NOTE: Several people have written regarding the position of Riverrun and Harrenhal. Yes, I know that Riverrun is further away than Harrenhal when travelling along the Kingsroad, but what I am thinking is that the Stark royal family/household travelled north through the Crownlands for about three or four days, then came upon Harrenhal late in the evening on the third or fourth day, only stopping for a single night and leaving again in the early morning and then travelling onwards to Riverrun, since King Ned wanted to get to Daenerys at Riverrun as soon as possible to check in on her and guarantee her safety. After their stay at Riverrun, however, they return the same way again and finally spend time at Harrenhal, with Lady Shaella and her household, as Catelyn wanted all along. So they have already passed by Harrenhal once on the way, but now they return there again. I do know exactly what the map of Westeros looks like, and that Riverrun is further to the southwest, and Harrenhal is further to the north. Thanks

...

CATELYN

"The walls of Harrenhal were enormous, made of grey stone and as thick as if they had been made for a giant. She felt as if she were trying to fall asleep under the watching eyes of a hundred ancient ghosts, keeping watch from thousands of tons of stone and rooms of hollow emptiness above her head, all weighing down like the yoke of a kingdom on her and her lord husband, King Eddard Stark, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. The Riverlands was an old place, and even though King Harren himself had lived to see the completion of his enormous castle only three hundred years ago, making it younger than House Frey even, she was sure that there were far more ghosts here than in either Riverrun or the Twins. And not to speak of the size of the place.

For the children it must have had to been even more of a shock, Catelyn thought to herself. Arya was clearly fascinated with the place, already trying her best to run away like some small grey mouse and get lost in there, to her mother's fear and grief. Bran was only seven, though an adventurous climber all the same, and her little Rickon no more than three, she thought to herself. But they had made a wise choice of stopping by here on their way. There were not many featherbeds between here and the North, so Catelyn was decided on remaining at as many keeps as possible for at least the beginning of their journey. Lady Shella Whent was her mother's cousin and so deserved a staying of theirs, for the benefit of both sides. Then they woud reach Lord Roote at Lord Harroway's Town, and so forth and so forth, at every place that could fit the royal host's enormous party of horses and men. Those few castles could be counted on the one hand. Once she saw the Twin towers of Frey before her on the green horizon, and even more after that, their journey would become significantly less comfortable, she knew.

Ned lay awake with his troubles beside her in the bed, staring up the ceiling where the massive wooden rafters framed the huge stone take like the fleating of a whicker saddle belt beneath the hanging [bough/belly/[ ]] of an elephant. He seemed to trail the ancient patterns in the stone, white veins of marble stone, grey granit and red rosser stone, all intact down here on the lower floor of the southwestern tower where the dragon's fire had not touched.

They had still not spoken between themselves of who would take Jon Arryn's place. Ned had been far too busy in his grief and all that had to be arranged before his funeral.

And what a funeral it had been. The funeral procession alone had been the grandest affair at King's Landing in she did not know how long. Two hundred lords, ladies, knights and retainers all streaming down in a one massively long column from the Vale of Arryn, all clad in blue and black, like a strain of water and ash stretching all the way from the Eyrie to King's Landing and the Great Sept of Baelor to signal the grief and honour felt for Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King and the only lord most of them they had ever known in all their lives. They were all there, the highest and mightiest, to pay their respects and show their sorrow for Lord Jon. Lady Anya Waynwood, and her ward Harry Hardyng, by accounts known to some as "Harry the heir" for his place of succession immediately following Jon and young Robert in the Arryn family tree, along with Bronze Yohn Royce, the ancient Lord Eon Hunter and his three squabbling sons, Ser Symond Templeton, Lyonel Corbray, and many more. All of them had been there to show their grief and honour, their tribute to their lord, even as estranged from them as he had been for these past fourteen years, managing the realm and the Vale at the same time, from the stress and long days of work in King's Landing. All of them here, for his sake... Along with Robert Baratheon and his family, and many other smaller lords from nearby kingdoms, of course.

