A squeal of delight drew Catelyn's gaze away from Bran toddling from brightly colored flower to brightly colored flower. She quickly found the source, little Arya clambering amongst the rocks at the edge of the warm spring that fed the pool at the center of the godswood. "Arya!" She straightened, but before she could more than press her palms into the green grass beneath her, her husband's second son rushed to his sister's side, arms and hands at the ready to steady or catch the little girl.

"Jon!" Arya giggled, jumping into a little pool of water before snagging his waiting hand.

Catelyn leaned back, a small smile on her lips as she watched them. The dark haired boy led Arya to a little pool of water at the edge of the stream, pointing out some little creatures from her squeals of delight.

"No! Not there!" Sansa called from nearby, lecturing her elder brother, "That's the castle!"

"Looks like a rock to me!" Robb protested, wrinkling his nose as he held his wooden 'sword' still at his side. With Jon's disappearance it appeared that their play of knights and princesses and monsters had lost a thread of story.

"Mother."

She turned to see her youngest, fists full of little frost bells, golden buttercups, and blades of grass staring at her with wide, grey-blue eyes. Her little Bran, two name days old, spoke little in the presence of others. His babbles were saved for the dead of night and only when his frustrations couldn't be quelled by other means. It had worried her, still did, but not as much as other things did.

The hurt of her own death, the knowledge of it, burned within her and helped her keep a strong hold on the memories from before, even as she forged new ones. She wasn't the only one who seemed to differ, however, as little Bran from the moment of his birth was quieter, stronger, and seemed to understand her and others better than any infant had right to.

She only hoped that he couldn't remember the fire that took his life. That a boy he'd grown beside, practically as brothers, had betrayed him and taken his life.

"Thank you, sweetling." Catelyn held out her palms and allowed her son to place his gifts upon them. Once she had wrapped her long fingers about the stems, he stumbled forward and collapsed to his knees, pressing his face against her skirts tiredly. He had been running about all morning, had skipped his usual nap as their family enjoyed the first truly warm day since the white raven proclaiming the end of one of the shortest winters on record had swooped into the rookery.

She set the flowers aside, upon the basket that held cracked bread, cheese, and some fresh fruits, carefully picking out the blades of green from the white and golden blossoms. Her left hand ran gently over Bran's back and she watched as he breathed softly against her skirts, eyelashes brushing against the thin skin beneath his eyes.

Another squeal drew her eyes to where Jon had grabbed hold of his little sister, her skirts wet to the knee. He carried her quickly from the mud and sand to the grass beyond. Arya's nose was wrinkled in dismay and her hands were getting mud upon Jon's shirt as she pushed at him until he lifted and spun her round. The protests turned to giggles. A moment after he set her down, he presented her with a stick and bowed before her, snagging one for himself, discarded during earlier play, and challenged her to a duel.

Catelyn chuckled softly at the sight of them, tamping down the still niggling thoughts of disdain at seeing her daughter play knight instead of princess. If Arya wished to spend her time learning the sword or dagger, she would bargain with her. In exchange for lessons on needlework, she'd gladly have her daughter learn to dance amongst her brothers at the heel of Ser Rodrick. Arya would be given every chance to learn to protect herself.

"Cat," her husband's voice was soft, rough, quiet.

"Hmm?" she turned to meet his gaze, soft grey that peered into her.

Ned had been gone too much for her liking in the past three years, first to war and then, time and again, to meet with his bannermen. There had been little time to relax on either of their parts as he sought to reaffirm bonds and oaths of times long past and she to forge knew friendships and alliances with the women of the North.

"You said earlier you wished to speak," he leaned close and brushed a blade of grass from her sleeve, "yet little of substance has been said."

"I know," she acknowledged with a soft sight, gently brushing Bran's soft, red-brown waves from his cheek.

"When you first spoke to me last year, of your dreams . . . memories," Ned stopped and sighed. "Every time you say you need to speak with me of something of great import I worry that you have dreamed of something new. That some new memory waits to stab me through the heart."

"I have no new memories to share with you on this day," Catelyn reached out and pressed her palm against his cheek. "None but those we make now."

"Then what?"

She dropped her hand and glanced at Bran before looking aside to where Arya and Jon played still, her daughter chasing her husband's bastard about, brandishing the stick he'd handed her earlier.

"It's Jon."

His features darkened slightly. "I thought you had no issue with him. That you wished him to remain here. At Robb's side."

"I do." Catelyn nodded, meeting his eyes again. Truly she did. Jon was a better companion for Robb and her children than any other could hope to be. There was a reason she had insisted Theon Greyjoy spend ten months of the year fostering at White Harbor instead of within Winterfell's walls. It may have been under the pretense of Theon learning skills that would serve him well on the Iron Islands, but it was truly more personal than that. "I wish for you to write to King Robert."

He frowned and she looked away, back to Bran's pale features.

"Give him your name and one day a holdfast in the Wolfswood or even Moat Cailin if you so choose." Catelyn did her best to keep her voice from wavering. "Place him beneath any siblings born to you and I in succession by royal decree. But give him your name."

"Cat . . ." he sounded pained as her name left his lips at a whisper. It drew her attention back to him. His features were taut and he was looking down at his hands.

She had thought he would be happy, thankful. That her husband might smile widely at her and capture her lips into a kiss. That he would whisper his thanks, and apologies, into her hair.

"What?"

"Catelyn," Ned shook his head, "thank you, but . . . I don't. That, perhaps, is not—"

"Dragon."

Bran's whisper drew their attention to the little boy laying between them. He was staring at his father, face a solemn mask, still and serious, more so than Catelyn had ever seen her husbands. He was holding a pale blue wildflower towards his father.

Ned paled at the sight and Catelyn stared between them brow furrowing as she tried to . . .

Gods. No. He couldn't mean . . . It was impossible.

"Dragon," Bran repeated as he pushed himself up to his knees and then lifted himself up to stand. He dropped the flower upon her dress and then squealed, running as quickly as his little legs could carry him to where Jon and Arya still dodged each other. He launched himself at Jon with a roar only to be caught by the older boy's arms as they tumbled into a mess of grass and wild flowers. Arya tossed away her sword and joined their pile moments later.

Catelyn turned back to her husband, breath shallow as she watched him. Scrutinized the play of emotions over his face, the paleness of his features.

Bran didn't speak much and when he did the words held weight. Truth.

Her husband had come back from the war with his sister's bones and a bastard child. A child whose mother he refused to name.

"Cat—"

"Send the raven," she said quickly. This was not the time or place to discuss this. Not with their children running about. She pushed herself up, brushing off her skirts. "Just . . . send the raven."