Two days ride from Riverrun, a scout spied them watering their
horses beside a muddy steam. Catelyn had never been so glad to see
the twin tower badge of House Frey.
When she asked him to lead them to her uncle, he said,
“The Blackfish is gone west with the king, my lady. Martyn
Rivers commands the outriders in his stead.”
“I see.” She had met Rivers at the Twins; a baseborn
son of Lord Walder Frey, half brother to Ser Perwyn. It did not
surprise her to learn that Robb had struck at the heart of
Lannister power; clearly he had been contemplating just that when
he sent her away to treat with Renly. “Where is Rivers
now?”
“His camp is two hours ride, my lady.”
“Take us to him,” she commanded. Brienne helped her
back into her saddle, and they set out at once.
“Have you come from Bitterbridge, my lady?” the
scout asked.
“No.” She had not dared. With Renly dead, Catelyn
had been uncertain of the reception she might receive from his
young widow and her protectors. Instead she had ridden through the
heart of the war, through fertile riverlands turned to blackened
desert by the fury of the Lannisters, and each night her scouts
brought back tales that made her ill. “Lord Renly is
slain,” she added.
“We’d hoped that tale was some Lannister lie,
or—”
“Would that it were. My brother commands in
Riverrun?”
“Yes, my lady. His Grace left Ser Edmure to hold Riverrun
and guard his rear.” Gods grant him the strength to do so, Catelyn thought. And the
wisdom as well. “Is there word from Robb in the
west?”
“You have not heard?” The man seemed surprised.
“His Grace won a great victory at Oxcross. Ser Stafford
Lannister is dead, his host scattered.”
Ser Wendel Manderly gave a whoop of pleasure, but Catelyn only
nodded. Tomorrow’s trials concerned her more than
yesterday’s triumphs.
Martyn Rivers had made his camp in the shell of a shattered
holdfast, beside a roofless stable and a hundred fresh graves. He
went to one knee when Catelyn dismounted. “Well met, my lady.
Your brother charged us to keep an eye out for your party, and
escort you back to Riverrun in all haste should we come upon
you.”
Catelyn scarce liked the sound of that. “Is it my
father?”
“No, my lady. Lord Hoster is unchanged.” Rivers was
a ruddy man with scant resemblance to his half brothers. “It
is only that we feared you might chance upon Lannister scouts. Lord
Tywin has left Harrenhal and marches west with all his
power.”
“Rise,” she told Rivers, frowning. Stannis Baratheon
would soon be on the march as well, gods help them all. “How
long until Lord Tywin is upon us?”
“Three days, perhaps four, it is hard to know. We have
eyes out along all the roads, but it would be best not to
linger.”
Nor did they. Rivers broke his camp quickly and saddled up
beside her, and they set off again, near fifty strong now, flying
beneath the direwolf, the leaping trout, the twin towers.
Her men wanted to hear more of Robb’s victory at Oxcross,
and Rivers obliged. “There’s a singer come to Riverrun,
calls himself Rymund the Rhymer, he’s made a song of the
fight. Doubtless you’ll hear it sung tonight, my lady.
‘Wolf in the Night’ this Rymund calls it.” He
went on to tell how the remnants of Ser Stafford’s host had
fallen back on Lannisport. Without siege engines there was no way
to storm Casterly Rock, so the Young Wolf was paying the Lannisters
back in kind for the devastation they’d inflicted on the
riverlands. Lords Karstark and Glover were raiding along the coast,
Lady Mormont had captured thousands of cattle and was driving them
back toward Riverrun, while the Greatjon had seized the gold mines
at Castamere, Nunn’s Deep, and the Pendric Hills. Ser Wendel
laughed. “Nothing’s more like to bring a Lannister
running than a threat to his gold.”
“How did the king ever take the Tooth?” Ser Perwyn
Frey asked his bastard brother. “That’s a hard strong
keep, and it commands the hill road.”
“He never took it. He slipped around it in the night.
It’s said the direwolf showed him the way, that Grey Wind of
his. The beast sniffed out a goat track that wound down a defile
and up along beneath a ridge, a crooked and stony way, yet wide
enough for men riding single file. The Lannisters in their
watchtowers got not so much a glimpse of them.” Rivers
lowered his voice. “There’s some say that after the
battle, the king cut out Stafford Lannister’s heart and fed
it to the wolf.”
“I would not believe such tales,” Catelyn said
sharply. “My son is no savage.”
“As you say, my lady. Still, it’s no more than the
beast deserved. That is no common wolf, that one. The
Greatjon’s been heard to say that the old gods of the north
sent those direwolves to your children.”
Catelyn remembered the day when her boys had found the pups in
the late summer snows. There had been five, three male and two
female for the five trueborn children of House
Stark . . . and a sixth, white of fur and red
of eye, for Ned’s bastard son Jon Snow. No common wolves, she
thought. No indeed.
That night as they made their camp, Brienne sought out her tent.
“My lady, you are safely back among your own now, a
day’s ride from your brother’s castle. Give me leave to
go.”
Catelyn should not have been surprised. The homely young woman
had kept to herself all through their journey, spending most of her
time with the horses, brushing out their coats and pulling stones
from their shoes. She had helped Shadd cook and clean game as well,
and soon proved that she could hunt as well as any. Any task
Catelyn asked her to turn her hand to, Brienne had performed deftly
and without complaint, and when she was spoken to she answered
politely, but she never chattered, nor wept, nor laughed. She had
ridden with them every day and slept among them every night without
ever truly becoming one of them. It was the same when she was with Renly, Catelyn thought. At the
feast, in the melee, even in Renly’s pavilion with her
brothers of the Rainbow Guard. There are walls around this one
higher than Winterfell’s.
“If you left us, where would you go?” Catelyn asked
her.
“Back,” Brienne said. “To Storm’s
End.”
“Alone.” It was not a question.
The broad face was a pool of still water, giving no hint of what
might live in the depths below. “Yes.”
“You mean to kill Stannis.”
Brienne closed her thick callused fingers around the hilt of her
sword.
The sword that had been his. “I swore a vow. Three times I
swore. You heard me.”
“I did,” Catelyn admitted. The girl had kept the
rainbow cloak when she discarded the rest of her bloodstained
clothing, she knew. Brienne’s own things had been left behind
during their flight, and she had been forced to clothe herself in
odd bits of Ser Wendel’s spare garb, since no one else in
their party had garments large enough to fit her. “Vows
should be kept, I agree, but Stannis has a great host around him,
and his own guards sworn to keep him safe.”
“I am not afraid of his guards. I am as good as any of
them. I should never have fled.”
“Is that what troubles you, that some fool might call you
craven?” She sighed. “Renly’s death was no fault
of youts. You served him valiantly, but when you seek to follow him
into the earth, you serve no one.” She stretched out a hand,
to give what comfort a touch could give. “I know how hard it
is—”
Brienne shook off her hand. “No one knows.”
“You’re wrong,” Catelyn said sharply.
“Every morning, when I wake, I remember that Ned is gone. I
have no skill with swords, but that does not mean that I do not
dream of riding to King’s Landing and wrapping my hands
around Cersei Lannister’s white throat and squeezing until
her face turns black.”
