Ned and the girls were eight days gone when
Maester Luwin came to her one night in Bran’s sickroom,
carrying a reading lamp and the books of account. “It is past
time that we reviewed the figures, my lady,” he said.
“You’ll want to know how much this royal visit cost
us.”
Catelyn looked at Bran in his sickbed and brushed his hair back
off his forehead. It had grown very long, she realized. She would
have to cut it soon. “I have no need to look at figures,
Maester Luwin,” she told him, never taking her eyes from
Bran. “I know what the visit cost us. Take the books
away.”
“My lady, the king’s party had healthy appetites. We
must replenish our stores before—”
She cut him off. “I said, take the books away. The steward
will attend to our needs.”
“We have no steward,” Maester Luwin reminded her.
Like a little grey rat, she thought, he would not let go.
“Poole went south to establish Lord Eddard’s household
at King’s Landing.”
Catelyn nodded absently. “Oh, yes. I remember.” Bran
looked so pale. She wondered whether they might move his bed under
the window, so he could get the morning sun.
Maester Luwin set the lamp in a niche by the door and fiddled
with its wick. “There are several appointments that require
your immediate attention, my lady. Besides the steward, we need a
captain of the guards to fill Jory’s place, a new master of
horse—”
Her eyes snapped around and found him. “A master of
horse?” Her voice was a whip.
The maester was shaken. “Yes, my lady. Hullen rode south
with Lord Eddard, so—”
“My son lies here broken and dying, Luwin, and you wish to
discuss a new master of horse? Do you think I care what happens in
the stables? Do you think it matters to me one whit? I would gladly
butcher every horse in Winterfell with my own hands if it would
open Bran’s eyes, do you understand that? Do you?”
He bowed his head. “Yes, my lady, but the
appointments—”
“I’ll make the appointments,” Robb said.
Catelyn had not heard him enter, but there he stood in the
doorway, looking at her. She had been shouting, she realized with a
sudden flush of shame. What was happening to her? She was so tired,
and her head hurt all the time.
Maester Luwin looked from Catelyn to her son. “I have
prepared a list of those we might wish to consider for the vacant
offices,” he said, offering Robb a paper plucked from his
sleeve.
Her son glanced at the names. He had come from outside, Catelyn
saw; his cheeks were red from the cold, his hair shaggy and
windblown. “Good men,” he said. “We’ll talk
about them tomorrow.” He handed back the list of names.
“Very good, my lord.” The paper vanished into his
sleeve.
“Leave us now,” Robb said. Maester Luwin bowed and
departed. Robb closed the door behind him and turned to her. He was
wearing a sword, she saw. “Mother, what are you
doing?”
Catelyn had always thought Robb looked like her; like Bran and
Rickon and Sansa, he had the Tully coloring, the auburn hair, the
blue eyes. Yet now for the first time she saw something of Eddard
Stark in his face, something as stern and hard as the north.
“What am I doing?” she echoed, puzzled. “How can
you ask that? What do you imagine I’m doing? I am taking care
of your brother. I am taking care of Bran.”
“Is that what you call it? You haven’t left this
room since Bran was hurt. You didn’t even come to the gate
when Father and the girls went south.”
“I said my farewells to them here, and watched them ride
out from that window.” She had begged Ned not to go, not now,
not after what had happened; everything had changed now,
couldn’t he see that? It was no use. He had no choice, he had
told her, and then he left, choosing. “I can’t leave
him, even for a moment, not when any moment could be his last. I
have to be with him, if . . . if . . . ” She took her son’s
limp hand, sliding his fingers through her own. He was so frail and
thin, with no strength left in his hand, but she could still feel
the warmth of life through his skin.
Robb’s voice softened. “He’s not going to die,
Mother. Maester Luwin says the time of greatest danger has
passed.”
“And what if Maester Luwin is wrong? What if Bran needs me
and I’m not here?”
“Rickon needs you,” Robb said sharply.
“He’s only three, he doesn’t understand
what’s happening. He thinks everyone has deserted him, so he
follows me around all day, clutching my leg and crying. I
don’t know what to do with him.” He paused a moment,
chewing on his lower lip the way he’d done when he was
little. “Mother, I need you too. I’m trying but I
can’t . . . I can’t do it all by myself.” His
voice broke with sudden emotion, and Catelyn remembered that he was
only fourteen. She wanted to get up and go to him, but Bran was
still holding her hand and she could not move.
Outside the tower, a wolf began to howl. Catelyn trembled, just
for a second.
“Bran’s.” Robb opened the window and let the
night air into the stuffy tower room. The howling grew louder. It
was a cold and lonely sound, full of melancholy and despair.
“Don’t,” she told him. “Bran needs to
stay warm.”
“He needs to hear them sing,” Robb said. Somewhere
out in Winterfell, a second wolf began to howl in chorus with the
first. Then a third, closer. “Shaggydog and Grey Wind,”
Robb said as their voices rose and fell together. “You can
tell them apart if you listen close.”
