Catelyn IV

Last month of 298 AC

Catelyn Stark had scarcely left the North for a moon's turn when word came that the North was coming to her. Again.

Ten thousand rowdy warriors camped outside the walls of Riverrun, and she must needs feast the lords. "I bid you welcome," Cat said to Domeric Scalp-Taker, her face a mask of icy courtesy. That one was high in King Stannis' favor, even being named Warden of the West, since the imp was unequal to the task. He flew the royal standard beside his own flayed man, alongside a dozen more banners, mostly of the North, but the Freys, Blackwoods, and even her own kin, the Whents, sent knights to join him.

He smiled a genial, deceptive smile. "It's a lovely castle you have here, Lady Stark. Say hello to your Mother, Arya," he commanded her own daughter as casually as you please.

Wild Arya emerged from the red knight's shadow, wearing pink silk trimmed with Myrish lace and looking pretty as a doll. She had a healthy tan and rosy cheeks, smiling wider than Cat had ever known her to smile. "Mother!" Arya closed the distance rapidly with a dancer's grace and nuzzled into her arms. She clutched her daughter close, hands running over the smooth fabric of her dress. Must he drape her in his own house's colors?

"You've grown, my baby," said Cat thickly. Arya was taller than she remembered, aye, and her body was firm and lithe.

"Ser makes me eat my vegetables and drink my milk," Arya explained into the crook of Cat's neck. Ser could make her do a great many things, it seemed. She hoped he had no designs on turning Arya into one of his whores.

Sansa greeted Ser Domeric eagerly, waiting the bare minimum courtesy demanded before asking if he would favor them with his songs this night, and Bran had a worshipful look on his face. He'd take them all if Cat let him.

"Of course I'll sing, and Al too, if you like. Bradamar is learning the drums, and Arya might make a piper."

"Truly?" Sansa asked in interest. "I must say, Arya, you are looking beautiful today. If you could play music as well..."

"It's just something to pass the time on the road," Arya replied casually. "My voice isn't as good as Brad's." She and Bradamar Frey shared a secret smile, which Lady Stark liked not at all. Marrying a Frey would be only slightly better than being Bolton's whore.

The two sisters seemed to have forgotten their old quarrels, with Sansa admiring Arya's dress, jewels, and hair. "Do you like it?" she spun on her heel, letting the long brown braid that hung down her back glide through the air. "Lady Lance taught me how to braid it."

"It's lovely!" Sansa gushed. Her daughters chattered happily about gossip from the Dreadfort and Riverrun.

Arya speaks about the Dreadfort as if it's her home, Cat thought ruefully. Is it such a merry place? It must be, with fine singing every night and a Dornish cook making delicacies. The queerest thing of all was how positively girlish her younger daughter seemed. Shouldn't squiring for the bloodiest knight in the realm have coarsened her?

Bran and Bradamar Frey talked swords and hounds and horses, the stuff of boys. Lady, Charger, and Shaggydog all but went mad when they smelled the wolf Nymeria. They ran out of the hall to run and play in the yard, almost bowling over a man-at-arms.

Umber and Karstark drifted in after the wolves left, unbuckling their swordbelts and hanging them from pegs on the wall of the great hall.

Stolen story; please report.

"You'd think Balon Greyjoy would have more sense," Greatjon Umber rumbled. "It was King Stannis himself who smashed the Iron Fleet off Fair Isle. Does he suppose he'll have better luck this time?"

"Oh, they're trying to be clever," Ser Domeric interjected mildly. "The bird I had from Casterly Rock said the reavers flew no banners. Lord Balon denies any involvement. 'Rogue captains,' he said, 'outlaws'. I don't believe a word of it. After the fall of Tywin Lannister, he wants to see what he can take."

"You mislike that, do you?" chuckled Karstark. He and his three sons were all here, tall and bearded and fierce.

"I mislike fools, my lord," Bolton replied. "That cock and bull story about not being able to control his own captains angers me. Did he think he'd be believed? Don't piss down my back and tell me it's raining."

Greatjon Umber and his son, the Smalljon, who was actually taller, laughed uproariously at the witticism, shaking so hard they were like to burst and pounding fists on the table as loud as thunderclaps. Even Ser Domeric seemed surprised to see how men laughed at his little jape.

"Will you be staying long, Ser?" Lady Catelyn asked him once the laughter faded. "How many more swords do you mean to gather?"

"None," he answered instantly. "Others wished to join me, but I turned them away. Every man in this array is mounted. I've got knights, squires, men-at-arms, and mounted archers. No levies necessary. Tomorrow we make for the Golden Tooth. Once there, I'll divide the force into several mobile columns to rapidly react to Ironborn raids. Once Lord Redwyne brings up his ships, we're taking the fight to the Iron Islands," he stated with bloody finality.

"Gods be good," her uncle Brynden Blackfish muttered. "You mean to kill them all, don't you?"

"Not all, Ser Brandon," the Scalp-Taker replied evenly. "Anyone who resists, I'll have his scalp and feed his blood to the gods."

"Feed the gods!" Umber cheered. Karstark and the rest joined him. "SCALP-TAKER! SCALP-TAKER! SCALP-TAKER!" It was a madness in them, filling her hall with bloody wroth.

They love him, she realized with dawning dread. In a raven from Ned, he'd mentioned that the new custom of beheading criminals before a heart tree and giving their blood to the old gods was spreading like wildfire in the North. Even her own lord husband did not seem terribly discomfited by human sacrifice. These lords, denied the chance to feast on Lannister blood, had rapturous faces and wild eyes, lusting for death and destruction. What manner of gods required such worship?

"SCALP-TAKER! SCALP-TAKER! SCALP-TAKER!" Even Arya joined in, cheering lustily. She was part of this army too, much to Cat's dismay. What sort of woman would that cruel man shape her into?

"I'm glad your blood is up, my lords, but tonight we feast with friends," Domeric told the gathered men. "Riverrun is no enemy of ours, and you're frightening the servants. Save that for Greyjoy's pirates, if it please you."

This chastisement, even Greatjon Umber took with good humor.

At the feast that night, Ser Domeric's singing was especially good. Sansa stayed and listened until she could hardly keep her eyes open. Her uncle brooded darkly over a tankard of ale. "Why does he always call me Brandon?"