Disclamer: This world belongs to George R. R. Martin. I don't own anything.

Author's note: Sorry for any grammar or vocabulary mistake.

"Stupid blind little wolf bitch." His voice was rough and hard as an iron rasp. "Bugger Joffrey, bugger the queen, and bugger that twisted little gargoyle she calls a brother. I'm done with their city, done with their Kingsguard, done with Lannisters. What's a dog to do with lions, I ask you?" He reached for his waterskin, took a long pull. As he wiped his mouth, he offered the skin to Arya and said, "The river was the Trident, girl. The Trident, not the Blackwater. Make the map in your head, if you can. On the morrow we should reach the kingsroad. We'll make good time after that, straight up to the Twins. It's going to be me who hands you over to that mother of yours. Not the noble lightning lord or that flaming fraud of a priest, the monster." He grinned at the look on her face. "You think your outlaw friends are the only ones can smell a ransom? Dondarrion took my gold, so I took you. You're worth twice what they stole from me, I'd say. Maybe even more if I sold you back to the Lannisters like you fear, but I won't. Even a dog gets tired of being kicked. If this Young Wolf has the wits the gods gave a toad, he'll make me a lordling and beg me to enter his service.

/Storm of Swords/

I. Gifts

When the wagon arrived at the courtyard of the castle, nobody paid any interest to them. Most of the people in there were too drunk to take care about two ragged peasants. They didn't ask them what they wanted or what kind of gift they brought. They didn't even look at them.

The Hound got off the wagon, grumbling. Arya briskly jumped after him.

The cacophony was unbearable. If musicians had only played at one of the Twins, the music, perhaps, would have been somewhat enjoyable. But they could also hear drums, copper bugles and horns from the other side of the river playing to a much different rhythm than the one coming from this tower. The tunes joined in a monstrous clamor.

Between the castles the Green Fork darkly rumbled in the night. The courtyard was soaked by rain, and Arya's hood was heavy from wetness. By every step her boots sank deeply in the mud and threatened to get stuck in it.

The watchman by the gate, who instructed them, said they had missed the wedding, but the feast was still going on and surely, they could get some food and a cup of wine in the kitchen. He also explained to them willingly how they could get there with their cargo (salt pork and pickled pig's feet). The Hound, of course, didn't have any intention to go to the kitchen.

"Your brother is fucking his new wife," he said, grabbing Arya's shoulder and directing her to the castle's entrance. "But your mother might still be in Lord Frey's hall."

Dizzily, Arya nodded. The whole thing felt like a fever dream. Accompanied by the Hound she hurried along torch-lighted corridors, stepped aside to stone walls and casted down her eyes every time drunken and singing men crossed their way. After some curve, the clatter of the instruments faded as the musicians began to play a new song. Arya could hear the singing of a bard, but only for a moment before others joined him, shouting off-key. After another turn, pounding of dancing boots mingled in the noise.

A voice roared. "To the Young Wolf! And to Lady Roslin!"

It seemed like the answer came from hundreds of throats. "Long live Queen Roslin!"

Arya was excited and scared at the same time. She didn't believe – didn't dare to believe – that she would see her mother soon; that Lady Catelyn was going to sit by one of the tables and she could run to her, embrace and kiss her. She didn't believe it until they entered the door of the great hall. But then, when a few soldiers stopped them, that didn't surprise her at all. At the end someone always came and diverted her from her purpose.

"Who are you?" One of them demanded. He was tall, shaggy and bearded – a northern man, almost sure. Arya, however, didn't know who he was and which house he belonged to.

"I brought a gift to Lady Stark," the Hound said.

He was snarling, Arya knew from his voice. His hand still squeezed her shoulder. The Hound didn't release her until he was forced to when someone pulled his hood off. It was so unexpected that Arya – now free – almost fell forward.

The Hound instinctively reached for his sword, but they left their weapons – Needle included – outside, hidden in the wagon.

"A gift, eh?"

This man Arya recognized, but she couldn't remember his name. He was a member of the guard from Winterfell.

"Your ugly head, Clegane? Because our Lady would appreciate that!"

In the front of the hall folks must have realized that something was happening at the door. The music fell silent. Arya and the Hound were pushed forward.

From the high-backed chair, which stood on the stage, a bold, old man stared at them with his soggy eyes. Arya, however, couldn't study him for long, because the soldiers stopped them with faces towards another table.

