The Three Houses of Westeros: Chapter 3 (Patreon)

Chapter 3

Catelyn Stark:

Catelyn had been in the North long enough to recognize something out of the ordinary. The northerners had a certain way of doing things; an attitude about them and Ned especially in regards to his Bannermen. 

He trusted them to do their duties. And they, in turn, did not ‘bother’ the Lord of Winterfell with petty matters of the individual fiefdoms. 

The last time Ned had to interfere with one of his Bannermen directly  it’d been house Mormont and that horrid business with Ser Jorah and his slave trade. 

Not a ‘petty’ matter.

It was a far cry from her memories of her Father’s rulership of the Riverlands, constantly arguing and haggling with his own lords and landed title bearers. The Freys were especially ornery as far as she recalled. 

The Tullys had to fight for the loyalty and obedience of their subordinate houses.

The Starks… didn’t.

The North simply obeyed and were expected to obey.

So… receiving a letter late in the night, with barely a day’s warning that House Bolton would be arriving in Winterfell to meet with the Warden of the North ‘with great urgency’ told Catelyn something was very very wrong. 

So she made it a point to be here today, at her husband’s side as he received the Lord Bolton and whatever news this was. Image and impressions were important even here in the far North

Poole and Roderick were here as well, her lord husband already seated at the grand seat of the great hall when the guards opened the door and announced-

“My Lord Stark-” The man called, tense, almost rigid where he stood. “-Hubert Bolton requests an audience.”

Catelyn, like Poole and Roderick, was surprised. She’d assumed that it was Lord Bolton that had come here, not one of his sons. 

What was happening?

“It is granted.” Ned answered, his voice firm and strong.

The guard bowed, turning around and moving out of view to usher the party inside.

Catelyn took the moment to toss a look towards the Castellan, but Poole offered her a helpless look and a shrug; it seemed he had no inkling as to what this could be about either.

Then, the party entered.

It was thirteen men, one leading a dozen guards, each bearing the pink, flayed man of House Bolton upon their shields and surcoats. The young man at the head of them was dressed in the finery of a northern Noble. Fine furs, black, heavy velvets. 

She’d never met Hubert Bolton, Roose Bolton’s second son. But like his father he was a pale young man, of an age with Robb, if perhaps a few years older. He had black eyes, and black, wavy hair, thin of frame but tall. He was comely in an almost too perfect way; his pale looks making him seem more eerie than attractive. 

The young man reached the center of the great hall and knelt. “My Lord Stark.” 

His voice carried, even though it sounded almost soft.

“Rise, young man.” Ned called. “Though I’m afraid I am at something of a loss. The message said your Lord Father was approaching in all haste.”

“No, My lord.” The young Bolton corrected as he stood. “The message said, that the Lord of Bolton would arrive… as of little over a sennight- I am the Lord Bolton.”

Catelyn blinked, her brain stuttering and stumbling as she tried to process those words and what they implied and barely noticed Ned straightening in his seat before Hubert Bolton continued and spoke. 

“My Lord father is dead, Lord Stark.” The youth said without a shred of emotion before he bowed at the waist. “I felt, my Lord- that it would not do to explain the terrible events that transpired through raven; and so I have come in person.”

“Your Brother Domeric inherits before you young man.” Ned pointed out.

“Also dead, Lord Stark.” The youth answered, still without batting an eye. 

There was a pause, uncomfortable and heavy in the room. 

Then, Ned spoke. 

“Tell me all and tell me true… Lord Bolton. And know that I will seek to corroborate what you say.”

“I expect nothing less my Lord;” The young man bowed one more time. “It is why I came.”

—

Hubert Bolton’s father… and brother Domeric… were dead. 

Murdered… by Roose Bolton’s bastard son.

A boy called Ramsey.

“You say your elder brother, Domeric, sought out this- Ramsey?”

“Aye, Lord Stark.” 

“Why?”

The young man shook his head. “I cannot say, My lord.”