Catelyn was shaking. It was the grief, the cold, the howling of
the direwolves. Night after night, the howling and the cold wind
and the grey empty castle, on and on they went, never changing, and
her boy lying there broken, the sweetest of her children, the
gentlest, Bran who loved to laugh and climb and dreamt of
knighthood, all gone now, she would never hear him laugh again.
Sobbing, she pulled her hand free of his and covered her ears
against those terrible howls. “Make them stop!” she
cried. “I can’t stand it, make them stop, make them
stop, kill them all if you must, just make them stop!”
She didn’t remember falling to the floor, but there she
was, and Robb was lifting her, holding her in strong arms.
“Don’t be afraid, Mother. They would never hurt
him.” He helped her to her narrow bed in the corner of the
sickroom. “Close your eyes,” he said gently.
“Rest. Maester Luwin tells me you’ve hardly slept since
Bran’s fall.”
“I can’t,” she wept. “Gods forgive me,
Robb, I can’t, what if he dies while I’m asleep, what
if he dies, what if he dies . . . ” The wolves were still
howling. She screamed and held her ears again. “Oh, gods,
close the window!”
“If you swear to me you’ll sleep.” Robb went
to the window, but as he reached for the shutters another sound was
added to the mournful howling of the direwolves.
“Dogs,” he said, listening. “All the dogs are
barking. They’ve never done that before . . . ” Catelyn
heard his breath catch in his throat. When she looked up, his face
was pale in the lamplight. “Fire,” he whispered. Fire, she thought, and then, Bran! “Help me,” she
said urgently, sitting up. “Help me with Bran.”
Robb did not seem to hear her. “The library tower’s
on fire,” he said.
Catelyn could see the flickering reddish light through the open
window now. She sagged with relief. Bran was safe. The library was
across the bailey, there was no way the fire would reach them here.
“Thank the gods,” she whispered.
Robb looked at her as if she’d gone mad. “Mother,
stay here. I’ll come back as soon as the fire’s
out.” He ran then. She heard him shout to the guards outside
the room, heard them descending together in a wild rush, taking the
stairs two and three at a time.
Outside, there were shouts of “Fire!” in the yard,
screams, running footsteps, the whinny of frightened horses, and
the frantic barking of the castle dogs. The howling was gone, she
realized as she listened to the cacophony. The direwolves had
fallen silent.
Catelyn said a silent prayer of thanks to the seven faces of god
as she went to the window. Across the bailey, long tongues of flame
shot from the windows of the library. She watched the smoke rise
into the sky and thought sadly of all the books the Starks had
gathered over the centuries. Then she closed the shutters.
When she turned away from the window, the man was in the room
with her.
“You weren’t s’posed to be here,” he
muttered sourly. “No one was s’posed to be
here.”
He was a small, dirty man in filthy brown clothing, and he stank
of horses. Catelyn knew all the men who worked in their stables,
and he was none of them. He was gaunt, with limp blond hair and
pale eyes deep-sunk in a bony face, and there was a dagger in his
hand.
Catelyn looked at the knife, then at Bran. “No,” she
said. The word stuck in her throat, the merest whisper.
He must have heard her. “It’s a mercy,” he
said. “He’s dead already.”
“No,” Catelyn said, louder now as she found her
voice again. “No, you can’t.” She spun back
toward the window to scream for help, but the man moved faster than
she would have believed. One hand clamped down over her mouth and
yanked back her head, the other brought the dagger up to her
windpipe. The stench of him was overwhelming.
She reached up with both hands and grabbed the blade with all
her strength, pulling it away from her throat. She heard him
cursing into her ear. Her fingers were slippery with blood, but she
would not let go of the dagger. The hand over her mouth clenched
more tightly, shutting off her air. Catelyn twisted her head to the
side and managed to get a piece of his flesh between her teeth. She
bit down hard into his palm. The man grunted in pain. She ground
her teeth together and tore at him, and all of a sudden he let go.
The taste of his blood filled her mouth. She sucked in air and
screamed, and he grabbed her hair and pulled her away from him, and
she stumbled and went down, and then he was standing over her,
breathing hard, shaking. The dagger was still clutched tightly in
his right hand, slick with blood. “You weren’t
s’posed to be here,” he repeated stupidly.
Catelyn saw the shadow slip through the open door behind him.
There was a low rumble, less than a snarl, the merest whisper of a
threat, but he must have heard something, because he started to
turn just as the wolf made its leap. They went down together, half
sprawled over Catelyn where she’d fallen. The wolf had him
under the jaw. The man’s shriek lasted less than a second
before the beast wrenched back its head, taking out half his
throat.
His blood felt like warm rain as it sprayed across her face.
The wolf was looking at her. Its jaws were red and wet and its
eyes glowed golden in the dark room. It was Bran’s wolf, she
realized. Of course it was. “Thank you,” Catelyn
whispered, her voice faint and tiny. She lifted her hand,
trembling. The wolf padded closer, sniffed at her fingers, then
licked at the blood with a wet rough tongue. When it had cleaned
all the blood off her hand, it turned away silently and jumped up
on Bran’s bed and lay down beside him. Catelyn began to laugh
hysterically.