And by that table… Suddenly, Arya felt as if the stone floor of the hall had disappeared under her feet. A woman sat there, a woman with auburn hair. She was far more beautiful than she was in Arya's memories. And her glance when she looked at them was as cold as never before. Not even when she had looked at Jon Snow.

When she spoke up, though, dismay clouded her voice.

"What is this supposed to mean?"

"The Lannisters' Hound says he brought you a gift."

Lady Catelyn stood up.

"A gift?"

She was suspicious now. Arya knew she feared a trap.

The Hound swooped on her. He shoved her in front of himself and – with the same motion – pulled her hood down. But this time he didn't let her go. He continued gripping Arya's cloak by her nape.

It was just a moment. And still it was an eternity. Arya was afraid that her mother wasn't going to recognize her.

Then the moment passed and Lady Catelyn sank down into her chair and her mouth opened in a mute scream.

Robb made a wise decision when he chose he was going to march against Moat Cailin.

"I won't let people call me The King Who Lost The North," he said and Catelyn was glad for it. Not only because it was the kind of plan she could support wholeheartedly, but also because the newfangled melancholy that ruled over Robb since his arrival from the Westerlands was finally gone. Even if only for a short time.

This sorrow was more than grief for his little brothers. Catelyn tried to gouge out of him what had happened in the West. Although Robb forgave her – at least apparently –, their relationship were strained since the release of Jaime Lannister. At one night when they stayed alone after a weary council, he was willing to disclose this much:

"I was tested."

"And did you fail?"

Robb remained silent, for a long time.

"I don't know, mother," he said then.

After that, he avoided any other talking with her, especially in this subject.

So Catelyn was worried. Even after Robb told his bannermen the plan of his northern campaign. Although the knowledge that his son had a purpose, at least, made her feel slightly relieved.

It was a wise idea, too, that on the way to the North, if they had to across the Green Fork, anyway, they should get round to the wedding with Lord Frey's daughter. According to Robb, it was necessary because who knows when they would have another opportunity for it. But contracts must be upheld and a King can't remain without an heir. Catelyn accepted his arguments because all of them were valid, but at the same time she suspected that the haste had something to do with Robb's mysterious test. She didn't ask again, though, because she knew it would be a useless effort.

His son made some less wise decisions, too. Rickard Karstark's beheading was one of them. Although Catelyn understood why Robb felt like he had no choice.

But that other… foolishness. Robb was stubborn and he once again said that he didn't have any other choice. But he did, Catelyn was sure of it. He had many other choices and all of them would have been better than this one. But it was done and they could do nothing to change it. Robb's messengers had already gone to the North, to the Wall for Jon Sn– Stark.

If the bast– boy had honor, he would thank Robb but keep his oath to the Watch. At least, Catelyn thought so, however, she didn't hope for it. Jon Snow's greatest desire had always been to become a Stark and take Winterfell. And now both of them were offered to him. In fact, a crown and a kingdom was offered to him in the case of Robb's death.

It was far more than foolishness.

She didn't agree with the person Robb chose as his betrothed. Though what she gathered about the girl since she had arrived at the Twins, made her more trusting. Roslin Frey was very pretty, undeniably so. Lord Walder was farseeing enough to only introduce his truly good-looking daughters to the King. But that one was also too small and too thin. On the other hand, according to Maester Brenett, her mother had given birth to five children who were strong enough to stay alive and grow up.

If the Gods were merciful, Roslin would soon bear a son to Robb, as well. A real heir. And then… the current one will have to be set aside in some way. Of course, that would be more difficult than it would have been if he hadn't become an heir at all. But Catelyn didn't want to deal with that now.

She would have been glad, if she could have left the feast instead of listening how the Greatjon bellowed over Lord Walder's unlucky bard, or how Lady Bolton was snickering with her cousins. But it would have been too early to retire to her room. Lord Walder, as whimsical as he was, would consider it an insult. Not as if he had any reason to complain. He had betrothed his daughter with the Lord of Winterfell, but he gave her in marriage with the King in the North, just a few hours ago. Though the original contract had already been far more than what a man like him could have hoped for.

Lord Bolton sat on Catelyn's right. She didn't even know since when. He was a silent company, fortunately, especially, because he was the last person out of all the guests to whom she would talk with pleasure.

Lord Bolton and the army he brought with himself when he had left Harrenhal for Robb's calling were waiting for them miles before the Twins. Catelyn didn't find that odd, at first. In fact, she didn't even wonder why the Lord of Dreadfort wasted his time on the road if he could have found comfortable bed, great feast and a devoted, willing wife not further than a few hours of riding.