“You never asked his reasons? Never questioned this desire? Nor did he ever say anything?” It was Poole who asked, fingers rubbing at his chin. “Why would a Noble born seek out a baseborn?” He demanded, naked skepticism in his expression and voice.

A tension fell over the room again, but she agreed with Poole, Domeric would have no reason to-

A guard moved forward, falling onto one knee. “My lords I know why the Lord Domeric  sought out the Baseborn Ramsey.”

The guard’s voice was unexpected, but even more unexpected was the young lord, Hubert, rounding on the man with a growl in his throat. “Torald, you will be silent!”

“My lord we must speak honestly, not try to spare feeling I-”

“I will see you flogged if you speak another wor-”

“Silence”

Ned’s voice thundered through the hall, it was rare; very rare for her Lord husband to raise his voice, and the sound of such made all grow still in the room as he glared at the Boltons. 

“Young Bolton; you will not lie to me, under my own roof.”

The youth turned, bowing low at the waist. “No! Lord Stark I have not and would not!”

“Then what your Guard has to say should not contradict you should it?” He demanded, before turning his attention slightly past Hubert. “You there. Torald was it?”

“Yes M’lord Stark.” The man lowered his head even further.

“Tell me- what do you know of Domeric Bolton’s reasons that your Lord Hubert did not wish to discuss?”

A moment’s pause. “M’lord, lord Domeric had heard stories- tales of how you treat your own baseborn son-” 

Catelyn felt her heart quite literally stop dead in her chest; beside her, Ned went rigid where he sat.

“-and the relationship held between your baseborn and his trueborn siblings. He wished to reach out to Ramsey because of this. Hoping for the same. The Bastard of Bolton… took advantage, and he killed M’lord Domeric in a fit of madness and jealousy!”

It was her every nightmare, her every horrid vision of the future crystalized right before her eyes. 

She couldn’t breathe. 

Lord Bolton fell to both knees, bowing low. 

“My Lord Stark; these are simply the ramblings of an ignorant guard. I beg you, House Bolton means no insult to you by repeating them here in your Halls!”

Ned barely seemed to react to the words, he barely seemed to be breathing himself.

She saw him raise a hand, cradling his brow and temples. 

The silence that fell over the room was suffocating.

No one dared to even twitch. 

“And your Father?” Ned finally found his voice, half choked though it may have been. 

“My father went to confront his baseborn, I with him…” The young Hubert said quietly. “Ramsey… he knew those woods better than we did. Set a trap. My father’s face was ripped off by the cur’s hounds before I ran him and his bloody beasts through.”

All the while as he described this… this living nightmare Hubert’s voice never wavered, his heart and nerves born from winter’s deepest cold.

—

Catelyn removed herself from the room shortly thereafter. She had duties to see to and the entire, horrid affair had cut deep into her mind, bringing troubled thoughts and black whispers she’d never fully been free of.

The Servants and guards went about their own days, each greeting her kindly in that northern rough way of theirs. The curtseys were short, the bows barely inclines of the head, but they smiled and seemed glad to see her. Warm, as ironic as that sounded in the north. 

As she reached the courtyard, Old Nan was making her way inside, hunched over, hobbling with her shaky knees and trembling frame. She smiled a gumless smile at Catelyn that the lady of Winterfell returned easily. 

“Our sweet little wolf will grow her own fangs soon enough Mi’lady.” The old woman cackled, giggling to herself as she waddled past a now confused Catelyn. 

All of her children were wolves of some kind. Robb was the Lordling Wolf, Arya the Little Wolf, Bran the Summer Wolf, Rickon the Wild Wolf, Felix… she’d named him Old. Because Nan said he had an Old Soul.

Even Ned and… that boy, Nan called Wolves. The Quiet Wolf for Ned, and the Watchful Wolf for his son.

A name that carried far far darker connotations than she was comfortable with, or happy to be reminded of. 

Only Sansa was the Sweet Wolf, so that gave Catelyn at least a clue as to who Old Nan was talking about.

‘Grow fangs soo- Oh no.’She realized what was happening, and quickly as she could Catelyn hiked up her skirts and made her way quickly across the main courtyard, towards the rear of the grand castle-

Towards the training grounds. 

