The first Northern King to take his bride in the southern styleābrother wed to sisterāKathy could never quite be sure if the inhabitants of Winterfell liked her siblings or not.
Kathy knew they didnāt like her, but that was for a different reason entirely.
āWe aināt gonna āurt ya! We just wanna play!ā
Kathy sighed, aching faintly from where the weight of the stones piled in her hidden pockets had struck against her legs as sheād shimmed up the trunk of the tree. She was no stranger to violence, some of the serventsā children were almost feral, and theyād all lost a brother or a father or a sister to the Boltonsā occupation of Winterfell, but sheād really wished she couldāve gotten through today without having to resort to such measures. Teeth made for war did not necessarily mean the stomach behind had a hunger for blood.
āI will not. And if you attempt to climb my tree, I shall throw my rocks at you all. You might not be a good shot, but I assume you I am. My auntie Arya taught me.ā
āYou āere that boys? The bitch is speakinā right and proper like a Lady! I āāough she was a Bolton mutt!ā
The stone struck the ringleader of the churlish gang of children squarely between his piggish eyes, and he fell to his bottom, looking fairly stunned. He raised his hand to his forehead, his fingertips coming away red as the queenās hair.
Kathy squinted down in the rapidly dimming twilight, and wondered if he pissed himself. She hoped so, even if mother would take a switch to her for it if she knew what her daughter thought. Wicked thoughts made wicked deeds, the Septa always said. But no matter to the either of them. Kathy would gladly go to the Seven Hells if only she could drag them down with her.
āI told you, I am a very good shot.ā Another rock, another downed boy. Stringless puppets, children playing at war. āAnd donāt call me a mutt. I might be a Bolton, but I still have a higher pedigree than you.ā