The Beauty raised her eyes, the only part of her that was truly
beautiful. “If you dream that, why would you seek to hold me
back? Is it because of what Stannis said at the parley?” Was it? Catelyn glanced across the camp. Two men were walking
sentry, spears in hand. “I was taught that good men must
fight evil in this world, and Renly’s death was evil beyond
all doubt. Yet I was also taught that the gods make kings, not the
swords of men. If Stannis is our rightful king—”
“He’s not. Robert was never the rightful king
either, even Renly said as much. Jaime Lannister murdered the
rightful king, after Robert killed his lawful heir on the Trident.
Where were the gods then? The gods don’t care about men, no
more than kings care about peasants.”
“A good king does care.”
“Lord Renly . . . His Grace,
he . . . he would have been the best king, my
lady, he was so good, he . . . ”
“He is gone, Brienne,” she said, as gently as she
could. “Stannis and Joffrey
remain . . . and so does my son.”
“He wouldn’t . . . you’d
never make a peace with Stannis, would you? Bend the knee? You
wouldn’t . . . ”
“I will tell you true, Brienne. I do not know. My son may
be a king, but I am no queen . . . only a
mother who would keep her children safe, however she
could.”
“I am not made to be a mother. I need to fight.”
“Then fight . . . but for the living,
not the dead. Renly’s enemies are Robb’s enemies as
well.”
Brienne stared at the ground and shuffled her feet. “I do
not know your son, my lady.” She looked up. “I could
serve you. If you would have me.”
Catelyn was startled. “Why me?”
The question seemed to trouble Brienne. “You helped me. In
the pavilion . . . when they thought that I
had . . . that I
had . . . ”
“You were innocent.”
“Even so, you did not have to do that. You could have let
them kill me. I was nothing to you.” Perhaps I did not want to be the only one who knew the dark
truth of what had happened there, Catelyn thought. “Brienne,
I have taken many wellborn ladies into my service over the years,
but never one like you. I am no battle commander.”
“No, but you have courage. Not battle courage perhaps
but . . . I don’t
know . . . a kind of woman’s courage. And
I think, when the time comes, you will not try and hold me back.
Promise me that. That you will not hold me back from
Stannis.”
Catelyn could still hear Stannis saying that Robb’s turn
too would come in time. It was like a cold breath on the back of
her neck. “When the time comes, I will not hold you
back.”
The tall girl knelt awkwardly, unsheathed Renly’s
longsword, and laid it at her feet. “Then I am yours, my
lady. Your liege man, or . . . whatever you
would have me be. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and
give my life for yours, if need be. I swear it by the old gods and
the new.”
“And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth
and meat and mead at my table, and pledge to ask no service of you
that might bring you into dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and
the new. Arise.” As she clasped the other woman’s hands
between her own, Catelyn could not help but smile. How many times
did I watch Ned accept a man’s oath of service? She wondered
what he would think if he could see her now.
They forded the Red Fork late the next day, upstream of Riverrun
where the river made a wide loop and the waters grew muddy and
shallow. The crossing was guarded by a mixed force of archers and
pikemen wearing the eagle badge of the Mallisters. When they saw
Catelyn’s banners, they emerged from behind their sharpened
stakes and sent a man over from the far bank to lead her party
across. “Slow and careful like, milady,” he warned as
he took the bridle of her horse. “We’ve planted iron
spikes under the water, y’see, and there’s caltrops
scattered among them rocks there. It’s the same on all the
fords, by your brother’s command.” Edmure thinks to fight here. The realization gave her a queasy
feeling in the bowels, but she held her tongue.
Between the Red Fork and the Tumblestone, they joined a stream
of smallfolk making for the safety of Riverrun. Some were driving
animals before them, others pulling wayns, but they made way as
Catelyn rode past, and cheered her with cries of
“Tully!” or “Stark!” Half a mile from the
castle, she passed through a large encampment where the scarlet
banner of the Blackwoods waved above the lord’s tent. Lucas
took his leave of her there, to seek out his father, Lord Tytos.
The rest rode on.
Catelyn spied a second camp strung out along the bank north of
the Tumblestone, familiar standards flapping in the wind—Marq
Piper’s dancing maiden, Darry’s plowman, the twining
red-and-white snakes of the Paeges. They were all her
father’s bannermen, lords of the Trident. Most had left
Riverrun before she had, to defend their own lands. If they were
here again, it could only mean that Edmure had called them back.
Gods save us, it’s true, he means to offer battle to Lord
Tywin.
Something dark was dangling against the walls of Riverrun,
Catelyn saw from a distance. When she rode close, she saw dead men
hanging from the battlements, slumped at the ends of long ropes
with hempen nooses tight around their necks, their faces swollen
and black. The crows had been at them, but their crimson cloaks
still showed bright against the sandstone walls.
“They have hanged some Lannisters,” Hal Mollen
observed.
“A pretty sight,” Ser Wendel Manderly said
cheerfully.
“Our friends have begun without us,” Perwyn Frey
jested. The others laughed, all but Brienne, who gazed up at the
row of bodies unblinking, and neither spoke nor smiled. If they have slain the Kingslayer, then my daughters are dead as
well. Catelyn spurred her horse to a canter. Hal Mollen and Robin
Flint raced past at a gallop, halooing to the gatehouse. The guards
on the walls had doubtless spied her banners some time ago, for the
portcullis was up as they approached.
Edmure rode out from the castle to meet her, surrounded by three
of her father’s sworn men—great-bellied Ser Desmond Grell the
master-at-arms, Utherydes Wayn the steward, and Ser Robin Ryger,
Riverrun’s big bald captain of guards. They were all three of
an age with Lord Hoster, men who had spent their lives in her
father’s service. Old men, Catelyn realized.
Edmure wore a blue-and-red cloak over a tunic embroidered with
silver fish. From the look of him, he had not shaved since she rode
south; his beard was a fiery bush. “Cat, it is good to have
you safely back. When we heard of Renly’s death, we feared
for your life. And Lord Tywin is on the march as well.”
“So I am told. How fares our father?”
“One day he seems stronger, the next . . . ” He shook his head.
“He’s asked for you. I did not know what to tell
him.”
“I will go to him soon,” she vowed. “Has there
been word from Storm’s End since Renly died? Or from
Bitterbridge?” No ravens came to men on the road, and Catelyn
was anxious to know what had happened behind her.
“Nothing from Bitterbridge. From Storm’s End, three
birds from the castellan, Ser Cortnay Penrose, all carrying the
same plea. Stannis has him surrounded by land and sea. He offers
his allegiance to whatsoever king will break the siege. He fears
for the boy, he says. What boy would that be, do you
know?”
“Edric Storm,” Brienne told them.
“Robert’s bastard son.”
Edmure looked at her curiously. “Stannis has sworn that
the garrison might go free, unharmed, provided they yield the
castle within the fortnight and deliver the boy into his hands, but
Ser Cortnay will not consent.” He risks all for a baseborn boy whose blood is not even his own,
Catelyn thought. “Did you send him an answer?”
Edmure shook his head. “Why, when we have neither help nor
hope to offer? And Stannis is no enemy of ours.”
Ser Robin Ryger spoke. “My lady, can you tell us the
manner of Lord Renly’s death? The tales we’ve heard
have been queer.”
“Cat,” her brother said, “some say you killed
Renly. Others claim it was some southron woman.” His glance
lingered on Brienne.
“My king was murdered,” the girl said quietly,
“and not by Lady Catelyn. I swear it on my sword, by the gods
old and new.”
