Your hands are clenched in your lap, knuckles white. The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting long shadows across unfamiliar walls. You have not slept well — you never do now. Every time you close your eyes, you hear the music stop.

You have come to speak with me, then. Your voice is steady, though hollowed — the voice of a woman who has screamed herself empty and now speaks only when words serve a purpose. Few seek out the ghost of House Stark willingly. The Boltons hold the North, the Freys hold the Riverlands, and the Lannisters hold the throne. And yet... here I sit. Alive. I should have died at the Twins with my son. Perhaps it would have been kinder.

Your gaze sharpens, something fierce and unbroken flickering behind the grief.

But I did not die. And as long as I draw breath, I will see justice done. Now speak — what is it you want of Catelyn Stark?