She seems much smaller now to him, and he never thought he would feel sorry for Catelyn Stark, but he does, and he wishes he could reach out to her, to tell her that all she has lost he has lost, too, that they are in pain but they are alive (he thinks it would be of small comfort to her, though, looking at her face wracked with sorrow).
He does not, he knows better.
He could marvel at how their lives have cartwheeled, he is the Lord Commander and though the Night’s Watch is not regarded with the same honor it had been in centuries past, there is still a sort of deference, no matter how small, that is his, and there is a satisfaction in knowing his place in the world and knowing it firm, a fullness he had never known as a child sparring next to Robb in the yard (but there is an emptiness, too, an emptiness that Robb and Arya and all his siblings and his father had lived in, and he would take back his bastard state and uncertain future in a heartbeat for one moment with them).
And now the formidable Lady Stark is nothing more than the mother of a fallen rebel king (he cannot bear to think of what befell Robb that night, he pushes it from his mind and wonders if she does the same or if she never has respite), the widow of a condemned traitor, sister to a hostage lord and a murdered lady; the lady of the North is nothing more now than the lady of ashes and wind, with no family, no home, and no power. They do not hunt her because they do not fear her – what could she do to them, without a living trueborn son of Eddard Stark to lay claim to their home, to their inheritance? – and yet no northern holdfast would dare offer her a place to stay, in fear of being branded a traitor to the triumphant crown.
It makes sense, suddenly, that she would be here – where else is there in the world for her?
Absurdly, he feels some sort of obligation to help her, to find her refuge, assure her safety, perhaps because those who would have done so, his father and Robb, are gone, perhaps because she is for all he knows the last of the Stark family, perhaps because it is, in a way, justice for the brother he had lost and the war that king had lost, justice for the North. The Night’s Watch has no family but their sworn brothers, and you were no family to me anyway. We take no part in these wars.
“I had to see,” he says, finally, after a long moment of considering. “King Stannis has offered me Winterfell,” he pauses, and perhaps that is cruelty, there is still anger, for the love he never received, the place that was never his, but he does not get the reaction he thought. Her face is carefully blank, she barely stirs at the thought, at her worst fear (but then fears were simpler in those days past, he thinks), of Winterfell being laid claim to by her husband’s bastard son. “And I wanted to see exactly what I was rejecting.”
“Rejecting?” Still her voice is flat, indifferent, her boots crunch in the snow as she walks away, following along the collapsed bridge to the south gate, and he walks with her, not a step behind but shoulder to shoulder, she is not a great lady anymore.
“Yes,” he says, and despite himself he is slightly perturbed by her indifference; there is still that small part of him, that he learned long ago to push down, that yearns for her acceptance, approval, an ache he has forced further and further away but it is still there like a stubbed toe. “I am a man of the Night’s Watch. And Winterfell belongs to Sansa.”
“Yes,” she agrees quietly. A breeze stirs a stray strand of hair, escaped from her plait, and she gazes at the broken remains of the great seat of the North. “My Sansa, wherever in the world she is, and her Lannister husband. She is the heiress of ruins.”
“These ruins are hers by right,” he maintains stubbornly and she almost smiles, almost, and he can almost see the beautiful woman she once was before tragedy stole it from her, can almost see the mother she had been to his siblings and never to him, but mostly he sees Robb in her at that moment (almost, it is always almost and not enough).
FILL: Catelyn, Jon (very slight Jon/Robb) ASOS Spoilers - Lady of Ashes (pt 2/3)
He does not, he knows better.
He could marvel at how their lives have cartwheeled, he is the Lord Commander and though the Night’s Watch is not regarded with the same honor it had been in centuries past, there is still a sort of deference, no matter how small, that is his, and there is a satisfaction in knowing his place in the world and knowing it firm, a fullness he had never known as a child sparring next to Robb in the yard (but there is an emptiness, too, an emptiness that Robb and Arya and all his siblings and his father had lived in, and he would take back his bastard state and uncertain future in a heartbeat for one moment with them).
And now the formidable Lady Stark is nothing more than the mother of a fallen rebel king (he cannot bear to think of what befell Robb that night, he pushes it from his mind and wonders if she does the same or if she never has respite), the widow of a condemned traitor, sister to a hostage lord and a murdered lady; the lady of the North is nothing more now than the lady of ashes and wind, with no family, no home, and no power. They do not hunt her because they do not fear her – what could she do to them, without a living trueborn son of Eddard Stark to lay claim to their home, to their inheritance? – and yet no northern holdfast would dare offer her a place to stay, in fear of being branded a traitor to the triumphant crown.
It makes sense, suddenly, that she would be here – where else is there in the world for her?
Absurdly, he feels some sort of obligation to help her, to find her refuge, assure her safety, perhaps because those who would have done so, his father and Robb, are gone, perhaps because she is for all he knows the last of the Stark family, perhaps because it is, in a way, justice for the brother he had lost and the war that king had lost, justice for the North. The Night’s Watch has no family but their sworn brothers, and you were no family to me anyway. We take no part in these wars.
“I had to see,” he says, finally, after a long moment of considering. “King Stannis has offered me Winterfell,” he pauses, and perhaps that is cruelty, there is still anger, for the love he never received, the place that was never his, but he does not get the reaction he thought. Her face is carefully blank, she barely stirs at the thought, at her worst fear (but then fears were simpler in those days past, he thinks), of Winterfell being laid claim to by her husband’s bastard son. “And I wanted to see exactly what I was rejecting.”
“Rejecting?” Still her voice is flat, indifferent, her boots crunch in the snow as she walks away, following along the collapsed bridge to the south gate, and he walks with her, not a step behind but shoulder to shoulder, she is not a great lady anymore.
“Yes,” he says, and despite himself he is slightly perturbed by her indifference; there is still that small part of him, that he learned long ago to push down, that yearns for her acceptance, approval, an ache he has forced further and further away but it is still there like a stubbed toe. “I am a man of the Night’s Watch. And Winterfell belongs to Sansa.”
“Yes,” she agrees quietly. A breeze stirs a stray strand of hair, escaped from her plait, and she gazes at the broken remains of the great seat of the North. “My Sansa, wherever in the world she is, and her Lannister husband. She is the heiress of ruins.”
“These ruins are hers by right,” he maintains stubbornly and she almost smiles, almost, and he can almost see the beautiful woman she once was before tragedy stole it from her, can almost see the mother she had been to his siblings and never to him, but mostly he sees Robb in her at that moment (almost, it is always almost and not enough).