“This is Brienne of Tarth, the daughter of Lord Selwyn the
Evenstar, who served in Renly’s Rainbow Guard,” Catelyn
told them. “Brienne, I am honored to acquaint you with my
brother Ser Edmure Tully, heir to Riverrun. His steward Utherydes
Wayn. Ser Robin Ryger and Ser Desmond Grell.”
“Honored,” said Ser Desmond. The others echoed him.
The girl flushed, embarrassed even at this commonplace courtesy. If
Edmure thought her a curious sort of lady, at least he had the
grace not to say so.
“Brienne was with Renly when he was killed, as was
I,” said Catelyn, “but we had no part in his
death.” She did not care to speak of the shadow, here in the
open with men all around, so she waved a hand at the bodies.
“Who are these men you’ve hanged?”
Edmure glanced up uncomfortably. “They came with Ser Cleos
when he brought the queen’s answer to our peace
offer.”
Catelyn was shocked. “You’ve killed
envoys?”
“False envoys,” Edmure declared. “They pledged
me their peace and surrendered their weapons, so I allowed them
freedom of the castle, and for three nights they ate my meat and
drank my mead whilst I talked with Ser Cleos. On the fourth night,
they tried to free the Kingslayer.” He pointed up.
“That big brute killed two guards with naught but those ham
hands of his, caught them by the throats and smashed their skulls
together while that skinny lad beside him was opening
Lannister’s cell with a bit of wire, gods curse him. The one
on the end was some sort of damned mummer. He used my own voice to
command that the River Gate be opened. The guardsmen swear to it,
Enger and Delp and Long Lew, all three. If you ask me, the man
sounded nothing like me, and yet the oafs were raising the
portcullis all the same.”
This was the Imp’s work, Catelyn suspected; it stank of
the same sort of cunning he had displayed at the Eyrie. Once, she
would have named Tyrion the least dangerous of the Lannisters. Now
she was not so certain. “How is it you caught
them?”
“Ah, as it happened, I was not in the castle. I’d
crossed the Tumblestone to,
ah . . . ”
“You were whoring or wenching. Get on with the
tale.”
Edmure’s cheeks flamed as red as his beard. “It was
the hour before dawn, and I was only then returning. When Long Lew
saw my boat and recognized me, he finally thought to wonder who was
standing below barking commands, and raised a cry.”
“Tell me the Kingslayer was retaken.”
“Yes, though not easily. Jaime got hold of a sword, slew
Poul Pernford and Ser Desmond’s squire Myles, and wounded
Delp so badly that Maester Vyman fears he’ll soon die as
well. It was a bloody mess. At the sound of steel, some of the
other red cloaks rushed to join him, barehand or no. I hanged those
beside the four who freed him, and threw the rest in the dungeons.
Jaime too. We’ll have no more escapes from that one.
He’s down in the dark this time, chained hand and foot and
bolted to the wall.”
“And Cleos Frey?”
“He swears he knew naught of the plot. Who can say? The
man is half Lannister, half Frey, and all liar. I put him in
Jaime’s old tower cell.”
“You say he brought terms?”
“If you can call them that. You’ll like them no more
than I did, I promise.”
“Can we hope for no help from the south, Lady
Stark?” asked Utherydes Wayn, her father’s steward. “This charge
of incest . . . Lord Tywin does not suffer such
slights lightly. He will seek to wash the stain from his
daughter’s name with the blood of her accuser, Lord Stannis
must see that. He has no choice but to make common cause with
us.” Stannis has made common cause with a power greater and darker.
“Let us speak of these matters later.” Catelyn trotted
over the drawbridge, putting the grisly row of dead Lannisters
behind her. Her brother kept pace. As they rode out into the bustle
of Riverrun’s upper bailey, a naked toddler ran in front of
the horses. Catelyn jerked her reins hard to avoid him, glancing
about in dismay. Hundreds of smallfolk had been admitted to the
castle, and allowed to erect crude shelters against the walls.
Their children were everywhere underfoot, and the yard teemed with
their cows, sheep, and chickens. “Who are all these
folk?”
“My people,” Edmure answered. “They were
afraid.” Only my sweet brother would crowd all these useless mouths into
a castle that might soon be under siege. Catelyn knew that Edmure
had a soft heart; sometimes she thought his head was even softer.
She loved him for it, yet still . . .
“Can Robb be reached by raven?”
“He’s in the field, my lady,” Ser Desmond
replied. “The bird would have no way to find him.”
Utherydes Wayn coughed. “Before he left us, the young king
instructed us to send you on to the Twins upon your return, Lady
Stark. He asks that you learn more of Lord Walder’s
daughters, to help him select his bride when the time
comes.”
“We’ll provide you with fresh mounts and
provisions,” her brother promised. “You’ll want
to refresh yourself before—”
“I’ll want to stay,” Catelyn said,
dismounting. She had no intention of leaving Riverrun and her dying
father to pick Robb’s wife for him. Robb wants me safe, I
cannot fault him for that, but his pretext is growing threadbare.
“Boy,” she called, and an urchin from the stables ran
out to take the reins of her horse.
Edmure swung down from his saddle. He was a head taller than she
was, but he would always be her little brother. “Cat,”
he said unhappily, “Lord Tywin is coming—”
“He is making for the west, to defend his own lands. If we
close our gates and shelter behind the walls, we can watch him pass
with safety.”
“This is Tully land,” Edmure declared. “If
Tywin Lannister thinks to cross it unbloodied, I mean to teach him
a hard lesson.” The same lesson you taught his son? Her brother could be
stubborn as river rock when his pride was touched, but neither of
them was likely to forget how Ser Jaime had cut Edmure’s host
to bloody pieces the last time he had offered battle. “We
have nothing to gain and everything to lose by meeting Lord Tywin
in the field,” Catelyn said tactfully.
“The yard is not the place to discuss my battle
plans.”
“As you will. Where shall we go?”
Her brother’s face darkened. For a moment she thought he
was about to lose his temper with her, but finally he snapped,
“The godswood. If you will insist.”
She followed him along a gallery to the godswood gate.
Edmure’s anger had always been a sulky, sullen thing. Catelyn
was sorry she had wounded him, but the matter was too important for
her to concern herself with his pride. When they were alone beneath
the trees, Edmure turned to face her.
“You do not have the strength to meet the Lannisters in
the field,” she said bluntly.
“When all my strength is marshaled, I should have eight
thousand foot and three thousand horse,” Edmure said.
“Which means Lord Tywin will have near twice your
numbers.”
“Robb’s won his battles against worse odds,”
Edmure replied, “and I have a plan. You’ve forgotten
Roose Bolton. Lord Tywin defeated him on the Green Fork, but failed
to pursue. When Lord Tywin went to Harrenhal, Bolton took the ruby
ford and the crossroads. He has ten thousand men. I’ve sent
word to Helman Tallhart to join him with the garrison Robb left at
the Twins—”
“Edmure, Robb left those men to hold the Twins and make
certain Lord Walder keeps faith with us.”
“He has,” Edmure said stubbornly. “The Freys
fought bravely in the Whispering Wood, and old Ser Stevron died at
Oxcross, we hear. Ser Ryman and Black Walder and the rest are with
Robb in the west, Martyn has been of great service scouting, and
Ser Perwyn helped see you safe to Renly. Gods be good, how much
more can we ask of them? Robb’s betrothed to one of Lord
Walder’s daughters, and Roose Bolton wed another, I hear. And
haven’t you taken two of his grandsons to be fostered at
Winterfell?”
