CATELYN

The blood orange was tart on her mouth, the juices trickling down the corner of her lips. She cleaned it with a bit of cloth and saw the reddish stain. Suddenly she recalled the prisoner, a bit of blood coming from his mouth after Ser Ronald had manhandled him. Catelyn stared at the cloth, and at the orange, and wondered if Ned had noticed that.

It was necessity , she reminded herself. Cruel necessity . She put her hands before her on the table and stared at them awhile.

"Is all well, cousin?" said Alysanne Whent, looking up at her from across the table.

Catelyn forced on a smile."It is nothing, Alysanne," she said. "Merely… a slight pain in my head."

Alysanne's eyes widened in concern. "Oh, dear. Should I send for a maester?" She bit her lip. "I only ask, because… when Josslyn, Willem's wife, when she..." Alysanne gulped, then fidgeted.

"I am fine, cousin," said Catelyn. "It is nothing to serious." Curse it , she thought. I forgot how much horror has touched this family of late . Ser Willem Whent had been Alysanne's eldest brother, heir to Harrenhal, wed to Josslyn Smallwood. He'd died in the Battle of the Trident-his wife had died a short time before then of a fever. And young Symond died in the Battle of the Bells. Sometimes one can't help but wonder if the stories are true, and this heap of stones is cursed .

"My mother taught me a charm for soothing mild pains," said Aeron Greyjoy suddenly. "It's very good!" He regarded Catelyn seriously. "Do you have a bird wing somewhere? And an old nail?"

Catelyn was trying to produce an answer for that, when Jayne Bracken spoke up, looking at Aeron intently. "Prayer is most efficacious. The Holy Seven hear our wishes, and if they are good and just they reward them." She bit her lip. "That's what my mother says."

"She's not your mother," said Barbara Bracken, slouching through a doorway. Her hair seemed disheveled and her clothing thrown on."She is your stepmother, and not even the first of them. Though you're too young to remember that one." As Catelyn watched, Barb Bracken grabbed a chair from the end of the table and dragged it towards her end. "Not that you missed much. Lady Paege was a right bitch. You talk of the Seven rewarding our good and just wishes-well, I was inclined to believe that, when she fell off that bridge and drowned." She sat down next to Catelyn, her gaze fixed on her younger sister. "But then you were not stolen by grumkins, no matter how many candles I burned and my faith, it withered." Barbara yawned and turned to Catelyn. "What are they serving at this table? I'm famished."

Catelyn frowned at her, noting the way that Jayne was now staring at her hands, while Aeron looked at the younger Bracken sister in concern. "This is my cousin's table, not mine, Barb." She gestured at Alysanne. "Ask her."

Barb was already grabbing at plates. "No need, I've eyes and hands. Ahh, clotted cream…" She placed a heaping spoonful of that next to the hunk of bacon she'd taken, then grabbed a biscuit. She began to shovel the food into her mouth. "So, what brought on this discussion of theology?" she muttered between bites.

"My mother taught me a charm for pains," said Aeron, flatly. "Jayne said praying to the Seven worked as well."

Barbara threw her head back and laughed. "Oh, a charm for pain! And does it work?"

Aeron's mouth stiffened and his eyes... If looks could kill, Barb Bracken would not be snorting in laughter right now. "Very well. My mother was very wise. She could raise storms sometimes, when the winds were favorable."

"Oh, indeed," said Barb, with an exaggerated nod. "What a marvellous gift. Faith, I wish I'd known her. We could have exchanged such things. I know a certain way to be rid of fools. All it takes is one very heavy stick." Aeron's frown seemed to deepen at that-Jayne placed a hand on his shoulder, and nodded at him. The young Greyjoy and Bracken sister finished their meals in sullen silence, while Barb started piling blood orange slices and pomegranate seeds onto her plate.

"We thank you for your hospitality, Mistress Whent," said Jayne, rising from her seat. Aeron quickly followed her example.

"Going so soon?" asked Alysanne.

"Tyrion said he'd show us Lord Gargon's chamber," said Aeron.

Jayne nodded. "He knows it from a book."

Alysanne giggled at that. "My, sometimes I think the little Lion knows this castle better than I do, and I was born here." She frowned. "Perhaps in Lord Gargon's chamber. That would be unpleasant to discover." She nodded, and the pair darted away.

Barbara gobbled up her fruit. "Bah," she said, some reddish juice dripping from the corners of her mouth. "I was born in the same room as Lord Otho, but do you hear me moaning about it?" She grabbed a knife and expertly sheared off another thick slice of bacon. "Why I hold it an honor, and do hope that some of the Brute of Bracken's fierce spirit inhabits my frail form." She speared the bacon with her knife and stuffed it in her mouth.