And Ned had never seemed so touched, so moved by the sight of his old friend. When the two men had embraced in the Great Sept of Baelor over Jon's coffin, not an eye had been dry without tears. There was only one thing, though, one thing which had put its foul taint and mark on the entire affair. Lysa. She had not been there, not been present for her husband's funeral, nor had young Robert. She had stolen away in the night a mere two days after Jon's death, leaving a letter for Catelyn's eyes only at the side of her bed. The gods only knew which servant she had made use of to be able to plant the message in there. The letter was clearly meant for her eyes only, as well. In it, she had written her fears. She had written of how she could not stay, most of all for the safety of her son, and that she had to make her way back to the Vale as quickly as she could. Catelyn had been distraught, in shock, angry, sad, all of it in as little time as it had taken her to read the message, but somehow she supposed that she understood. Lysa had risked much and more to make her decision, and she must trust that somehow it had been the right one to make. It was only that she could at least have waited until she had made her stand beside him at the funeral, Catelyn thought, but whatever the case, Lysa had left and not been there. That was a shame, to be sure, but it was already in the past, as so many other things which had happened during the past fortnight or so. And yet they had still not been able to talk about who would be the next to take over and be Hand. Just because of Lysa, indeed, Catelyn thought to herself.

The silent sisters had been swinging their thuriscensers of scented myrrh and incense about the Sept, making their rounds in preparing Lord Jon's body as he lay there on a hermeline and silk white cloak [of the moon and falcon of Arryn] covering the stone slab in the Great Sept of Baelor, all the while Catelyn and Ned had talked of her anguish with Lysa. She is without herself with grief, Ned had said, and Lysa had surely always been a bit mad, but Catelyn had replied that Lysa must believe something more of the sort that she enclosed in her letter to make such a dramatic escape from her home as this surely was.

Who, then, would he choose next? Her first thought had gone to Robert Baratheon, of course, and the choice seemed near obvious when they had later embraced at the Sept and Robert had spoken a great speech over Jon's life as how he had been a father to them both, but Robert had his own keep to look after at Storm's End, and he was alas not the sort of man to enjoy ruling and attending council meetings, as he had not wanted to take the throne for himself all those years ago. He was married with children, but all the same enjoyed hunting, hawking and whoring, and drinking, more than anything else. No. Robert would not make a very good hand, she knew.

Then she thought of Stannis, but he had not returned from Dragonstone for the funeral either, seeming to be as afraid for the safety of his family as Lysa was. Either that, or he was plotting something. He was a straightforward man, in his own way, and yet at the same time Catelyn felt that there were sides of him which she had never been able to fully know. Stannis Baratheon was still a mystery to her, and under his watchfully brooding gaze, held still in his gloved hand after fourteen years, was Prince Viserys, with all the complications that now meant. There were already some people who believed that Viserys had been the one to order the attempted release of Princess Daenerys from Riverrun. She was his sister, after all. Who else would have ordered such a command? If not the Dornish, of course... But they were holding Quentyn as their ward in King's Landing. Why would Doran Martell risk such a difficult move while his son was in their hands? Littlefinger had told her that it was the Mad King's old spymaster Lord Varys, who according to him still held watch from across the Narrow Sea and wanted nothing more than to topple over the king's reign and reinstate the children of the Mad King once again. Catelyn did not know what to think of that, but she hoped for all of them that he was wrong. At any rate, Stannis was with Viserys at Dragonstone, and he did not seem to wish to leave the place at the time being. Neither would her husband write to him and force for his presence at court, she knew.

Benjen, it was then. Ned's own brother up at Winterfell. It was a logical move, of course, but it also would make more sense for them to ask someone else, who was more familiar with the trappings of the capital, or even the south itself. Lord Gyles perhaps, though he was certainly very old and sickly already, and would also create a new problem in leaving an empty spot as Master of Coin to fill, or otherwise someone from the outside, someone like Tytos Blackwood or Mace Tyrell, or even her uncle Ser Brynden might serve, as she thought to herself. And yet all of these things which her mind held itself in sway of, thinking about day in and day out, day and night, night and into the coming new day, she had not had the time to tell him about. The thoughts had merely been left to fester at the edge of her mind, slowly driving her half mad. And so she turned to him now, in both their final hour of solace, and asked him straight out.

