Catelyn V

News from the war in the West came often enough, chiefly from her daughter Arya. Ser Domeric made her write her mother regularly. Catelyn supposed she should be grateful for that much.

From the battle beneath the walls of Lannisport to the fight at Fair Isle, from the scouring of Harlaw and the sack of Lordsport, to the final battle at Old Wyk, where the last Ironborn resistance was crushed, it seemed Riverrun was the first to hear of it. Arya was there to see it all, often in the thick of the fighting. This, of course, made her boy Bran terribly jealous. Even promises of squiring for his uncle the Blackfish could not sate him. Every letter set new fantasies of knightly deeds dancing through her son's eyes like stars.

Sansa was more interested in word of Brad Frey. The descriptions Arya included about that one were vivid enough to let even her mother read between the lines.

"Oh, Mother, isn't it romantic?" Sansa mooned. "Our Arya has become a girl at last! The way she described her pain when young Bradamar was wounded off Fair Isle moved me, truly."

Cat's other daughter was blooming in the south, with a crowd of highborn maidens from families sworn to Riverrun about her. Didn't stop them getting ideas, though. Roslin Frey in particular liked to talk of the love story between Alesander Frey and the one they called "Lady Lance," as well as Domeric Bolton's marriage to her cousin Alyx. Oh, Roslin was pretty and agreeable as Freys went; Cat couldn't find any particular fault in her, but she was a definite bad influence on Sansa, considering the family connection. The notion of women warriors was plainly spreading, and tales of a lady knight were the talk of many a sewing circle. Couldn't Sansa's little friends be frivolous, silly, or even wanton? Why must they be influenced by Domeric Scalp-Taker and his crew of cutthroats? Often they asked after Arya, who had become passing famous among girls of a certain age.

Elia Sand making a knight was strange enough, but she was baseborn and Dornish, so much could be attributed to her circumstances. Arya was a Stark of Winterfell, with the blood of two great houses in her veins; letting her ride to war was crossing a line. Why, oh why did Ned agree? It certainly didn't help that Arya wore costly dresses made by Barbrey Martell's own seamstress and more jewels than the queen whenever her master visited a noble lord's keep. That was the peculiar and insidious temptation Domeric Bolton wrought: to wear a man's mail and a lady's dresses both. The girls in his array could "have it all" as no girls before dared dream. Again, Cat supposed she should be grateful for that much. Arya taking an interest in dresses and boys would've thrilled her even a year ago.

Arya's latest letter came from Lannisport, telling of a swordpoint marriage between Asha Greyjoy and the Imp. Privately, Catelyn thought it a clever stroke. Tying two rebellious vassals in such a knot would make them slower to recover their strength.

Sansa's other friend Lillyth Piper thought it cruel, and the rest agreed. "The Imp isn't even a knight!" she complained. "How could he protect her?"

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"Don't forget ugly!" Tess Bracken added, provoking a gale of girlish laughter.

"Eh, Ser Domeric isn't terribly handsome," Roslin Frey interjected. "He visits the Twins often enough. I've seen him many a time. I say his strength makes up for it, and the freedom he gives his women. Give me a strong husband who will let me do as I please, and I'm content."

Silly girl, no one gets to do as they please, Cat thought darkly.

"Ser Domeric is handsome enough," said Sansa. "He isn't as pretty as Waymar Royce, I grant you, but I would not have been disappointed to wed him."

Catelyn said a private prayer to the Mother, thanking her that Domeric Bolton was already married.

"Oh yes, and singing!" Roslin continued merrily. "Any maiden would be glad of a man who could sing for her."

To this, every girl nodded sagely.

***

The Northmen, and, worryingly, some of her own bannermen from houses Blackwood, Frey, and Whent returned in triumph, coming down the hills about the Golden Tooth and taking the River Road up to the Red Fork of the Trident. They promised not to stay long, which was well, as the Citadel recently announced that autumn was upon them.

Arya returned with them, wearing a gorgeous gown of cloth-of-silver cinched with a jeweled belt at the waist...and a sword hanging from it. She looked taller, harder, and more confident than Catelyn remembered. "Mother, I missed you!" she cried.

Oh! Her embrace was strong! Cat could hardly believe the strength of her daughter's arms.

Sansa, Bran, and Rickon waited patiently for their turn. Arya had hugs for them as well. "Sister, you look so beautiful!" Sansa gushed. "Wherever did you get that dress?"

"Ser had it made for me," Arya explained. "I needed something nice to wear to the Imp's wedding, you see. Lannisport has many fine dressmakers."

The two sisters talked fondly over what fabrics could be had in the West, and what style of gown was most fashionable these days. It made Cat's heart hurt. Did it take separating them to remind the girls they were sisters?

Sansa's little friends crowded around Arya, admiring her dress and sword both. The girl got so cutely jealous when they started admiring the scar on the side of Bradamar Frey's head that Cat wanted to laugh out loud; she couldn't do that to her daughter, though.

Having all her children under one roof, save Robb at Winterfell, made Catelyn so happy she considered asking Ser Domeric if Arya could stay a while to visit. Surely, some time with her family was warranted after going to war, no? But fate had other plans.

A raven arrived from Winterfell in the night. There was an attempt on Lord Commander Mormont's life at Castle Black. He lived, but it was a close thing. Ned was calling the banners to ride north and reckon with King-Beyond-The-Wall. They were specifically waiting for Domeric Bolton before they marched. The bird was to catch him on his way back. In the postscript, there were instructions to bring casks of oil and rags for torches. How queer.

When the Scalp-Taker heard, he sprang to his feet straight away. "Well, it looks like it's back in the saddle, Arya! We march north!"