"You're the only woman I know," said Catelyn quietly, "who takes pride in being compared to a brute."

"'Tis a brutal world, Lady Stark," said Barbara, tearing at the meat with her teeth. "The brutes rule it, and I'd rather rule than be ruled." She glanced at Alysanne, and shrugged. "But look, I think we upset your sweet little cousin with all this talk." She leaned forward, and grabbed a flagon of water. "I suppose you would rather be off to see Lord Gargon's chamber than listening to we two shrews squabble."

Alysanne crossed her arms. "I am a good hostess, who makes no comments on the conversation of her guests," she said. "Even when they are most improper and unpleasant."

Barbara hooted at that and set down her water. "A touch, Mistress Whent, a touch!" She glanced at Catelyn, quirking her eyebrows. "This is how you best me, sweet Cat-you meet me in the lists, instead of hiding in the castle."

Catelyn frowned at this, and glanced at her cousin. "Are not Tyrion and the Greyjoys and Mistress Jayne also your guests, Alys? Do they not have as great a claim on your company as Barb and I? Or perhaps a greater one?"

"I had not thought of it like that," noted Alysanne.

"Oh, la, there's no need to stay here for us, Mistress Whent," said Barb, dipping fruit into her little pile of clotted cream. "We'll not tear each other to bits if you leave, no matter how we may give you that impression."

Alysanne was considering things when a soft voice came from the door. "Ahh, Mistress Bracken. I'd hoped to find you here."

Barb turned to look, grinning like a cat. "Why, Lord Bolton! What an honor and a delight!"

Roose Bolton slid through the doorway, his pinkish cloak billowing behind him. "For me as well, milady," he murmured, the mildest of smiles on his face. Alysanne regarded him, stood suddenly, and with a bow, left the table. Roose watched her go, his face almost blank. "What brought that on, I wonder?"

"She's off to look at Lord Gargon's chamber with the Greyjoys, my sister, and the dwarf," said Barb. "Faith o' me, I'd swear that's the start of a jest, but I've no notion how to finish it."

"I very much doubt that, Mistress Bracken," said Roose, quietly.

Barb grinned more at that, and dipped a blood orange slice in her cream. "Care to join us in our repast, Lord Bolton?" She popped the fruit into her mouth, and chewed it.

"Alas," he said, "I must prepare to leave with my goodbrother and Lord Umber. We're to take the Kingslayer to the Wall and ready more armies. It will, I fear, occupy my morning, and then, well, I shall be gone."

"Oh, what a shame," she said, offering him her hand.

"Indeed." Bolton gave a regretful shrug as he took it. "I came to thank you for that lemongrass and nettle tea. It was every bit as cleansing as you proclaimed it."

Barb smiled at him, twining her fingers in his. "I'd not give you false coin, Lord Bolton. My nurse, she taught me many simples and medicinals when I was a lass, and I live by them. They've kept me in good health, despite meself."

"Oh," said Bolton, "I do not think you play such a small role in your health, Mistress Bracken. I feel it fairly bursts from you."

"Well, I thank you for your flattery, Lord Bolton," said Barb, a laugh in her words, "and promise that my little bit of knowledge and my own sweet self are at your service whenever the twain of us meet." The pairs' fingers seemed to clench around each other, and Catelyn had a sudden, strange notion that this must be what the coupling of worms look like.

"How delightful," murmured Bolton softly, giving Barb's hand one last squeeze before sliding it out of her grip.

"For us both," answered Barb, throwing her head back and giving a booming laugh. She offered him a cherry dipped in cream. "Perhaps some subsistence for your morn, before we're parted, Lord Bolton?"

"I fear, Mistress Bracken, that is too rich for my blood," answered Bolton. "I'd require a good leeching after such a repast."

Barb nodded at that, then licked the cream off the cherry. "I might require that meself, Lord Bolton. The blood, it does heat up so, does it not?" She ran her tongue over her teeth. Bolton only gave a dry chuckle, and with a bow turned and left. Barb licked her lips, and glanced at Catelyn. "I owe you an apology, Lady Stark, in the matter of icicles." She gave a laugh. "I told you I had thoughts to snare me a Northern lord, and Barb Bracken does what she sets her mind to." She gave a delighted shiver and continued, her voice low and insinuating. "Oh, I've left my mark on that one. Gave him what he never realized he wanted. And oh, did he want it."

