"Lady Catelyn," a man's voice called softly.

She nearly jumped at the unexpected greeting. The passage between the rear of the Great Hall and the kitchens, off of which Vayon Poole's office sat, was poorly lit, but not so dark that she shouldn't have seen someone coming. "Lord Howland, you startled me," she admitted sheepishly.

His slight frame bowed in acknowledgement of the mild accusation, a polite smile as always on his face. "My apologies, there is much that must be done to make a royal visit go so smoothly," he both complimented and gracefully gave an excuse for her.

That was true. Though easier when, like this morning, the king rode out for the day; this time taking Benjen, Hullen, Jory, a few of Winterfell's guardsmen, some of his court, and that pack of weasels to the Wolfswood. That had only left the Queen for Cat to worry about; and her Grace, when last checked upon, had appeared well occupied in the Glass Garden with her ladies-in-waiting, a bard, and her cousin Lancel. "A great honor to serve his Grace," she replied with automatic sincerity, as any Great Lady should.

"Robert is far changed from the man I met at Harrenhal," Howland Reed suggested, putting the perspective of near twenty years on things. "But not so far different that he does not remember his friends or ignores the generous efforts made on his behalf."

"My lord husband has a great friend in the King," she agreed; despite the fact that his friend's changes and private words had seemed to make her normally taciturn Ned even more brooding. "And his Grace has been most generous in his praise of Winterfell," she added proudly. Almost too generous. The man did not act as she expected a King or a Great Lord should. No, perhaps not so true, she corrected herself. While definitely not properly regal, Robert Baratheon did not act so far different than her Ned did when the castle was blessedly free of distinguished visitors; her home.

Sigh. Those thoughts only reminded her that the Northern Lords would soon begin inundating her home the same way the Red Fork and the Tumblestone swelled when the snows melted in springtime. She missed Riverrun. And quick as it came, she buried her childhood sentiment. Her efforts to maintain Ned's and their family's honor for the North, as any Great Lady must strive for, had barely begun.

"And better behaved than I remember too," her lord husband's small friend added with the tiniest and sliest of smirks.

Catelyn wanted to giggle in agreement at that small gibe at the King. Even in the North, there were tales of Robert Baratheon's legendary appetites. Thankfully none of those had been on display … yet. No willing or unwilling serving maids to be quietly handled. No drunken outbursts to smooth over or pretend never happen. Even the infamous Lannister woman, as Ned liked to refer to Cersei, was acting with surprising subdued haughtiness - watching the King … almost like a … jealous wife?

"His Grace has shown the utmost respect to Winterfell," Cat allowed herself to declare aloud, an almost exact duplicate of her last statement. "And you did not wish to ride with his Grace this morning, Lord Howland?" she asked, seeking to turn the conversation to safer ground. King's, despite claims of friendship, were notoriously fickle of their pride; Catelyn would allow nothing that could be ill twisted to reach his, or her, ears.

"No, my lady. I am more accustomed to boats than horses. If the King wished to go around your moat, I would gladly join him," the crannogman chuckled softly, and Catelyn joined him with an appropriate smile of amusement. "Instead, I thought I would take opportunity of the absent Stag's missing exuberance to spend a few quiet moments in the Godswood. That's where I left your lord husband, before I came in search of …," and Howland pointed vaguely back towards the kitchens.

SevenHells, she wanted to curse; but of course didn't, she was a Great Lady. Her temper was less refrained, though she hid it from her lordly guest and friend of her husband. The House turned upside down, with worse still to come, and Ned retreats to his precious Godswood?

She wanted to visit the sept for an hour's sweet peace, but did she? No. There was a House to run. A future to assure for her children. And Ned … "A lovely thought, Lord Howland. Now pray excuse me, there is much to oversee before his Grace's party returns for tonight's feast," she explained, hiding her ire.

The unimposing crannogman smiled and bowed at his polite dismissal.

Once out of the Great Hall, Catelyn passed by the Sept on her way to the Great Keep. She did not stop as she wished, though she did ask the Mother for the patience and strength to endure men; particularly infuriating good men. She acknowledged to herself she might return later to have Septon Chayle lead her in a prayer of repentance. But only later.

She urgently swept up three staircases and then made the turn towards the doorway for the bridge over the main courtyard. As had become a regular occurrence since her royal guests arrival, Ser Rodrik as Master-of-Arms was supervising sparring sessions, tourney blades only, between Starks and Baratheons. She had no intention of disrupting the boys bonding by storming through them on her march to the Godswood. So the surreptitious …

Him.

Ned's bastard and his mute, white wolf spied her instantly too. More heat came to her cheeks. Cut out of participating with his betters he might have been, but still he lingered about; watching them through the window frame cut in the covered bridge. Spying. Her face set itself even more sternly.