She could hear the clack of wooden swords and the ring of blunted steel striking against each other. It wasn’t hard to find one of the boys here at any hour really; her second boy, Felix, trained obsessively, something that in hindsight, she should have known would affect Sansa, his twin.

She could never understand her second born son, try as she might. He was always so cold, so distant. He looked at each of them like they were strangers, like they had to prove something to him. The only one he seemed to genuinely respect was the baseborn half-brother. And that was thoroughly in spite of everything she’d done to try and sever that bond. 

Cursed to have the two most Stark looking children to adore the bastard brother that was a threat to their lives and futures. 

She reached the training grounds, two of the gate guards bowing lightly as she approached.

“Lady Stark”“Mi’lady” 

They both said as she passed the postern gate. 

And there she was.

Her hair was not done in the northern style she favored, not today. Instead it was a braid, red and full and shining. It draped over one shoulder, standing out over the white fur of the pelt around her shoulders. 

“Ya keep tuggin’ it that far back that string’s gonna smack right into yer chest again.” Theon called from his place behind the spectator railing. 

Sansa’s fingers tightened over the bow string, pulling it that little bit further back seemingly to spite the boy.

Theon laughed.

It was not a friendship she approved.

Unfortunately; this was not something she could blame on anyone other than her son.

Always Felix held them apart, kept them distant, but none moreso than Sansa.

“You’re useless” 

He’d told her once when they were barely twelve namedays. His voice had carried such venom, such utter contempt her heart had broken a thousand times on Sansa’s behalf

She reprimanded him, Ned himself had been furious with their son, an icy, cold fury he rarely showed, that had even cowed their most stubborn, headstrong boy into apologising later that night.

But seemingly, the damage had been done.

Sansa and Felix did not get along as twins should. They barely got along as siblings should. And his harsh words had made Sansa take up archery. Catelyn hadn’t the heart to break her spirit again after Felix had so viciously trampled on it.

So she’d let her. Hoping it was merely an act born out of childish anger that would pass quickly.

Only it never did.

She’d asked the guards to not teach her; women shouldn’t be fighters. It simply wasn’t done.

But she’d never spoken to Theon.

A grievous stupid oversight on her part.

And so he’d taught her. The best archer in his age group.

And she knew Theon’s reputation, knew that he frequented that brothel in Wintertown far more often than he should with the allowance her husband generously granted the boy.

So no. She did not approve.

But it seems that if Sansa and Felix shared one single trait for all the ones that they were utter opposites… It was their stiff necked stubbornness. 

Sansa’s fingers released the taut string. The horn bow snapping and vibrating in her hand as the arrow was set loose, flying straight and true to strike dead center of the target, Sansa’s red tailed arrow standing out next to Theon’s dull brown fletchings. 

Her little girl smiled, and Theon had the good sport to clap politely behind her.

“Not bad not bad.” The Greyjoy laughed. “Maybe next time you’ll be able to make it look as easy as I d- Lady Stark!”

Theon stopped speaking, going rigid and nearly pale as he straightened where he stood, looking for all the world as though any suitable distraction would be a godsend right now. 

From his perspective, no doubt such a thing would be very welcome.

Catelyn offered the boy a look, tight and faintly disapproving. She hadn’t stopped him when they’d started, but by now he knew her feelings on the matter, him continuing in spite of her express wishes to the contrary, did not please her; not one bit.

But then, coming to Theon’s rescue , Sansa pulled the quiver from around her body, its strap going over her head as she rushed closer. “Mother!”

Her little red Wolf smiled brightly as she drew near, cheeks flushed with the heady rush of exertion and accomplishment. 

In spite of herself, Catelyn was able to return the expression. A mother should not have a favorite child, but Sansa was by far the easiest of her children. “Hello darling.” She greeted, one hand rising to brush a stray lock of hair back in place for her child. “Would you join me for morning prayers?”

Sansa was also the only one of her children that had adopted her faith in the Seven. So that made spending time together easier.