Catelyn frowned. "Your lord's palace is called the Dreadfort."

If she'd hoped Barb would be made uneasy at that, Catelyn was disappointed. Barbra's eyes gleamed in delight, bringing to Catelyn's mind Lysa as a young girl, describing the dashing hero of some romance. "Oh, I know," whispered Barb. "I've heard much of it. I asked him about that famed chamber where they have cloaks made of the skin of your husband's family." She grinned, and bit her lip, her eyes seeming to gleam even more. "He merely smiled."

"He's old enough to be your father," said Catelyn quietly, half-wondering why she did that. It is because she sounds like some farmer's girl, talking about a rich merchant she's snared. That's why I am talking to her like this . She thought this, almost as soon as she did, knew she was deceiving herself.

"If he started young, indeed," laughed Barb. "And in truth, he did, but with little success, the poor darling. He's a widower twice over, with a young son serving as a page somewhere. But only the one." She shrugged. "All the more reason for a new marriage. Misfortunes happen, after all, and then what would he do?" That smile took on a wicked edge. "Best have a few spares, and I'm more than willing to be the forge to make them on. I've found a preference in me for older men, Lady Stark. They know what they want out of a wife, and if she has a few extra tricks they find they fancy, well they count it all to their good fortune. And I've a score of 'em." She chuckled to herself. "Why, sometimes I've thought of bringing a smile to your father's face. Do you imagine he's thought of that on occasion?"

"He'd never touch such as you, Barb Bracken," spat out Catelyn with a vehemence that surprised herself.

Barbara turned, clicking her tongue, and leaned forward. "Such venom for poor motherless me," she murmured, her hand snaking around Catelyn's head. "I am shocked, Lady Stark, when I'd thought we'd be such jolly friends." She leaned forward, fixing Cat with her gaze while her fingers played delicately with Cat's hair. "Why, if I were to wed your father, you may trust I'd be your dear, doting mother, my fair Cat," Barb whispered, her voice low and insinuating.

Catelyn felt her stomach flip, as she filled with an uneasiness she could barely place. Barb smiled at her, and then threw her head back and laughed. "Oh, faith o' me, my sweet, how I love jesting with you!" The hand darted back, as the Bracken girl moved away. "Better than a bear-baiting, that 'tis."

Catelyn found herself pouting at this, despite herself. "And which part of that do you like best, Barb Bracken," she said. "The cruelty? Or the blood?"

Barb smiled another of her vicious smiles and leaned forward again. "Why both, my dear Cat, and something else." Her hand darted forward and gave Catelyn's cheek a fond pinch. "The sight of this great lumbering thing realizing that it's doomed for all its power and might. Gives me fond chills it does." She laughed again, and then stood up. "Well, I've enough to fill me for now. I'll away. We may talk more of bears, and the baiting of them when next we twain meet, Lady Cat. Or p'rhaps some other matter." Barb grinned, as she headed away. "We're like to be neighbors up there in the cold north, after all, so we'll have much to discuss."

Catelyn stared at the food for awhile after Barbra left, then rose, with the vague idea of getting some servants to clear the table. But the idea of Barb Bracken wed to Roose Bolton kept creeping to her skull and making her shudder. There was something unnerving about the Lord of the Dreadfort, something beyond his eerie sigil and his baleful title. And as for Barb Bracken-well, Catelyn had held a dim opinion of the heir to Stone Hedge when she knew her as little more than scandalous talk and rumours. But the woman in the flesh…

Catelyn shook her head. There is a wickedness in her, something vicious, cruel and wild . She pitied Jayne Bracken with such a sister, and something told her she'd pity young Bolton with such a stepmother. Though likely not for long .

"...the body most likely," came the voice of Ser Desmond Grell. "Perhaps that smuggling scum Mad Mychel and his daughter will come across it. If they do, that's the last you'll see of that fool of an ironman, though his clothing and valuables, well, those might circulate."

Catelyn found Riverrun's master-at-arms talking with her father. "You're likely right," said Hoster. "Still, keep an eye out. I dislike surprises of that sort. Remember how many times we thought Oswyn Longneck was dead?" He blinked as he saw his daughter. "Catelyn? Do you… do you wish to talk?"

Catelyn briefly thought of it, but then what could she do? Tell her father to stop what would be a splendid match for the daughter of a loyal, powerful, and prickly vassal? Especially when the match was nothing but air and fancy at the moment? I'd seem a fool . "I… I need to find the servants," she said. "To clean my cousin's table."