“A ward can easily become a hostage, if need be.”
She had not known that Ser Stevron was dead, nor of Bolton’s
marriage.
“If we’re two hostages to the good, all the more
reason Lord Walder dare not play us false. Bolton needs
Frey’s men, and Ser Helman’s as well. I’ve
commanded him to retake Harrenhal.”
“That’s like to be a bloody business.”
“Yes, but once the castle falls, Lord Tywin will have no
safe retreat. My own levies will defend the fords of Red Fork
against his crossing. If he attacks across the river, he’ll
end as Rhaegar did when he tried to cross the Trident. If he holds
back, he’ll be caught between Riverrun and Harrenhal, and
when Robb returns from the west we can finish him for good and
all.”
Her brother’s voice was full of brusque confidence, but
Catelyn found herself wishing that Robb had not taken her uncle
Brynden west with him. The Blackfish was the veteran of half a
hundred battles; Edmure was the veteran of one, and that one
lost.
“The plan’s a good one,” he concluded.
“Lord Tytos says so, and Lord Jonos as well. When did
Blackwood and Bracken agree about anything that was not certain, I
ask you?”
“Be that as it may.” She was suddenly weary. Perhaps
she was wrong to oppose him. Perhaps it was a splendid plan, and
her misgivings only a woman’s fears. She wished Ned were
here, or her uncle Brynden,
or . . . “Have you asked Father about
this?”
“Father is in no state to weigh strategies. Two days ago
he was making plans for your marriage to Brandon Stark! Go see him
yourself if you do not believe me. This plan will work, Cat,
you’ll see.”
“I hope so, Edmure. I truly do.” She kissed him on
the cheek, to let him know she meant it, and went to find her
father.
Lord Hoster Tully was much as she had left him—abed, haggard,
flesh pale and clammy. The room smelled of sickness, a cloying odor
made up in equal parts of stale sweat and medicine. When she pulled
back the drapes, her father gave a low moan, and his eyes fluttered
open. He stared at her as if he could not comprehend who she was or
what she wanted.
“Father.” She kissed him. “I am
returned.”
He seemed to know her then. “You’ve come,” he
whispered faintly, lips barely moving.
“Yes,” she said. “Robb sent me south, but I
hurried back.”
“South . . . where . . . is
the Eyrie south, sweetling? I don’t
recall . . . oh, dear heart, I was
afraid . . . have you forgiven me,
child?” Tears ran down his cheeks.
“You’ve done nothing that needs forgiveness,
Father.” She stroked his limp white hair and felt his brow.
The fever still burned him from within, despite all the
maester’s potions.
“It was best,” her father whispered.
“Jon’s a good man,
good . . . strong,
kind . . . take care of
you . . . he will . . . and
well born, listen to me, you must, I’m your
father . . . your
father . . . you’ll wed when Cat does,
yes you will . . . ” He thinks I’m Lysa, Catelyn realized. Gods be good, he
talks as if we were not married yet.
Her father’s hands clutched at hers, fluttering like two
frightened white birds. “That
stripling . . . wretched
boy . . . not speak that name to me, your
duty . . . your mother, she
would . . . ” Lord Hoster cried as a
spasm of pain washed over him. “Oh, gods forgive me, forgive
me, forgive me. My medicine . . . ”
And then Maester Vyman was there, holding a cup to his lips.
Lord Hoster sucked at the thick white potion as eager as a babe at
the breast, and Catelyn could see peace settle over him once more.
“He’ll sleep now, my lady,” the maester said when
the cup was empty. The milk of the poppy had left a thick white
film around her father’s mouth. Maester Vyman wiped it away
with a sleeve.
Catelyn could watch no more. Hoster Tully had been a strong man,
and proud. It hurt her to see him reduced to this. She went out to
the terrace. The yard below was crowded with refugees and chaotic
with their noises, but beyond the walls the rivers flowed clean and
pure and endless. Those are his rivers, and soon he will return to
them for his last voyage.
Maester Vyman had followed her out. “My lady,” he
said softly, “I cannot keep the end at bay much longer. We
ought send a rider after his brother. Ser Brynden would wish to be
here.”
“Yes,” Catelyn said, her voice thick with her
grief.
“And the Lady Lysa as well, perhaps?”
“Lysa will not come.”
“If you wrote her yourself, perhaps . . . ”
“I will put some words to paper, if that please
you.” She wondered who Lysa’s “wretched
stripling” had been. Some young squire or hedge knight, like
as not . . . though by the vehemence with which
Lord Hoster had opposed him, he might have been a tradesman’s
son or baseborn apprentice, even a singer. Lysa had always been too
fond of singers. I must not blame her. Jon Arryn was twenty years
older than our father, however noble.
The tower her brother had set aside for her use was the very
same that she and Lysa had shared as maids. It would feel good to
sleep on a featherbed again, with a warm fire in the hearth; when
she was rested the world would seem less bleak.
But outside her chambers she found Utherydes Wayn waiting with
two women clad in grey, their faces cowled save for their eyes.
Catelyn knew at once why they were here. “Ned?”
The sisters lowered their gaze. Utherydes said, “Ser Cleos
brought him from King’s Landing, my lady.”
“Take me to him,” she commanded.
They had laid him out on a trestle table and covered him with a
banner, the white banner of House Stark with its grey direwolf
sigil. “I would look on him,” Catelyn said.
“Only the bones remain, my lady.”
“I would look on him,” she repeated.
One of the silent sisters turned down the banner. Bones, Catelyn thought. This is not Ned, this is not the man I
loved, the father of my children. His hands were clasped together
over his chest, skeletal fingers curled about the hilt of some
longsword, but they were not Ned’s hands, so strong and full
of life. They had dressed the bones in Ned’s surcoat, the
fine white velvet with the direwolf badge over the heart, but
nothing remained of the warm flesh that had pillowed her head so
many nights, the arms that had held her. The head had been rejoined
to the body with fine silver wire, but one skull looks much like
another, and in those empty hollows she found no trace of her
lord’s dark grey eyes, eyes that could be soft as a fog or
hard as stone. They gave his eyes to crows, she remembered.
Catelyn turned away. “That is not his sword.”
“Ice was not returned to us, my lady,” Utherydes
said. “Only Lord Eddard’s bones.”
“I suppose I must thank the queen for even that
much.”
“Thank the Imp, my lady. It was his doing.” One day I will thank them all. “I am grateful for your
service, sisters,” Catelyn said, “but I must lay
another task upon you. Lord Eddard was a Stark, and his bones must
be laid to rest beneath Winterfell.” They will make a statue
of him, a stone likeness that will sit in the dark with a direwolf
at his feet and a sword across his knees. “Make certain the
sisters have fresh horses, and aught else they need for the
journey,” she told Utherydes Wayn. “Hal Mollen will
escort them back to Winterfell, it is his place as captain of
guards.” She gazed down at the bones that were all that
remained of her lord and love. “Now leave me, all of you. I
would be alone with Ned tonight.”
The women in grey bowed their heads. The silent sisters do not
speak to the living, Catelyn remembered dully, but some say they
can talk to the dead. And how she envied
that . . .