Her daughter offered a pleased nod, “One moment and I’ll be happy to.” She answered, turning towards the racks where she’d place the bow and quiver.

Theon offered a hasty bow and excused himself, skulking away as though he might avoid the tongue lashing she would be giving him later if he vanished quickly enough.

She gave him a pointed glare, one he pointedly pretended not to notice as Sansa returned. 

“Thank you Theon.” Her daughter said, oblivious to the tension, or perhaps, choosing to not acknowledge it as Theon mumbled something with a nod as Catelyn took her daughter in hand. 

Marching free of the training yard, Catelyn tried to hide her relief at Sansa’s easy agreement to join her. Perhaps she should find more ways to keep her daughter busy. If she was too occupied with duties she’d have less time to waste on such… unlady-like pursuits.

“How did you rest sweetling?” She asked.

Sansa nodded. “I slept very well mother- though I was surprised, you and father didn’t join us to break fast.”

“There was some business that needed seeing to with your father’s bannerman-” She half explained, trying again, to push the thoughts of Bastards and Kin-slaying out of her mind. “-I joined him in that. I’m sorry we weren’t there.”

“It’s alright.” Sansa assured. “How did you- Arya!”

Sansa’s startled call of her sister's name made Catelyn’s heart skip a beat, her eldest daughter sounded horrified. And a million varying scenarios passed through Catelyn’s mind as she turned her head, each one worse than the last. 

At the sight of blood Catelyn could feel the blood drain from her face- but as Arya halted mid run, looking just as startled in the middle of the courtyard- Catelyn realized the truth a split second before Arya spoke up hastily.

“It’s not mine!” She hurriedly exclaimed. “

Catelyn felt equal parts worry and fury beginning to bubble up in her, an anger born of fear but anger nevertheless. “What happened!” She demanded, marching quickly towards her youngest girl who hastily wiped her blood soaked hands all over her own clothes as if that would somehow make the situation any better!

—

Catelyn strode off in the direction of the Winterfell stables at a pace so rapid that despite maintaining a proper gait she was breathing in a very unladylike manner. Regrettably, it could not be helped; when she tried to get an explanation from Arya, her daughter had provided little insight, going on about how “Dorte got startled” and “there was an accident” before running off again.

“Don’t worry mother,” she’d shouted over her shoulder. “It’s alright! I’m going to fetch Maester Lewin!”

But Catelyn was very much worried, and told Sansa to follow her sister before heading in the opposite direction as fast as she could.

While the mother in Catelyn was glad that Arya was safe, as the Lady of Winterfell she knew how utterly disastrous it would be if a ward of House Stark–particularly from a vassal house as loyal, wealthy, and powerful as the Manderlys–were to be harmed, especially in light of the recent upheaval with House Bolton.

Reaching the stables, Catelyn slowed her pace and smoothed her skirts before taking a deep breath in through her nose, and briefly regretting that this was not Arya running away from her lessons instead.

Mother give me strength, if I am wishing that Arya had been in trouble.

She did not run; not quite. But she did hurry more than normal. As she approached the stables, there was already something of a crowd forming. Some servants, a handful of guards. Each of them crowding around some people laying across the ground. 

“Lady Stark!” Someone called, and like children being caught the gaggle of men and women parted immediately, making way for her. 

She barely had the presence of mind to offer them nods and school her features into a mask of calm she didn’t quite feel; hopefully they hadn’t had time to truly take in her near panic. 

Drawing close she was able to hear one voice clear above the groans and hisses of pain..

“I’m sorry- this will hurt.”

Finally making her way past the crowd she was greeted by the sight of the stable master; forehead speckled with beads of sweat and features twisted in pain, the red of blood had seeped into the ground around him. 

And Marianne Manderly was pressing down with both knees over the injury, blood drenching her dress and hands.

“Marianne!” She gasped, reflexively reaching for the young girl before she stopped herself.

She did not know much about treating wounds or injuries, but even she knew that placing pressure stopped bleeding. Pulling her away would… not be a good idea.

