The winds of the North swept Catelyn's flowing auburn hair back as she and Ser Rodrik made their way down the Kingsroad. She had finally come to her senses about Bran, she could do nothing more to help him, not in Winterfell, only in King's Landing, discovering the name of those who would have opened her son's throat. The Lannisters, she thought instantly. She had no proof, but she could not think of any other who might possibly profit from hurting Bran. If Robert had been less of a laughing man then he might have wished to punish Tristan for his humiliation of Prince Joffrey, but Ned assured her that Robert was not to blame, and she believed him. Whoever was responsible, she and Ser Rodrik would uncover the truth when they arrived in King's Landing from White Harbour.
But White Harbour was still some way away, even for two riders on the road, they were passing the land of the Hornwoods now and it would be another day before they entered fields that owed fealty to Lord Wyman Manderly. She passed the silent time by thinking of the wolves. She had not been sure of them at first, fangs and claws around her children were not what she wanted. But then Bran's unnamed Wolf had saved his life, and her own, and in that instant she loved them. She wondered absently whether or not Tristan would have found a name for his when she arrived in the capital. Hornwood lands bordered Bolton lands, and she remembered her heart nearly break the day that Tristan had left Winterfell to serve Lord Bolton for a year as recompense for the murder of Lord Roose"s bastard. She had only felt such anger towards her husband twice in her life. The first time was when he had refused to send Jon away, and treated him as a son, and the second was when he had proposed to Lord Bolton that Tristan spend a year at the Dreadfort.
Soon they would turn off the Kingsroad though, and she would be taking smaller, less well formed roads to White Harbour, where she hoped not to wait too long before finding a ship to take her to King's Landing. If the worst came however, she could always appeal to Lord Wyman, whose loyalty to the Starks would likely make him willing to grant her passage on a ship. Admittedly, she did not know how many ships Lord Wyman had on hand, but hopefully there would be one.
"My Lady," Rodrik said in a tone like he was giving a warning. "Riders to the east." She turned in the saddle and saw that there was a party of riders approaching from the east, south east would be closer to the truth. A single banner fluttered in the wind over their heads. The Moose of House Hornwood was recognisable before long. The party, made up of a dozen guardsmen and their commander, pulled up short before her. Ser Rodrik's hand brushed over the pommel of his sword, though Catelyn doubted he could take all of them even if he wanted to.
She had expected some kind of stern demand of their identity, but instead, when the commander spoke, it was with the voice of a youth, and one she recognised under the half helm. "Lady Stark?" He sounded shocked.
"Indeed Daryn," she said, smiling as the young man, one of her second son's closest friends, pulled off his half helm, and Rodrik and the guardsmen seemed to relax. "How are you?"
"Better than you could hope to be, my lady," he replied solemnly. He bowed his head in respect. His hair waved in the breeze like grass that had browned by lack of water, and she could still see some of the softness of youth in his face. "I am sorry about your son Bran." Her son's broken body flashed before her eyes as it so often did.
"Thank you," she replied sincerely, smiling to him. "I have nearly lost my son, and my sister has lost her husband, I am on my way to her now. That we might share in our grief."
Daryn nodded and bowed his head. "Then I wish you the speed of the gods on your journey my lady," he told her. As he was about to set off on his way however, she had another thought.
House Hornwood borders Bolton, and Daryn was always one of Tristan's closest friends. "Daryn," she asked, and the sandy haired young man turned to her, an eyebrow raised. "Tristan spent eleven months serving in the Dreadfort, did you see him when he was there?"
Daryn nodded. "Indeed, I visited my friends there often," he told her.
She nodded and then asked him something she had wondered since Tristan returned. "Did something happen to Tristan there, he seemed… different, when he returned."
"Can anyone go to the Dreadfort and come back the same?" He asked in reply. "Now you say it though," he continued, no longer jesting. "He has gotten more… cold, since he squired for Lord Bolton."
She nodded, she had noticed as well. Not as quickly as Robb though. Robb had come straight to her when he had returned with Tristan. He was worried about him. He was certain that something had happened to his twin, something that had turned him dark and sour. She had not believed it at first, had not wanted to, but then she had come across him in the godswood, prior to the arrival of the king. The way he had spoken of the Lannister southerners, it had unnerved her, it was much like how her first intended, Brandon, would speak. She found it strange, Robb and Tristan, she had named them herself, Ned had been at war when they were born, so she had named them in the manner of the Riverlands, everyone in the Riverlands knew the stories of Red Robb Rivers, the best archer of his day. It also paid homage to her husband's fiercest and closest friend, and the victor of the Battle of the Trident. As for Tristan, there had been many named such in the lands watered by the Trident, both before and after the Andals swept across the land. She had not even been thinking, she hardly knew her husband at that point, he had left her with two babes to nurture and nurse and gone. Yet despite his being named in a southern manner, Tristan was the most northern of her children. He scorned southern tourneys, claiming them to be ostentatious and pretentious. He scorned the southerners themselves in general. But when he had returned, scorn was no longer there, it was not what she had seen when she looked in his eyes. His scorn had been replaced by an iron hatred, cold as the deepest northern winter, and if Tristan had not told Robb, then no one would know, and she would not try to press. Though the way things stood, that hatred, that cold, would soon be very useful to the Starks. She could not suppress a small smile at the thought of Tristan being unleashed upon their enemies, but it was gone just as quickly, she did not want any of her children of in war, not one, she wanted them to grow old, all of them. Her thoughts once more turned back to Bran, her Bran. "Thank you Daryn," she said, and the heir of Hornwood, nodding and bowing his head, put his spurs to his horse and he and the Hornwood party set off.
