Ned has to work late for once, and it's not like Cat is worried or anything – Ned's a big boy, he can look after himself (quite big, in fact, and she has no problems looking after him, but that's besides the point) – but for whatever reason, she cannot sleep. Presumably, it's just not having a warm body in the bed beside her that's disrupted her routine. She sighs as she pulls her dressing gown tighter around her, sipping a glass of water at the kitchen table. Maybe she should have found a nightie to put under it, but it seemed pointless, since she'd probably just take it off again once she went back to bed. She's always been more comfortable sleeping naked (and if she happened to still be awake when Ned got home, well...). She bothered with underwear, and she thinks that's good enough.

Is it really not having him in the bed that's disrupted my routine? she wonders. Admittedly, Ned usually does wear her out some before she nods off. Still, she refuses to admit she needs sex to sleep. That makes her sound like an addict or something. It's not like that. She just happens to enjoy fucking, that's all, and what is wrong with that? She's a married woman, who performs her wifely duties willingly and enthusiastically. Surely, even her father couldn't disapprove (not with the way he and Mother used to go at it; really, it's a miracle she only has two siblings).

Her thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a door swinging open, and Cat looks up, a little too eagerly. Their household has enough dogs, she is not one of them. Ned comes into the kitchen with a heavy sigh, looking exhausted, the poor dear. His tie hangs askew and half-loosened from his neck, and his stubble shadows his face heavily. He looks surprised when he sees her. "Cat," he says. "You're up late."

"Couldn't sleep," she says, honestly.

Approximately five minutes later, her arse is up on the ledge of the kitchen sink, her legs wrapped so tight around him to stop her falling into it as much as anything. "Faster Ned, faster," she hisses in his ear, alternately clawing at his back and fumbling for his fly, her robe wide open and underthings hanging precariously from her left foot.

"I'm trying," he mutters, nipping her neck with his teeth. "You don't think we should–"

"No time," Cat insists. Surely, they technically could go back upstairs, but Cat wants it now, and besides, having sex in the bed has been a little odd since the Sansa incident (not that it's stopped them).

Ned sighs. "Alright, but then it's your fault if we get caught again." Cat frowns, half-tempted to kick him, but then his fingers find their way between her legs and oh, nevermind. "We're not all ready for it as quickly as you are, love."

Cat makes a perturbed noise, even as Ned suddenly drops to his knees in front of her, much more quickly than you'd think a middle-aged man could manage. "For the record, this is not my fault," she says, suddenly remembering her talk with Edmure the other week, and Ned just looks confused at that so she has to elaborate on what she's even talking about. "The fact none of our children can keep it in their pants long enough to stop us constantly walking in on them is not my fault."

"Hmm," says Ned, which doesn't entirely make it sound like he believes her.

Granted, the fact he currently has her hoisted up on the kitchen sink with her knickers around her ankles probably doesn't help.

"I mean it–" but then he starts kissing along her thighs, except kissing isn't even really the right word for it, they're hard sucks and bites that are going to leave bruises for her to admire and him to flush in guilt at for days, and he's getting so teasingly close to where she needs him, and Cat can't do anything but groan and grab his hair and call his name. "Ned, Ned, Ned, Ned, Ned – Arya!"

Ned suddenly jumps, getting back to his feet – wincing a little – and turning round to see their youngest daughter, standing there with eyes wide. It takes Cat a second to remember to blush and to cover herself back up. "What are you doing up?" she finds herself saying. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"I was getting a glass of water!" Arya insists. "What were you doing up?"

Arya's right, Cat can hardly be asking much of anything here. "Right," she says, hopping down off the sink. "Well, nevermind, now you can–"

"No, I'm good. I'm pretty sure I'm never using that sink again." For a long moment Cat can only, like Ned, stand there in silent shame, and then Arya starts to laugh. "Jeez. Have you two fucked on everything in the house? Ew."

Cat blushes deeper. She hopes Arya doesn't think too hard about that question. She hopes she never wonders how that rocking horse she had when she was nine got broken (but to be fair, it's not like Arya ever used that rocking horse).

Arya keeps laughing, and then raises her hands in surrender. "Right, well I'm gonna leave you two lovebirds alone. Stay safe, use protection and all that."