"There is something I must ask of you, my love. Now that we are come here, and can relax a bit on the journey, after all that has happened..." She hesitated, waiting for his approval.

"Ask me, my lady", he said.

"Very well. I had thought to ask you before, but... Who will you name as Hand after Jon?"

Her husband only stared back at her, clearly not expecting the question.

"What do you mean?"

"You will choose to ask Benjen, will you not? That is why we're going to Winterfell, is it not?"

"Benjen?" Her husband seemed to laugh a little, though it was a strange laugh, filled with wonder and curiousness. "I suppose I have thought of it, several times, in truth, yes, but...-"

No. He could not choose Benjen, of course, not while he himself was down here. His son Willam was still no older than her own Robb, if even that. And there had always to be a Stark in Winterfell. Or so he had told her half a hundred times, as she still remembered. It would preferrably not be a young boy, and perhaps preferrably not one who was half a Lannister at that.

Though she at times wondered whether her own family blood of Tully could be trusted either in matters such as this. If the war had not been coming for them, and swept the two icy brothers off of their otherwise so steady feet, she was sure that they would both have married Karstarks and been done with it. Ned still entertained the idea somewhere in his mind for Robb, she knew. It was not a bad one, though politically it made little sense for the heir to the Iron Throne.

So no, Benjen could not leave Winterfell. But then who?

Her husband harkled himself and continued.

"I could not choose him. I must not. He needs to remain at Winterfell. There must always be a Stark at Winterfell, and he is already there in my stead as it is."

In my stead? It was so strange the way her husband spoke of Winterfell sometimes. She supposed that she understood it, in truth, but one would have thought that he would have let go just a little of the childhood home which was first always meant to go to his older brother, and was now held by his younger. Instead, the king seemed only to grow harder and more stubborn in his secret convictions for each passing moon, each year.

"I will see Benjen, and the others, and talk to them, and we will stay at Winterfell for a good time. Long enough for the children to get a good time from the place, and to feel their blood and get to know where they all hail from. But that will be the all of it. I will not make my brother Benjen go south, my lady. No. Not even if he were to ask it of me himself."

"And not Robert or Stannis, I take it?"

"No."

"Had you thought of them?" she inclined.

"Of course I had. One's never wanted the rule of more than his own keep, and the other... Well... Who can say what goes through his mind? He leaves without so much as a word and I feel that I cannot summon him. It would mean to admit that I have not the power to make him stay. There is some new grievance in his heart, as ever. He will return soon enough, I trust, so long as we only wait, but he will not do so as Hand. Take my word for it. Besides: The man holds a slight to half of the lords in the realm, and he grits it down into his heart like stone", her husband said. "He is all too fiery."

"Then who, my king?" She insisted once more.

Her husband thought silently and hard for a long, long while, and then turned to her.

"I suppose that a king starting his own line on the throne should have a better answer than the one that came before him. All the same...-"

She felt her heart tighten itself inside her chest, felt it collapse for the briefest of moments, but then as if she had to remind itself to breathe with her mind, it grew out again, and she had to do all in her power over her own body to restrict her emotions. She swallowed hard, feeling as if a stone was being dragged down her gullet. He will choose him. By the Crone, he will choose him. May the Seven watch over all of us...

"There are surely other options", she pleaded. "Lord Tytos Blackwood, my uncle Brynden...-"

"None of them have close to half of the experience of Lord Tywin Lannister. The kingdoms all prospered for years under his rule, it is said. And it is high time I made my peace with him in truth, if I want to ever rule equally over all my dominions."

"He is a proud man", Catelyn warned. "As proud and dangerous as the golden lion on his sigil."

"I know exactly what he is. And I do not plan on giving any of my own pride away for that of his. Nor will I step on his pride unnecessarily. Nor will I insult him, nor give him reason to distrust me, if he serves me well."

Her husband's tone was becoming dangerous now. One did not tell Lord Tywin to serve oneself, not even if one ruled over him; only the Mad King had ever done so, calling him his servant and laughing about it while he withdrew the marriage offering of Cersei and Rhaegar Targaryen, and then he had regretted it to his last life's blood.