Robb did ask him, of course. He and his men were also exhausted from travelling, although they didn't set such forced pace as Lord Bolton had to make to overtake them.

"I have a gift to you, Your Grace," Bolton said. "Lord Edmure, as I heard, estimated its worth to be one thousand golden dragons.

'No!' Catelyn wanted to scream. But instead she stood frozen beside his son clutching her horse's reins, meanwhile Lord Bolton's men led the Kingslayer and Brienne of Tarth to them, both of them tied up.

She had believed in Brienne. She had believed the Lady knight would perform the task she had entrusted her with. And still, the Kingslayer stood here, before them, and all hope was lost for getting Sansa back.

"Ser Cleos?" Robb obviously figured out what happened, but from sense of duty he had to ask.

"He died. At the beginning of our trip," the girl said.

After that, Robb gestured to Jaime Lannister with his chin. "What happened to his hand?"

Catelyn hadn't realized until Robb mentioned it. The Kingslayer's right arm ended in a stump just above his wrist.

Lannister smiled – or at least he tried. But that impertinence and pride, which blazed in him when he had talked to Catelyn in the gloom of his cell, only glimmered now. Although it didn't extinguish entirely.

"That was towards the end of our trip."

"The Gods, regrettably, led him into the way of an essosi goat who didn't hear enough warning about Tywin Lannister," Lord Bolton added.

He said it as an explanation, perhaps, but for that it wasn't much and Catelyn didn't care, anyway.

"However, the same goat brought me to Lord Bolton," the Kingslayer said. "So, Your Grace, my Lady, you should be grateful to him."

Robb ignored him as if the Kingslayer hadn't opened his mouth.

"I am sure my uncle will be quick to reward you, my Lord. And I as well will find a way to thank you. You made a great service to me and my Lady mother.

To her he didn't, Catelyn thought.

If Lord Bolton and his goat – and who knows how many others on the road – hadn't existed, Jaime Lannister would have reached King's Landing, and then maybe… She sighed. It was time to admit she had been silly. Yes, the Imp as Hand had made a promise, but would he have kept it? Would he have been allowed to keep what he had vowed? By the boy King, the Queen, Lord Tywin? Would they have allowed it? Sansa was too valuable. The only living, trueborn sibling of Robb.

It was time to admit to that, too. It didn't matter how much it pained her.

And, lastly, it was time to admit that Robb was right when he didn't name his younger sister as his heiress. Her understanding, however, only allowed as much.

Musicians began to play a new song. It was slower than the previous ones, with a lot more drumming and singing. First, the Greatjon joined the bard, then a few others as well. One voice was just as bad as the other and every one of them knew a different version of the lyrics – or none at all.

Maybe the musicians were tired, too, but it didn't matter. They had to play until there was a person left wanting to celebrate – and for now it seemed a lot of people wanted to.

Not far from Catelyn Marq Piper swung his cup high spattering expensive, dornish wine onto himself and those who were sitting around him.

"To the Young Wolf!" he shouted, as people had done many times in that night. "And to Lady Roslin!"

In response, the choir of the Freys blustered. "Long live Queen Roslin!"

Catelyn took a sip of her wine, just a tiny one to wet her tongue. Lord Bolton, at her side, did the same. Catelyn wished he walked away, if only to look up on his own wife. Just like Robb, the Lord of Dreadfort should have been urgent to see an heir.

She was sure Robb wasn't going to leave the Bastard of Bolton alive. It didn't matter what – dubious – service he had done to their family. In fact, that question, his bastard son's life or death, wasn't much of an interest to Lord Bolton either.

In the back of the hall some sort of tumult flared up. Catelyn thought it was a scrum between drunks or another hassle usual at these kinds of events.

But then two beggars were pushed forward by soldiers. In front of her but back to Lord Walder. The short one could have been some peasant boy. Catelyn didn't spare more than a split second of attention on him.

How could she, when the other one was there? Sandor Clegane, Joffrey Baratheon's Hound. Did he come to kill Robb? No, he wouldn't do it in such a foolish way.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"The Lannisters' Hound says he brought you a gift."

Catelyn stood up to look more dignified, more so, because the King couldn't be here. She tried to act on behalf of him to the best of her abilities.

"A gift?" Since the unsolicited surprise of Roose Bolton, she was fed up with gifts.

Without a response the Hound grabbed and tossed the peasant boy forward. The hood slipped off and…

Catelyn was unable to stand on her feet anymore.