Lady Catelyn Stark
Winterfell, 289 AC

It had been a trying few moons since Eddard had ridden South with many of the Northern lords, answering the call to quell the latest foolish rebellion—this one launched by Balon Greyjoy.

Catelyn could not understand what the man hoped to gain by rising against the crown, especially so soon after the last rebellion. If he thought the realm weakened, he was gravely mistaken. Half the kingdoms had united in their shared hatred of the Ironborn, determined to put down the insurrection swiftly and decisively.

News arrived at intervals: tales of the Lannister fleet set ablaze, of Lord Jason Mallister slaying Rodrik Greyjoy in single combat at Seagard, and turning back a second assault by the reavers.

More recently came word of a great sea battle, where the Royal and Redwyne fleets crushed the Ironborn under Stannis Baratheon's command. If Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin were to be believed, the war was all but won, and preparations were underway for an invasion of the Iron Islands themselves.

Catelyn only prayed that her husband remained safe. Their marriage had been strained at the start—two strangers bound by duty, made worse by the bastard he brought home from Robert's war.

She tried not to hate the boy. She truly did. She could not blame Ned for seeking comfort in another's arms during war—many men did—but to bring the child back, to raise him among his trueborn siblings, was a cruel wound. A living, breathing reminder of her husband's indiscretion.

Still, Ned had made efforts to repair the rift. The Sept he built her—an offering of peace and understanding in a land that scarcely understood her gods—had touched her deeply. The birth of their second child softened her heart further, warming the fragile foundation of their union.

She strove to be civil, yet every time she looked at the boy—with his wild Northern spirit, his Stark features more pronounced than any of her own children—it stirred a bitter ache. A reminder not only of Ned's past, but of her own perceived failings.

Not that her children were failures—far from it. Her Robb was everything she had hoped for: dutiful, brave, and wise beyond his years. But for his auburn hair and Tully-blue eyes, he might have been Eddard reborn. Sansa, her sweet girl, mirrored Catelyn in looks and manner both. So poised and proper, she would make a fine match one day.

Then there was Arya, her youngest—born not long before Ned departed. Catelyn had let out a quiet sigh of relief when the babe opened her eyes, revealing the telltale Stark grey, framed by thick brown hair. The castle staff—and even Ned—often remarked how she was the image of Lyanna Stark, a woman whose ghost still lingered across the realm nearly a decade after her death.

And now, with Ned gone, she had learned she was carrying another child. She hoped for a boy—another son to stand beside Robb, a spare to secure their house's future, should the unthinkable happen, the Seven forbid it.

Speaking of Arya, the little devil had been giving her a dreadful time lately, refusing to be put to bed without a proper fight. Catelyn might've torn out her hair in frustration if the nursemaid hadn't intervened, relieving her of her duties so she could make it to dinner on time. She could only hope the rest of her children were better behaved and had already made their way to the Great Hall without incident.

Relief flooded her as she entered the hall and spotted Robb and Sansa sitting together, dutifully eating their meal. Catelyn tried not to frown when her eyes landed on the boy seated beside Sansa—her daughter nestled safely between her brothers. As much as she loathed admitting it, the boy doted on her daughters.

He was endlessly patient with Sansa, always allowing her to dress him up in her little games of knights and monsters, never once complaining. Catelyn couldn't help a soft smile at that—her little girl truly had the whole castle wrapped around her fingers.

Even Arya, hardly more than a babe of one name day, was entranced by him. She quieted almost instantly in his presence, and her first word had been his name.

"Mother, did you hear?" Robb's voice rang out excitedly. "Lord Stannis crushed the Ironborn near Fair Isle! Can you believe it?!"

Catelyn arched a brow, her gaze sliding to Ser Rodrik, who was suddenly very interested in the far wall. It wasn't hard to guess where her son had heard the tale.

"I did hear," she said with a faint smile. "With luck, your father will be home sooner now."

"Of course he will," Sansa said confidently, her voice prim and sure. "Father is a great warrior!"

"It's true! He slew Ser Arthur Dayne—they say he was the best swordsman in Westeros!" Robb added, eyes gleaming.

She indulged their excitement, letting them chatter on about their lessons and daily adventures. Robb had been training in the yard for a few years now, and Ser Rodrik often said the boy was a natural with a sword. It brought Catelyn no small measure of pride.

But that pride soured at the thought of those very same lessons—the ones her husband had insisted the boy attend alongside Robb. She'd protested at first, but Ned had been firm. Unyielding.

And now, almost daily, she heard of the bastard's prowess in the yard. How he bested even the older boys, how he moved like a born warrior. A prodigy, they whispered. A wolf among cubs.

Catelyn sometimes attended the lessons, hoping her presence would unsettle him. He rarely flinched. Instead, he would meet her gaze with that maddening, wolfish grin—the same one Brandon Stark used to wear.