The Manderly girl turned, looking at Catelyn over her shoulder with an almost haunting calm that was worrying for a girl that should not seem so at ease around such a grievous wound.

“Lady Stark.” The girl that was barely two years older than her Sansa and Felix called her name. “It’s alright; I told Arya to go get Maester Luwin. I can handle it until he arrives.” 

Far far too calm…

“You’ve ruined your dress.” She said for lack of anything else to say to her, hands hovering by the girl’s shoulders still ready to lift her.

“I’m sorry.” She said before turning her eyes back towards Torvald “But still- It’s just a dress.” 

Marianne was a sweet girl Catelyn knew. Quiet, demure. But always a shroud of melancholy and almost doom hung about her head that Catelyn could never quite understand.

The Manderly’s were a good family, and they’d sent Marianne here; nominally to be a companion for Sansa -though Catelyn suspected he wished for a betrothal to, if not Robb then Felix- at the age of six and Catelyn knew she, Ned and the Children treated her well.

But always- always that melancholy lingered.

Though at the same time, her kindness toward others never left her either as could be seen right here.

Her brain finally catching up to the events, Catelyn marched gingerly around the girl to the other side of Torvald, the injured stablemaster. She caught sight of the trail of blood leading back into the stables. It looked like Torvald had been dragged out here. 

Marianne and Arya?

No. It must’ve been one of the guards. 

She knelt beside Torvald. The pain on his face was clear; but his eyes were still aware, not taken by the delirium of bloodloss or the pain itself.

Catelyn knelt, feeling the cold earth under her knees as she reached and grasped at Torvald’s hand.

“My lady?” The Stablemaster questioned, surprised. “Please don’t trouble yourself.”

She offered him a smile. “It’s no trouble Torvald. Maester Luwin will be here soon. Everything will be alright.

“Aye- swear on me I’ll be puttin those tools away properly from here on milady..”

She didn’t quite understand, but she assumed it was related to his injury in some way.

“Dorte was startled by a rat.” Marianne explained suddenly, her quiet voice almost lost in the chilled air. “She moved. Bumped into Torvald. He tripped and cut himself on the wheat scythe.”

Her hands and knees pressed down on the wound; with its cause revealed she could only imagine the terrible, gaping gash hiding beneath those blood stained skirts. 

She clutched the man’s hand tighter. “I’ll be holding you to that promise Torvald.” She warned

“What’s happening here!?”

If the sight of her had been enough to make the crowd part, her husband’s voice practically made them scatter. Dozens of guards, servants and other people moved clear out of the way and fell on bended knee and hasty bows towards the Lord of Winterfell. 

Ned saw them, eyes immediately taking in the scene. 

His head snapped towards one of the guards at his side. “Skjor.”

“Aye Milord!” The man straightened. 

“I think a guard in full armor weighs more than a girl.”

“Understood milord!” Skjor handed off his sword to one of his fellows, marching forward quickly as Ned walked up behind Marianne, gently placing his hands on the girl’s shoulders. 

“Get up my girl- Skjor can do this task.” Ned’s voice was gentle, but firm, his large hands dwarfing Marianne’s smaller arms as he pulled her away.

Marianne nodded shifting her weight ever so slightly.

Then; she surprised Catelyn. “The wound is just over his knee, but under his thigh. It didn’t reach the artery. Please don’t fall over it, steady, slow pressure is best.”

The lady of Winterfell stared at the girl, and Skjor’s features were equally surprised, if just a smidge incredulous as well. 

But still, Marianne reached grasping Skjor’s hand and urging him to place his knees where hers were as she extricated herself carefully. Skjor’s added weight drew out a hiss of pain from Torvald but nothing more. 

She did however, catch a glimpse of the gastly wound,a red slice across his leg just as she’d said. It made her stomach turn just looking at it- let alone thinking of touching it.

That the child had done so without flinching was… surprising… and worrying.

As Ned pulled Marianne to her feet, the front of Marianne’s skirt was suffused entirely with blood. The pale blue dress now dark and dripping wet.

