Lady Catelyn watched the candle flames dancing along the long table, then looked at the piece of roast venison slowly cooling on her silver plate. Its fat had congealed into a thin, milky-white film.
The silence hanging over the feast was like the chill in Winterfell's crypts, weighing heavily on everyone's shoulders.
She could feel the tension in Robb's back beside her, and she could see the calm expression on Viserys's face as he ate at the head of the table.
The young king who had reconquered all of Westeros was leisurely cutting his food with a sharp little knife. His elegant movements seemed utterly out of place in this rugged northern hall.
Catelyn clenched the hand hidden beneath her skirts, her nails digging deep into her palm.
She had to know. She had to hear from Viserys himself whether her two daughters, still thousands of miles away at the heart of the struggle for power, remained as safe and well as before.
She drew a deep breath and lifted her head, looking past the flickering candlelight toward the silver-haired young king at the head of the table.
"Your Grace." Catelyn finally spoke. Her voice sounded steadier than she had expected, though a faint tremor could still be heard beneath her carefully maintained calm. "Are Arya and Sansa doing well in King's Landing? They haven't caused you any trouble, have they?"
As soon as the question left her lips, she felt her throat tighten.
Ever since Eddard had gone south, ever since the betrayal that had changed everything, her two daughters had been like kites with severed strings, drifting toward that southern land she now both hated and feared.
Now King's Landing had changed hands, and the Iron Throne had a new master, yet her two girls were still there.