That was the way they found them, when Robb and Maester Luwin
and Ser Rodrik burst in with half the guards in Winterfell. When
the laughter finally died in her throat, they wrapped her in warm
blankets and led her back to the Great Keep, to her own chambers.
Old Nan undressed her and helped her into a scalding hot bath and
washed the blood off her with a soft cloth.
Afterward Maester Luwin arrived to dress her wounds. The cuts
in her fingers went deep, almost to the bone,
and her scalp was raw and bleeding where he’d pulled out a
handful of hair. The maester told her the pain was just starting
now, and gave her milk of the poppy to help her sleep.
Finally she closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, they told her that she had slept
four days. Catelyn nodded and sat up in bed. It all seemed like a
nightmare to her now, everything since Bran’s fall, a
terrible dream of blood and grief, but she had the pain in her
hands to remind her that it was real. She felt weak and
light-headed, yet strangely resolute, as if a great weight had
lifted from her.
“Bring me some bread and honey,” she told her
servants, “and take word to Maester Luwin that my bandages
want changing.” They looked at her in surprise and ran to do
her bidding.
Catelyn remembered the way she had been before, and she was
ashamed. She had let them all down, her children, her husband, her
House. It would not happen again. She would show these northerners
how strong a Tully of Riverrun could be.
Robb arrived before her food. Rodrik Cassel came with him, and
her husband’s ward Theon Greyjoy, and lastly Hallis Mollen, a
muscular guardsman with a square brown beard. He was the new
captain of the guard, Robb said. Her son was dressed in boiled
leather and ringmail, she saw, and a sword hung at his waist.
“Who was he?” Catelyn asked them.
“No one knows his name,” Hallis Mollen told her.
“He was no man of Winterfell, m’lady, but some says
they seen him here and about the castle these past few
weeks.”
“One of the king’s men, then,” she said,
“or one of the Lannisters’. He could have waited behind
when the others left.”
“Maybe,” Hal said. “With all these strangers
filling up Winterfell of late, there’s no way of saying who
he belonged to.”
“He’d been hiding in your stables,” Greyjoy
said. “You could smell it on him.”
“And how could he go unnoticed?” she said
sharply.
Hallis Mollen looked abashed. “Between the horses Lord
Eddard took south and them we sent north to the Night’s
Watch, the stalls were half-empty. It were no great trick to hide
from the stableboys. Could be Hodor saw him, the talk is that
boy’s been acting queer, but simple as he is . . . ” Hal
shook his head.
“We found where he’d been sleeping,” Robb put
in. “He had ninety silver stags in a leather bag buried
beneath the straw.”
“It’s good to know my son’s life was not sold
cheaply,” Catelyn said bitterly.
Hallis Mollen looked at her, confused. “Begging your
grace, m’lady, you saying he was out to kill your
boy?”
Greyjoy was doubtful. “That’s madness.”
“He came for Bran,” Catelyn said. “He kept
muttering how I wasn’t supposed to be there. He set the
library fire thinking I would rush to put it out, taking any guards
with me. If I hadn’t been half-mad with grief, it would have
worked.”
“Why would anyone want to kill Bran?” Robb said.
“Gods, he’s only a little boy, helpless, sleeping . . . ”
Catelyn gave her firstborn a challenging look. “If you are
to rule in the north, you must think these things through, Robb.
Answer your own question. Why would anyone want to kill a sleeping
child?”
Before he could answer, the servants returned with a plate of
food fresh from the kitchen. There was much more than she’d
asked for: hot bread, butter and honey and blackberry preserves, a
rasher of bacon and a soft-boiled egg, a wedge of cheese, a pot of
mint tea. And with it came Maester Luwin.
“How is my son, Maester?” Catelyn looked at all the
food and found she had no appetite.
Maester Luwin lowered his eyes. “Unchanged, my
lady.”
It was the reply she had expected, no more and no less. Her
hands throbbed with pain, as if the blade were still in her,
cutting deep. She sent the servants away and looked back to Robb.
“Do you have the answer yet?”
“Someone is afraid Bran might wake up,” Robb said,
“afraid of what he might say or do, afraid of something he
knows.”
Catelyn was proud of him. “Very good.” She turned to
the new captain of the guard. “We must keep Bran safe. If
there was one killer, there could be others.”
“How many guards do you want, rn’lady?” Hal
asked.
“So long as Lord Eddard is away, my son is the master of
Winterfell,” she told him.
Robb stood a little taller. “Put one man in the sickroom,
night and day, one outside the door, two at the bottom of the
stairs. No one sees Bran without my warrant or my
mother’s.”
“As you say, m’lord.”
“Do it now,” Catelyn suggested.
“And let his wolf stay in the room with him,” Robb
added.
