The banners of House Stark stirred upon the crisp northern wind as Catelyn walked the ancient stone corridors of Winterfell. The scent of pine mingled with roasting meats, for the castle was astir with the fevered preparations to welcome King Robert and his host. Shadows flickered in the candlelight, cast by hurried servants draping the hall in rich furs and noble adornments.

Maester Luwin followed in her wake, robed in solemn gray, his keen eyes ever watchful.

"All must be in readiness," Catelyn murmured, her gaze sweeping across the feast tables, scrutinizing the careful placement of silver goblets and fresh-cut flowers. "And the boys—Robb, Bran, Rickon… even Snow—must be made presentable. Their hair has grown wild as the wolves they claim to be."

She drew nearer, the weight of responsibility resting heavy upon her, the ghost of concern flickering in her eyes.

"Tell me, how fare the preparations?" she asked, voice quiet but commanding, the lady of Winterfell seeing to her duty as the chill of dusk crept upon the castle walls.