It hurts so much, she thought. Our children, Ned, all our
sweet babes. Rickon, Bran, Arya, Sansa, Robb… Robb… please, Ned,
please, make it stop, make it stop hurting…
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.