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GOT : Chapter 193
🕑 Added 2025-03-05 13:21:17 +0000 UTC
( Catelyn POV )
For the first time in gods knew how many years, festivities had come to Winterfell.
It was a relief, to finally be able to celebrate something, after all these years of darkness, since, even though the War for the Dawn was won, it left a taste of defeat for the North.
The Wall had been broken, the breach in it spanning leagues, which would be impossible to repair, the magic of Brandon the Builder having been lost to time.
Bear Island had been overrun by the dead, and not a single man, woman or child had lived through to tell the tale of what had truly happened there. The Mormont line, though, managed to live through the ones that had been evacuated to Winterfell.
Last Hearth had suffered as well. Its walls bore the brunt of a diversion meant to fix a lot of Northern forces, and its castle had been left a ruin. But Last Hearth had not fallen. It had stood long enough for the relief to come, though its defenders were but a dozen.
It had not been rebuilt, instead another keep took its place, with an ominous name: Dead's Grave.
Deepwood Motte had been shattered as well, though many managed to escape, to a small holdfast on a hill dominating the Wolfswood, where the dead tried unsuccessfully to attack them, having been repulsed at Winterfell, and the Great Other's magic greatly diminished. Now, on that holdfast, stood Deepwood Hill, the new seat of House Glover.
As for Winterfell, it had suffered a lot as well. Suffered under the blows of the dead, who breached the walls many times. Suffered under the blows of its own men, who blew up spans of the wall in order for them to fall on the dead and take many with them.
In the end, everyone had been forced to retreat to the inner keep, waiting for the dragons to make a difference. Their hopes had all been shattered when they saw King Aegon's dragon fall from the skies and hit the ground with such force that its remains were spread across a large area, but relieved to know that the King himself could not fly, too hampered by his injury suffered at Tumbleton. Instead, he had fought, with the others, at Winterfell, like a common footman.
Catelyn remembered standing amongst the men, refusing to cower like many ladies deeper in the keep, sword in hand. She had been prepared to make the dead pay for what they had done, what they had cost the had led a sally of Northern men to cover the fleeing defenders of the second walls, to fall back to the keep. It was there that she came into contact with the dead, their icy blue eyes, their rotten corpses and acid smell.
But Catelyn hadn't cared. She knew that beyond the walls were her children, and possibly the fate of the world itself. She fought with all the rage and determination of someone with nothing to lose.
And, it paid off.
Her attack had bought enough time to save men that would otherwise have been slain, and she, herself, having donned some armor given to her by a blacksmith, had only minor scratches on her body, likely caused by friction than anything else.
"By the gods, our lady is made of iron," a Tallhart had said, bowing as she came back into the inner keep.
Since then, the name stuck. She was no longer 'Lady Stark', but 'The Iron Wolf'.
However, her efforts were not enough to save all her children.
While Arya and Rickon made it out more or less safely, with Arya suffering a large cut on her arm, and Rickon being bruised from being thrown off of Shaggydog, she couldn't do anything to save Bran.
Her second son was on his own, fighting his own battles, in a realm that she had difficulty understanding.
When the dead started to slow down and lose cohesion, she did not question it, and just urged everyone to counter-attack.
In reality, it meant that at this moment, Brandon Stark had fought his last battle.
Meera Reed consoled her, telling her that Bran had died for the good of the world. He had helped to defeat the Great Other by laying his life down for it.
But how could this console her? Her son was dead. Even if it had saved the world, she couldn't fathom her existence without him, so soon after having found her son again.
And as for his sacrifice, how many truly remembered him? After all, it was Jon Snow that had killed the Great Other's vessel. It was him that lived and grabbed all the laurels of the victory. But she and Meera knew that nothing was possible without Bran. If Bran hadn't fought the Other on his plain of existence, Snow would have been killed.
Yet, the important thing had been done. With the Great Other killed, the dead were just lost, unable to function.
Of course, they were still a threat, but not the almost unstoppable force that they had been beforehand.
However, by that point, they had overrun all of the North.
From Moat Cailin to Castle Black, there had been fighting. And every single kingdom lost men in the endeavor.
When it was finally over, the North was but a ruin. One that would take generations to rebuild.
The grain from the Reach and gold from the Rock both helped, as well as an infusion of labor from grateful workers from Braavos and Lorath, which helped turn some keeps back to their former glory.
As for the wildlings, most of them chose to go back beyond the Wall. Their home was never in the South, after all.