"He sees himself as an equal to you, even if he never would say so himself. The might of Casterly Rock is great, and his name is one far known. Some men even dare call him the king in the west."

"Then that is treason, my lady. It is a simple matter. I am the king, and if not I, then surely not ever the Lannisters either, if they had not defeated their masters in the field as we did. Gold and riches are not the only things that matter in this world, and not the ones holding my many kingdoms together. Elsewise the rich cheese merchants of Essos would rule over the kingdoms. If Lord Tywin has not learned that in his many years, then he will be told so, and I will gladly take your uncle Ser Brynden instead. But if I can just uphold peace between us, and try my best and forget the past, if not ever forgive it", he said carefully, staring at the embroidered taperings at the wall, "then perhaps there is good and plenty to be made from having him by my side, as I have had Jon for all these years. He is Benjen's good-father, after all. If Willam or Myrcella were to be fostered at the Red Keep, then perhaps he would be the more glad for it."

"I would not lend that word to any description of Lord Tywin, my love. They say that he has not smiled ever since the death of Lady Joanna."

"Nor should I expect him to. He may be a dangerous man, and one who has made many faults in his life, but he is not untrustworthy by his nature. It is the things which he has lived through, that would make any man as dour as he is. He serves the interests of his own house, just as anyone else. And our houses are joined. But before he became what he is now, he was a good Hand for many years. He was loyal for a long time, even in the company of a madman on the throne. Robert even says so, and Stannis did as well once when I asked him long ago", he recalled.

"Nonetheless. He is not what he once was, and all men do not grow wiser with age, as you have, my love. Some only grow more bitter, and more dangerous, with hardness in their hearts as a consequence."

"Is it because he does not smile that you do not trust him? I know that I would not smile again, if I were ever to lose you, my lady, and may the old gods and the new alike forbid it to ever happen", he said. She knew that he was lying, of course, to console her, but she nonetheless loved him for it.

"It makes no matter what the reason is. I do not trust him to be acting in our best interests, and not the interests of Casterly Rock, most of all. It is a place where honour and titles can be easily bought for a bag of gold, and men are made from the wealth of their mines, not the deeds of their brethren."

"Do you know of anyone else in the realm more competent of the task, save for Stannis, of course?"

He had her there.

"No", she admitted to him, and to herself somewhere deep inside of her doubts. "I do not. But it is a dangerous man who will not choose a side in war until he is certain of the victor. And in response... In return...-"

She stopped herself. Her husband never wished to speak of those things again. Likewise, he turned his back on her and got up from the bed. She wished that she had held her tongue better.

"I will choose Lord Tywin Lannister to be my Hand and have him help me rule over the kingdoms, along with me, by my side. For the good of the realm. Not for the comfort of mine own sleep, for I have not much of it already."

His voice was ice, his mind not to be reasoned with. She recognized this side of him well enough. It was his Stark side, his kingly side, his frozen lord's side which could not be thawed by any pleas that she might bring once he had decided. And decided he had already, she thought to herself. He has decided on Lord Tywin, and without asking me.

Sleep did not come easy for any of them after that, but after a long while she managed to doze off to the distant sound of fluttering bats, the sigil of her mother's and cousin's house. She had guessed that it was their hour, by the feel of it, though with the conversation they had had, it had felt like much later. Soon it became more silent, and she felt strangely at home with the wind gnawing outside, the sound soothing her to sleep. The candles had gone out. Darkness came, and sleep came with it.

A knocking on the door awoke them both, as a servant declared that morning had come and that the Lady Shaella welcomed them all to come and break their fast with her. It was at least one hour earlier than they would awake at the Red Keep, or at least so she felt it to be. Ned grumbled in silence beside her, pulled the covers away and got up. She soon went up and did the same.

Breakfast at Harrenhal was a large affair. It was large bowls of grey porridge with strawberry jam and blueberries, all manner of bread, whitebread and hardbread, cornbread, fishbread and more, along with graved salmon, smoked boecklings – Sansa's favourites – goat's cheese, more porridge with blueberry jam and honey, ale and mead. Lady Shella sat beside Catelyn, talking of old memories of her mother and all the other Whent children of their time. Catelyn was grateful for it, as she had precious few memories of her mother from when she had been alive. They were cousins, and as such had grown up playing together at the massive stone keep in her mother's youth. Lady Minisa Whent had by all accounts been fond of climbing the ramparts and walls when she was little, Catelyn found out, at least in her youth before she had grown wiser than to do so. Catelyn did her best to try and avert Bran's ears from the story told by Lady Shella, but he immediately snatched on to it.