“Yes,” Catelyn said. And then again:
“Yes.”
Hallis Mollen bowed and left the room.
“Lady Stark,” Ser Rodrik said when the guardsman had
gone, “did you chance to notice the dagger the killer
used?”
“The circumstances did not allow me to examine it closely,
but I can vouch for its edge,” Catelyn replied with a dry
smile. “Why do you ask?”
“We found the knife still in the villain’s grasp. It
seemed to me that it was altogether too fine a weapon for such a
man, so I looked at it long and hard. The blade is Valyrian steel,
the hilt dragonbone. A weapon like that has no business being in
the hands of such as him. Someone gave it to him.”
Catelyn nodded, thoughtful. “Robb, close the
door.”
He looked at her strangely, but did as she told him.
“What I am about to tell you must not leave this
room,” she told them. “I want your oaths on that. If
even part of what I suspect is true, Ned and my girls have ridden
into deadly danger, and a word in the wrong ears could mean their
lives.”
“Lord Eddard is a second father to me,” said Theon
Greyjoy. “I do so swear.”
“You have my oath,” Maester Luwin said.
“And mine, my lady,” echoed Ser Rodrik.
She looked at her son. “And you, Robb?”
He nodded his consent.
“My sister Lysa believes the Lannisters murdered her
husband, Lord Arryn, the Hand of the King,” Catelyn told
them. “It comes to me that Jaime Lannister did not join the
hunt the day Bran fell. He remained here in the castle.” The
room was deathly quiet. “I do not think Bran fell from that
tower,” she said into the stillness. “I think he was
thrown.”
The shock was plain on their faces. “My lady, that is a
monstrous suggestion,” said Rodrik Cassel. “Even the
Kingslayer would flinch at the murder of an innocent
child.”
“Oh, would he?” Theon Greyjoy asked. “I
wonder.”
“There is no limit to Lannister pride or Lannister
ambition,” Catelyn said.
“The boy had always been surehanded in the past,”
Maester Luwin said thoughtfully. “He knew every stone in
Winterfell.”
“Gods,” Robb swore, his young face dark with anger.
“If this is true, he will pay for it.” He drew his
sword and waved it in the air. “I’ll kill him
myself!”
Ser Rodrik bristled at him. “Put that away! The Lannisters
are a hundred leagues away. Never draw your sword unless you mean
to use it. How many times must I tell you, foolish boy?”
Abashed, Robb sheathed his sword, suddenly a child again.
Catelyn said to Ser Rodrik, “I see my son is wearing steel
now.”
The old master-at-arms said, “I thought it was
time.”
Robb was looking at her anxiously. “Past time,” she
said. “Winterfell may have need of all its swords soon, and
they had best not be made of wood.”
Theon Greyjoy put a hand on the hilt of his blade and said,
“My lady, if it comes to that, my House owes yours a great
debt.”
Maester Luwin pulled at his chain collar where it chafed against
his neck. “All we have is conjecture. This is the
queen’s beloved brother we mean to accuse. She will not take
it kindly. We must have proof, or forever keep silent.”
“Your proof is in the dagger,” Ser Rodrik said.
“A fine blade like that will not have gone
unnoticed.”
There was only one place to find the truth of it, Catelyn
realized. “Someone must go to King’s
Landing.”
“I’ll go,” Robb said.
“No,” she told him. “Your place is here. There
must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” She looked at Ser
Rodrik with his great white whiskers, at Maester Luwin in his grey
robes, at young Greyjoy, lean and dark and impetuous. Who to send?
Who would be believed? Then she knew. Catelyn struggled to push
back the blankets, her bandaged fingers as stiff and unyielding as
stone. She climbed out of bed. “I must go myself.”
“My lady,” said Maester Luwin, “is that wise?
Surely the Lannisters would greet your arrival with
suspicion.”
“What about Bran?” Robb asked. The poor boy looked
utterly confused now. “You can’t mean to leave
him.”
“I have done everything I can for Bran,” she said,
laying a wounded hand on his arm. “His life is in the hands
of the gods and Maester Luwin. As you reminded me yourself, Robb, I
have other children to think of now.”
“You will need a strong escort, my lady,” Theon
said.
“I’ll send Hal with a squad of guardsmen,”
Robb said.
“No,” Catelyn said. “A large party attracts
unwelcome attention. I would not have the Lannisters know I am
coming.”
Ser Rodrik protested. “My lady, let me accompany you at
least. The kingsroad can be perilous for a woman alone.”
“I will not be taking the kingsroad,” Catelyn
replied. She thought for a moment, then nodded her consent.
“Two riders can move as fast as one, and a good deal faster
than a long column burdened by wagons and wheelhouses. I will
welcome your company, Ser Rodrik. We will follow the White Knife
down to the sea, and hire a ship at White Harbor. Strong horses and
brisk winds should bring us to King’s Landing well ahead of
Ned and the Lannisters.” And then, she thought, we shall see
what we shall see.
