295 AC
"Get out of my sight!" she snapped at Jon Snow with such venom that she surprised herself. The bastard boy fled from her in tears, pounding down the spiral staircase of the rookery.
That was ill done, Catelyn Stark, she told herself once she was alone again. He had nought to do with this. The boy just happened to be in the same tower. Grief had addled her wits, it seemed.
Edmure. The fool.
The raven named it mischance, but she knew better. Her little brother came to the tourney at Fairmarket ill prepared, drinking and japing with his friends Marq Piper and Karl Vance. He ought not to have competed at all, but Domeric Bolton's whore shamed him. When the heir of the Dreadfort unhorsed her little brother, Edmure was knocked senseless and never woke again.
Fool, she thought again. What was she to do now?
Once again, she was heir to Riverrun, but her place was here. Bran was only four, and she was pregnant again. Her time might come any day now, Maester Luwin said. Traveling was out of the question. She wanted to go to her father, truly, help him in his grief, but it simply couldn't happen, not now.
There was another letter in her hand, and she held it to her chest, hardly daring to break the seal. She needed Ned, but he was away, doing justice at Torrhen's Square. It was sealed in pink wax, Bolton colors. Dare she, dare she...
Catelyn found it difficult to breathe, the little rolled-up parchment burning her fingers even as she clutched it. Visions of her baby brother danced behind her eyelids. Lady Stark recalled all the japes they shared in her father's castle, the childish triumphs and sorrows with him and Lysa and Petyr, lost and gone.
"My lady, may I?"
Maester Luwin had followed her down the steps quietly. She wondered if he had heard her shame herself with the bastard. Catelyn looked away so he couldn't see her tears and thrust the letter into his hands.
With a soft tear, the kindly man broke the seal and read the message quietly. "Lord Bolton expresses his deep condolences," he related to her. "He begs leave to visit Winterfell with his son and present you with a rare and costly gift."
"Domeric Bolton, here?" The name itself made her ill. Oh, the lad had been a courtly enough boy, and as fair a singer as she had ever heard, but the heir to the Dreadfort was now a man grown, a knight who killed people in tourneys and kept a Braavosi whore, if tales could be believed. Letting such around her children filled Catelyn with unease.
"Young Domeric vows no ill was meant when he struck your brother, my lady. It was a tourney, and a clean hit, square upon the shield."
That made it worse! Her brother died like a fool! It was one of the first tilts of the day, and he was overthrown with the hedge knights and upjumped squires, dying for no reason at all. The senselessness of it made her want to weep and rage in equal measure. How could she possibly see to the Riverlands in this state? Winter had come for Catelyn Tully, though it was high summer for all the rest.
When she didn't answer, Luwin ventured a suggestion. "Mayhaps put the matter before Lord Stark ere he returns?"
"...yes," she answered eventually. "Mayhaps that would be best. Roose Bolton is one of my husband's own sworn bannermen. The choice should be his." Catelyn considered a moment. "Ah, and draft a letter to the Eyrie. Mayhaps my Uncle Brynden might be willing to lend his help in my time of trouble."
***
Catelyn fought to keep her face a mask of icy courtesy. What vexed her most of all was that Domeric Bolton did not seem particularly lethal, wearing pink silk and singing sweetly as he was.
Oh, and it was sweet, more than sweet. Little Sansa, who was all of eight, had wide, misty eyes of unblinking blue. She'd only met her uncle once, and was likely too young to remember, but she remembered every song, that Catelyn could see plainly.
While the younger Bolton played, she marked the elder. His face was just as frozen as her own, giving nothing away. They had not come alone, either. Lady Dustin and Lord Ryswell, Domeric's aunt and grandfather respectively, had also come to visit Winterfell. So many of her husband's sworn men gathered together all but demanded a feast.
There's a message in that, I think.
Young Domeric had powerful protectors. Even his squire was a Frey, which vexed her all the more. Must every grasping house conspire together? The boy and the younger boy sang a few songs together, with Bolton on the harp and Frey on the lute, and sometimes a set of deerskin drums. Catelyn might've been delighted by any other voice, but not his. All the rest of Winterfell's great hall was under Domeric Bolton's spell, but not her, never her. She supposed she should be grateful he didn't bring the whore.
Speaking of whores, even Ned had been colder to her after the bastard ran to him in tears. It was ill done, she could admit it honestly, and now Jon Snow was begging to be allowed to take the black. He was eleven, of an age with her own Robb. Her lord husband refused sternly, but said he'd consider fostering the boy with another great house.
That would likely be for the best.
Even as she thought that, it shamed her. Sending the bastard away had been something she wanted ever since they returned to Winterfell after putting Robert on the throne, but now that it seemed like to happen, her little victory began to taste of ashes.
With one last stirring chord, Domeric Bolton brought his song to a close. "I thank you all," he said, bowing like a mummer to highborn guest and servingfolk alike. "Now, if you will permit it, I should like to present Lady Stark and her daughters with a gift."
"Gift!" Sansa said excitedly.
"What is it?" Arya demanded louder than a lady should.
"The first, my lady, the very first." He looked respectfully at her husband in his high seat on the dais. "With Lord Stark's permission?"
"Granted."
At Domeric Bolton's signal, three serving men carried three covered trays. With a flourish, they knelt before Catelyn and the girls.
"I present to you, the very first Bolton Bags!"
The servants uncovered their trays all at once, revealing three pieces of brownish-green leatherwork. The "bags" flared out at the bottom and tapered toward the top, where they were held closed by silver clasps. They had handles like buckets of supple cord of like coloring with the main body, and the walls were rough and shiny with a rectangular pattern, almost like scale armor. The stitching was masterful, Catelyn couldn't deny, with a stylized "B" embroidered on every one.
Sansa reached for hers first before Catelyn could stop her. "It's smooth and cool!" she said softly, her girlish voice high and delighted.
"They're made from lizard lion leather," Domeric explained proudly. "Painstakingly cured by master leatherworkers from Braavos. Lord Reed was very helpful in obtaining the skins. What you see here, are the first three bags ever made that passed inspection, my gift to you."
"What do I need a bag for?" Arya blurted out.
Catelyn sighed. She's only six. Even so, the question had sense. "What need have ladies for leather bags?" Catelyn asked a bit more courteously.
"Why, to carry whatever ladies carry," Domeric answered easily.
"Knitting needles, mayhaps a small mirror," Lady Dustin suggested helpfully. "Silk gowns are wanting when it comes to pockets."
"Right! Thanks, Auntie!" Domeric smiled at her. "Things for knitting, embroidery, a comb, perhaps? The possibilities are endless. Beyond that, the bags themselves are pretty. Do you really need another reason?"
"They're beautiful! I thank you, Ser!" Sansa said as loudly as Arya. She nudged her sister, who mumbled some thanks of her own, forcing Catelyn to do the same.
Domeric bowed again. "You are very welcome, my ladies. Soon, you three will be the envy of every highborn girl in the Seven Kingdoms! Bolton Bags can only be made here in the North. Only a few masters know how to make them, all at Barrowton, and only in the Neck do we have a convenient place to hunt lizard lions. The next time I ride south, I intend to present the queen herself with a bag just like yours!"