her voice was a husky whisper, carrying a hesitation she would never show in public. — Do you think that... after so many times, after everything we did this week... I am with a child of yours in my womb?
I turned slowly, leaving the shadows of the window and allowing the bluish light of the runic hearth to illuminate my face. I let out a low laugh, a short sound that made her tense shoulders twitch slightly.
— No, Catelyn. You are not — I replied calmly, walking toward the bed with the imposing stature my fifteen-year-old physique, already superior to that of any grown man, granted me. — And why does that question sound so sorrowful in your thoughts? Aren't bastards supposed to be evil creatures, born of sin and lust, according to what your religion of the Seven preaches in the South?
She let out a bitter laugh, averting her blue eyes for a moment before looking back at my bare chest.
— Yes, the septons say that... — she murmured, her voice failing for a moment while one of her hands unconsciously caressed her own belly beneath the covers.
— But after receiving so many loads... so many times deep within my womb... you cannot blame me for thinking so. I felt every single one of them. I felt as if I were being marked from the inside.
Catelyn raised her gaze, a spark of curiosity mixed with fear in her pupils.
— It is a rune, isn't it? Is it the magic of your people that prevents the fruit of this sin from taking life inside me?
— Yes, a rune — I affirmed, stopping beside the bed and looking down at her. — Body control runic marks are ancient and precise. And though the North does not share the foolish prejudice of the South against children born out of wedlock—after all, we do not consider any child an abomination because of the actions of their parents—I have no desire to place a bastard on the Iron Throne. Gendry is Robert's heir, and so he shall remain until destiny decides otherwise.
I reached out, touching the side of her face, my warm fingers tracing her jawline to her chin.
— Now, go back to bed, Catelyn. Close your eyes and enjoy the last night of peaceful sleep you will have in a very long time. The South awaits you, with all its lies and its loneliness.
She swallowed hard, showing clear reluctance in her eyes, but the psychological submission I had established over her throughout that week was absolute. Catelyn lay down once more, pulling the pelts to her chin and closing her eyes, surrendering to her exhaustion, though her mind continued to repeat my name like a mantra of despair.
Dawn brought with it the cold mist that usually embraced the walls of Winterfell before great storms. The main courtyard was filled with panting horses, guards bearing the colors of House Baratheon and Tully, and the clatter of metal and wagons being prepared for the long journey back down the Kingsroad.
I stood at the forefront of the Stark family, flanked by my uncles and the lords of the North. The official farewell was an exercise in political formality. I approached Robert Baratheon. The Usurper displayed the deep dark circles of an entire week of heavy drinking and excess, but he maintained his boisterous posture as he shook my hand, uttering hollow words about future alliances that both of us knew would never exist on the terms he desired. I then said farewell to Gendry, the young heir, whose gaze seemed far more attentive and impressed by the runic scale of Winterfell than his biological father's.
Finally, I stopped before Catelyn.
She wore her garments as Queen of the South—a heavy dress of dark blue velvet with silver detailing, the cloak bearing the sigil of the stag and the trout, her chin high, and the perfectly composed expression of a sovereign who bows to nothing. The mask was flawless. To any casual observer, Catelyn Tully was the very embodiment of Southern virtue and duty.
I held her gloved hand firmly. I bowed slightly and pressed a small kiss to the back of her fingers, maintaining eye contact for a second longer than etiquette demanded. Before stepping back, I gave her a simple wink, a gesture almost imperceptible to the others, but one that snapped like a whip in her mind. I saw her wrist falter beneath the fabric of her dress, and her majesty's breath hitched for a brief moment before she climbed into the wheelhouse without looking back.
Hours later, the Southern retinue had already vanished into the grey Northern horizon. They journeyed onward accompanied by Uncle Ned, Cersei, Ashara, and the other residents and guards returning to Moat Cailin.
Winterfell felt strangely silent. For some reason, after the conclusion of the tournament, all the great lords and family members had departed for their respective duties or keeps, leaving me entirely alone in the vastness of the ancestral castle. Not that I blamed them or anything of the sort; the silence of the North has always been my best counselor, and the solitude allowed me to focus on what truly mattered. Since I had not taken any wives or bound myself to marriage yet, the quiet of my halls belonged solely to me.
I walked calmly back to my solar. I locked the heavy wooden doors and sat in my chair before the hearth. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, letting my consciousness expand beyond the stone walls, beyond the mist blanketing the wolfswood.
Warg.
My mind soared through the air currents, finding the magical signature of a small bird—a crow whose dark feathers camouflaged perfectly with the overcast sky. I had sent it to follow the royal retinue since their departure from the castle. I controlled the bird's movements with surgical precision. I made it descend smoothly, taking advantage of the swaying of the royal wheelhouse rattling further ahead on the Kingsroad.
