The first Northern King to take his bride in the southern style—brother wed to sister—Kathy could never quite be sure if the inhabitants of Winterfell liked her siblings or not.
Kathy knew they didn’t like her, but that was for a different reason entirely.
“We ain’t gonna ‘urt ya! We just wanna play!”
Kathy sighed, aching faintly from where the weight of the stones piled in her hidden pockets had struck against her legs as she’d shimmed up the trunk of the tree. She was no stranger to violence, some of the servents’ children were almost feral, and they’d all lost a brother or a father or a sister to the Boltons’ occupation of Winterfell, but she’d really wished she could’ve gotten through today without having to resort to such measures. Teeth made for war did not necessarily mean the stomach behind had a hunger for blood.
“I will not. And if you attempt to climb my tree, I shall throw my rocks at you all. You might not be a good shot, but I assume you I am. My auntie Arya taught me.”
“You ‘ere that boys? The bitch is speakin’ right and proper like a Lady! I ‘‘ough she was a Bolton mutt!”
The stone struck the ringleader of the churlish gang of children squarely between his piggish eyes, and he fell to his bottom, looking fairly stunned. He raised his hand to his forehead, his fingertips coming away red as the queen’s hair.
Kathy squinted down in the rapidly dimming twilight, and wondered if he pissed himself. She hoped so, even if mother would take a switch to her for it if she knew what her daughter thought. Wicked thoughts made wicked deeds, the Septa always said. But no matter to the either of them. Kathy would gladly go to the Seven Hells if only she could drag them down with her.
“I told you, I am a very good shot.” Another rock, another downed boy. Stringless puppets, children playing at war. “And don’t call me a mutt. I might be a Bolton, but I still have a higher pedigree than you.”