With barely a bow in her direction, she watched Jon Snow and his off colored beast beat a hasty retreat into the Armory. She did not slow her pace. She increased it. Woe to him if she caught up to him. Winter was coming, bearing the icy storm of her righteous Tully fury. The natural born son of her husband's seed, who looked more like a Stark than her own true born boys, had best avoid her wrath if he ...

Mikken's hammering made a different, louder, more regular sound than the intermittent clash of tourney swords outside or the beating of the heart inside her aching chest. Apprentices and servants smiled, murmured her name, and properly bowed low as she walked rapidly through them, making her way down to ground level. She made her exit undisturbed, the bastard having safely melted away into some safe nook in the castle grounds.

From the backside of the Armory, she headed for the southwest gate to the Godswood; her ire at Ned's shirking of duty unabated, if not increased by Jon Snow's presence, as she entered the quiet alien Northern heart of her husband's soul and House. Family, Duty, and Honor were not easy words to live up to; loving could be harder still.

There Ned sat, oblivious to Winterfell's concerns. Lost in thoughts that even after fifteen years of marriage he could never satisfactorily explain to Catelyen where they and his Old Gods took him. His handsome, noble visage showed nearly the same blank mask he gave outsiders. Nearly, but subtly different; the man she loved had many masks.

Above his head, the obscene face on the albino heart tree stared at her; red eyes following her Southron intrusion. The bleeding sap that oozed out of the cuts made in honor of the old, dead, nameless Gods of the North hid less than her lord husband, as they tried to pierce her thoughts and drive her Seven believing soul away.

Though the heavy ground cover of leaves and needles muffled her quick, hard footfalls to near silence, Ned's mind was not so far away that her movements weaving between the pools and gnarled, thick trunks of the other trees populating the eerie Godswood did not fail to gain his notice. "Catelyn, where are the children?" he asked, as he almost always did.

Today, she would not let him hide behind the familiar ritual. Winterfell hosted the King and his court. The Lords of the North would soon descend like locusts. And here the Lord Paramount sat on a mossy stone; helping his House, their House, not at all. "Jon Snow refuses to stay away from the royal family," she snapped, breaking their routine greeting and taking him unawares.

And in less time than it took for Catelyn to gather her next breath, Ned's face shifted through a dozen well known looks – pain, anger, fear, hope, resolution, love, wariness, protection, joy, husband, father, lover, warrior, and lord. Words suddenly caught and died at the back of her mouth, she knew not why; other than that for perhaps the very first time she saw that all of his masks were both there and utterly absent in any conviction.

"Robert wants Jon to go to King's Landing with him," Ned announced with fear and pain by way of response.

What? The King wanted the bastard? Confusion flooded and overwhelmed Cat's other emotions. In bed the second night of the King's visit, Ned had told her of the King's words that while he had once intended to make Ned Hand and bind their houses together by marriage; that was no longer his wish. "Northern flowers wilt in the heat of the South." Then what becomes of snow?

That news had hurt her pride and her heart. Sweet Bran could have fostered with kindly Tommen and made friends with all the Baratheons. With her own eyes she had watched how gallantly Joffrey treated Sansa. Her children might have ruled the Realm; from the deserts of Dorne to the ice of the Wall. They might have earned a place on the Small Council. Made matches with Great, Seven believing, Houses instead of … but now the bastard would gain the royal favor?

While it cut deep, at least he would be gone from Winterfell. Gone from Robb, she immediately told herself. Nevertheless she still felt injured. With all the thoughts that leapt instantly through her mind, the only sound to cross her lips at the pronouncement was of her clearing her throat.

Ned climbed to his feet. "It is a great honor. Robert wishes Jon to squire for Ser Barristan."

More salt to rub in her wound. The bastard looked too much a Stark. She had tried to keep him hidden, but the King must have seen him; wanted some sad chance to relive his childhood in the Eyrie. "And then one of his Kingsguard?" she guessed bitterly. A spot was open now. "Does he know yet," she spit. Was that why the bastard had been watching the courtyard?

"Catelyn," Ned implored, his eyes desperate as his hands sought hers.

"I wish him joy," she lied, stepping back; turning her head aside for the moment. She would not let him see the hate in her eyes. She peered instead down into the black and cold waters of the pool beside the heart tree.

"If Jon chooses to go, he will not have any easy path."

If?

She must have betrayed something. Ned quickly leaned forward and trapped her hands in his. His touch hurt. It never hurt. She instinctively tried to jerk her hands away, to step further away; he would not release her. At last raising her face, she saw the bone white and bloody red face of the ancient weirwood over Ned's shoulder mocking her.

