The hall went deathly silent instantly. The messenger with the chicken leg froze, a piece of meat hanging from his lip. The laughing guards snapped their mouths shut.
Ned slowly raised his head. His face was a mask of cold fury. He didn't shout. He didn't need to. He was the Warden of the North, the man who had killed Arthur Dayne, the man who sentenced deserters to die by his own hand.
"Eat," Ned said.
The word was quiet, but it carried the weight of a headsman's axe.
"Eat your food. And hold your tongues. Or I will have them removed."
The messenger swallowed hard, the chicken suddenly tasting like ash. "Apologies, Lord Stark. Just… jesting. The wine, you know."
"Eat," Ned repeated, his eyes boring into the man.
Slowly, awkwardly, the hall returned to life. Spoons clinked against wooden bowls. Conversations resumed, but they were hushed, nervous. The air remained thick with unresolved tension, like the sky before a thunderstorm.
Ned picked up his fork, but his hand was numb. He couldn't eat. He stared at the closed door, his heart hammering against his ribs.
What have I done?
He glanced at the door again. Then again.
To his left, Catelyn Stark saw every glance.
She saw the pain in his eyes. She saw the longing. And it burned her like acid.
He is thinking of her, Catelyn thought, the jealousy twisting inside her gut like a knife. He sits beside me, the mother of his heir, yet his heart is walking out into the snow with that… that creature.
She felt disgrace hot on her cheeks. The messengers had seen it. The servants had seen it. The bastard and his mother had marched into her home and exposed her husband's shame to the world. And that boy… that red-eyed demon… he had looked at her as if she were the intruder.
Catelyn took a deep breath, composing her face into the mask of the Lady of Winterfell. She took a sip of wine to wash away the bitter taste of bile.
She caught the eye of a maid standing near the kitchen entrance—a woman named Marga, whom she had brought with her from Riverrun. Marga was loyal, sharp, and understood that sometimes, a Lady's duty required ugly work.
Catelyn signaled with a slight tilt of her head.
Marga approached, refilling Catelyn's goblet. As she leaned in, Catelyn whispered, her lips barely moving, her voice so low it was lost under the clatter of cutlery.
"Follow them."
Marga paused, the pitcher hovering.
"The children are innocent in the eyes of the Seven," Catelyn murmured, her eyes fixed on the spilled wine on the tablecloth. "Do not touch them. To harm a child is a sin I will not bear."
She took a slow breath, her fingers tightening on the stem of the goblet until the metal groaned.
"But the woman… she walked into my hall. She flaunted her sin in my face." Catelyn's voice turned hard, brittle as frozen iron. "See that she does not walk back. Break her legs, Marga. Ensure she is… encouraged… to leave the North forever."
Marga's eyes widened slightly, but she nodded. "It shall be done, My Lady."
The maid curtsied and slipped away, disappearing into the shadows of the kitchen corridor.
Catelyn watched her go. She felt a flicker of guilt—it was un-Christian, cruel work—but she smothered it with righteous anger.
I do this for Robb. I do this for Sansa. No bastard will threaten my children's future.
She turned back to her food, slicing a piece of bread with precise, deliberate movements. She looked calm. Perfect. The ideal wife.
But beside her, Ned pushed his plate away.
He stood up.
"My Lords," Ned said, his voice rough. "Excuse me. I have… matters to attend to."
He didn't wait for an answer. He strode out of the Great Hall, not through the main doors, but through the side exit that led to the Godswood.
The wind outside was biting, slapping his face, but it felt cleansing after the stifling heat of the hall. He walked fast, his boots crunching in the snow.
I cannot let this stand, Ned thought, his mind racing.
He had felt the malice radiating from Catelyn. He knew his wife. She was a good woman, a loving mother, but she was fierce when it came to her family. And today, Serena had terrified her.
Catelyn will retaliate, Ned realized with a sinking dread. She won't kill them—she fears the gods too much for that—but she will make their lives a misery. She will drive them out.
He stopped by the Weirwood tree, the red leaves rustling above him. The carved face of the Old God seemed to weep sap, judging him.
I have to move them, he decided. Tonight. I cannot keep them in the Winter Town. It is too close. Catelyn will see them every time she looks over the walls.
But where?
Mole's Town.
The thought came to him suddenly. It was far—days away near the Wall. It was technically Night's Watch territory, meaning Catelyn had no jurisdiction there. And Benjen… Benjen was First Ranger. He could watch over them from Castle Black.
I will go to her tonight, Ned resolved. I will apologize. I will ask for her forgiveness. And then I will send her away.
It broke his heart to think of it—sending his son, his talented, strange, quiet son, to the edge of the world. But it was the only way to keep them safe from the political vipers of his own household.
Back inside the Great Hall, the breakfast was winding down.
Robb Stark poked at his porridge, his appetite gone. He looked at his mother, who was eating silently, and then at the empty chair where his father had sat.
"Mother?" Robb asked quietly.
Catelyn turned to him, her face softening instantly. "Yes, sweetling?"
"Who was that boy?" Robb asked. "The one with the red eyes. He… he looked like me. But different."
Sansa, sitting beside him, shivered. "He was scary. He didn't blink. I didn't like him."
"Hush, Sansa," Catelyn said, smoothing her daughter's hair. "He is nobody. Just a poor boy from the town."
"He didn't look poor," Robb insisted, frowning. "He looked… strong. Did you see how he walked? Like the sword-master teaches us. Silent feet."
"Robb," Catelyn said, her voice sharpening just enough to end the conversation. "It does not matter. They are gone. You will likely never see them again."
Robb fell silent, but he looked at the main doors one last time. He remembered the way the boy had looked at him. It wasn't a look of jealousy. It was a look of… assessment. As if the boy was measuring him.
Yoriichi, Robb thought, remembering the name the woman had said years ago in the rumors.
The Great Hall was loud again, filled with the sounds of a castle at work. The messengers were laughing, the servants were clearing the tables, and the fire was roaring in the hearth.
But the tension hadn't left. It had simply seeped into the stones, waiting.
Outside, under the grey sky, Marga the maid was gathering three men in the alleyway behind the stables. She handed them a heavy bag of coins and pointed toward the Winter Town.
"The woman with the red hair," Marga whispered. "Wait until dark. Then… make sure she can't walk to the castle ever again."
The men nodded, their grins ugly and eager.
Winter had come to Winterfell, and tonight, the first blood would be spilled in the snow.