Two days ride from Riverrun, a scout spied them watering their
horses beside a muddy steam. Catelyn had never been so glad to see
the twin tower badge of House Frey.
When she asked him to lead them to her uncle, he said,
“The Blackfish is gone west with the king, my lady. Martyn
Rivers commands the outriders in his stead.”
“I see.” She had met Rivers at the Twins; a baseborn
son of Lord Walder Frey, half brother to Ser Perwyn. It did not
surprise her to learn that Robb had struck at the heart of
Lannister power; clearly he had been contemplating just that when
he sent her away to treat with Renly. “Where is Rivers
now?”
“His camp is two hours ride, my lady.”
“Take us to him,” she commanded. Brienne helped her
back into her saddle, and they set out at once.
“Have you come from Bitterbridge, my lady?” the
scout asked.
“No.” She had not dared. With Renly dead, Catelyn
had been uncertain of the reception she might receive from his
young widow and her protectors. Instead she had ridden through the
heart of the war, through fertile riverlands turned to blackened
desert by the fury of the Lannisters, and each night her scouts
brought back tales that made her ill. “Lord Renly is
slain,” she added.
“We’d hoped that tale was some Lannister lie,
or—”
“Would that it were. My brother commands in
Riverrun?”
“Yes, my lady. His Grace left Ser Edmure to hold Riverrun
and guard his rear.” Gods grant him the strength to do so, Catelyn thought. And the
wisdom as well. “Is there word from Robb in the
west?”
“You have not heard?” The man seemed surprised.
“His Grace won a great victory at Oxcross. Ser Stafford
Lannister is dead, his host scattered.”
Ser Wendel Manderly gave a whoop of pleasure, but Catelyn only
nodded. Tomorrow’s trials concerned her more than
yesterday’s triumphs.
Martyn Rivers had made his camp in the shell of a shattered
holdfast, beside a roofless stable and a hundred fresh graves. He
went to one knee when Catelyn dismounted. “Well met, my lady.
Your brother charged us to keep an eye out for your party, and
escort you back to Riverrun in all haste should we come upon
you.”
Catelyn scarce liked the sound of that. “Is it my
father?”
“No, my lady. Lord Hoster is unchanged.” Rivers was
a ruddy man with scant resemblance to his half brothers. “It
is only that we feared you might chance upon Lannister scouts. Lord
Tywin has left Harrenhal and marches west with all his
power.”
“Rise,” she told Rivers, frowning. Stannis Baratheon
would soon be on the march as well, gods help them all. “How
long until Lord Tywin is upon us?”
“Three days, perhaps four, it is hard to know. We have
eyes out along all the roads, but it would be best not to
linger.”
Nor did they. Rivers broke his camp quickly and saddled up
beside her, and they set off again, near fifty strong now, flying
beneath the direwolf, the leaping trout, the twin towers.
Her men wanted to hear more of Robb’s victory at Oxcross,
and Rivers obliged. “There’s a singer come to Riverrun,
calls himself Rymund the Rhymer, he’s made a song of the
fight. Doubtless you’ll hear it sung tonight, my lady.
‘Wolf in the Night’ this Rymund calls it.” He
went on to tell how the remnants of Ser Stafford’s host had
fallen back on Lannisport. Without siege engines there was no way
to storm Casterly Rock, so the Young Wolf was paying the Lannisters
back in kind for the devastation they’d inflicted on the
riverlands. Lords Karstark and Glover were raiding along the coast,
Lady Mormont had captured thousands of cattle and was driving them
back toward Riverrun, while the Greatjon had seized the gold mines
at Castamere, Nunn’s Deep, and the Pendric Hills. Ser Wendel
laughed. “Nothing’s more like to bring a Lannister
running than a threat to his gold.”
“How did the king ever take the Tooth?” Ser Perwyn
Frey asked his bastard brother. “That’s a hard strong
keep, and it commands the hill road.”
“He never took it. He slipped around it in the night.
It’s said the direwolf showed him the way, that Grey Wind of
his. The beast sniffed out a goat track that wound down a defile
and up along beneath a ridge, a crooked and stony way, yet wide
enough for men riding single file. The Lannisters in their
watchtowers got not so much a glimpse of them.” Rivers
lowered his voice. “There’s some say that after the
battle, the king cut out Stafford Lannister’s heart and fed
it to the wolf.”
“I would not believe such tales,” Catelyn said
sharply. “My son is no savage.”
“As you say, my lady. Still, it’s no more than the
beast deserved. That is no common wolf, that one. The
Greatjon’s been heard to say that the old gods of the north
sent those direwolves to your children.”
Catelyn remembered the day when her boys had found the pups in
the late summer snows. There had been five, three male and two
female for the five trueborn children of House
Stark . . . and a sixth, white of fur and red
of eye, for Ned’s bastard son Jon Snow. No common wolves, she
thought. No indeed.
That night as they made their camp, Brienne sought out her tent.
“My lady, you are safely back among your own now, a
day’s ride from your brother’s castle. Give me leave to
go.”
Catelyn should not have been surprised. The homely young woman
had kept to herself all through their journey, spending most of her
time with the horses, brushing out their coats and pulling stones
from their shoes. She had helped Shadd cook and clean game as well,
and soon proved that she could hunt as well as any. Any task
Catelyn asked her to turn her hand to, Brienne had performed deftly
and without complaint, and when she was spoken to she answered
politely, but she never chattered, nor wept, nor laughed. She had
ridden with them every day and slept among them every night without
ever truly becoming one of them. It was the same when she was with Renly, Catelyn thought. At the
feast, in the melee, even in Renly’s pavilion with her
brothers of the Rainbow Guard. There are walls around this one
higher than Winterfell’s.
“If you left us, where would you go?” Catelyn asked
her.
“Back,” Brienne said. “To Storm’s
End.”
“Alone.” It was not a question.
The broad face was a pool of still water, giving no hint of what
might live in the depths below. “Yes.”
“You mean to kill Stannis.”
Brienne closed her thick callused fingers around the hilt of her
sword.
The sword that had been his. “I swore a vow. Three times I
swore. You heard me.”
“I did,” Catelyn admitted. The girl had kept the
rainbow cloak when she discarded the rest of her bloodstained
clothing, she knew. Brienne’s own things had been left behind
during their flight, and she had been forced to clothe herself in
odd bits of Ser Wendel’s spare garb, since no one else in
their party had garments large enough to fit her. “Vows
should be kept, I agree, but Stannis has a great host around him,
and his own guards sworn to keep him safe.”
“I am not afraid of his guards. I am as good as any of
them. I should never have fled.”
“Is that what troubles you, that some fool might call you
craven?” She sighed. “Renly’s death was no fault
of youts. You served him valiantly, but when you seek to follow him
into the earth, you serve no one.” She stretched out a hand,
to give what comfort a touch could give. “I know how hard it
is—”
Brienne shook off her hand. “No one knows.”
“You’re wrong,” Catelyn said sharply.
“Every morning, when I wake, I remember that Ned is gone. I
have no skill with swords, but that does not mean that I do not
dream of riding to King’s Landing and wrapping my hands
around Cersei Lannister’s white throat and squeezing until
her face turns black.”