Ned and the girls were eight days gone when
Maester Luwin came to her one night in Bran’s sickroom,
carrying a reading lamp and the books of account. “It is past
time that we reviewed the figures, my lady,” he said.
“You’ll want to know how much this royal visit cost
us.”
Catelyn looked at Bran in his sickbed and brushed his hair back
off his forehead. It had grown very long, she realized. She would
have to cut it soon. “I have no need to look at figures,
Maester Luwin,” she told him, never taking her eyes from
Bran. “I know what the visit cost us. Take the books
away.”
“My lady, the king’s party had healthy appetites. We
must replenish our stores before—”
She cut him off. “I said, take the books away. The steward
will attend to our needs.”
“We have no steward,” Maester Luwin reminded her.
Like a little grey rat, she thought, he would not let go.
“Poole went south to establish Lord Eddard’s household
at King’s Landing.”
Catelyn nodded absently. “Oh, yes. I remember.” Bran
looked so pale. She wondered whether they might move his bed under
the window, so he could get the morning sun.
Maester Luwin set the lamp in a niche by the door and fiddled
with its wick. “There are several appointments that require
your immediate attention, my lady. Besides the steward, we need a
captain of the guards to fill Jory’s place, a new master of
horse—”
Her eyes snapped around and found him. “A master of
horse?” Her voice was a whip.
The maester was shaken. “Yes, my lady. Hullen rode south
with Lord Eddard, so—”
“My son lies here broken and dying, Luwin, and you wish to
discuss a new master of horse? Do you think I care what happens in
the stables? Do you think it matters to me one whit? I would gladly
butcher every horse in Winterfell with my own hands if it would
open Bran’s eyes, do you understand that? Do you?”
He bowed his head. “Yes, my lady, but the
appointments—”
“I’ll make the appointments,” Robb said.
Catelyn had not heard him enter, but there he stood in the
doorway, looking at her. She had been shouting, she realized with a
sudden flush of shame. What was happening to her? She was so tired,
and her head hurt all the time.
Maester Luwin looked from Catelyn to her son. “I have
prepared a list of those we might wish to consider for the vacant
offices,” he said, offering Robb a paper plucked from his
sleeve.
Her son glanced at the names. He had come from outside, Catelyn
saw; his cheeks were red from the cold, his hair shaggy and
windblown. “Good men,” he said. “We’ll talk
about them tomorrow.” He handed back the list of names.
“Very good, my lord.” The paper vanished into his
sleeve.
“Leave us now,” Robb said. Maester Luwin bowed and
departed. Robb closed the door behind him and turned to her. He was
wearing a sword, she saw. “Mother, what are you
doing?”
Catelyn had always thought Robb looked like her; like Bran and
Rickon and Sansa, he had the Tully coloring, the auburn hair, the
blue eyes. Yet now for the first time she saw something of Eddard
Stark in his face, something as stern and hard as the north.
“What am I doing?” she echoed, puzzled. “How can
you ask that? What do you imagine I’m doing? I am taking care
of your brother. I am taking care of Bran.”
“Is that what you call it? You haven’t left this
room since Bran was hurt. You didn’t even come to the gate
when Father and the girls went south.”
“I said my farewells to them here, and watched them ride
out from that window.” She had begged Ned not to go, not now,
not after what had happened; everything had changed now,
couldn’t he see that? It was no use. He had no choice, he had
told her, and then he left, choosing. “I can’t leave
him, even for a moment, not when any moment could be his last. I
have to be with him, if . . . if . . . ” She took her son’s
limp hand, sliding his fingers through her own. He was so frail and
thin, with no strength left in his hand, but she could still feel
the warmth of life through his skin.
Robb’s voice softened. “He’s not going to die,
Mother. Maester Luwin says the time of greatest danger has
passed.”
“And what if Maester Luwin is wrong? What if Bran needs me
and I’m not here?”
“Rickon needs you,” Robb said sharply.
“He’s only three, he doesn’t understand
what’s happening. He thinks everyone has deserted him, so he
follows me around all day, clutching my leg and crying. I
don’t know what to do with him.” He paused a moment,
chewing on his lower lip the way he’d done when he was
little. “Mother, I need you too. I’m trying but I
can’t . . . I can’t do it all by myself.” His
voice broke with sudden emotion, and Catelyn remembered that he was
only fourteen. She wanted to get up and go to him, but Bran was
still holding her hand and she could not move.
Outside the tower, a wolf began to howl. Catelyn trembled, just
for a second.
“Bran’s.” Robb opened the window and let the
night air into the stuffy tower room. The howling grew louder. It
was a cold and lonely sound, full of melancholy and despair.
“Don’t,” she told him. “Bran needs to
stay warm.”
“He needs to hear them sing,” Robb said. Somewhere
out in Winterfell, a second wolf began to howl in chorus with the
first. Then a third, closer. “Shaggydog and Grey Wind,”
Robb said as their voices rose and fell together. “You can
tell them apart if you listen close.”