The boy had two sides to him. There was the wild side—the Stark side—that emerged in the yard or the woods. But then there was the other side. The quiet one. The strange one. At times, he would stare off into the distance, eyes unfocused, muttering riddles that chilled her to the bone.

His gaze—those mismatched eyes, one a bright green, one violet—sometimes lingered on her for too long, as if he could see through her. Into her. It made her feel exposed, and not in any way she understood.

His looks unsettled her too. Ethereal, almost... otherworldly. The castle occupants whispered that his mother was Ashara Dayne. Once, Catelyn had dared bring it up to Ned. He'd raised his voice—truly raised it—for the first and only time, demanding she never speak that name again.

Her eyes flicked back to the boy now. He was staring again, off into some invisible horizon. She frowned.

"The krakens will sneak into the den of wolves... wrapping their tentacles around the red wolf," he muttered, barely audible, his voice distant and hollow.

She scowled. "Boy, be silent at the table."

His head turned slowly, eyes locking with hers. She stiffened. There it was again—that piercing look, too old for his years, too deep for any child.

"Double the guard tonight," he said quietly, voice devoid of emotion. "Or the krakens shall snatch the red wolf."

Then, without another word, he stood and walked out, leaving his plate half-finished. As he left, a raven swooped down from the rafters, landing on his shoulder as if summoned. Murmurs rose across the hall. She wasn't the only one disturbed.

For the first time in many moons, Catelyn felt a cold prickle of fear she could not explain. And for reasons she couldn't name, she listened.

Later that night, after tucking her children into bed and returning to her chambers, she found Ser Rodrik waiting outside.

"Double the guards," she instructed, her voice low. "And keep an eye out for anything... unusual."

It was only a few hours later when frantic knocking at her chamber door jolted Catelyn awake, Ser Rodrik's muffled voice urgent through the thick wood.

Throwing on her nightgown, her bare feet met the cold stone as she hurried to open the door. Ser Rodrik stood there, breathless, his boiled leathers marred with smears of blood.

"Ser Rodrik?" she asked, alarmed. "What in the gods' name is going on?"

"A few Ironborn snuck into the keep, my lady. We managed to kill the lot of them—took one alive. He's in the dungeons now," he reported swiftly.

Catelyn's eyes widened, but before she could speak, a high-pitched scream pierced the hall—a child's scream.

Without hesitation, she pushed past Ser Rodrik, panic flooding her as she realized the sound was coming from Sansa's room.

She ran, guards scrambling behind her. As she neared the chamber, she heard a deep male voice, rough and guttural, followed by a child's voice—Jon's, unmistakably calm but eerily cold.

Throwing open the door, she froze.

A man—rugged, blood-soaked, and still—lay dead on the floor, his chest a ruin of stab wounds. Jon was straddling him, dagger clenched in his small, bloodied hand, panting like a hound fresh off the hunt. His tunic was soaked red, his face splattered in gore. In the corner, Sansa sobbed uncontrollably, curled in on herself, eyes wide with terror.

Jon slowly turned toward the doorway, dazed, as though emerging from a trance. His voice was quiet but distinct.

"I told you... the kraken would wrap its tentacles around the red wolf."

Then, as if his words had taken the last of his strength, he slumped backward and collapsed, the dagger clattering to the stone.

Catelyn stood frozen, ears ringing. She hardly noticed Maester Luwin rushing in, kneeling to examine Jon's unconscious form before lifting him with gentle care. Ser Rodrik barked orders, guards dragging away the Ironborn corpse while another examined the bloodstained floor.

Only when she felt a desperate tug at her nightgown did she stir. Sansa, pale and trembling, was clinging to her skirts, her face blotchy with tears.

Catelyn scooped her up without a word and carried her from the room, straight to Robb's chambers. Her son slept soundly, unaware of the chaos that had nearly found his sister.

Later, just before dawn, she lay awake in her bed. Robb and Sansa were nestled against her sides, cocooned in furs. Arya's crib had been moved into the room at her insistence—she wanted all her children close, protected.

Her thoughts drifted. One name repeated itself in her mind—Jon.

Not Snow. Not the boy. Not bastard.

Jon.

It was the first time she had ever thought of him that way.

She felt a pang of guilt. Shame, even. Only nine name days, and already he had taken a life—spilled blood to save her daughter. Ser Rodrik had said plainly: if the guard had not been doubled, if Jon had not raised the alarm, more Ironborn would have slipped in. Perhaps even succeeded.

Jon had saved Sansa.

And she—Catelyn—had done nothing but resent him all these years.

Her eyes began to droop, exhaustion finally winning the war with her nerves. Just before sleep took her, one final thought lingered, troubling and persistent.

How did Jon know about the attack in the first place?