The Beauty raised her eyes, the only part of her that was truly
beautiful. “If you dream that, why would you seek to hold me
back? Is it because of what Stannis said at the parley?” Was it? Catelyn glanced across the camp. Two men were walking
sentry, spears in hand. “I was taught that good men must
fight evil in this world, and Renly’s death was evil beyond
all doubt. Yet I was also taught that the gods make kings, not the
swords of men. If Stannis is our rightful king—”
“He’s not. Robert was never the rightful king
either, even Renly said as much. Jaime Lannister murdered the
rightful king, after Robert killed his lawful heir on the Trident.
Where were the gods then? The gods don’t care about men, no
more than kings care about peasants.”
“A good king does care.”
“Lord Renly . . . His Grace,
he . . . he would have been the best king, my
lady, he was so good, he . . . ”
“He is gone, Brienne,” she said, as gently as she
could. “Stannis and Joffrey
remain . . . and so does my son.”
“He wouldn’t . . . you’d
never make a peace with Stannis, would you? Bend the knee? You
wouldn’t . . . ”
“I will tell you true, Brienne. I do not know. My son may
be a king, but I am no queen . . . only a
mother who would keep her children safe, however she
could.”
“I am not made to be a mother. I need to fight.”
“Then fight . . . but for the living,
not the dead. Renly’s enemies are Robb’s enemies as
well.”
Brienne stared at the ground and shuffled her feet. “I do
not know your son, my lady.” She looked up. “I could
serve you. If you would have me.”
Catelyn was startled. “Why me?”
The question seemed to trouble Brienne. “You helped me. In
the pavilion . . . when they thought that I
had . . . that I
had . . . ”
“You were innocent.”
“Even so, you did not have to do that. You could have let
them kill me. I was nothing to you.” Perhaps I did not want to be the only one who knew the dark
truth of what had happened there, Catelyn thought. “Brienne,
I have taken many wellborn ladies into my service over the years,
but never one like you. I am no battle commander.”
“No, but you have courage. Not battle courage perhaps
but . . . I don’t
know . . . a kind of woman’s courage. And
I think, when the time comes, you will not try and hold me back.
Promise me that. That you will not hold me back from
Stannis.”
Catelyn could still hear Stannis saying that Robb’s turn
too would come in time. It was like a cold breath on the back of
her neck. “When the time comes, I will not hold you
back.”
The tall girl knelt awkwardly, unsheathed Renly’s
longsword, and laid it at her feet. “Then I am yours, my
lady. Your liege man, or . . . whatever you
would have me be. I will shield your back and keep your counsel and
give my life for yours, if need be. I swear it by the old gods and
the new.”
“And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth
and meat and mead at my table, and pledge to ask no service of you
that might bring you into dishonor. I swear it by the old gods and
the new. Arise.” As she clasped the other woman’s hands
between her own, Catelyn could not help but smile. How many times
did I watch Ned accept a man’s oath of service? She wondered
what he would think if he could see her now.
They forded the Red Fork late the next day, upstream of Riverrun
where the river made a wide loop and the waters grew muddy and
shallow. The crossing was guarded by a mixed force of archers and
pikemen wearing the eagle badge of the Mallisters. When they saw
Catelyn’s banners, they emerged from behind their sharpened
stakes and sent a man over from the far bank to lead her party
across. “Slow and careful like, milady,” he warned as
he took the bridle of her horse. “We’ve planted iron
spikes under the water, y’see, and there’s caltrops
scattered among them rocks there. It’s the same on all the
fords, by your brother’s command.” Edmure thinks to fight here. The realization gave her a queasy
feeling in the bowels, but she held her tongue.
Between the Red Fork and the Tumblestone, they joined a stream
of smallfolk making for the safety of Riverrun. Some were driving
animals before them, others pulling wayns, but they made way as
Catelyn rode past, and cheered her with cries of
“Tully!” or “Stark!” Half a mile from the
castle, she passed through a large encampment where the scarlet
banner of the Blackwoods waved above the lord’s tent. Lucas
took his leave of her there, to seek out his father, Lord Tytos.
The rest rode on.
Catelyn spied a second camp strung out along the bank north of
the Tumblestone, familiar standards flapping in the wind—Marq
Piper’s dancing maiden, Darry’s plowman, the twining
red-and-white snakes of the Paeges. They were all her
father’s bannermen, lords of the Trident. Most had left
Riverrun before she had, to defend their own lands. If they were
here again, it could only mean that Edmure had called them back.
Gods save us, it’s true, he means to offer battle to Lord
Tywin.
Something dark was dangling against the walls of Riverrun,
Catelyn saw from a distance. When she rode close, she saw dead men
hanging from the battlements, slumped at the ends of long ropes
with hempen nooses tight around their necks, their faces swollen
and black. The crows had been at them, but their crimson cloaks
still showed bright against the sandstone walls.
“They have hanged some Lannisters,” Hal Mollen
observed.
“A pretty sight,” Ser Wendel Manderly said
cheerfully.
“Our friends have begun without us,” Perwyn Frey
jested. The others laughed, all but Brienne, who gazed up at the
row of bodies unblinking, and neither spoke nor smiled. If they have slain the Kingslayer, then my daughters are dead as
well. Catelyn spurred her horse to a canter. Hal Mollen and Robin
Flint raced past at a gallop, halooing to the gatehouse. The guards
on the walls had doubtless spied her banners some time ago, for the
portcullis was up as they approached.
Edmure rode out from the castle to meet her, surrounded by three
of her father’s sworn men—great-bellied Ser Desmond Grell the
master-at-arms, Utherydes Wayn the steward, and Ser Robin Ryger,
Riverrun’s big bald captain of guards. They were all three of
an age with Lord Hoster, men who had spent their lives in her
father’s service. Old men, Catelyn realized.
Edmure wore a blue-and-red cloak over a tunic embroidered with
silver fish. From the look of him, he had not shaved since she rode
south; his beard was a fiery bush. “Cat, it is good to have
you safely back. When we heard of Renly’s death, we feared
for your life. And Lord Tywin is on the march as well.”
“So I am told. How fares our father?”
“One day he seems stronger, the next . . . ” He shook his head.
“He’s asked for you. I did not know what to tell
him.”
“I will go to him soon,” she vowed. “Has there
been word from Storm’s End since Renly died? Or from
Bitterbridge?” No ravens came to men on the road, and Catelyn
was anxious to know what had happened behind her.
“Nothing from Bitterbridge. From Storm’s End, three
birds from the castellan, Ser Cortnay Penrose, all carrying the
same plea. Stannis has him surrounded by land and sea. He offers
his allegiance to whatsoever king will break the siege. He fears
for the boy, he says. What boy would that be, do you
know?”
“Edric Storm,” Brienne told them.
“Robert’s bastard son.”
Edmure looked at her curiously. “Stannis has sworn that
the garrison might go free, unharmed, provided they yield the
castle within the fortnight and deliver the boy into his hands, but
Ser Cortnay will not consent.” He risks all for a baseborn boy whose blood is not even his own,
Catelyn thought. “Did you send him an answer?”
Edmure shook his head. “Why, when we have neither help nor
hope to offer? And Stannis is no enemy of ours.”
Ser Robin Ryger spoke. “My lady, can you tell us the
manner of Lord Renly’s death? The tales we’ve heard
have been queer.”
“Cat,” her brother said, “some say you killed
Renly. Others claim it was some southron woman.” His glance
lingered on Brienne.
“My king was murdered,” the girl said quietly,
“and not by Lady Catelyn. I swear it on my sword, by the gods
old and new.”
