Chapter 5: The Assassin's Blade
POV: Catelyn Stark
Bran had been awake for three days now, his legs useless but his mind racing with visions he could barely articulate. Catelyn hadn't left his side except for the most necessary moments, existing on snatches of sleep and the bread and soup that Maester Luwin forced upon her. The chair beside his bed had molded itself to her form, and she felt every ache in her bones from maintaining her vigil.
He's alive. That's what matters. Everything else can be endured as long as he's alive.
The boy stirred in his sleep, muttering words she couldn't quite catch. Something about crows and falling and the golden man. His fever dreams had grown more vivid since awakening, filled with imagery that made her skin crawl. Maester Luwin claimed such visions were common after severe head injuries, but something about Bran's prophecies felt different. More real.
The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting dancing shadows across the stone walls. Outside, Winterfell settled into its nighttime quiet—guards changing shifts, servants banking fires, the everyday rhythm of a great castle preparing for sleep. Even in crisis, life continued.
Summer lay beneath Bran's bed, a golden shadow in the firelight. The direwolf hadn't left the chamber since the attack began, emerging only to eat the scraps Catelyn saved from her own meals. The animal's devotion touched her heart in ways she couldn't explain.
The chamber door remained slightly ajar—Ned's insistence after posting guards in the corridor. As if assassins would announce themselves by knocking, she'd thought bitterly. But she understood his precautions. If someone had tried to kill Bran once...
A soft footstep in the corridor caught her attention. Too light for a guard's tread, too purposeful for a servant's. Catelyn's head turned toward the door, every maternal instinct suddenly screaming danger.
The shadow that slipped through the doorway moved with practiced silence, but Summer sensed him immediately. The direwolf's head lifted, golden eyes reflecting firelight as they fixed on the intruder.
Catelyn's breath caught as moonlight gleamed off steel—a dagger, beautifully crafted, its blade rippling with the distinctive patterns of Valyrian steel. The assassin moved toward Bran's bed with deadly purpose, weapon raised.
Not my son. Not my boy.
She opened her mouth to scream, but Summer moved first.
The direwolf erupted from beneath the bed like a golden thunderbolt, jaws clamping down on the assassin's sword arm with bone-crushing force. The man's cry of pain and surprise shattered the chamber's silence as he staggered backward, dagger spinning through the air.
Catelyn threw herself from her chair, catching the blade's handle as it fell. The Valyrian steel felt cold and alien in her grip, heavier than she'd expected. The assassin—a lean, scarred man with the look of King's Landing's gutters—tried to shake Summer loose, but the direwolf's grip only tightened.
"Help!" Catelyn screamed. "Assassin! Murder!"
The man's free hand closed around Summer's throat, and the direwolf released his arm with a yelp of pain. Before Catelyn could react, the assassin lunged at her, his wounded arm reaching for the dagger.
"Give it here, woman. The boy's meant to die."
She scrambled backward, keeping the bed between them, the blade extended like a sword. "Stay back!"
"Should have minded your own business." Blood dripped from his mangled arm, but his eyes held the cold focus of a professional killer. "Quick and clean, that's how it was supposed to go. Now it'll be messy."
He feinted left, then dove right around the bed. Catelyn slashed wildly with the dagger, feeling the blade bite into something—his shoulder, perhaps, or his chest. The assassin's grunt of pain gave her a moment's satisfaction before his hands closed on her wrists.
They grappled for control of the weapon, Catelyn's desperation matching his professional skill. His grip was iron-strong, slowly forcing her hands downward, the dagger's point moving inexorably toward her throat.
This is how I die. Fighting for my son's life in the darkness.
The chamber door exploded inward as Ghost crashed through like a white avalanche. Jon's direwolf moved with deadly precision, massive jaws clamping down on the assassin's leg and dragging him away from Catelyn with casual, terrifying strength.
The man's scream echoed off stone walls as Summer rejoined the attack, golden fury tearing at the assassin's other arm. The two direwolves worked in perfect coordination—one holding, the other attacking, switching roles seamlessly as their prey struggled helplessly.
