He opens his mouth, he wants to tell her, tell her that he had ridden in the night to join Robb’s side, that his sworn brothers had pulled him back and it has haunted him forever since, that he would have died at his brother’s side and never betrayed him, that he is not another Theon Turncloak. He wants to ask about his brother the king, how the crown sat his head, if he took the lessons their father had given them both, if he had been happy, in those moments before he fell.
Her eyes are empty on him, expansive like the sky beyond the Wall, there is something closed up deep inside her, he thinks, whatever she has locked away, her memories and pain and fury, whatever she has had to put aside to keep going, to keep moving, to keep living. We must all do what we can to go on.
He does not ask his questions, he takes pity, it is enough that he is the ghost of his father, he has no desire to crack open that box she has locked herself into to hold herself together.
Jon clears his throat. “But ruins they remain, my lady – you cannot stay here.”
“And where would you have me go, Lord Snow?” she asks, and there is a lilting, mocking note to her voice. “Shall I go to Riverrun, to serve as a hostage to my uncle’s good behavior? Or to King’s Landing to give my head as a gift to the boy king? Or shall I accompany you back to the Wall, I am certain you have sorely missed the joy of my company these years past.”
He wets his lips, uncertain. “It is not safe here.”
“It is not safe anywhere,” she replies hotly, and there is a brief spark in those eyes dulled and deadened. “And where else would my girls go, now that they are lost in the world? If they are alive, they will come here. They will come home, such as it is now.”
Jon takes a step closer, and sees her eyes are damp, Catelyn Stark is not a woman prone to tears and yet the last time he saw her she had wept for Bran and now she weeps for the rest, for all those lost to her, and he cannot help it; he reaches for her hand, clasping it between his gloved ones. Her mouth twitches, he can see it there, the innate resistance, but she does not pull away. There is so much evil in the world that we are too weary to fight amongst ourselves.
“You cannot remain here. Winterfell will be seized and you will be killed before you see either of them again. If you do not freeze or starve to death, first,” he decides firmly (there is a part of her, a large part that he thinks is dead already, pieces of her heart buried with his father and with Robb and Bran and Rickon, and parts lost with the girls, and he wonders if she would believe him if he said his is much the same). “Come. We will find something other than this folly.”
“Why does it matter to you?” she asks, incredulous, as he leads her – fairly drags her – from the ruins, the ashes she will pass to the few children that remain.
He pauses, wondering the same; for all that she never spared him a kindness, he did not wish Catelyn Stark ill but nor did he think he would bestir himself for her in her need. He decides, after a moment, to answer honestly. “It would matter to Robb. And to Father. And Bran, and Rickon, and if they do live, it will matter a great deal to Sansa and Arya, and they will have need of you.”
“They live,” she answers softly, pleadingly, her voice catches and her eyes seek reassurance. He could practically see it then, the break in that armor she wears like a second skin, it is almost a visible entity. He is suddenly no longer pulling her and her stride matches his again. “They must.” They must, they are all that is left for us, for the North…
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timeasmymeasure
FILL: Catelyn, Jon (very slight Jon/Robb) ASOS Spoilers - Lady of Ashes (pt 3/3)
Date: 2012-03-16 04:03 am (UTC)Her eyes are empty on him, expansive like the sky beyond the Wall, there is something closed up deep inside her, he thinks, whatever she has locked away, her memories and pain and fury, whatever she has had to put aside to keep going, to keep moving, to keep living. We must all do what we can to go on.
He does not ask his questions, he takes pity, it is enough that he is the ghost of his father, he has no desire to crack open that box she has locked herself into to hold herself together.
Jon clears his throat. “But ruins they remain, my lady – you cannot stay here.”
“And where would you have me go, Lord Snow?” she asks, and there is a lilting, mocking note to her voice. “Shall I go to Riverrun, to serve as a hostage to my uncle’s good behavior? Or to King’s Landing to give my head as a gift to the boy king? Or shall I accompany you back to the Wall, I am certain you have sorely missed the joy of my company these years past.”
He wets his lips, uncertain. “It is not safe here.”
“It is not safe anywhere,” she replies hotly, and there is a brief spark in those eyes dulled and deadened. “And where else would my girls go, now that they are lost in the world? If they are alive, they will come here. They will come home, such as it is now.”
Jon takes a step closer, and sees her eyes are damp, Catelyn Stark is not a woman prone to tears and yet the last time he saw her she had wept for Bran and now she weeps for the rest, for all those lost to her, and he cannot help it; he reaches for her hand, clasping it between his gloved ones. Her mouth twitches, he can see it there, the innate resistance, but she does not pull away. There is so much evil in the world that we are too weary to fight amongst ourselves.
“You cannot remain here. Winterfell will be seized and you will be killed before you see either of them again. If you do not freeze or starve to death, first,” he decides firmly (there is a part of her, a large part that he thinks is dead already, pieces of her heart buried with his father and with Robb and Bran and Rickon, and parts lost with the girls, and he wonders if she would believe him if he said his is much the same). “Come. We will find something other than this folly.”
“Why does it matter to you?” she asks, incredulous, as he leads her – fairly drags her – from the ruins, the ashes she will pass to the few children that remain.
He pauses, wondering the same; for all that she never spared him a kindness, he did not wish Catelyn Stark ill but nor did he think he would bestir himself for her in her need. He decides, after a moment, to answer honestly. “It would matter to Robb. And to Father. And Bran, and Rickon, and if they do live, it will matter a great deal to Sansa and Arya, and they will have need of you.”
“They live,” she answers softly, pleadingly, her voice catches and her eyes seek reassurance. He could practically see it then, the break in that armor she wears like a second skin, it is almost a visible entity. He is suddenly no longer pulling her and her stride matches his again. “They must.” They must, they are all that is left for us, for the North…
He does not answer, but holds the hope close.