“This is Brienne of Tarth, the daughter of Lord Selwyn the
Evenstar, who served in Renly’s Rainbow Guard,” Catelyn
told them. “Brienne, I am honored to acquaint you with my
brother Ser Edmure Tully, heir to Riverrun. His steward Utherydes
Wayn. Ser Robin Ryger and Ser Desmond Grell.”
“Honored,” said Ser Desmond. The others echoed him.
The girl flushed, embarrassed even at this commonplace courtesy. If
Edmure thought her a curious sort of lady, at least he had the
grace not to say so.
“Brienne was with Renly when he was killed, as was
I,” said Catelyn, “but we had no part in his
death.” She did not care to speak of the shadow, here in the
open with men all around, so she waved a hand at the bodies.
“Who are these men you’ve hanged?”
Edmure glanced up uncomfortably. “They came with Ser Cleos
when he brought the queen’s answer to our peace
offer.”
Catelyn was shocked. “You’ve killed
envoys?”
“False envoys,” Edmure declared. “They pledged
me their peace and surrendered their weapons, so I allowed them
freedom of the castle, and for three nights they ate my meat and
drank my mead whilst I talked with Ser Cleos. On the fourth night,
they tried to free the Kingslayer.” He pointed up.
“That big brute killed two guards with naught but those ham
hands of his, caught them by the throats and smashed their skulls
together while that skinny lad beside him was opening
Lannister’s cell with a bit of wire, gods curse him. The one
on the end was some sort of damned mummer. He used my own voice to
command that the River Gate be opened. The guardsmen swear to it,
Enger and Delp and Long Lew, all three. If you ask me, the man
sounded nothing like me, and yet the oafs were raising the
portcullis all the same.”
This was the Imp’s work, Catelyn suspected; it stank of
the same sort of cunning he had displayed at the Eyrie. Once, she
would have named Tyrion the least dangerous of the Lannisters. Now
she was not so certain. “How is it you caught
them?”
“Ah, as it happened, I was not in the castle. I’d
crossed the Tumblestone to,
ah . . . ”
“You were whoring or wenching. Get on with the
tale.”
Edmure’s cheeks flamed as red as his beard. “It was
the hour before dawn, and I was only then returning. When Long Lew
saw my boat and recognized me, he finally thought to wonder who was
standing below barking commands, and raised a cry.”
“Tell me the Kingslayer was retaken.”
“Yes, though not easily. Jaime got hold of a sword, slew
Poul Pernford and Ser Desmond’s squire Myles, and wounded
Delp so badly that Maester Vyman fears he’ll soon die as
well. It was a bloody mess. At the sound of steel, some of the
other red cloaks rushed to join him, barehand or no. I hanged those
beside the four who freed him, and threw the rest in the dungeons.
Jaime too. We’ll have no more escapes from that one.
He’s down in the dark this time, chained hand and foot and
bolted to the wall.”
“And Cleos Frey?”
“He swears he knew naught of the plot. Who can say? The
man is half Lannister, half Frey, and all liar. I put him in
Jaime’s old tower cell.”
“You say he brought terms?”
“If you can call them that. You’ll like them no more
than I did, I promise.”
“Can we hope for no help from the south, Lady
Stark?” asked Utherydes Wayn, her father’s steward. “This charge
of incest . . . Lord Tywin does not suffer such
slights lightly. He will seek to wash the stain from his
daughter’s name with the blood of her accuser, Lord Stannis
must see that. He has no choice but to make common cause with
us.” Stannis has made common cause with a power greater and darker.
“Let us speak of these matters later.” Catelyn trotted
over the drawbridge, putting the grisly row of dead Lannisters
behind her. Her brother kept pace. As they rode out into the bustle
of Riverrun’s upper bailey, a naked toddler ran in front of
the horses. Catelyn jerked her reins hard to avoid him, glancing
about in dismay. Hundreds of smallfolk had been admitted to the
castle, and allowed to erect crude shelters against the walls.
Their children were everywhere underfoot, and the yard teemed with
their cows, sheep, and chickens. “Who are all these
folk?”
“My people,” Edmure answered. “They were
afraid.” Only my sweet brother would crowd all these useless mouths into
a castle that might soon be under siege. Catelyn knew that Edmure
had a soft heart; sometimes she thought his head was even softer.
She loved him for it, yet still . . .
“Can Robb be reached by raven?”
“He’s in the field, my lady,” Ser Desmond
replied. “The bird would have no way to find him.”
Utherydes Wayn coughed. “Before he left us, the young king
instructed us to send you on to the Twins upon your return, Lady
Stark. He asks that you learn more of Lord Walder’s
daughters, to help him select his bride when the time
comes.”
“We’ll provide you with fresh mounts and
provisions,” her brother promised. “You’ll want
to refresh yourself before—”
“I’ll want to stay,” Catelyn said,
dismounting. She had no intention of leaving Riverrun and her dying
father to pick Robb’s wife for him. Robb wants me safe, I
cannot fault him for that, but his pretext is growing threadbare.
“Boy,” she called, and an urchin from the stables ran
out to take the reins of her horse.
Edmure swung down from his saddle. He was a head taller than she
was, but he would always be her little brother. “Cat,”
he said unhappily, “Lord Tywin is coming—”
“He is making for the west, to defend his own lands. If we
close our gates and shelter behind the walls, we can watch him pass
with safety.”
“This is Tully land,” Edmure declared. “If
Tywin Lannister thinks to cross it unbloodied, I mean to teach him
a hard lesson.” The same lesson you taught his son? Her brother could be
stubborn as river rock when his pride was touched, but neither of
them was likely to forget how Ser Jaime had cut Edmure’s host
to bloody pieces the last time he had offered battle. “We
have nothing to gain and everything to lose by meeting Lord Tywin
in the field,” Catelyn said tactfully.
“The yard is not the place to discuss my battle
plans.”
“As you will. Where shall we go?”
Her brother’s face darkened. For a moment she thought he
was about to lose his temper with her, but finally he snapped,
“The godswood. If you will insist.”
She followed him along a gallery to the godswood gate.
Edmure’s anger had always been a sulky, sullen thing. Catelyn
was sorry she had wounded him, but the matter was too important for
her to concern herself with his pride. When they were alone beneath
the trees, Edmure turned to face her.
“You do not have the strength to meet the Lannisters in
the field,” she said bluntly.
“When all my strength is marshaled, I should have eight
thousand foot and three thousand horse,” Edmure said.
“Which means Lord Tywin will have near twice your
numbers.”
“Robb’s won his battles against worse odds,”
Edmure replied, “and I have a plan. You’ve forgotten
Roose Bolton. Lord Tywin defeated him on the Green Fork, but failed
to pursue. When Lord Tywin went to Harrenhal, Bolton took the ruby
ford and the crossroads. He has ten thousand men. I’ve sent
word to Helman Tallhart to join him with the garrison Robb left at
the Twins—”
“Edmure, Robb left those men to hold the Twins and make
certain Lord Walder keeps faith with us.”
“He has,” Edmure said stubbornly. “The Freys
fought bravely in the Whispering Wood, and old Ser Stevron died at
Oxcross, we hear. Ser Ryman and Black Walder and the rest are with
Robb in the west, Martyn has been of great service scouting, and
Ser Perwyn helped see you safe to Renly. Gods be good, how much
more can we ask of them? Robb’s betrothed to one of Lord
Walder’s daughters, and Roose Bolton wed another, I hear. And
haven’t you taken two of his grandsons to be fostered at
Winterfell?”
