Incandescent

In a moment of grief-stricken madness, Catelyn Stark attempts to murder her husband's bastard. Yet her entire worldview shatters when Lyarra Stark refuses to burn. fem!Jon, Lyarra x Robb

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It was cold. It was cold and dark and her baby was dead. His tiny, fragile bones, bleached pale and fragrant with the herbs Maester Luwin purchased, were interred in a too-small box, within a too-small plot in the cold and dark Stark crypts. Behind her, Ned placed a hand against her back, offering whatever support he could. She didn't look back. Catelyn had no desire to see the dried tear tracks on his face. Not when it was all her fault.

They said that it was not. That many women occasionally birthed a stillborn. That her next child would be healthy and hale, just as her first child, her beloved Robb, was. But Catelyn Stark took no comfort from these false promises for, in her heart, she knew that this was her burden. The Seven's ordain to birth a corpse from her womb. All because she could not love a motherless child.

She wanted to stay there, in the cold and dark crypts, but they would not let her. Wanted to whisper to her baby, regrets and apologies and dreams for everything she wished for him, but her husband tugged her back. Her sweet and gentle Ned, who simply didn't understand that this was her fault.

Ned brought her back to their marriage bed and tucked her in. Unlike many others, they chose to share a room for the added intimacy. She wished that she could be alone now though. Catelyn shivered and he placed another log into the hearth. Catelyn cried and he reached out to hold her. Catelyn slipped out of bed and he let her go, watched her step through a side door to the nursery.

The red-haired noblewoman felt less cold in the room. The walls were hung with warm cloths of pale yellow, the stone floors layered in thick rugs. Her slippers pressed into wool as she plodded forward. A polished honey wood crib adorned in snarling direwolves lay near the fire. The flames' light revealed a peaceful babe suckling his thumb, his reddish brown hair in disarray. Her chest almost felt like it could breathe again.

"Robb…" Catelyn whispered. Her little man was not yet two summers strong but his skin was flush with life. He was the perfect blend of her Tully roots and Ned's First Men blood. It comforted her to know that this child was still alive, even though his brother lay beneath the unyielding stone. The Seven hadn't taken her firstborn from her.

The smile died on her face as she glimpsed the dark-haired form slumbering beside him. Skin as pale as snow and closed storm-grey eyes similar to the son she had buried just hours ago. Catelyn had hoped that a second son with such a strong resemblance to him would draw Ned away from his bastard. She could never bear to look at the child for long, this little girl that was so undoubtedly a Stark that none could deny her husband's dishonour of her. Even now, with her half-brother having commandeered their shared blankets, Lyarra Snow slept on, ever resilient of the cold.

"It should have been you," Catelyn said bitterly. Her hand reached out to touch that pale cheek, wavered and then drew back. "Your death would have cleansed the world of sin."

New pain, from the child ripped from her arms, and old shame, from the child clasped protectively in her war-ridden husband's arms, intermingled within her. Envy, thick and cloying and sickly warm in the sudden cold, crawled up her spine. Her heart clenched tighter and tighter for the bastard she-wolf that was not the second son she had borne.

'You're taking his space!' Catelyn wanted to shout at her. It was irrational. She knew it was irrational but… 'My Hoster should be there. He should be Robb's playmate and closest friend. He should be the one squealing as my Ned throws him into the air. He should be stumbling over wooden blocks and hiding under the covers during storms. Not you!"

Why would the Mother have done this to her? Had she not been faithful? Had she not followed their teachings even in the lands of the Old Gods? Had she not accepted her husband's bastard, perhaps not kindly but with forbearance for the insult she bore? Why hadn't the Stranger taken this Snow child away, this sin in the eyes of the Seven?

Why had the Stranger stolen away with her little Hoster?

There was a wooden stool beside the crib and she collapsed there, tears running down her cheeks. The first sobs were choked whimpers but they steadily grew louder, helpless and furious over the injustice of the world. How could the Seven do this to her? Why would the Seven do this to her?

'Because I couldn't love a motherless child.' The answer came as easily as the fury when her sobs drew Lyarra Snow from slumber. Sleepy eyes of stormy grey stared up at her, so similar to her Ned's, so similar to the babe in the crypts… Catelyn released a spluttered laugh.

"You're my penance," she choked out, eyes bright and not a little wild as she looked at the babe, "I couldn't love another woman's child so my own was taken from me."

The tears fell silently as the rage in her only grew. The Seven were right. She couldn't love another woman's child, not when it was also Ned's. He shouldn't have betrayed her. Not when she had fallen in love with him.

Family. Duty. Honor.

She had lived her life by these words, accepted duty when her husband betrayed both family and honor. She had done her duty by his bastard and she had lost her Hoster for it.

Catelyn reached out and drew one finger down the babe's cheek. Lyarra Snow gurgled up at her, innocently trusting, as the woman's heart clenched further. Her head felt foggy, her limbs laden, as Catelyn stood up. How was she still even breathing?

It was in a dream that she picked the bastard up. A cloudy recollection as she wandered to the fire and sat before it. The heat was almost unbearing up close but Lyarra seemed entirely unbothered. Neither ice nor fire drew out whimpers from this child and Catelyn hated her just a little more for it.

It should have been her. The Stranger had made a mistake. Catelyn would fix it, fix this mistake, and when the Snow child was taken away, her Hoster would return.

The flames were so close. She picked up one tiny, stocking-laden foot and drew it over the flames. Lyarra Stark gurgled again as her tears fell on those snow-white cheeks.

"I'm sorry," Catelyn told her. "I have to do this. I have to bring Hoster back."

She let the foot go. Tongues of fire licked at the fabric, tore it to ashes. Quickly, before she could force herself to step away, Catelyn pushed the toddler into the hearth. Her entire body engulfed in flames.

Lyarra Snow glowed incandescent. Lyarra Snow did not cry. It was hot and bright and Lyarra Snow would not burn.

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