"Alive!" Jon's voice cut through the chaos as he appeared in the doorway, sword in hand. "We need him alive!"
Robb followed close behind, his own blade drawn, face pale with shock at the scene before him. Behind them came Ned, Ser Rodrik, and half a dozen guards, the sound of running feet echoing through the corridors as Winterfell's household responded to the screams.
"Call them off!" the assassin gasped, his voice rising to a shriek as Ghost's teeth found his shoulder. "Call them off!"
Jon whistled sharply—two short notes followed by a long one. Both direwolves immediately released their prey and backed away, but their eyes never left the bleeding man. Summer positioned himself between the assassin and Bran's bed while Ghost flanked the intruder's other side, creating a living cage of fangs and fury.
Ned moved into the chamber with careful deliberation, his sword point coming to rest against the assassin's throat. "Who sent you?"
"Don't know." The words came out through gritted teeth. "Hired through intermediaries. Gold up front, more promised after."
"Liar." Catelyn's voice shook with rage and aftermath. She still gripped the Valyrian steel dagger, its weight a comfort in her trembling hands. "You came here to murder my son in his sickbed. You'll tell us everything, or I'll let the wolves finish what they started."
The assassin's eyes darted between the direwolves, calculating his chances. Finding them nonexistent, he seemed to deflate.
"I don't know names! Just a go-between in Fleabottom. Gave me the blade, told me the job. Said the boy had seen something he shouldn't, needed to be silenced quick and clean."
Ned examined the dagger in Catelyn's hands, his face growing grim. "This is Valyrian steel. Worth more than some cutthroats see in ten lifetimes. Where did your employer get it?"
"Said it was payment. Something about a bet, a gambling debt."
Recognition dawned in Ned's eyes. "A gambling debt. Robert's dagger." His voice turned cold as winter stone. "The king lost this to Littlefinger in a wager during the tournament last year."
Jon stepped forward, his young face hard with understanding. "Someone with access to the royal court, to the king's possessions. Someone who could arrange for this blade to reach a hired killer."
"The Lannisters," Robb said grimly. "It has to be."
The assassin's face showed genuine confusion. "I don't know nothing about Lannisters. Just did the job I was paid for."
Catelyn looked at the man who'd tried to murder her son—this nobody from King's Landing's gutters who'd come north to kill a crippled boy. "Why? Why would anyone want Bran dead? He's ten years old, paralyzed. He's no threat to anyone."
"Told you already. The boy saw something he shouldn't have."
Saw them. The golden man and woman in the tower.
"Take him to the dungeons," Ned commanded. "Post a guard day and night. If he dies before we can get answers, whoever was responsible will answer to me personally."
As the guards dragged the assassin away, Catelyn sank into her chair beside Bran's bed. The adrenaline was leaving her system, replaced by bone-deep exhaustion and the shakes that followed mortal terror.
"Mother?" Bran's voice was soft, confused. "What happened? Why is everyone shouting?"
She smoothed his dark hair, forcing her voice to remain calm. "Just a bad dream, sweet boy. Go back to sleep."
But Bran's eyes—grey as a winter storm, like his father's, like Jon's—seemed to see more than a child should.
"It wasn't a dream, was it? The man with the knife. He wanted to kill me."
Before Catelyn could respond, Jon approached the bed. Ghost padded beside him, the massive direwolf moving with fluid grace despite his recent violence.
"How did Ghost know to come here?" Catelyn asked.
"I sent him." Jon's voice carried guilt and relief in equal measure. "After Bran's visions the other night, after the wolves howling in unison... something felt wrong. I told Ghost to guard this chamber while we slept."
The bastard—no, not bastard anymore, legitimized son—saved my boy's life.
The thought struck her with the force of revelation. All these years of coldness, of treating Jon as an unwelcome reminder of Ned's supposed infidelity, and tonight he'd been the one to protect her son.
"Thank you," she said softly. "If you hadn't sent Ghost..."