"We should be on our way too, my Lady," Ser Rodrik reminded her, bringing her out of her thoughts of her second son.
She nodded, and the two riders set off down the final stretch of the Kingsroad.
However, not two days later they were accosted by Tristan himself, Cley at his side and not one, but three Direwolves behind him. "Mother!" He gasped, in a tone most unlike him.
"Tristan," she replied, dismounting. Tristan did the same and rushed up to her, gathering her tightly in his arms and holding her close and, for a moment, her worries about him were gone. She pulled back. "What are you doing here?" She regretted it instantly, for a moment she had her son back; the boy who was using a stick as a sword before he could speak properly, the one who had no shame about his own talents or failings, the one who laughed as he became the best fighter she had seen, and he was gone again, the iron hatred had returned to his eyes.
"There was… trouble on the road," he said, simply, avoiding the question. "The Queen wanted the wolves dead, and I did not let her, I took them and fled before they could be harmed."
Catelyn was not surprised that Cersei Lannister wanted the Wolves gone, but dead, that was something else. "What happened?"
"Prince Joffrey happened," Tristan replied, hatred oozing from every syllable. "He was a coward, a liar and a worm."
"I understand," Catelyn said quickly, it was not good to have such anger inside yourself, and she did not want her son succumbing to that. "But there are other things you should know, all is not well at Winterfell."
"How so?" Tristan asked, his wolf growling.
She looked over at Cley. "This is a family matter Cley, if you would please."
Cley bowed his head at once. "Of course, Lady Stark," he said and trotted his horse a short distance away, so as not to overhear.
"We have determined that Bran did not fall from the tower," she said. "We think he was thrown from the window."
Her son breathed as though he was a dragon, ready to unleash his hellfire upon her. "Who thre him," he demanded of her.
"Calm yourself Tristan," she warned. "or you will hear no more from me."
Tristan could easily have refused to calm down and insist that Robb would tell him at Winterfell. Robb almost certainly would, but she could play on his impatient streaks as well as anyone. Perhaps better. Her son took several breaths and calmed down. "A common footpad snuck into Bran's room, not long after you had left with your father," she explained calmly. "Had Bran's wolf not interfered, both I and your brother would be dead," she raised her hands to show him her scarred palms. "He bore this blade," she said, retrieving the dagger, steel forged in ancient Valyria with a handle of Dragonbone. Tristan took it in his grip, spinning it effortlessly.
"No blade for a common assassin," he muttered, passing it back to her carefully.
"No," she agreed, tucking it away. Cley was not looking in their direction, but she did not want to chance him turning around and seeing it. "Whoever charged the footpad with opening your brother's throat clearly provided the weapon, and there are few who could own such a dagger."
"The Lannisters," Tristan breathed.
Catelyn shot him a stern look. "We cannot know that," she warned him, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Do not shout out accusations like that without first thinking of what they could mean. Or their consequences."
Her son looked mollified enough. "I head south now to your father," she explained softly. "I should overtake him by ship and be there before he is, I will show him the dagger, and we can uncover the identity of the man who owns it."
"And then?" Tristan asked her.
She wished she could give him more than she had to give. "Your father will present it to the king."
"The King is more the Queen's bitch than Shield is mine," Tristan commented.
Shield, she thought, looking at Tristan's wolf. An apt name, I can only hope he lives up to it. "When it comes to irrefutable proof, and on a matter as serious as the attempted murder of Bran, the King will listen to your father, he must," she told him.
"Do not be so sure of that," Tristan warned her. "But just to be safe, when you return, bring the knife with you, we cannot risk it disappearing."
"But your father may have need of it, it is the only proof we have."
"They'll say it was stolen, whoever it belongs too, we'll need more proof than the knife, return with it, and then we can always take it back when father has gathered what other proofs he can," he explained to her. Her son looked so sure of his own beliefs that he swayed her own for more than a while.
"Very well," she gave in. "I will return with the knife."
Tristan nodded. "Besides," he said, softly, as he leant in and kissed her forehead. "It is Valyrian Steel, if it comes back with us, then someone, somewhere will probably end up asking for it. Then we'll know for sure."
For sure, she thought as she kissed her son and they both mounted their horses. And then you'll ride south and take their heads, that's what's for sure. As Tristan put his spurs to his horse and Cley and the Direwolves caught up, Catelyn was brought back to another image, not her son, but Brandon, her first betrothed, when he had ridden south from Riverrun. He had promised he would return. He never did.