"Did you hear that, Mother? One can climb atop even the walls of Harrenhal!"

"And you are forbidden to do so, from now on and until the end of time!" she said strongly, giving him an eye that meant alware.

Bran looked down disappointed upon his food, shuffling it with his fork and spoon, mumbling "Yes, Mother. I promise."

Lady Shella soon forgot about that particular anecdote, however, and was soon telling stories of how she and Lady Minisa had been when they were older. How they had courted all the young boys that came to Harrenhal to ask for their hands, and how they had courted them in turn, and of the many feasts and tourneys that had gone on here while all of her family were still in life, all of House Whent, which was now whittled down only to her, of family members and servants long dead, and of her father Lord Whent's long reign and many problems with maintaining the keep, and of renovations past and present, and storms and rainfall that had come and gone, and the several terrible winters of her youth which Catelyn could only imagine. The children all sat intrigued listening, apart from Sansa who was seemingly off in some other world, and Rickon who was half asleep at Septa Mordane's lap.

Ned sat intrigued on the other side of the table from her at the place of honour, politely listening and giving compliments to the maintenance of the castle where it was due. He noted that for all of its many problems, they had nonetheless managed the upkeep of the kitchen and the servants' halls.

"Aye, but that is an important thing most of all now", said Lady Shaella. "Every keep needs food, and the servants are far more than me and my kin these days, so I make sure they have the best of it", she explained. As it was with the limited amount of taxation which Harrenhal amassed from the lands surrounding it around the northern half of the God's Eye, Lady Shella of House Whent only managed to occupy the bottom stories of two of the five towers.

After breakfast they went out to see the sunlight, and most of them went towards the courtyard to watch the boys have some well-earned practice at arms. A decently large stall had been set up by the courtyard some five hundred feet or more from the Widow's Tower, with chairs for most, but not all. Ned and Catelyn sat at the center, with Ser Barristan, Ser Arys and Quentyn Martell's party to his side, while Ser [Marlon/Merlon] and Septa Mordane looked over Sansa and her ladies by Catelyn's side. Rickon was standing by her leg, tugging at her skirt as usual, watching the [practice?] eagerly.

Robb, Gerion and the young squire Cwysten were practicing their jousting, riding at quintain before the great massive walls of Harrenhal as backdrop. Even the outer walls to the south were immense, making her son and the others seem like little more than ant soldiers before the giant stones of the enormous keep.

Cwysten was one of the few young men practiced enough at tourney fights to be found at Harrenhal. The servants mostly had families, of course, and there were a couple of young children here and there, but few of the young boys and men had trained particularly at combat, most likely due to Lady Shaella herself paying little interest towards it after the death of her husband, along with Catelyn's own husband not particularly having promoted tourneys in general – or what he perceived as mock fighting – during his reign. Young Cwysten, therefore, was one of the few suitable adversaries for Robb and the others to be had at the castle.

Along with old Ser Harys Stackton, the Master-at-arms of Harrenhal. He was a relic of the good and happy old days, when House Whent was still a force to be reckoned with, before all the death and grief that had befallen them. And yet, here and now standing with his silver spadelets in the green grass, and the sunlight of summer making his enameled plate mail shine as he was instructing the Crown Prince, she could see on his face that he was happier than in many years. His greying black moustache was flapping, dancing in long swirls like the tenderlings of a catfish alongside his mouth and chin, stretching all the way down to his thin wrinkly neck, as he was shouting out commands and encouragement across the courtyard/yard. Robb was great. Just as he always was, and just as he should be, of course. He strode forward like the wind on his grey stallion, hitting his mark again and again. After a while, though, he was courteous enough to let Cwysten have a few hits as well.