Catelyn was shaking. It was the grief, the cold, the howling of
the direwolves. Night after night, the howling and the cold wind
and the grey empty castle, on and on they went, never changing, and
her boy lying there broken, the sweetest of her children, the
gentlest, Bran who loved to laugh and climb and dreamt of
knighthood, all gone now, she would never hear him laugh again.
Sobbing, she pulled her hand free of his and covered her ears
against those terrible howls. “Make them stop!” she
cried. “I can’t stand it, make them stop, make them
stop, kill them all if you must, just make them stop!”
She didn’t remember falling to the floor, but there she
was, and Robb was lifting her, holding her in strong arms.
“Don’t be afraid, Mother. They would never hurt
him.” He helped her to her narrow bed in the corner of the
sickroom. “Close your eyes,” he said gently.
“Rest. Maester Luwin tells me you’ve hardly slept since
Bran’s fall.”
“I can’t,” she wept. “Gods forgive me,
Robb, I can’t, what if he dies while I’m asleep, what
if he dies, what if he dies . . . ” The wolves were still
howling. She screamed and held her ears again. “Oh, gods,
close the window!”
“If you swear to me you’ll sleep.” Robb went
to the window, but as he reached for the shutters another sound was
added to the mournful howling of the direwolves.
“Dogs,” he said, listening. “All the dogs are
barking. They’ve never done that before . . . ” Catelyn
heard his breath catch in his throat. When she looked up, his face
was pale in the lamplight. “Fire,” he whispered. Fire, she thought, and then, Bran! “Help me,” she
said urgently, sitting up. “Help me with Bran.”
Robb did not seem to hear her. “The library tower’s
on fire,” he said.
Catelyn could see the flickering reddish light through the open
window now. She sagged with relief. Bran was safe. The library was
across the bailey, there was no way the fire would reach them here.
“Thank the gods,” she whispered.
Robb looked at her as if she’d gone mad. “Mother,
stay here. I’ll come back as soon as the fire’s
out.” He ran then. She heard him shout to the guards outside
the room, heard them descending together in a wild rush, taking the
stairs two and three at a time.
Outside, there were shouts of “Fire!” in the yard,
screams, running footsteps, the whinny of frightened horses, and
the frantic barking of the castle dogs. The howling was gone, she
realized as she listened to the cacophony. The direwolves had
fallen silent.
Catelyn said a silent prayer of thanks to the seven faces of god
as she went to the window. Across the bailey, long tongues of flame
shot from the windows of the library. She watched the smoke rise
into the sky and thought sadly of all the books the Starks had
gathered over the centuries. Then she closed the shutters.
When she turned away from the window, the man was in the room
with her.
“You weren’t s’posed to be here,” he
muttered sourly. “No one was s’posed to be
here.”
He was a small, dirty man in filthy brown clothing, and he stank
of horses. Catelyn knew all the men who worked in their stables,
and he was none of them. He was gaunt, with limp blond hair and
pale eyes deep-sunk in a bony face, and there was a dagger in his
hand.
Catelyn looked at the knife, then at Bran. “No,” she
said. The word stuck in her throat, the merest whisper.
He must have heard her. “It’s a mercy,” he
said. “He’s dead already.”
“No,” Catelyn said, louder now as she found her
voice again. “No, you can’t.” She spun back
toward the window to scream for help, but the man moved faster than
she would have believed. One hand clamped down over her mouth and
yanked back her head, the other brought the dagger up to her
windpipe. The stench of him was overwhelming.
She reached up with both hands and grabbed the blade with all
her strength, pulling it away from her throat. She heard him
cursing into her ear. Her fingers were slippery with blood, but she
would not let go of the dagger. The hand over her mouth clenched
more tightly, shutting off her air. Catelyn twisted her head to the
side and managed to get a piece of his flesh between her teeth. She
bit down hard into his palm. The man grunted in pain. She ground
her teeth together and tore at him, and all of a sudden he let go.
The taste of his blood filled her mouth. She sucked in air and
screamed, and he grabbed her hair and pulled her away from him, and
she stumbled and went down, and then he was standing over her,
breathing hard, shaking. The dagger was still clutched tightly in
his right hand, slick with blood. “You weren’t
s’posed to be here,” he repeated stupidly.
Catelyn saw the shadow slip through the open door behind him.
There was a low rumble, less than a snarl, the merest whisper of a
threat, but he must have heard something, because he started to
turn just as the wolf made its leap. They went down together, half
sprawled over Catelyn where she’d fallen. The wolf had him
under the jaw. The man’s shriek lasted less than a second
before the beast wrenched back its head, taking out half his
throat.
His blood felt like warm rain as it sprayed across her face.
The wolf was looking at her. Its jaws were red and wet and its
eyes glowed golden in the dark room. It was Bran’s wolf, she
realized. Of course it was. “Thank you,” Catelyn
whispered, her voice faint and tiny. She lifted her hand,
trembling. The wolf padded closer, sniffed at her fingers, then
licked at the blood with a wet rough tongue. When it had cleaned
all the blood off her hand, it turned away silently and jumped up
on Bran’s bed and lay down beside him. Catelyn began to laugh
hysterically.
