The first light of dawn barely brushed the stone towers of Winterfell when Catelyn Stark rose from her bed. She moved quietly, as always, careful not to disturb the household before her prayers. Her husband, the lord of the north was still sleeping in the bed, He had come to bed late last night. Duty kept him longer with Ser Rodrik and Jory, their murmured reports following him even into sleep.

  she didn't wish for him to wake up now, letting him get a good rest and full sleep, knowing the weight of the duties awaiting him. Kneeling on the cold flagstone of their chamber, she clasped her hands tightly.Her voice was quiet and reverent.

  She began

  “Father, grant wisdom and justice to my husband Ned, that he may rule Winterfell with a steady heart and fair hand. Mother, protect our children—guide Robb to courage, Sansa to gentleness, Arya to safety. Maiden, keep their hearts pure; Warrior, grant them strength in body and mind to face the dangers of this harsh North......”

  Praying for her family devoutly.

  Then Jon Snow came in her mind.

  Silence, hesitation, but eventually she tore through her discomfort and prayed.

  “....And if it be within Your mercy, spare the boy Jon Snow from harm or bitterness. Let him not bring sorrow upon this house....” she murmured.

  She prayed for his safety, But her heart remained wary.

  Theon Greyjoy came last. Her hands folded tighter. She recalled the rebellion that had taken many lives.

  Theon carried the weight of his house’s sins. Her prayers were merciful in words but sharp in intention — a wish that he might be disciplined and loyal.

  she never actually hated Jon or Theon , they were nothing but mere children in her heart but for her religious mind , their existence is a result of sin so they cannot be accepted even if the children weren't the cause of this very sin.

  Her prayers ended in silence, but the devotion remained heavy in the air, as if the very walls of Winterfell were listening.

  Her morning ritual completed, she rose slowly, the faint ache in her knees a reminder that devotion demanded both spirit and body.

  She adjusted her cloths one last time before leaving, her cloak brushing across the chilled floor as she stepped back into Winterfell’s corridors.

  The castle breathed its slow, endless rhythm around her. Servants moved with muted purpose, meals prepared, disputes settled. Snow gathered along the outer walls.Morning came pale and brittle.

  Time passed and By Now, the sound of boys training can be heard clearly. Drawn by habit more than curiosity, catelyn moved toward the narrow balcony overlooking the training yard below.

  The air bit sharply against her face as she stepped outside.

  A female servant followed, eager to share gossip.

  “Excuse me, My lady… lady Arya was seen in the yard last night. She had a wooden sword in hand, well past the hour she was meant to be abed.” the maid said.

  Catelyn’s lips pressed together. She already knew, yet every time a different maid comes to her with this news, she feels frustrated. “I know,” she said, her voice calm but edged. “I appreciate your diligence.” then she looked down on the yard, still troubled.

  Below, the boys moved in steady rhythm under Ser Rodrik’s watchful eye. Robb was at the center, blade precise, feet measured. The heir’s progress had always been her chief concern; his skill, discipline, and obedience.

  But then her eyes caught Jon Snow.

  “SNOW! Keep your guard up, or my sword will find you before your father’s does!” Ser Rodrik’s voice barked, rough but precise.

  Catelyn eyes locked on the boy, Jon moved differently now — not as clumsy, not as uncertain. His parries were sharper, his strikes more deliberate. There was a rhythm to his motions that had not existed before.

  “He improves quickly.” Catelyn spoke, not waiting for a reply, simply saying what came to her mind but the maid actually offered what she knows immediately.

  “Some of the boys have begun to notice. My nephew says Jon can almost match Lord Robb, at least in some drills.”

  The maid's words came out quickly, and afterwards catelyn's lips pressed into a hard line and Fear prickled at her chest.

  The boy was improving too fast indeed.

  A pulse of paranoia gripped her. Catelyn tightened her grip on the balustrade. What if, one day, he tried to take what was Robb’s by right? Her mind raced. She would not allow the bastard to overshadow her son.

  She did not move from her perch, but her eyes traced Jon’s every swing.

  Catelyn looked at the maid. “Do you think he might surpass Robb one day?”

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  The maid was surprised, the question came like a test not an inquiry.

  “Seven forbid it, my lady. Lord Robb is every inch a true Stark. No one could stand above him.” The maid was a true believer in the old gods, yet when Lady Catelyn came into view, the Seven were suddenly foremost in her mind.

  Catelyn asked the question, knowing full well the reply she would hear, yet uncertain whether she sought reassurance—or only meant to deceive herself. She looked away from the maid, her gaze returning to the yard below.

  She saw another boy whom she didn't accept as well.

  Theon stood nearby, observing, quivering between pride in his own skill and resentment of Jon’s rise. Catelyn’s gaze passed over him, noting his posture, his precision, his silent competitiveness. But her mind did not linger — the boy was a tool of discipline, a reminder of rebellion past.

  At last, Catelyn withdrew her gaze from the children below and stepped back into the keep, gathering her composure as she returned to the endless duties of Winterfell’s lady. The morning passed as it always did—measured in obligations rather than moments—until the time for the midday meal came.

  The great hall smelled of roasted meats and fresh bread. The Stark children gathered, the sound of utensils clattering against wood punctuating the hush that often fell at mealtime. Catelyn sat at the high table beside Ned, her posture perfect, her expression deliberate.

  Robb, sat near her. She spoke lightly, praising him. “You’ve improved your footwork, I was told.” she said, voice smooth. “Ser Rodrik would be pleased.”

  Robb was always pleased whenever praised, “Yes, I’ve been practicing every morning before the yard fills. I mean to be worthy of Father one day.”