Even so, the young girl clasped her hands infront of her, back straight and face placid; the picture of quiet, stoic dignity and poise.

“I GOT HIM! I BROUGHT MAESTER LUWIN!” Arya’s voice called out; hollering across the courtyard as she ran with Maester Luwin in hand, quite literally pulling the wizened Maester behind her; Sansa hurrying after the both of them. 

Ned turned and she saw his own momentary surprise and worry at seeing their youngest daughter speckled with blood .

 The Maester rushed forward, and Catelyn moved aside to make room for him in her place. She patted Torvald’s hand, and the stablemaster offered her a grateful squeeze before letting her go.

Catelyn made an effort to wipe the dirt and mudstains from the front of her dress, but they wouldn’t be going anywhere without a good wash first.

“Marianne.” Sansa gasped. “Oh- by the gods are you alright!?”

Marianne nodded. “I’m alright. I’m sorry I’ve made you all worry.”

Ned, seeing Luwin here now nodded to himself. “Come; let's get you girls cleaned up.”

Marianne; as expected, agreed easily. “Yes sir.”

“But I wanna see!”

Arya; less so.

— 

Her daily routine now thoroughly beyond her reach, Catelyn did take the time to change her clothes and delegated many of her morning tasks to Poole. 

He did not complain; he would not. But it was unfair of her.

With some additional time now available to her; she decided to visit her sons.

It wasn’t exactly hard to find them. 

It was the training yard; of course.

Approaching the grounds, she could already hear the telltale sound of wood striking wood and by the sound alone she could tell that the two fighting right now were Robb and Felix.

She was not a warrior, but after so many years, she could recognize her sons by merely the sound their weapons made when they connected.

Robb was… solid. Strong. The way a northern lord should be. 

Felix by contrast was a storm of strikes. Never relenting. Never tiring. 

It was like a wave trying to batter down a boulder.

Honestly… more often than not- he succeeded. 

She knew she should not wish it otherwise, but of the two of them Felix was the far far better warrior.

She supposed it was fitting for a second son to have such a talent over his elder brother; but Felix was obsessed with his training. It consumed his thoughts and every waking hour. 

If Robb had such talent; she didn’t think he’d have let him swallow him so completely; he had other responsibilities, other matters and tasks that he needed to concern himself with as the heir. 

In short; he couldn’t afford to devote himself so utterly as Felix had. 

As she approached and caught sight of her two boys she was just in time to see Felix deftly disarm Robb, the wooden practice sword clattering to the floor as Robb backed away, his hands rising. “Yield, yield.” Her eldest sighed, then chuckled. “Looks like Jon’s still the only one that can still challenge you little brother.”

Felix scoffed. “If you know that, why waste my time?”

The name curdled her stomach; it always did, but today it blackened her mood especially.

“Maybe because you can help me improve. Don’t be so selfish little brother.” Robb laughed. 

She cast her eyes to the spectator railings, and found the boy in question, watching his brothers with his bastard, envious eyes.

The boy must feel her eyes on him, for he turns, and finds her glare.

She sees him straighten, an expression passing over his features she can’t quite read before he turns away, beginning to leave.

“Jon-” She hears Felix call, a split second before Robb realizes she’s there. “Mother!”

The Bastard hesitates, no doubt having heard Felix’s call before he chooses to ignore it, continuing on his way.

Robb does not notice. Felix does. His eyes narrowing before he turns and looks at her, his expression placid and neutral.

If only her children could see the danger that boy poses to all of them.

Perhaps, when the story of Lord Bolton spreads they might finally understand.

Even so, Felix surprises her when he’s the first one to speak.

“I heard there was an incident with Marianne.” He calls.”Everything alright?”

Marianne- the only other person he asked after.

In fact; she was the only person Felix ever seemed to think would be worth anything as a warrior.

A ludicrous thought.

But- yes. She did remember little eight year old Felix handing eight year old Marianne a wooden sword; insisting she train with him.

Old Nan had laughed herself almost literally to death with her breathless wheezes and the castle maids had tittered and whispered for days afterwards.