That was the way they found them, when Robb and Maester Luwin
and Ser Rodrik burst in with half the guards in Winterfell. When
the laughter finally died in her throat, they wrapped her in warm
blankets and led her back to the Great Keep, to her own chambers.
Old Nan undressed her and helped her into a scalding hot bath and
washed the blood off her with a soft cloth.
Afterward Maester Luwin arrived to dress her wounds. The cuts
in her fingers went deep, almost to the bone,
and her scalp was raw and bleeding where he’d pulled out a
handful of hair. The maester told her the pain was just starting
now, and gave her milk of the poppy to help her sleep.
Finally she closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, they told her that she had slept
four days. Catelyn nodded and sat up in bed. It all seemed like a
nightmare to her now, everything since Bran’s fall, a
terrible dream of blood and grief, but she had the pain in her
hands to remind her that it was real. She felt weak and
light-headed, yet strangely resolute, as if a great weight had
lifted from her.
“Bring me some bread and honey,” she told her
servants, “and take word to Maester Luwin that my bandages
want changing.” They looked at her in surprise and ran to do
her bidding.
Catelyn remembered the way she had been before, and she was
ashamed. She had let them all down, her children, her husband, her
House. It would not happen again. She would show these northerners
how strong a Tully of Riverrun could be.
Robb arrived before her food. Rodrik Cassel came with him, and
her husband’s ward Theon Greyjoy, and lastly Hallis Mollen, a
muscular guardsman with a square brown beard. He was the new
captain of the guard, Robb said. Her son was dressed in boiled
leather and ringmail, she saw, and a sword hung at his waist.
“Who was he?” Catelyn asked them.
“No one knows his name,” Hallis Mollen told her.
“He was no man of Winterfell, m’lady, but some says
they seen him here and about the castle these past few
weeks.”
“One of the king’s men, then,” she said,
“or one of the Lannisters’. He could have waited behind
when the others left.”
“Maybe,” Hal said. “With all these strangers
filling up Winterfell of late, there’s no way of saying who
he belonged to.”
“He’d been hiding in your stables,” Greyjoy
said. “You could smell it on him.”
“And how could he go unnoticed?” she said
sharply.
Hallis Mollen looked abashed. “Between the horses Lord
Eddard took south and them we sent north to the Night’s
Watch, the stalls were half-empty. It were no great trick to hide
from the stableboys. Could be Hodor saw him, the talk is that
boy’s been acting queer, but simple as he is . . . ” Hal
shook his head.
“We found where he’d been sleeping,” Robb put
in. “He had ninety silver stags in a leather bag buried
beneath the straw.”
“It’s good to know my son’s life was not sold
cheaply,” Catelyn said bitterly.
Hallis Mollen looked at her, confused. “Begging your
grace, m’lady, you saying he was out to kill your
boy?”
Greyjoy was doubtful. “That’s madness.”
“He came for Bran,” Catelyn said. “He kept
muttering how I wasn’t supposed to be there. He set the
library fire thinking I would rush to put it out, taking any guards
with me. If I hadn’t been half-mad with grief, it would have
worked.”
“Why would anyone want to kill Bran?” Robb said.
“Gods, he’s only a little boy, helpless, sleeping . . . ”
Catelyn gave her firstborn a challenging look. “If you are
to rule in the north, you must think these things through, Robb.
Answer your own question. Why would anyone want to kill a sleeping
child?”
Before he could answer, the servants returned with a plate of
food fresh from the kitchen. There was much more than she’d
asked for: hot bread, butter and honey and blackberry preserves, a
rasher of bacon and a soft-boiled egg, a wedge of cheese, a pot of
mint tea. And with it came Maester Luwin.
“How is my son, Maester?” Catelyn looked at all the
food and found she had no appetite.
Maester Luwin lowered his eyes. “Unchanged, my
lady.”
It was the reply she had expected, no more and no less. Her
hands throbbed with pain, as if the blade were still in her,
cutting deep. She sent the servants away and looked back to Robb.
“Do you have the answer yet?”
“Someone is afraid Bran might wake up,” Robb said,
“afraid of what he might say or do, afraid of something he
knows.”
Catelyn was proud of him. “Very good.” She turned to
the new captain of the guard. “We must keep Bran safe. If
there was one killer, there could be others.”
“How many guards do you want, rn’lady?” Hal
asked.
“So long as Lord Eddard is away, my son is the master of
Winterfell,” she told him.
Robb stood a little taller. “Put one man in the sickroom,
night and day, one outside the door, two at the bottom of the
stairs. No one sees Bran without my warrant or my
mother’s.”
“As you say, m’lord.”
“Do it now,” Catelyn suggested.
“And let his wolf stay in the room with him,” Robb
added.
