282 AC
Catelyn pitied her sister Lysa. They had been so happy when they discovered they were both pregnant—it had taken their minds off the war that loomed over them like a fog. As their bellies swelled, Lysa and Catelyn would sit together, discussing the names they would bestow upon their babes.
Catelyn had been meant to marry Brandon, her betrothed of many years. But the gallant fool had rushed off to the Red Keep when he learned his sister Lyanna had been abducted. He told Catelyn he would return, but he never came back. He was killed by the Mad King, along with their father, and that tragedy had sparked the war. Catelyn had married his younger brother, Eddard—shorter than Brandon and less comely, but courteous and dutiful, if distant.
Her sister Lysa, on the other hand, had been wed to Lord Jon Arryn of the Eyrie, a man old enough to be her grandsire. By all accounts Lord Jon was honorable and just, but he was not the young, gallant knight most maids dreamed of. Lysa had done as she was bid, and now, six moons later, her time had come.
Lysa's babe had arrived too soon, Maester Vyman informed their lord father. There was little chance the child would survive, and even Lysa might perish if the labor went ill.
"The birthing bed is a woman's battlefield," the septas often said. Waiting outside Lysa's chamber, Catelyn prayed to the Mother Above for mercy. Her own lady mother had died giving birth. At least let Lysa live, if not the babe, she prayed.
Then Lysa's screams stopped, and the shrill squalling of a child could be heard. Catelyn burst into the room despite the maester's and midwife's orders that no one was to disturb them. There she saw a plump, pink babe with a tuft of soft blond hair. The child seemed normal and healthy.
"Seven blessings! It's a miracle—a babe born this early, yet he seems hale and hearty," the midwife Betha exclaimed. Maester Vyman looked shocked but quickly wrapped the babe in clean white linens.
Lysa lay pale and weak. "Show me my son. I want to look on him."
The maester held the babe before her, for she was too weak to lift him. She smiled at Catelyn and said, "He is beautiful, isn't he?" Cat nodded, tears flowing from her eyes unbidden.
"I will name him Artys, after the founder of his lord father's house. Artys Arryn."
Three Moons Later
The babe rarely cried but had a prodigious appetite. Even with milk from Lysa herself, he required two wet nurses to sate him. Catelyn could not wait for her own child to be born. She prayed to the Mother Above for a son—to give an heir to her lord husband. She hoped that Artys and her children would grow up as brothers.
News from the Trident had arrived: Robert had smashed Rhaegar Targaryen and put his host to flight. Nothing now stood between the rebels and the Iron Throne. Still, Catelyn could not rid herself of the knot in her stomach. She scarcely knew her new betrothed, yet she found herself praying every day for his return, hoping her unborn child would still have a father.
Lysa was holding baby Artys in her arms. The boy grew restless, squirming and writhing like an unruly sack of flour. Lysa giggled and cooed at him. When she saw Catelyn, she said, "Look at him, sister—he has those Tully blue eyes."
Catelyn smiled. "He does." She ran a hand over her own belly without thinking.
Lysa noticed and offered a reassuring smile. "Be brave, Cat. The birthing was painful, but all will be well. The gods favor us—with victory and with our babes."
Catelyn wished she could share her sister's confidence, but she only smiled in return