Her screams echoed through the halls like war drums as she clung to her bedpost for dear life, Catleyn thought that maybe this battle was the gods’ way of telling her about the warrior she’s birthing.
Once her Northern husband had left Riverrun, she started to worry. What if he loses? And she knew in her heart what would happen. Her family would be stripped of their titles, her father would be put to the death and she would be sent off to a lording.
After days of sleepless nights, she realized that her family’s only hope was if she was with child. An heir to Winterfell, she could be is regent and as the Lady of Winterfell she could take care of her family. She could see her father if he took the black and take Lysa and Edmure to the North with her.
So naturally, the next day Catleyn went to the sept and kneeled in front of the warrior. She hasn’t prayed this hard in her entire life, and her septa had always told her that for the gods to hear you, you must want it with all your being. And gods! Did she want it!
She prayed and cried and begged, She told him what would happen to her family. She told him how badly she needs him. How terrified she was. She told him to keep her husband safe on the battlefield or at least to give her a strong son, someone who could carry the North on his shoulders when all around him falls to ashes. She prayed until her head was spinning. Her knees were aching, her throat was hurting and she could no longer open her eyes.
She kept praying like that everyday, determined that the warrior would hear her if she had to scream so loud that his seat above would tremble.
And so when her son was born and she saw how much he looked like her, she wanted to kiss the warrior if she could. The boy looked a Tully, he would always know who his family is. He would take care of them.
She held her son and presented him to her husband, she thought of how generous the warrior was, he kept Eddard safe and he gave her a strong and healthy son. She was proud of herself.
Now she stands laughing like she had never laughed her entire life. Catleyn never thought of the warrior as the japing type but oh, how he japed. Her husband didn’t die on the battlefield, her sweet, honorable Ned died by whispers and traitors. Her son who carried the North on his shoulders as befits a king, who rallied the North behind him and won battles like no four and ten year old boy ever could, is now dead for the same reason. Really, Catleyn had to laugh.