"My path was hard too. It was hard on you as well. And I am more sorry than you can know. But I made a promise."

Gods no. Mother protect me. Again she tried to yank away. To flee. Ned must have loved her greatly. She had always wanted to know. She had always feared knowing. Crimson rage soared within the small void where love of Ned had not completely filled her heart.

"I meant to keep this secret to the crypt if I must," he continued quietly, drawing Cat closer to him.

A low moan escaped her lips as he clasped her to his chest. His face pressed against the side of her head. She felt nauseous. She felt dizzy. The anger induced strength and purpose of earlier started flowing out of her quickly.

"But Robert knows. Gods know how he knows, but he does. And he claims no ill will towards Jon. He has changed more than I can understand. But Howland believes him. And … and I think believe him too," Ned whispered with quivering emotion.

Her mind tilted even more as the world began to turn upside down. Sounds and colors starting swirling about her. Why would Robert care about a bastard's mother? The words did not make any sense. Why would Ned care whether Robert cared? The colors made a frightening mélange of stark reds, greys, white, and black. What did Robert …?

"I promised Lya as she lay dying. Jon is of the blood of my House, but not of my seed. He is Rhaegar Targaryen's …"

The colors strove mightily against each other. Somewhere in the distance a crow cawed. Blackness won and the face of the weirwood ceased mocking her as the darkness of the alien North swallowed Catelyn Tully.

Such a cruel lie. The lack of trust. The resulting years of hatred. Madness. Targaryen madness, she thought, secretly watching the bastard while again he spied down from his perch on her sons, her true Stark sons, sparring with the royal Baratheons. What madness lurking in that dragon heart threatened her family?

Ned had foolishly tried to be gentle and understanding with her when her eyes had reopened. Fourteen years deliberate pain could never wash off in a moment, a day, a week, a month … a year? … a season? … a lifetime?

She had refused his offer of pity. She had denied his logical words of their safety. She was the daughter of a Great House. The lady of a Great House. The mother of a Great House. Winter is coming. She would be prepared and had told Ned so. He needn't bother about her.

Quietly, so that only the bed of pine needles beneath her feet and the heart tree face once again over Ned's shoulder could hear his whispers, he had turned aside from trying to assuage her pain to explain what would be done. Of what would be told and asked of this new and different half wolf - half dragon bastard.

Thankfully, the illicit fruit that had sprouted a rebellion and the fall of a corrupt dynasty would depart Winterfell. A king asked. And in asking also dangled the realm's greatest knight as bait. Youth cared little for the promised danger. Glory or death in the attempt. Essos was even further away than the Ruby Ford or King's Landing or Dorne had been for her.

Catelyn would not worry about that one. Her children and her House were enough concern for her. The glor … honor of serving the Iron Throne might be denied them, but at least they would remain safe. Marry. Make her a grandmother. Do their House proud.

Those things would likely be denied that one. Sitting there unknowing on a perch that his Uncle - she wanted to giggle, to shout with glee … Uncle! – would soon irrevocably change his life. "Northern flowers wilt in the heat of the South." What of Snow?

Was this really the King's subtle revenge on Rhaegar? The Robert she dimly once knew. The Robert whom Ned spoke often of. The Demon of the Trident would have welcomed any new found Targaryen, and Targaryen attempt to reclaim their lineage with his warhammer, furiously and gladly; and, damn the consequences.

What wasn't she seeing from all that Ned had whispered to her? Viserys. An Aegon, true or false. A Dothraki warlord using his horde for a Targaryen princess. The Golden Company. Dorne seeking revenge. For a moment she imagined the bastard married to Arianne Martell, the heir of Dorne by their Rhoynish customs. No, even with their relaxed ways with natural born sons, there could be no wedding for him there. Viserys or Aegon, Blackfyre or not, that was surely the price of their cooperation in the rebellion.

Catelyn blinked. Snow was gone again. She hadn't noticed him disappear.

The courtyard was emptying too.

Where was Robb? Where was Bran? She could not spot them among the clump of Stark and Baratheon men moving off to slake their thirsts.

Well she would go pray for her children.

Her path to the Sept was no longer blocked.

And she cared not about the time it would take away from her duties as a Great Lady. Family was the first word of the Tully motto. Duty came second.

Did Septon Chayle know of a prayer from 'The Seven Pointed Star' about the granting of forgiveness? She would make an attempt, but it would take long in coming.

Catelyn slipped the thin Tully blue silk sleeping gown over her head and smoothed it while watching herself in the large Myrish mirror that dominated one wall of her warm bedchamber. Satisfied, her hands next went up to flush out the long auburn hair she had recently finished brushing a hundred times. What next, she wondered, looking about the room for some amusement. It was only moderately late and she did not feel drowsy at all. Too much still churned undigested within her.