She’d found it amusing too… long after the fact. It was actually a little worrying that Lord Manderly might catch wind of his daughter being treated so… oddly by what he no doubt hoped was her prospective husband.

She’d never understood it. But other than the bastard, Felix rarely concerned himself with others. Not even his siblings. He was courteous; but only as far as he had to be. There was little warmth in him. Robb tried to reach him, and Brandon idolized him, swearing that he was the North’s best sword.

But he and Sansa treated each other almost like strangers, Arya’s favorite was still and always had been the bastard, and Rickon might as well not exist to Felix.

“Torvald hurt himself in the stables.” She explained; pushing her thoughts away; her second son, she feared she would never truly understand. She wondered; distantly, if she’d done something wrong as a mother. “Marianne aided him; it was quite a ghastly wound, but Maester Luwin has said he should recover with some stitches and rest.”

“Well I’m glad to hear that.” Robb said “I also heard Lord Bolton’s come. I saw their banners.”

“Robb you are the heir-” She chastised as she drew close. “You must pay more attention to the occurrences of your bannermen and retainers. Your father will not live forever!”

Robb’s smile was apologetic. “I- I’m sorry, mother. In truth I hadn’t even heard about their arrival until they’d already met with father. I assumed it was important but I hardly wanted to interrupt.”

“Hm.” Felix grunted. “That’s odd, isn’t it? A major house just arriving with little to no advanced notice.”

“It is odd, which is why you should have inquired much sooner than now.” She pressed.

Again, Robb’s smile was apologetic, still a boy. 

She sighed. “Lord Bolton is dead-” She said, seeing the surprise dance on both their faces, even Felix’s. 

She wrung her hands together, no doubt her next words would lead to another… argument- but they needed to hear it. 

“He, and his heir, Domeric were killed by Lord Bolton’s bastard son, Ramsey.”

Robb’s surprise did not take long to shift to horror. Felix on the other hand, narrowed his eyes at her, an accusation in his gaze. 

And he, blunt and straight forward as the north itself; spoke frankly.

“Is this leading to you telling us how we should be careful of Jon again?”

Robb sucked down a breath- hissing between his teeth. “Felix-”

“Do not speak to me as though I’m a simpleton Felix. I am your mother and by all the gods I need you to understand the danger you’re all in.”

Robb winced, sighing. “Mother- please. Jon is not dangerous. Just as not all Lords are the same neither is he the same as this Ramsey.”

Catelyn closed her eyes, praying to the mother for patience and the Father for the wisdom on how to speak to her children.

Felix shook his head, scoffing. “This is pointless; I’m going to change”

Catelyn’s temper flared. “Do not turn your back to me when I’m speaking to you-”

Her voice was sharp and cutting, a bit of northern winter in the bite of her tone. Enough for even her most taciturn and estranged son to stop in his tracks.

“Why can’t either of you simply accept that he is not who you think.” She pleaded. 

“Because he is not who you think either.” Robb answered gently. “Jon is a good man.”

She opened her mouth, ready to answer, when Felix suddenly cut in. “I’ll make you a promise, mother.”

She and Robb paused- and when her second son turned to address her he looked her dead in the eye; not a hint of jest or boasting in his voice. 

“If Jon ever tries to steal any of our inheritances- then I promise… I’ll kill him myself.”

Robb cringed. “Felix. He is our brother. And you’re not a kinslayer.”

“You’re right.” Her warrior son shrugged. “But I’ve already made the promise. And those should be kept.”

He stared straight at her. Her heart stuttering in her chest; “Right mother?”

A shadow passed over them, reflexively she cast her eyes upwards, finding a raven just as it flew into the rookery.

Dark Wings. Dark Words.

Later she would find out the raven came from King’s landing. 

And that old portent held true now as it always did.

(X)(X)(X)And so we've reached the "start" of canon :pYes the Starks will get their wolves. I just didn't feel like writing something we've ALL seen a hundred times already.So what wolf name should Felix give to his good boy/girl? Suggestions are being accepted :D