Harrenhal did not have an abundance of horses, though, it had to be said, and the majority of them were old workhorses, northern drays, garrons, palfreys and Riverland forest mulleys. One horse had been granted to loans by Lady Shella's bannerman Ser Willis Wode, though, who had ridden from his keep to be in attendance at the visit. An accomplished fighter who wielded the morningstar, he did not participate in the jousting, but stood with the others applauding for Robb and the others, his yellow hedgehog banner streaming from the pole of his ten-year-old squire. Ser Willis's horse was a fine brown courser which Cwysten made good use of on the courtyard.

After Robb and Cwysten both had gotten in a few good hits, riding forth and clashing time and time again, they went down on the ground for the mélee, where Robb quickly managed to overpower the less trained lad. He yielded, and Robb helped him up, smiling and proclaiming him to have fought well. Her son was ever kind and courteous.

She was soon troubled by the hurried steps of Ser Jory approaching, however.

"Your Grace."

"What is it, Jory?"

"It's Arya. And Bran. … Again..." He looked somehow ashamed, which was understandable, though she was half sure that not even the Sword of the Morning could have kept an eye on her wild wolf children at all times, as quick and rumbunctious to get away as they were.

She sighed.

"Go on. Tell me, and I will go and have a look."

"I believe they have begun climbing higher up along the second or third story of the tower, Your Grace. I would go up and climb after them, but... Well... Perhaps if I could take my armor off..."

"Seven Heavens!" Catelyn exclaimed, as she did her best trying to lift her heavy dress and run towards the [Widow's Tower? [Wailing Tower? ]]. Servants and guards alike fled before her, staring. She did not care; she only cared about making it to her children in time before their own curiosity or the ancient curse of Harrenhal did.

When she arrived, after several long minutes, she was ripe with sweat, but she saw that Septa Mordane was even worse off, laying having fainted on a wagoncart of hay.

"What is the meaning of this, septa?" She yelled, but no reply came.

"She just fainted in the tower, my queen, and we had to carry her out", one of the servant boys was saying as he held the septa's head and tried waking her with water. Catelyn stood for a while, shaking to keep her own breath in check, and trying to calm down before asking anything more.

After a little while the septa blurred awake with a rushing of her head like that of an yrewake hen, and pocked with her attention hardly first at the way of the gates, and then at the boy before her, holding her head close to his lap up on the haycart, and then finally, at the calling of her name, up at Catelyn.

"Septa?... Septa, what has happened here?"

"Septa... The bat... Oh blessed Mother..." She mumbled, far too tired to be making any sense.

"Septa, I ask you again: what has happened here?"

"Your Grace... Oh..." The septa seemed only now to understand that she was standing before her, and that she had apparently fainted while keeping an eye on the children. She did her best at lifting herself to sit up, and then spoke.

"It was horrible, Your Grace. It got at my face, started pecking at me eyes, screeching, oh heavens... All black and hairy, and with those vile terrible fangs, and its claws... No, I cannot..."

"Where is the princess?" Catelyn's voice was firm, and more than anything else insistently hard.

"Oh, I do not know, your queen... My Grace... Your queen... Your Grace, please... Perhaps they fled from the beast too. I don't think it wanted the children. … Only me..."

"This is madness", Catelyn muttered. "Someone wake the septa up with another pail of water! The black bat of Harrenhal has claimed many a victim, but take my children of my blood it will not!"

She stormed off towards the entrance to the tower, pushing the guards aside with a mere angry glance.

"Did you see the prince and princess enter here?" She asked, roughly, urgently, angrily.

"Yes, Your Grace... Half an hour ago, or something like it..." One of the guards mumbled. "They have not come out here as of yet. Though the septa did..."

Catelyn continued up the enormous grey stairway, passing under its thick stone archway and into the grey enormity of the massive tower, cursing at her long and unwieldy dress as Jory, Erryk and Ser Mandon followed soon after in her steps, their boots clanking against the hard stone as they walked in a swift and determined column after her.

"Where were they the last time you saw them?" She asked Jory.

"They were standing up there, and Prince Bran was trying to climb up into the window, but I took him down again", he said, pointing up against another floor up, and Catelyn hurried up the stone steps to come into a great grey stone corridor with windows to its left and right both.

