Winter is coming, warned the Stark words, and truly it had come for them with a vengeance.
The camp had become a battlefield. No, a butcher’s den. The flames from the feasting tents reached halfway up the sky. Some of the barracks tents were burning too, and half a hundred silk pavilions. Everywhere swords were singing. And now the rains weep o’er his hall, with not a soul to hear.
She had lived too long, and Ned was waiting.
This is disgusting. I want to die.
Me and a bunch of other journos did a conference-call Q&A with Richard Madden the other day. It was sad.
The white tears and the red ones ran together until her face was torn and tattered, the face that Ned had loved. Catelyn Stark raised her hands and watched the blood run down her long fingers, over her wrists, beneath the sleeves of her gown. Slow red worms crawled along her arms and under her clothes. It tickles. That made her laugh until she screamed. “Mad,” someone said, “she’s lost her wits,” and someone else said, “Make an end,” and a hand grabbed her scalp just as she’d done with Jinglebell, and she thought, No, don’t, don’t cut my hair, Ned loves my hair. Then the steel was at her throat, and its bite was red and cold.
And Catelyn’s guttural scream after Robb looked at her, said ‘mother’, and died.
oh no big deal.