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For all his (many) flaws, Jon Snow has never been a man prone to violence. So when he hauls off and punches Petyr Baelish without any sort of provocation, Catelyn could not be more shocked. Jon hits him not once or twice, but over and over until Ned and Robb get over the shock of it and force him off her childhood friend.
After vocalizing innumerable apologies, enduring Lysa's hysterical screeching, seeing Petyr secured in an ambulance and whisked away to the Silent Sisters Hospital, and dismissing their guests with hurried politeness, Catelyn joins her husband and son on the veranda. She's fully intent on berating Jon for ruining Sansa's 19th birthday party (not to mention the jail time he's undoubtedly secured himself). Catelyn wonders if there's anyway at all to avoid a public scandal, but considering Margaery Tyrell and Cersei Lannister were in attendance, the whole damn debacle has probably already gone to press.
The last thing she expects is to find her eldest daughter standing in the circle of Jon's arms, body trembling. She clings to him fiercely, as if he's her saving grace instead of a public embarrassment. She seems mindless of the blood on his shirt that will ruin her Jovani cocktail dress. Catelyn moves to intervene, but stops when tears begin to slowly track down Sansa's cheeks. She can only watch, absolutely stunned, as Jon pulls Sansa tighter to him, kissing her tears away.
"Shhhh, Sansa. It's alright. He's gone."
Sansa pulls Jon's hands to her mouth, kissing the newly forming bruises. "Thank you," she whispers back. "Thank you." She repeats it like a mantra and there is such despair and broken relief in her tone that Cat feels a chill run down her spine.
They'd known something had happened to Sansa over the summer, something she refused to talk about but had turned their lovely, vivacious girl into a near shut-away. Ned and Cat had tried everything they could think of to get her to open up (and this party had been a last resort -- the Sansa of old had loved parties -- though this new Sansa was something of a stranger to them). But Sansa had pushed everyone away. (Well, everyone except Jon, apparently.)
And now Catelyn has a horrifyingly clear image of what that "something" must have been.
Pursing her lips, she turns away from the scene and walks at a clipped pace into the study. Catelyn pulls out her phone and dials her uncle, whom no one (not even the infamous Jaime Lannister) ever speaks about except in hushed whispers.
The Blackfish, they call him. Usually with an undertone of awe and fear. Catelyn hasn't seen or spoken to him in nearly five years. But she thinks of the words tattooed on his inner wrist, the ones she'd gotten a glimpse of when she was just shy of Arya's age. They weren't usually visible, hidden away as they typically were beneath a pair of gloves (a necessity in his profession). But Catelyn remembered them nonetheless: Family, Duty, Honor.
She knows he won't deny her, no matter how long it's been.
The Blackfish answers on the second ring. "Catelyn?" His voice is surprised, but pleased.
"Uncle Brynden," she answers. She cuts straight to the point. He's never had much tolerance for small-talk. "I need you."
Later that night, after everyone has calmed enough to sleep, Robb looks ready to protest when Sansa starts to tug Jon into her room. It surprises everyone when Catelyn cuts off Robb's objections. The only thing she requires is that Jon and Sansa shower first -- separately. It'll do no one any good to go to sleep in clothes crusted with blood.
When she peeks her head into Sansa's room just past one in the morning, her daughter is snoring softly, looking more at peace than she has in months. Jon is still awake, his arms encircling Sansa protectively. Catelyn gazes upon him and knows she owes him an apology. One that's been 10 years in the making, ever since she frowned disapprovingly when Robb brought home a street urchin he'd befriended and a dinner invitation (which had Catelyn hiding the silver) had turned into a lifelong friendship she'd quietly opposed. She was wrong in her judgement of Jon Snow. (And he's not the only one, she thinks, her body nearly pulsing with remorse and rage.)
Later, she will atone for her mistake and give him the warm welcome he always deserved, she internally vows. For now, she leans over, pressing a kiss to her daughter's temple and tucking the blankets tighter around them both.
"Look after her," she whispers.
Jon nods solemnly. "I will do everything in my power to take care of her. Always."
"And I will do the rest," Catelyn responds cryptically. She nods at him and closes the door as she exits.
When she enters the study once more, she is unsurprised to see the Blackfish waiting for her, despite the fact that all of Winterfell's doors have been locked since the last party guest was excused. His suit is black, as are the gloves on his hands and the briefcase by his feet. She doesn't bother asking what's in the case. With Uncle Brynden, the answer is obvious.
They sit down to glasses of Scotch and Catelyn tells the Blackfish all that she knows, all that she suspects. And, lastly, she speaks of what must be done about it.
"I know it is a large favor to ask --"
He cuts her off with a raised hand. "For you, Catie-girl, anything."
Catelyn Stark smiles and it is as cold and unforgiving as winter itself.