  “Well said, your father already sees your effort, Robb.” Catelyn assured her son, pleased with his words

  Jon , by contrast, was tucked to the far edges of the table. never receiving a word from her. Jon’s steady gaze met nothing but indifference and silent judgment.

  Arya, however, drew her full attention. The girl was wild — tossing her hair, poking at her food, Catelyn wanted to stay quiet, to let the meal pass without incident, but her daughter’s misbehavior was like a knife stabbed in her eyes—jarring, sharp, unacceptable. Each defiant smirk and careless gesture cut at her patience. For a fleeting moment, Catelyn wished Arya were like Sansa—composed, obedient, a daughter she could admire without worry. Yet even as that thought passed, her heart tightened with love. Wild and untamed as Arya was, she was still her daughter.

  At last, she could no longer remain silent; she decided it was time to correct Arya.

  “Sit properly, Arya,” Catelyn said quietly and gently.

  “I am sitting,” Arya replied, not looking up. “Just not like a lady.”

  “You will show respect at this table,” Catelyn said, leaning forward. “This is not a place to play, There is a place for everything, child, and you will learn it.”

  Arya smirked. “If you don't want me to play here, Then let me practice in the yard with the boys, Why must I be a lady? I don’t want to sew or curtsy. I want to fight, like Robb… or even Jon.”

  Catelyn’s eyes flicked toward Jon, who sat a few seats away, quietly eating, his attention caught by the conversation. Her cheeks warmed with sudden embarrassment and anger — she had not wanted her disobedient daughter to draw the boy’s notice. “Jon Snow is not an example for your behavior! He is a boy trying to find his place!”

  “He’s strong, though,” Arya said boldly, casting a glance at Jon. “I saw him in the yard today. He’s getting better. Faster than some of the boys, maybe even you’d notice if you looked.”

  Sansa, seated quietly, eating with grace and elegance, allowed a faint, almost imperceptible smirk to play on her lips, a quiet pride stirring within her as she looked down on her sister’s reckless antics.

  Catelyn’s hand twitched, clenching around her fork. “I do not wish to hear idle comparisons. You will focus on your meals, your prayers, and your proper lessons. You are not yet fit for sparring in the yard with boys!”

  “Why not?” Arya said, voice rising with stubborn energy. “I can swing with a stick just fine. I can parry like the boys in the yard. And I’m not afraid!”

  Robb’s jaw tightened, eyes flicking between Arya and their mother, irritation curling in his chest. “Can't they stop already!?” he muttered under his breath. Ned rubbed his temples, letting out a low sigh, knowing all too well that the bickering would not end anytime soon.

  Catelyn tried her best to withhold her anger now. “You waste your time and put yourself in danger. If you cannot control yourself, I will remove every stick from your hands!”

  Bran watched his mother and Arya argue, his small brow furrowed. He didn’t understand what they were upset about. He chewed his bread quietly, wishing things were simpler.

  Arya leaned back, defiance glinting in her eyes. “Then you will see me practice in secret. You cannot stop me. Not truly.”

  Jon shifted uncomfortably.

  He had seen Arya practice in secret, and on rare occasions, long after the castle had quieted for the night, he had even joined her—just briefly, quietly, before retreating to his own corner. Yet he knew the patience of Lady Stark must have limits. For a brief moment, Arya’s eyes met his across the table, a flicker of daring in her gaze. He looked away quickly, but the hint of a shared understanding lingered, unspoken and uncertain.

  He looked down at his bread, sensing the tension growing.

  Catelyn’s face paled slightly, the heat of embarrassment mixed with anger.

  “Arya, enough! You will..!”

  “Arya, your mother’s word is not a suggestion. Listen to her, now.” Ned stark cut his wife, his voice calm, resolute but tired, like a father who just wants some peace.

  Arya’s lips pressed into a thin line, but her gaze did not falter. “I obey,” she said softly.

  Catelyn exhaled slowly, her hands gripping the edge of the table. Jon glanced up, catching the faintest tremor of her frustration and embarrassment. She gave him a glare that could have frozen the candlelight. Arya, seemingly undaunted, smiled faintly.

  The girl’s energy, unbounded and untamed, was a challenge to her strict order — a daily irritation she could not allow.

  Theon shifted slightly, forcing a polite expression, but inside a flicker of satisfaction stirred. Quietly, he savored the tension, imagining the little cracks this constant bickering might leave in the Stark household.

  And Sansa, her hands folded in proper etiquette. She noticed Jon’s restless agitation, wondering why would Jon feel tense because of Arya's ridiculous behaviour.

  Ned Stark, seated beside Catelyn, kept his gaze steady on the table. Arya’s wildness reminded him of someone else—Lyanna. His sister had always possessed that same fire, that same inability to be confined. Memories stirred unbidden.

  He caught Jon’s eyes from across the hall. The boy was quiet. His sister’s child, Ned reminded himself, though the Targaryen blood ran through Jon as well. He weighed the boy’s lineage, the danger it implied.

  Remembering ser Rodrick's report last night and specifically his notes of Jon's progress. Three months in the yard had transformed him from uncertain and clumsy into someone capable, someone who could hold his ground.

  Though Ned found himself unsettled by Jon’s sudden discipline and determination,

  He felt himself pulled in two. Pride stirred at the sight of the boy’s growing skill—the child he had secretly loved as his own but never showed that love—yet beneath it lay a colder fear. If Jon’s strength ever drew the eyes of the realm, it might rouse ghosts best left buried.

  Suddenly a knot tightened in Ned’s chest. Winterfell was quiet now, but quiet had a way of hiding storms.