Mid February, 300 AC

The yard echoed with the sound of voices raised in song as Catelyn made her way to her mother's gardens. Girls and boys, old men and mothers, accompanied by harp and pipe and drum.

Oh the lion has his mane of gold

and savage is his pride

But the wily wolf is young and bold
and tanned the lion's hide!

Rymund the Rhymer called the song 'The Wolf Who Outwitted the Lion.' Everyone had been singing it for the past month, ever since Robb's victory over Lord Tywin Lannister. Now that Robb was expected to return on the morrow, the song had become even more popular. After each refrain came a chorus of howls; Catelyn could hear Arya howling in the godswood, before Nymeria drowned her out.

With Ser Rolph Spicer and Lame Lothar Frey out hunting and Lady Sybell Westerling nursing a headache in her rooms, Nymeria had free run of the yard. To Catelyn's horror, Arya had gotten the notion of letting the smallfolk and their children pet the direwolf. Pate, the toddler who followed Catelyn every time she walked through the yard, had been the first to curl up against the direwolf's furry belly, but not the last. Catelyn wished that Arya had taken Nymeria back to the godswood with her when she had returned to her water dancing.

Since Catelyn refused to let Arya out of her sight unless absolutely necessary, Catelyn saw more of the smallfolk than she had since before she was wed. Arya had finally explained that the red wolf had found Pate and brought him back to his mother, and now the toddler seemed to think Catelyn was Sansa. The boy's mother, Liane, had thanked Catelyn for her patience with her little shadow, but the way she spoke of Sansa was near worship.

The smallfolk were eager to talk of her. Liane was not the only one who had taken refuge at the hollow hill, and the folk of the hollow hill loved Sansa. It reminded Catelyn of the way the northmen had loved Ned, the way the smallfolk of Riverrun loved Edmure for taking them in when other lords would have closed their gates. The Lady of the Hollow Hill, they called her, the Red Wolf. Family, duty, honor, Catelyn thought with shame. Of late she worried so much over her family that she had almost forgotten the duty they bore to the smallfolk.

As for Arya, Catelyn could see why Liane called her the Fierce Wolf. Keeping track of Arya had always been an arduous task, but her daughter was even wilder than she had been at Winterfell. She demanded pasties from the kitchens to share with the smallfolk's children; she lurked in the ravenry, eyeing the King's Landing birds; she sparred viciously with Edric Dayne in the godswood; she stared, eyes burning, as Septa Jirelle taught her the sigils and houses of the Riverlands and the North.

Catelyn was taking no chances with Arya's education. At Winterfell Catelyn had charge of the household and four other children to manage. Now, she had only Arya, and an ominous feeling in her stomach that she could not explain. Whatever was coming, Catelyn would see that her fierce wolf cub survived it.

For every hour Arya spent water dancing, she spent another hour learning. Maester Vyman taught her how to read maps and tend minor wounds; Harbert the head gardener taught her how to recognize plants that were safe to eat; Ser Perwyn Frey taught her how to hunt and cook small game. As for Catelyn herself, she taught Arya all she knew of which lords could be trusted to keep their oaths, and which would keep a highborn girl hostage for their own gain.

They were speaking of how to read a man's intentions one rainy afternoon when Arya told Catelyn of Syrio Forel and the Sealord's cat, of looking with the eyes. She spoke little of the water dancer since her return to Riverrun, but once she started the words came pouring out.

"He told me all men are made of water," Arya said, her eyes staring at her feet. "When you pierce them, the water leaks out and they die." Arya bit her lip, the way she always did when she was hiding something. A hand squeezed Catelyn's heart.

"That is true," she replied softly, thinking of the high road through the Vale and the clansman whose throat she had opened. Arya looked up at her mother, her eyes wide.

"You never," Arya said. "Sansa only got Joffrey by accident."

"I did," Catelyn said, "and I knew what I did. My party was attacked on the road, and I defended myself."

"There was a stableboy in the Red Keep," Arya said, gnawing her lip until it bled. "He was going to take me to the queen, and I- I-"

Catelyn opened her arms, her heart breaking as Arya cried into her chest. Her daughter was full of rage, a rage that frightened her, but she was a child still.