“A ward can easily become a hostage, if need be.”
She had not known that Ser Stevron was dead, nor of Bolton’s
marriage.
“If we’re two hostages to the good, all the more
reason Lord Walder dare not play us false. Bolton needs
Frey’s men, and Ser Helman’s as well. I’ve
commanded him to retake Harrenhal.”
“That’s like to be a bloody business.”
“Yes, but once the castle falls, Lord Tywin will have no
safe retreat. My own levies will defend the fords of Red Fork
against his crossing. If he attacks across the river, he’ll
end as Rhaegar did when he tried to cross the Trident. If he holds
back, he’ll be caught between Riverrun and Harrenhal, and
when Robb returns from the west we can finish him for good and
all.”
Her brother’s voice was full of brusque confidence, but
Catelyn found herself wishing that Robb had not taken her uncle
Brynden west with him. The Blackfish was the veteran of half a
hundred battles; Edmure was the veteran of one, and that one
lost.
“The plan’s a good one,” he concluded.
“Lord Tytos says so, and Lord Jonos as well. When did
Blackwood and Bracken agree about anything that was not certain, I
ask you?”
“Be that as it may.” She was suddenly weary. Perhaps
she was wrong to oppose him. Perhaps it was a splendid plan, and
her misgivings only a woman’s fears. She wished Ned were
here, or her uncle Brynden,
or . . . “Have you asked Father about
this?”
“Father is in no state to weigh strategies. Two days ago
he was making plans for your marriage to Brandon Stark! Go see him
yourself if you do not believe me. This plan will work, Cat,
you’ll see.”
“I hope so, Edmure. I truly do.” She kissed him on
the cheek, to let him know she meant it, and went to find her
father.
Lord Hoster Tully was much as she had left him—abed, haggard,
flesh pale and clammy. The room smelled of sickness, a cloying odor
made up in equal parts of stale sweat and medicine. When she pulled
back the drapes, her father gave a low moan, and his eyes fluttered
open. He stared at her as if he could not comprehend who she was or
what she wanted.
“Father.” She kissed him. “I am
returned.”
He seemed to know her then. “You’ve come,” he
whispered faintly, lips barely moving.
“Yes,” she said. “Robb sent me south, but I
hurried back.”
“South . . . where . . . is
the Eyrie south, sweetling? I don’t
recall . . . oh, dear heart, I was
afraid . . . have you forgiven me,
child?” Tears ran down his cheeks.
“You’ve done nothing that needs forgiveness,
Father.” She stroked his limp white hair and felt his brow.
The fever still burned him from within, despite all the
maester’s potions.
“It was best,” her father whispered.
“Jon’s a good man,
good . . . strong,
kind . . . take care of
you . . . he will . . . and
well born, listen to me, you must, I’m your
father . . . your
father . . . you’ll wed when Cat does,
yes you will . . . ” He thinks I’m Lysa, Catelyn realized. Gods be good, he
talks as if we were not married yet.
Her father’s hands clutched at hers, fluttering like two
frightened white birds. “That
stripling . . . wretched
boy . . . not speak that name to me, your
duty . . . your mother, she
would . . . ” Lord Hoster cried as a
spasm of pain washed over him. “Oh, gods forgive me, forgive
me, forgive me. My medicine . . . ”
And then Maester Vyman was there, holding a cup to his lips.
Lord Hoster sucked at the thick white potion as eager as a babe at
the breast, and Catelyn could see peace settle over him once more.
“He’ll sleep now, my lady,” the maester said when
the cup was empty. The milk of the poppy had left a thick white
film around her father’s mouth. Maester Vyman wiped it away
with a sleeve.
Catelyn could watch no more. Hoster Tully had been a strong man,
and proud. It hurt her to see him reduced to this. She went out to
the terrace. The yard below was crowded with refugees and chaotic
with their noises, but beyond the walls the rivers flowed clean and
pure and endless. Those are his rivers, and soon he will return to
them for his last voyage.
Maester Vyman had followed her out. “My lady,” he
said softly, “I cannot keep the end at bay much longer. We
ought send a rider after his brother. Ser Brynden would wish to be
here.”
“Yes,” Catelyn said, her voice thick with her
grief.
“And the Lady Lysa as well, perhaps?”
“Lysa will not come.”
“If you wrote her yourself, perhaps . . . ”
“I will put some words to paper, if that please
you.” She wondered who Lysa’s “wretched
stripling” had been. Some young squire or hedge knight, like
as not . . . though by the vehemence with which
Lord Hoster had opposed him, he might have been a tradesman’s
son or baseborn apprentice, even a singer. Lysa had always been too
fond of singers. I must not blame her. Jon Arryn was twenty years
older than our father, however noble.
The tower her brother had set aside for her use was the very
same that she and Lysa had shared as maids. It would feel good to
sleep on a featherbed again, with a warm fire in the hearth; when
she was rested the world would seem less bleak.
But outside her chambers she found Utherydes Wayn waiting with
two women clad in grey, their faces cowled save for their eyes.
Catelyn knew at once why they were here. “Ned?”
The sisters lowered their gaze. Utherydes said, “Ser Cleos
brought him from King’s Landing, my lady.”
“Take me to him,” she commanded.
They had laid him out on a trestle table and covered him with a
banner, the white banner of House Stark with its grey direwolf
sigil. “I would look on him,” Catelyn said.
“Only the bones remain, my lady.”
“I would look on him,” she repeated.
One of the silent sisters turned down the banner. Bones, Catelyn thought. This is not Ned, this is not the man I
loved, the father of my children. His hands were clasped together
over his chest, skeletal fingers curled about the hilt of some
longsword, but they were not Ned’s hands, so strong and full
of life. They had dressed the bones in Ned’s surcoat, the
fine white velvet with the direwolf badge over the heart, but
nothing remained of the warm flesh that had pillowed her head so
many nights, the arms that had held her. The head had been rejoined
to the body with fine silver wire, but one skull looks much like
another, and in those empty hollows she found no trace of her
lord’s dark grey eyes, eyes that could be soft as a fog or
hard as stone. They gave his eyes to crows, she remembered.
Catelyn turned away. “That is not his sword.”
“Ice was not returned to us, my lady,” Utherydes
said. “Only Lord Eddard’s bones.”
“I suppose I must thank the queen for even that
much.”
“Thank the Imp, my lady. It was his doing.” One day I will thank them all. “I am grateful for your
service, sisters,” Catelyn said, “but I must lay
another task upon you. Lord Eddard was a Stark, and his bones must
be laid to rest beneath Winterfell.” They will make a statue
of him, a stone likeness that will sit in the dark with a direwolf
at his feet and a sword across his knees. “Make certain the
sisters have fresh horses, and aught else they need for the
journey,” she told Utherydes Wayn. “Hal Mollen will
escort them back to Winterfell, it is his place as captain of
guards.” She gazed down at the bones that were all that
remained of her lord and love. “Now leave me, all of you. I
would be alone with Ned tonight.”
The women in grey bowed their heads. The silent sisters do not
speak to the living, Catelyn remembered dully, but some say they
can talk to the dead. And how she envied
that . . .