"What is beneath here? A haystack?"

"Beneath the window? I don't know, Your Grace..." Jory said. It was nigh impossible to see without going up to the window oneself, and she did not intend to do that just now. She dared not see.

"Gods be good...!" Catelyn felt almost close to fainting herself, same as the septa now.

"WHY in the Seven did you not keep a watching eye on them? You know exactly what Brandon is like!" She practically screamed at Jory, and did everything she could not to tear into her hair while speaking the words.

"I don't know, Your Grace. No. I know, Your Grace. I should never have let them out of my sight."

"Where could they have gone?" She said, not giving him time for any vapid apologies. "Think!"

"If the septa indeed saw a bat, as they say, they would most like be another floor up, where there are more empty confines where they nest. I heard them when we were passing through here earlier", Erryk was saying all of a sudden. The man always came slow to take speech, especially in a crisis.

"You heard Bran and Arya?"

"No, I mean... the bats, I mean, Your Grace... There are bats on the floor up from here... "

Catelyn sighed, taking to her forehead and leading the way in a winding way up another stairway, all the while as her nightmares and fears grew themselves taller and more terrifying inside her mind. What if they had fallen? No, Bran never falls, she thought to herself. But this was Harrenhal...

No. She had to stop herself from even trying to think such things. Elsewise she would end up much like her cousin, the Lady Shella. Now and here was the time to be practical. Where could they have gone? Where have they gone? Where would they climb up to without the septa?

If she saw a bat and fell down fainting, would they not have run back down to try and tell someone? … No, of course not, she reminded herself. They would only have taken their chances and escaped, taking an invaluable chance to explore the enormous keep in freedom as they had the possibility.

One of the guards had ran up after them to help, she soon heard. Not the one she had spoken to, nor the one beside him. This was a tall and skinny one with a blondish brown beard and a sprint in his step.

"Don't worry, Your Grace. They cannot have come much further up. There are guards on the fifth floor to keep them from making it to the sixth one and so on."

She had half the urge to tell him that little children did not require more than two of Harrenhal's giant's stories to fall and break their little bones, but if she spoke the words, they would become the truth within her as well as outside, she felt.

They rushed in to the next corridor, asking the servants there whether they had seen Princess Arya or Prince Bran. They replied that they had not.

Jory went before her now, as he was faster in his attire than she was. He flung the doors open to each new room, shouting and ordering anyone who had seen the royal children to say so. People flew themselves up from the tasks that they were doing, following after in his steps behind him soon flocking the corridor. No, gods, please, this is not what I wanted, she thought. Once again, fate was slipping outside of her fingers's grasp. The corridors began flooding with people, servants of all ages, some few children included, all of them starting to run past each other and calling out for the prince and princess. She felt the claustrophobia coming in on her already. Ten, fifteen, twenty servants were now crowding the corridor in front of her, filling the space between her and Ser Jory.

If it had been a hard task to find Arya or Bran before, it would be nigh impossible now, she thought. If they were indeed still hiding, and had not been harmed, they would hear where the commotion was coming from and stay away for even longer time. Perhaps until the evening came. She knew at least that Arya would. Bran might be kinder to her worrying old heart. He was a sweet boy, in truth. If only he had not somehow fallen despite his talents at climbing. She hoped, she prayed to the gods, old and new alike, she even found herself praying to the Drowned God of King Harren in a shallow attempt to show herself humble.

Jory continued moving along in the corridor, moving out of her sight beyond a distant corner swaying towards the left and barking out orders, kicking open doors with his boots, to the scream of servants, ever more and more of them coming out in the corridor, flooding the stone floor in their somber greys and browns and white clothing, much the same colors as the clothes that Arya and Bran wore today. She could barely even get past them, and as they bowed before her, their heads pressed together and they hindered her access even more. Some many fumbled into each other, falling to the ground. No, thought Catelyn, not falling, not that, anything but that, please gods...

"Where are my children?" Catelyn Tully screamed, and she promised herself that she would tear down the entire tower, stone by stone, bloodying her hands to the bone, dying herself in the process, to become one with her mother's ghost and all of the others, if that was what it took to find them."