I'm forty-three years old, and your father's had a vasectomy, but Cat opts not to say that in favour of being relieved Arya is taking pity and going away. Once the she's left, Cat sighs and stares at the floor. "Again," she mutters miserably.

Ned lays a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry about it, Cat," he says. "I mean, knowing our luck, it'll take us a week to catch her in the act as well."

Cat pouts. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Did it?"

"No."

Ned sighs. "Right. Should we go up to bed then? That would make you feel better."

Cat flushes, but Ned's right, that would make her feel much better.

They've been out on another date, and Cat can proudly report, she has been good tonight. She sat through the film, no matter how boring it was. She ate her dinner efficiently and properly, and did not make any gestures with her mouth that could be possibly misinterpreted. They talked about the kids and the film and his work and how infuriating Cersei Lannister is, and at no point during the conversation did Cat start begging for sex. So far, tonight, they've shared little more intimacy than holding hands and a few kisses on the cheek.

As a good Catholic girl, Cat fully expects God to reward her behaviour with the fucking of a lifetime tonight.

Still, she's going to be patient, and wait until they get to the bedroom for once (although whether she'll be able to wait until they get to the bed is another matter). She walks firmly and proudly into the living room, Ned following right behind, and switches on the lights. And the first thing she says is Arya's head buried in a young man's lap.

Oh, of course, Cat thinks. I'm going to catch my daughter giving a blowjob on the couch. Of course I am.

But she soon realises that isn't it. Arya's not at the right angle, and she's not kneeling or anything. No, she's asleep, curled up on the cushions and using her – boyfriend's? - lap as a pillow. She hasn't even noticed they've come in. The young man isn't asleep, but it takes him a moment to realise them as well, as he's too busy smiling down at Arya and stroking her hair. "Mr. and Mrs. Stark," he says, and tries to get up, but Arya, still asleep, digs her nails into his thigh and refuses to let him. "You're back early."

Cat raises an eyebrow. "We are not," she says coolly (and I know, because I made myself wait for hours).

"Oh," says Arya's whatever-he-is (presumably, he must have a name of his own). "I suppose I lost track of the time."

Cat purses her lips together and moves across the room, coming to sit next to this boy the arm of the couch, making him look extremely freaked out. She looks over at the television, playing some action movie, but muted. He must have done that so Arya could sleep.

"I didn't know you and my daughter knew each other, Gendry," Ned says from across the room. Gendry looks distinctly uncomfortable. Cat's puzzled. Hang on, do you know this boy, Ned? But then she remembers the name – right, Gendry is Ned's friend Robert's son. Frankly, Cat has always found Robert Baratheon's family situation entirely too confusing to try and keep track of, but she has met Robert, she does know what he's like. It gives her pause.

"Ah, well we only met a few months ago," he says. "I've been trying to get her to tell you about me for ages, but I think she thought having a secret boyfriend was sexy."

Cat raises an eyebrow. "Really now," she says, and Gendry blushes.

"I mean, in theory anyway," he says. "Since we've really not done anything yet."

"Oh?" Well this is new, Cat thinks.

Gendry shakes his head. "She's – she'd never admit it, but she's actually pretty shy, when it comes to all that. She told me she's not ready, so that's that." He looks back down at her, and smiles. "I'm a pretty patient guy."

Cat's really not sure what to make of this. She looks to Ned, who only shrugs. See, it's not genetic, I haven't corrupted all of our children! Cat initially thinks, victorious, but then she remembers what Edmure said. It must go with the hair.

Gendry sighs. "I should probably help her to bed, huh?" He gently shakes Arya's shoulder. "Oi, you, Little Miss Lazy-arse, I'm not carrying you up the stairs."

Arya groans "fuck off," and then falls back asleep, still not noticing her parents. Gendry chuckles, and then, somehow, hoists her right over his shoulder, still without waking her, and goes to do exactly what he just said he wouldn't. Cat blinks in surprise. The boy is strong.

Once they're gone, Cat is left pondering matters, nursing a worried frown. Ned comes over to sit next to her, with a similar expression. "Cat? Is something wrong?"

She lets out a sigh. "Alright, maybe this is my fault."

Ned laughs at that, and Cat reaches over to slap his chest. He catches her wrist though, and then when they turn to look at each other, she breaks into a grin.

"You'll pay for that," she says.

"Aye. I've learned by now, when I pay, I pay hard."