Fictional Pairings Oneshots

Robb x Catelyn: Lord of Winterfell

After Eddard Stark’s unexpected - and, admittedly, somewhat suspicious - death, Winterfell and, by extension, House Stark, was left without a proper Lord. Ned’s only son, Robb, was barely old enough to be considered a man at the time, and was not yet ready for the responsibilities and complex political maneuvering that would be expected of the Lord of Winterfell. Besides, he had taken to the art of swordplay far more readily than that of speechcraft. He simply wasn’t fit to rule just yet, so his mother, Catelyn, would govern the North in his stead until he was ready.

At least, that had been the plan.

The Lannisters of Casterly Rock were quick to attempt to capitalize on the sudden absence of a Lord of Winterfell. Lady Catelyn was quick to remind them that neither she nor any true Northerner would stand for a change in leadership as egregious as what House Lannister had in mind. Their initial attempt at “diplomacy” thwarted, the Lannisters employed a backup plan involving a rather old and rather obscure Westerosi law.

“Should a Lord leave his hold with no heir presumptive yet of age,” Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, had announced with no small degree of smugness in his tone. “His surviving son, should he be yet unwed, shall be wed to the Lady of the hold, else both shall forfeit all titles and lands.”

The archaic decree was nothing if not outdated, but it still stood, according to a handful of Maesters retained by the Lannisters, as a perfectly legal, binding ultimatum. Tywin had been certain that the Starks’ pride would prevent them from subjecting themselves to such humiliation. To his immense surprise and unmeasurable indignation, however, he was proved wrong.

“Then I shall wed her,” Robb announced defiantly, standing tall as he stared down Lord Tywin and his entourage. “Now be quit of our lands, My Lord. You are welcome here no longer.”

Had the situation been a bit less solemn, Catelyn might not have managed to stifle her laugh at the sight of Tywin. He pursed his lips, his stubbled chin quivering with rage as a vein bulged in his forehead. With a huff, he turned on his heel and marched his men back through Winterfell’s main gate.

“Wed her then!” he spat without so much as a sidelong glance over his shoulder. “I shall await news of a bastard ere the year’s end!”

Robb’s handling of the situation had earned him much respect from the people of Winterfell. Already, they were beginning to address him as their Lord, the “Young Wolf.” Before he was a Lord in earnest, however, there was still the matter of the wedding ceremony.

Northern weddings were often wild affairs. Cold-hardened, drunk revelers, rowdy and rough as they could be, usually comprised most of the attendance. Robb and Catelyn were shown a much greater degree of respect, however. Ser Rodrik Cassel, with a hand on his sword pommel and his stern gaze directed at any attendees who might have gotten out of line, saw to that much.

Catelyn looked more a Stark than ever before as she walked solemnly into the godswood, her hands folded over her lap. Her bridal cloak, a thick, white, fur-lined garment emblazoned with House Stark’s direwolf sigil, trailed in the snow. Her features veiled by a hood, she approached her son, who stood waiting at the foot of Winterfell’s heart tree.

Robb watched with bated breath as his mother drew nearer. His soft, hushed gasps steamed in the cold Northern air, misting in front of his pale, nervous face. His deep, blue eyes wavered, and he turned his gaze toward the ground for a moment before gathering the courage to look back up. His thick, auburn curls fell part way over his eyes. Over the gleaming, ceremonial armor he wore for the occasion, he wore a thick surcoat. On his chest was printed a direwolf to match the one on his mother’s cloak.