"I'd heard about that," Brynden said with a nod, cutting Edmure off before he could speak. "It caused quite a stir in King's Landing."
"It is unusual," I agreed, "But Jon's is an unusual situation."
"I heard his mother was highborn," Edmure cut in. "If that's the case, then why didn't her family take him in?"
"It was a matter of honor," I stiffly replied. "Ned reached an agreement with the mother's family; Jon living in Winterfell and the founding of a new cadet family are part of that agreement."
"It's an insult to you and to the Tullys," Edmure insisted, though at least he had the tact to keep his voice low. Considering that Ned and Ben were standing mere feet away, silent and stone faced, I'd say it wasn't tactful enough. From the look on Uncle Brynden's face, I'd say he agreed with me.
"The most Ned will tell me about the situation is that before my betrothal was transferred to him, he had given Jon's mother an oath to marry her, even against Lord Rickard Stark's will," I said in a near whisper. This was a lie, of course, but an aspect of the cover story Ned and I had agreed to. "Him breaking that oath to marry me was an insult against her and her family; the agreement he reached with them was restitution for his mistakes."
"And yet he still put a child in her, whoever she was, after you and he were married," Edmure insisted.
"He loved her," I replied honestly. "As… unusual as the situation is, and as irritated as I am with him, I can at least understand his situation. I don't hold it against him, and I hope that you won't either."
"But Cat," Edmure whined. "His… his other son is living under your roof ! How can you stand it?"
"Because Jon's mother is dead," I bluntly retorted. "And… if you got to know him, you'll find he's a sweet child."
"He's a bastard!"
"He would have been trueborn if Brandon hadn't been murdered by Aerys," I hotly whispered. "What's done is done, and both Ned and I have come to terms with it! Now either drop it, or take your leave!"
Edmure scowled and crossed his arms over his chest, but reluctantly nodded.
"For what it's worth," Brynden softly added, "I think what you're doing is rather admirable. Not many noble ladies would accept such a situation."
"Poor Jon has nowhere else to go," I replied with a shrug. "Besides, the establishment of a cadet branch removes much of his potential threat against my children."
"Astute," Brynden agreed.
"And Ned couldn't be happier with me because of it," I added with a smile. "So for my sake, please accept it."
Edmure was silent for a moment, but he sighed and uncrossed his arms. "Fine. Only for you, Cat."
"Thank you, Ed."
"Well, now that that's out of the way," Uncle Brynden said in a louder voice. "What say we visit the Great Hall? The ride was long and I could use an ale."
"My lords, my ladies," Ned called out, his voice resonating through the quiet Great Hall. Over the previous sennight, lords and ladies from all over the North had arrived in small groups, as had Edmure and Brynden. Tonight was the first of the planned feasts over the course of this month-long celebration.
"House Stark would like to welcome you all to Winterfell for this Harvest Feast. Our bread and salt, our meat and mead, our hearth and home, we freely share with you. Under the eyes of the Old Gods, let vows be renewed, let bonds be reforged, and let loyalty be rewarded."
"Hear hear!" Greatjon bellowed, sparking a chorus of agreement.
Ned raised his cup to acknowledge the Umber's show of support and waited for the hall to go quiet once more.
"My lady wife, Catelyn, has invited all of you to stay with us in Winterfell for a full moon's turn," he continued. "During this time, we have planned contests of skill, both martial and domestic, activities such as hunting trips and a sewing circle, and feasts aplenty."
Another cheer erupted, this time led by Wyman Manderly and his two sons.
"Lady Catelyn, in particular, has asked to show all of you her workshop and her farm," he continued. "You may have heard of the excellent cloth that Winterfell has been producing? Lady Catelyn's Harvest gift to all of you is a demonstration of her new machines that make all of this possible, as well as detailed drawings that will allow carpenters in your lands to make these machines."
Shocked and excited whispers echoed throughout the hall.
"In recognition of my lady wife's southern heritage," Ned continued, ignoring the whispering. "I have decided to host a… tourney, of sorts, to be concluded the day before the Harvest Feast."
"A tourney?" Greatjon Umber asked, more than a little derision in his tone. Before he could continue, Ned interrupted.
"A tourney, in the style of the North," Ned replied, his voice just short of a bellow. "There will be five competitions. First, an archery competition, with a purse of 100 gold dragons to the winner."
More whispers broke out, excited ones this time. I largely suspected it was due to the prizes. While nowhere near as grand as some of the prizes in the South, these would be respectable sums in the North.
"Second, a single combat tournament, with a prize also of 100 dragons," he continued. "A mounted single combat tournament will have a prize of 200 dragons, and will be our third competition. The fourth will be a mass melee, with a prize of 200 dragons to the winner. The final event will be a team battle tournament, with a prize of 500 dragons to the winning team."
"What do you mean by a team battle?" Maege stood up, her gruff voice resonating through the hall.
Usually, tourneys were competitions of individual skill. However, I felt that they were poor representations of real combat. As such, I had proposed the idea of a team battle tournament, with the idea of simulating an infantry clash. While the North wasn't as famed for their mass formations in the way that the Dornish were famous for their pikes, the shieldwall and pike wall were both staples of Northern armies. So, in order to make this tournament more Northern, we replaced the joust with a team battle competition.
"Lady Catelyn?" Ned turned to me. "Since you came up with the idea, how about you explain it?"
"As you wish, my Lord," I replied, letting my clear voice ring through the quiet hall. "Anyone who wishes to participate will form a team of twenty fighters, no more, no less. You may arm and armor yourselves however you wish, so long as you are using blunted melee weapons. Teams will fight until all members of the opposing team have been defeated or surrendered. Teams that have been defeated are eliminated from the competition. The last undefeated team will receive the prize."
The lords and ladies were muttering to each other, likely taken off guard by this new tourney format.
"Does anyone have any questions?" I asked.
"What constitutes a 'defeat', Lady Stark?" Wyman Manderly asked.
"The same conditions as in the usual melee," I replied. "Being knocked insensate or injured sufficiently to be unable to fight on."
"What about the defeated members of the winner's team?" Greatjon asked. "Will they be able to fight in the next match?"
"If they are able to fight, they may participate in the next match," I replied. "However, you may not replace teammates too injured to fight; your twenty men are all your team may have until the end of the tournament."
"Why?" He pressed.
"To reflect casualties during war, my Lord," I replied. "After all, you might win the battle, but incur so many casualties that the next battle is a certain defeat."
Greatjon stared at me for a long moment, then nodded and said, "Fair enough, my lady," and sat down.
"Any other questions?" I asked. None were forthcoming. "Very well. Ned?"
"I'm sure you're all tired of hearing me talk," Ned joked with a dry tone, sparking a round of chuckles from the attendees. "So I shall not bore you any longer. Let this first feast of the Harvest celebration begin!"
"My lords, my ladies, welcome to my workshop," I said, gesturing grandly at the busy main hall of the First Keep.