A few chose to stay behind, but these only numbered in the hundreds.
The Watch, for itself, was maintained, but less as an organization meant to defend the Wall and more as a scouting force, chosen to oversee that the dead were truly wiped out. The New Gift was absorbed back into the North, and several Watch posts were established beyond the Wall.
Lord Commander Mace Tyrell would establish his headquarters at Whitetree, instead of the now ruined Castle Black. The force he commanded was small, but enough to dissuade any other dead men incursions.
As for the Watch in the long term, the Crown said that it would gradually be replaced with an organisation which would serve the realm, but not necessarily by staying at the Wall. The pushback was strong, as the organisation had stayed in its form for thousands of years. But what was the point of the Watch, now? The debates continued on in the capital, far away from the North.
For the North, healing took longer. In ruins, and even with the princely status and privileges which it now enjoyed, Catelyn had the task of mending a kingdom in tatters, now finally understanding her brother's difficulties in the Riverlands.
It took time, and effort, but it could be done.
The dowry that Lady Lysa Brax brought to Gawen Glover, a match which was helped by the fact that the Glover had squired for Jon Snow and had more access to the capital, was also essential in the rebuilding efforts.
As for herself, she finally had to see Sansa go, when she agreed to wed Edric Dayne. She had agreed to wed him, but only in Winterfell, first under the Old Gods, then in Winterfell's sept.
It was Edric Dayne who gifted Heartsbane to them, telling them that he already had a Valyrian steel sword, and did not need another, thus compensating for the loss of Ice, which had only come back years later, and even then it was only half of it. With Heartsbane in their hands, Catelyn discussed handing the bit of Ice over to the Mormonts, which would compensate for their own sword being held by Jon Snow.
In the end, this talk of swords would be discussed at a later date.
Sansa left for Starfall, and Arya left to travel Essos.
The years kept flying by, and she finally accepted a betrothal for Rickon, with Lady Jeyne Hornwood, the daughter of brave Daryn Hornwood and gentle Lady Alys, born a Karstark, but now wearing the orange gowns of her husband's house.
And now, on this day, the day where Catelyn would finally hand over her regency to Rickon, they were wed in the Godswood.
It was a great ceremony, the largest in years, since Sansa's wedding was done in a closed keep, while the North was still licking its wounds.
Catelyn was flanked by all her children: Sansa, wearing a stunning purple dress, who had also brought her three beautiful children, two silver-blondes and a lovely boy with auburn hair. Arya, who had come back from Essos, who wore a dress for this occasion and this one only.
Grey Wind also, watched from afar, sitting with Shaggydog, with a strange expression, as if smiling upon the scene unfolding before it.
Jon, or, to everyone else, Prince Daeron, had also come to Winterfell directly from Stonehelm with his wife and his four own children, but made sure to not wear any clothing which identified him or them as Targaryens, though for two of them, their hair was a strong indication.
Neither King Aegon nor Queen Daenerys came, but Catelyn's brother, Edmure, came in their stead, in his role as Hand of the King, with his wife and own children. Also present were the myriad of Northern lords, but also a few intriguing ones.
Baelor Hightower, Master of Coin, was present. So was Willas Tyrell and his Fowler wife, and a few other Reachers, as well as Lord Yohn Royce, the old man of the Vale. Some Dornishmen were also there. Edric Dayne, of course, but also Cletus Yronwood and his wife, Alla, and the Prince of Dorne himself, Quentyn, with his wife, Margaery Tyrell. A couple other Dornishmen followed, the most prominent of which was the red-haired Teora Toland, with her husband Lyonel Tyrell.
It was then that she finally understood their presence.
With Princess Margaery being barred any entry into the Reach, and Lord Willas barred any entry into Dorne, the only other places they could meet were outside of these borders. And the wedding at Winterfell presented the perfect opportunity for a large Tyrell family reunion.
Catelyn had laughed at how silly it all was, with flowers blooming in the cold.
But now, winter was finally over, and spring could finally come.
"I am hers, and she is mine."
Jeyne and Rickon finally exchanged their vows, in front of the Heart Tree.
In an instant, all of the burden of responsibilities was thrown off of Catelyn.
She was no longer Regent, and she was no longer a mother.
Her children all had grown up, and shaped lives of their own.
All she had to do now was finally rest.
Though, watching Jeyne and Rickon kiss, she could not resist having a tear slowly roll down her cheek.
Ned would be proud of you all.