“Yes,” Catelyn said. And then again:
“Yes.”
Hallis Mollen bowed and left the room.
“Lady Stark,” Ser Rodrik said when the guardsman had
gone, “did you chance to notice the dagger the killer
used?”
“The circumstances did not allow me to examine it closely,
but I can vouch for its edge,” Catelyn replied with a dry
smile. “Why do you ask?”
“We found the knife still in the villain’s grasp. It
seemed to me that it was altogether too fine a weapon for such a
man, so I looked at it long and hard. The blade is Valyrian steel,
the hilt dragonbone. A weapon like that has no business being in
the hands of such as him. Someone gave it to him.”
Catelyn nodded, thoughtful. “Robb, close the
door.”
He looked at her strangely, but did as she told him.
“What I am about to tell you must not leave this
room,” she told them. “I want your oaths on that. If
even part of what I suspect is true, Ned and my girls have ridden
into deadly danger, and a word in the wrong ears could mean their
lives.”
“Lord Eddard is a second father to me,” said Theon
Greyjoy. “I do so swear.”
“You have my oath,” Maester Luwin said.
“And mine, my lady,” echoed Ser Rodrik.
She looked at her son. “And you, Robb?”
He nodded his consent.
“My sister Lysa believes the Lannisters murdered her
husband, Lord Arryn, the Hand of the King,” Catelyn told
them. “It comes to me that Jaime Lannister did not join the
hunt the day Bran fell. He remained here in the castle.” The
room was deathly quiet. “I do not think Bran fell from that
tower,” she said into the stillness. “I think he was
thrown.”
The shock was plain on their faces. “My lady, that is a
monstrous suggestion,” said Rodrik Cassel. “Even the
Kingslayer would flinch at the murder of an innocent
child.”
“Oh, would he?” Theon Greyjoy asked. “I
wonder.”
“There is no limit to Lannister pride or Lannister
ambition,” Catelyn said.
“The boy had always been surehanded in the past,”
Maester Luwin said thoughtfully. “He knew every stone in
Winterfell.”
“Gods,” Robb swore, his young face dark with anger.
“If this is true, he will pay for it.” He drew his
sword and waved it in the air. “I’ll kill him
myself!”
Ser Rodrik bristled at him. “Put that away! The Lannisters
are a hundred leagues away. Never draw your sword unless you mean
to use it. How many times must I tell you, foolish boy?”
Abashed, Robb sheathed his sword, suddenly a child again.
Catelyn said to Ser Rodrik, “I see my son is wearing steel
now.”
The old master-at-arms said, “I thought it was
time.”
Robb was looking at her anxiously. “Past time,” she
said. “Winterfell may have need of all its swords soon, and
they had best not be made of wood.”
Theon Greyjoy put a hand on the hilt of his blade and said,
“My lady, if it comes to that, my House owes yours a great
debt.”
Maester Luwin pulled at his chain collar where it chafed against
his neck. “All we have is conjecture. This is the
queen’s beloved brother we mean to accuse. She will not take
it kindly. We must have proof, or forever keep silent.”
“Your proof is in the dagger,” Ser Rodrik said.
“A fine blade like that will not have gone
unnoticed.”
There was only one place to find the truth of it, Catelyn
realized. “Someone must go to King’s
Landing.”
“I’ll go,” Robb said.
“No,” she told him. “Your place is here. There
must always be a Stark in Winterfell.” She looked at Ser
Rodrik with his great white whiskers, at Maester Luwin in his grey
robes, at young Greyjoy, lean and dark and impetuous. Who to send?
Who would be believed? Then she knew. Catelyn struggled to push
back the blankets, her bandaged fingers as stiff and unyielding as
stone. She climbed out of bed. “I must go myself.”
“My lady,” said Maester Luwin, “is that wise?
Surely the Lannisters would greet your arrival with
suspicion.”
“What about Bran?” Robb asked. The poor boy looked
utterly confused now. “You can’t mean to leave
him.”
“I have done everything I can for Bran,” she said,
laying a wounded hand on his arm. “His life is in the hands
of the gods and Maester Luwin. As you reminded me yourself, Robb, I
have other children to think of now.”
“You will need a strong escort, my lady,” Theon
said.
“I’ll send Hal with a squad of guardsmen,”
Robb said.
“No,” Catelyn said. “A large party attracts
unwelcome attention. I would not have the Lannisters know I am
coming.”
Ser Rodrik protested. “My lady, let me accompany you at
least. The kingsroad can be perilous for a woman alone.”
“I will not be taking the kingsroad,” Catelyn
replied. She thought for a moment, then nodded her consent.
“Two riders can move as fast as one, and a good deal faster
than a long column burdened by wagons and wheelhouses. I will
welcome your company, Ser Rodrik. We will follow the White Knife
down to the sea, and hire a ship at White Harbor. Strong horses and
brisk winds should bring us to King’s Landing well ahead of
Ned and the Lannisters.” And then, she thought, we shall see
what we shall see.