The Bastard is climbing the walls. The Bastard is training against the captain of the guards. The Bastard spends his nights in the Winterfell library. The bastard corrects the maester in their lessons. The bastard has tamed Lord Stark's raven. The bastard is a spitting image of Lord Stark. The bastard… the bastard…
The whispers could be heard day in and day out about Ned Stark's bastard and the very latest of his accomplishments. It seemed at times that the North would never forgive her for not providing House Stark with an heir who looked the part. Robb was far too young to mind, and to her chagrin, seemed to idolise the bastard like the rest of the smallfolk.
He had put him on a pedestal and seemed determined to succeed or at least catch up to him in at least some manner. Though for the sake of appearances she couldn't exactly complain about the time he spent in his studies or the training yard (though not for lack of trying on the latter), when Robb got the idea to climb the walls she had to put her foot down.
Even after repeated warnings, Robb was still insistent on perfecting the act and all her warnings ended up doing nothing but making him sullen and bitter. In the end, she was surprised when he actually came forward and apologised while promising to avoid climbing from now on. The feeling was marred a lot when she realised that it was the bastard who convinced him to do so. She hadn't stooped so low as to take his leavings.
Still, after the stories spread of the crimes of "the Bastard of Bolton", there was a chance now that Ned could be convinced to see reason, to allow the bastard to if not leave, to at least foster somewhere else. She had to hold on to that hope.
She had fond memories of the great hall, most of them involving the quiet meals with the family, though she did recall that a not quite small part of the memories did involve the private celebrations between her and her husband following a banquet or two. Still, that was not suitable conversation for a meal and she knew better than to let such lewd thoughts escape during the meal, especially since that was the last kind of influence her unruly daughter could need.
Barely a year old and little Arya Stark was already more than a handful. Between the countless number of times she had made sweet little Sansa cry and had done her best to raise the dead by screaming through the night, she had also apparently decided that anyone larger than her was an acceptable target for her fists and legs. Anyone that is, except for the bastard himself.
The gods do love their cruel little jests, here being that of all her family that she could have turned to, her youngest daughter turned to be closest to the one that she had no blood to share with. A part of her knew that it was selfish, but every time Robb so cleverly pointed out how much they looked alike, of hearing that from the servants, even Sansa herself daring to ask that question to her, a part of her heart would break and she would wish for that boy's death. She would wonder if the boy had never been, if Arya wasn't the only child who looked like a Stark, if Ned had an heir who looked the part, would he ever love her then as much as he seemed to love this other woman that he never spoke of. As always, the boy would be there to cruelly remind her of the truth. She hated him for that. Speaking of which…
"Where's Jon, mother?" that was Robb, her sweet boy. She tried to delay answering the question, though she knew from the looks that Arya was giving her that it wouldn't just be ignored. "Mother! Where's Jon?" Robb insisted with Arya joining in, "Jon! Jon!" Those might have been her first words, but she wouldn't know. The bastard had been there to hear her first words, not her.
"I don't know Robb. That doesn't excuse you from your meal. Finish it if you intend to go look for him. If Snow intends to miss a meal, on his own head be it." Robb knew better than to question the tone and began eating, though Arya still seemed unsatisfied. She pitied the Septa who would be given the unenviable task of turning her into a lady.
She made a note to herself to remind the kitchen staff to keep the pantry well locked. That would probably be futile however, as the cook would probably feed him himself, a voice in her head reminded her. Still, she intended to savour these small victories.
Her head felt full as she regained consciousness, dimly aware that she was in her room again. The memories didn't come quite as easily though, from what she could gather; the meal left her feeling unusually full and sleepy. She remembered leaving the hall and passing through the corridors and a yard before ending up here.
Her mouth felt dry and there was no pitcher on her bedside table. She called for a maid and yet, no one arrived. She called again and again and again and yet there was silence. She called for a servant, a guard, Robb even and yet there was no sound. The worry came then, but fear was still to come. She got out of bed, somewhat surprised that she was still wearing her dress from dinner and walked haltingly towards the door, the uncomfortable position and garment she had worn to bed having left her somewhat unsteady.
She unlocked the door and opened it quietly. Walking without the benefit of a candle, she hit her foot on something. Bending lower, she recognised it to be a foot, a foot belonging to one of her escort guards who was lying unconscious in a heap near the door. The other guard seemed to have managed to move some significant distance away though it wasn't necessary to check his state. The puddle of blood under him and the shadow of the wound on his neck made his state quite clear. Now was the time for fear.