Jon's uncomfortable shrug reminded her painfully of Ned. "He's my brother. Family protects family."
Brother. The word carried weight it hadn't possessed before legitimization. Jon had always loved Bran, but now that love was officially recognized, acknowledged, given the respect it deserved.
Maester Luwin bustled into the chamber, his medical bag in one hand and a cup of milk of the poppy in the other. "My lady, you're bleeding."
Catelyn looked down at her hands, surprised to see cuts from grappling with the dagger. The wounds were shallow but numerous, blood staining her nightgown.
"It's nothing."
"It's not nothing." Luwin's voice brooked no argument. "Sit. Let me tend those cuts before they fester."
As the maester cleaned her wounds, Catelyn watched her family gather around Bran's bed. Ned stood at the foot, his face carved from stone as he contemplated the implications of the night's events. Robb paced near the window, energy and anger radiating from every movement. Jon remained by Bran's side, one hand resting on Ghost's massive head.
"This changes things," Ned said quietly. "We have proof now. Evidence that someone wants our son dead."
"The Lannisters," Catelyn said, no longer questioning. "They tried to murder Bran to silence him. They'll try again if they get the chance."
"Not if," Jon corrected grimly. "When. This was desperation, sending a common cutthroat with a traceable weapon. Next time they'll be more careful."
Robb stopped pacing. "Then we strike first. Gather our banners, march south, demand justice from the king."
"With what proof?" Ned's voice carried infinite weariness. "A cutthroat who doesn't know his employer's identity? A dagger that could have been stolen? Robert would demand more evidence than we can provide."
"Then what do we do?" Catelyn's voice rose despite her efforts to control it. "Wait for them to try again? Let them murder our children one by one until they're satisfied?"
"We build an ironclad case," Jon said, his voice carrying surprising authority for someone his age. "We trace every connection, document every piece of evidence, create a record so comprehensive that even Queen Cersei couldn't deny it."
Ned nodded approvingly. "And we prepare for war. Because when we finally move against them, they'll have no choice but to strike back with everything they have."
The conversation continued as dawn approached, planning and strategy replacing immediate reaction. But Catelyn found herself watching Jon more than listening to the words. This young man who'd lived as a bastard, who'd been legitimized only weeks ago, was thinking and planning like a lord born to command.
Fourteen years of coldness. Fourteen years of treating him like a stain on our family's honor. And all this time, he was protecting us, loving us, being more of a Stark than I ever gave him credit for.
When the others finally departed, leaving her alone with Bran and the direwolves, Catelyn found herself staring at the Valyrian steel dagger that had nearly claimed her son's life. The blade was beautiful in its way—rippling patterns in the steel, a dragonbone hilt carved with exquisite detail. It looked more like art than instrument of murder.
But it would have killed my boy just as surely as a rusty kitchen knife.
"Mother?" Bran's voice was stronger now, more alert. "I remember something. About the tower."
She leaned closer. "What do you remember?"
"I saw them. The golden man and woman in the tower. They were... they were doing something they shouldn't have been doing. When they saw me watching..." Bran's young face crumpled. "They pushed me. The man said something about the things he did for love, and then they pushed me."
Catelyn's eyes filled with tears—rage and vindication and mother's fury all mixed together. Her son's testimony confirmed what they'd suspected, but as Ned had pointed out, who would believe the words of a crippled child against the queen of the Seven Kingdoms?
They pushed my boy from that tower. Tried to murder him to protect their secret. Now they've sent assassins to finish the job.
"You're safe now," she whispered, smoothing his hair. "Ghost and Summer are here. Jon posted guards. No one will hurt you again."
But even as she spoke the words, Catelyn knew they were only temporary comfort. The Lannisters had shown they were willing to kill children to protect their secrets. One failed assassination wouldn't deter them—it would only make them more careful next time.
The game had begun in earnest, and her family was caught in the middle whether they wished it or not. But tonight, surrounded by direwolves and protected by her husband's legitimized son, Bran was alive.
That has to be enough. For now, that has to be enough.
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