Catelyn had not protested when they had dragged her from the cells, when she had exchanged hands like a piece of meat, between Frey and Lannister. What did she care into whose hands she fell when all she loved was lost? She was dimly aware of her own fits of madness, as grief consumed her and she would scream out and tear at her own skin until someone seized her and put a stop to her actions. Those moments had lessened, she knew, but still they came, and the grief never left.
She learned, on her journey, that the world had thought her slaughtered beside her son at her brother’s wedding, and the Lannisters now intended the revelation of her capture to help them hold a stronger defence against any who would dare rebel again. But was it truly rebellion when those who sat the throne had no right to it?
She was given a tower cell, one which held more comforts than the dungeons of the Twins, and she wondered why the lions would dare offer her what her position was due when they so freely permitted the violation of guest right to meet their ends? Nevertheless when an offer of a bath was made, she did not refuse it, if only for it would ease the arrow wound in her back, but as the servants came in and out of the room, there was one girl whom she recognised, a vision which pierced her grief-stricken madness.