Dinner had been a mostly chilly affair, even with both the King and the Queen in fine spirits; flirting with each other shamelessly, almost like young lovers. The lust in the eyes of her husband's friend had been quite evident. While the Lannister woman's look had seemed a bit more calculating by Catelyn's estimation. Regardless, they were showing a far different marriage now than the few distant times she had previously experienced the royal pair together. Or garnered from the few tidbits her lord husband had inadvertently dropped of Robert's point of view on things.

Ned's eyes, on the other hand, had been distant and pained throughout the feast. She had avoided him the rest of the day until that point, but knew immediately by his demeanor when they first sat at the dais in the Great Hall that he had spoken to his ... the bastard. Distracted, the Lord of Winterfell's conversation had been polite but desultory and brief at best. Thankfully the King's good mood had kept the evening from turning into a social disaster.

Normally, Cat would have reached out to Ned at the earliest appropriate moment when he demonstrated his rare need for reassurance. That is unless the cause was Jon Snow; and the long shadow of the hidden woman whom her husband had loved so dear. But now the shadow casting shame across her was gone.

Yet a shadow lingered. Though not publicly, Jon Snow was not whom she and all of the North, all of Westeros, thought. Still, the secret must apparently remain for the King's plans. And for Cat? Lady Catelyn Tully. Lady Catelyn Stark? Mistress of Winterfell? The truth of Summer's light only revealed a different darkness. A different shade.

Like Jon Snow's pleasant absence from the lower tables at the feast, Catelyn's bedchambers was blessedly free of her Ned. They had separate bed chambers. Yet most nights, even without the cramping caused by so many nobles guests, lord husband spent it with his lady wife. Tonight, however, his presence could not have been borne. And he knew and respected it.

The warmth of the waters piped from Winterfell's hot springs through the walls of the Great Keep were in direct contrast to the sluggish ice now trickling through her marriage thanks to Lyanna Stark's betrayal of all duty and honor to her family. Why Ned? Why could you not have trusted me, she wondered for the hundredth time as she walked about her room blowing out candles.

He was still her lord husband, and she would obey him as a Great Lady should do her duty; even in the bedroom did he ask. But his presence would be unwelcome for some …

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Catelyn took her hand off the furs atop her bed that she was about to pull back. "What is it?" she called, startled by the unexpected disruption.

"My lady, Maester Luwin begs urgent audience," Tom's partially muffled voice came through the thick door.

"My lord husband is not within," she answered. Surely Tom would have told the maester that.

"The Maester knows, milady. He insists he must see you."

She trusted Maester Luwin with her life; with the lives of her children. If he must see her on an urgent matter, then she would see him. "A moment," she called and turned away from her bed to the armoire. A thick robe went on over the light silk. "Send him in."

The small grey man in his grey wool robe with its floppy arms entered quietly, and waited for the door to close behind him before he spoke. "My lady, pardon the interruption, but a message has been left for you," Maester Luwin said respectfully.

No scroll was evident in his hands, hidden most like in those voluminous sleeves that always seemed to hold minor wonders to amaze the children with. "Who is the raven from?" she asked politely; most message coming to the rookery would be for Ned; or the King, now that the royal court was here. In fact, the King had been oddly insistent that any arriving message not directed to House Stark must first go to him.

"It was not delivered by raven, nor by a rider that I know of. It arrived hidden inside a carved box I discovered on my workbench when I returned from this evening's feast, my lady."

Curious and curiouser. "Hidden?"

"I found it odd too, my lady. The box contained a Myrish far seeing lens, with no note of explanation. Examination eventually discovered a clever false bottom to the box and this." Now the maester withdrew a small, tightly bound scroll from within one wide sleeve. "Marked for you and sealed with a sigil you will recognize."

Her hand started to tremble slightly as she reached out for the parchment. She caught the words 'Lady Catelyn Stark' written elegantly on the outside below a blob of blue wax. She accepted the scroll and turned it so the remaining candle light reflected best on the seal. Cat's eyes widened in surprise; the moon and falcon of House Arryn.

Luwin bowed and began to leave.

"Stay," she commanded the small grey man. As a Great Lady she would not aloud admit the unknown fear now beginning to course through her, but she would not face it alone. There was grief in the message. She was sure of it.

She broke the seal and unraveled the missif. Words, nonsensical words, jumped off the page at her. For a second she was back at Riverrun, a giggling girl at play with Lysa and Petyr. Focus returned, and with it palpable dread. The words were now legible to her and only one other. A secret language. And they spelled out a horrible accusation.

"Where is my lord husband?" she choked out.