With an ability that defied the limits of physical reality, I guided the small bird through one of the crevices in the glass window of the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms' carriage. It landed silently on a wooden bracket in the dark corner of the vehicle's ceiling.
Through the eyes of the bird, I witnessed the psychological devastation I had wrought upon the Southern queen.
Catelyn was alone in the luxurious interior of the wheelhouse. The mask of sobriety and virtue of the Faith of the Seven had been completely shattered by the isolation of the wooden walls. Her clothes were disheveled. The velvet dress had been pulled up to her hips, and her majesty's fingers were moving with desperation between her pale thighs, touching herself right there in the midst of the carriage's jolting. Her lips moved in short gasps, and through my mental connection, I could hear the sound she tried to contain between her teeth: she was whispering my name. Arawyn. Arawyn. She was completely marked, psychologically dominated by the control and power I had exerted over her body and mind.
Suddenly, her pleasure was interrupted by a jolt of alarm. Catelyn snapped her blue eyes open and noticed the presence of the small bird in the corner of the carriage. She stared at the bird, but what truly captured her attention was not the creature itself, but the object the crow held firmly clamped in its rustic beak.
It was a small crown. A piece of noble metal, finely crafted with the intertwining of blood rubies and sapphires the color of deep ice.
In the independent North, the royal family possessed the right and custom to wear personal crowns. Not everyone wore them daily, of course; only Cersei Lannister made it a point to flaunt hers with frequent pride back at Moat Cailin. But all members of the royal bloodline possessed them and displayed them in moments of extreme formality, such as the farewell ceremony we had held hours earlier in the courtyard of Winterfell.
Catelyn paralyzed, her still-damp hand recoiling timidly as she stared at the object. She understood the meaning of that piece of jewelry perfectly. She remembered the words I had uttered in the shadows of the Godswood.
That miniature runic crown was not a gift; it was a collar of gold and precious stones. It was the undeniable proof that no matter how much she prayed to the Seven in the South, or how much she tried to pretend she was the Usurper's wife, her soul and her flesh now had a master. She knew the meaning. She knew she belonged to me.
And I, observing her despair and her lust through the eyes of the crow, smiled in the silence of my solar in Winterfell. For I saw the future in the currents of time. And the future guaranteed me that when the right hour struck, Catelyn Tully would cross the Neck definitively and permanently, never to return.
The days that followed the Southerners' departure brought the promised blizzard. Winterfell was buried under a thick white mantle, ice accumulating on the stone gargoyles and the runic towers that kept the castle's interior warm. I spent most of my time in my solar, reviewing production reports from the silver mines of White Harbor and the progress of the training of the new battalions of the Black Guard.
The North was ready. The runic economy prospered at rates the South would never be able to match with its bankrupt feudal system based on abusive taxes and debts to the Iron Bank. Our roads operated efficiently even under feet of snow, thanks to the heat stones that melted the ice accumulation on the main trade routes. Our granaries were full. The people were strong, well-fed, and loyal to the Winter Throne.
But my mind inevitably returned to the image of the wheelhouse distancing itself toward King's Landing.
I could feel the resonance of the psychological mark I had left on Catelyn. The crow continued to follow them for days, observing the stops along the Kingsroad. I saw when they crossed Moat Cailin once more, where Uncle Ned and his wives said their final goodbyes to the royal retinue, returning to their duties in the fortress of the Neck. I saw Robert drink even more as he neared his warm lands, oblivious to the betrayal growing like a poisonous vine in the heart of his own family.
Catelyn would never be the same. I knew this because I had planned every detail of that emotional rupture. Every touch, every violent thrust against the wood of the weirwood, every word whispered in the chill of the night had been calculated to destroy the foundation of her hypocritical faith. The Seven were nothing more than painted stone statues in gilded septs; they had no warmth, no blood, no power to fill the void of a neglected woman.
I had given her the warmth of the true North. And that warmth would consume King's Landing from within.
When the crow finally left the carriage, leaving the small crown of rubies and sapphires hidden among the queen's personal belongings, I broke the warg link. I returned to myself, blinking my grey eyes before the runic hearth of my solar.
The sovereignty of the North was not maintained solely by swords of runic steel and colossal walls. It was maintained by absolute control over the pieces of Westeros's political board. Robert Baratheon thought he had won the war by crushing the Greyjoys and parading his court through Winterfell. He thought his crown of gold was secure.
He little knew that the true Queen of Love and Beauty of his realm had been crowned in ice and blood beneath the red leaves of my Godswood. And that the countdown to the fall of the stag had already begun. After all, in the future, a certain Mother of Dragons will be coming for him—well, that is, if he's still alive when she arrives.