"I hate them," Arya sobbed. "Robb should have killed Tywin and the queen and Ser Ilyn, he should have chopped off their heads. I'll kill them someday, I will, even if they kill me too."

"Would that bring back your father?" Catelyn asked. "You told me he gave his life for Sansa; would he want you to die seeking vengeance?" Arya had not answered.

Catelyn tucked the memory aside as she neared the sept, shouts of "Stark!" and "Tully!" yielding to the quiet burble of fountains. Autumn flowers planted for Catelyn's mother shone in the moonlight in the gardens where she had once played with Lysa and Edmure.

When Catelyn entered the sandstone temple she went to the Warrior's altar first, to pray that the Warrior would lend Brienne his strength. There was no word of the Maid of Tarth, no news of whether she had found Sansa or the Kingslayer. Catelyn hoped Brienne was safe.

At the Mother's altar Catelyn found her aunt kneeling in prayer, five candles flickering in the dusk. The old lady's long white braid contrasted sharply with her black gown, trimmed with the yellow of House Whent.

Lady Shella had taken refuge at Riverrun after fleeing Harrenhal, and though Roose Bolton had retaken the keep, she showed little interest in returning to her ghosts. Lord Whent of Harrenhal had sired many children by his three wives, but only two daughters had lived past infancy. Shella had been the first, born nigh on eighty years past. Minisa, Catelyn's own mother, had been born nearly twenty years later.

Minisa had barely known her sister, and Catelyn had barely known her aunt. By the time Minisa was born Shella had already married her cousin Walter Whent. Shella had carried her first child even as her father's wife carried his last. Unlike Lord Whent, Shella had had the good fortune to raise all of them to adulthood, four tall sons and a comely daughter.

Yet the curse of Harrenhal had found them in the end, and she had buried her grown children beside their infant aunts and uncles. As Catelyn knelt beside the old woman, a sense of foreboding chilled her heart. Five she had, and five she lost. As Catelyn lit a candle for each of her children, she wondered how long her own luck would hold.

So many trials still lay ahead. Robett Glover was besieging Moat Cailin from north and south; the ironborn had chosen Victarion Greyjoy as their king; multiple unopened letters from the Night's Watch awaited Robb; winter might arrive at any time.

Despite her fears Robb had survived his latest battle without a scratch. Arya had returned to her, and Rickon was safe at Winterfell. But what of Bran, wandering north with Howland Reed's children? How could he make such a journey without his legs? Would Catelyn ever see him again?

And what of Sansa, held prisoner by Lannisters? I must not think of her, or I will weep without stopping. Catelyn had nearly gone mad when the raven came telling of Sansa's capture at the hands of the Kingslayer, and Arya had half killed Edric Dayne that day in the godswood before Ser Perwyn pulled her off the bleeding lordling. Her eldest daughter might be a wolf, but she had her father's gentle heart. Ned had offered Cersei Lannister mercy, and the queen had taken his head. What would she do to Sansa, who had slain her son in her escape? Mother, spare Sansa, spare all of them, Catelyn prayed. I would pay any price to keep them safe.

The candles had burned half away by the time Catelyn came back to herself, and her knees ached. The hour grew late, and she meant to visit the godswood, to think of Ned in the place of his nameless gods. As Catelyn rose to her feet, a wrinkled hand gently clasped her arm.

"I pray for your children as well as my own, niece," Lady Shella whispered. Tears shone faintly on her withered cheeks. Catelyn's thanks caught in her throat, but she took Lady Shella's hand softly and pressed a kiss to her aunt's brow.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, Robb would return, and they would discuss what to do about the ironborn, about winter, about Sansa. Catelyn had not heard of Sansa's capture until after the Battle of Sweetroot; perhaps Robb had already known, had arranged for Sansa's safe return as part of the peace terms.

Whatever happened with Sansa, Robb would try to send his mother and Arya to safety, and Catelyn could not let him. Robb's march north would stop briefly at the Twins, and Catelyn must ensure that Edmure's wedding went smoothly.