Robb, she knew, the moment she heard the kennels erupt.
Her son had returned to Riverrun, and Grey Wind with him. Only
the scent of the great grey direwolf could send the hounds into
such a frenzy of baying and barking. He will come to me, she knew.
Edmure had not returned after his first visit, preferring to spend
his days with Marq Piper and Patrek Mallister, listening to Rymund
the Rhymer’s verses about the battle at the Stone Mill. Robb
is not Edmure, though. Robb will see me.
It had been raining for
days now, a cold grey downpour that well suited Catelyn’s
mood. Her father was growing weaker and more delirious with every
passing day, waking only to mutter, “Tansy,” and beg
forgiveness. Edmure shunned her, and Ser Desmond Grell still denied
her freedom of the castle, however unhappy it seemed to make him.
Only the return of Ser Robin Ryger and his men, footweary and
drenched to the bone, served to lighten her spirits. They had
walked back, it seemed. Somehow the Kingslayer had contrived to
sink their galley and escape, Maester Vyman confided. Catelyn asked
if she might speak with Ser Robin to learn more of what had
happened, but that was refused her.
Something else was wrong as well. On the day her brother
returned, a few hours after their argument, she had heard angry
voices from the yard below. When she climbed to the roof to see,
there were knots of men gathered across the castle beside the main
gate. Horses were being led from the stables, saddled and bridled,
and there was shouting, though Catelyn was too far away to make out
the words. One of Robb’s white banners lay on the ground, and
one of the knights turned his horse and trampled over the direwolf
as he spurred toward the gate. Several others did the same. Those
are men who fought with Edmure on the fords, she thought. What
could have made them so angry? Has my brother slighted them
somehow, given them some insult? She thought she recognized Ser
Perwyn Frey, who had traveled with her to Bitterbridge and
Storm’s End and back, and his bastard half brother Martyn
Rivers as well, but from this vantage it was hard to be certain.
Close to forty men poured out through the castle gates, to what end
she did not know.
They did not come back. Nor would Maester Vyman tell her who
they had been, where they had gone, or what had made them so angry.
“I am here to see to your father, and only that, my
lady,” he said. “Your brother will soon be Lord of
Riverrun. What he wishes you to know, he must tell you.”
But now Robb was returned from the west, returned in triumph. He
will forgive me, Catelyn told herself. He must forgive me, he is my
own son, and Arya and Sansa are as much his blood as mine. He will
free me from these rooms and then I will know what has
happened.
By the time Ser Desmond came for her, she had bathed and dressed
and combed out her auburn hair. “King Robb has returned from
the west, my lady,” the knight said, “and commands that
you attend him in the Great Hall.”
It was the moment she had dreamt of and dreaded. Have I lost two
sons, or three? She would know soon enough.
The hall was crowded when they entered. Every eye was on the
dais, but Catelyn knew their backs: Lady Mormont’s patched
ringmail, the Greatjon and his son looming above every other head
in the hall, Lord Jason Mallister white-haired with his winged helm
in the crook of his arm, Tytos Blackwood in his magnificent
raven-feather cloak . . . Half of them will
want to hang me now. The other half may only turn their eyes away.
She had the uneasy feeling that someone was missing, too.
Robb stood on the dais. He is a boy no longer, she realized with
a pang. He is sixteen now, a man grown. Just look at him. War had
melted all the softness from his face and left him hard and lean.
He had shaved his beard away, but his auburn hair fell uncut to his
shoulders. The recent rains had rusted his mail and left brown
stains on the white of his cloak and surcoat. Or perhaps the stains
were blood. On his head was the sword crown they had fashioned him
of bronze and iron. He bears it more comfortably now. He bears it
like a king.
Edmure stood below the crowded dais, head bowed modestly as Robb
praised his victory. “ . . . fell at the
Stone Mill shall never be forgotten. Small wonder Lord Tywin ran
off to fight Stannis. He’d had his fill of northmen and
rivermen both.” That brought laughter and approving shouts,
but Robb raised a hand for quiet. “Make no mistake, though.
The Lannisters will march again, and there will be other battles to
win before the kingdom is secure.”
The Greatjon roared out, “King in the North!” and
thrust a mailed fist into the air. The river lords answered with a
shout of “King of the Trident!” The hall grew
thunderous with pounding fists and stamping feet.
Only a few noted Catelyn and Ser Desmond amidst the tumult, but
they elbowed their fellows, and slowly a hush grew around her. She
held her head high and ignored the eyes. Let them think what they
will. It is Robb’s judgment that matters.
The sight of Ser Brynden Tully’s craggy face on the dais
gave her comfort. A boy she did not know seemed to be acting as
Robb’s squire. Behind him stood a young knight in a
sand-colored surcoat blazoned with seashells, and an older one who
wore three black pepperpots on a saffron bend, across a field of
green and silver stripes. Between them were a handsome older lady
and a pretty maid who looked to be her daughter. There was another
girl as well, near Sansa’s age. The seashells were the sigil
of some lesser house, Catelyn knew; the older man’s she did
not recognize. Prisoners? Why would Robb bring captives onto the
dais?
Utherydes Wayn banged his staff on the floor as Ser Desmond
escorted her forward. If Robb looks at me as Edmure did, I do not
know what I will do. But it seemed to her that it was not anger she
saw in her son’s eyes, but something
else . . . apprehension, perhaps? No, that made
no sense. What should he fear? He was the Young Wolf, King of the
Trident and the North.
Her uncle was the first to greet her. As black a fish as ever,
Ser Brynden had no care for what others might think. He leapt off
the dais and pulled Catelyn into his arms. When he said, “It
is good to see you home, Cat,” she had to struggle to keep
her composure. “And you,” she whispered.
“Mother.”
Catelyn looked up at her tall kingly son. “Your Grace, I
have prayed for your safe return. I had heard you were
wounded.”
“I took an arrow through the arm while storming the
Crag,” he said. “It’s healed well, though. I had
the best of care.”
“The gods are good, then.” Catelyn took a deep
breath. Say it. It cannot be avoided. “They will have told
you what I did. Did they tell you my reasons?”
“For the girls.”
“I had five children. Now I have three.”
“Aye, my lady.” Lord Rickard Karstark pushed past
the Greatjon, like some grim specter with his black mail and long
ragged grey beard, his narrow face pinched and cold. “And I
have one son, who once had three. You have robbed me of my
vengeance.”
Catelyn faced him calmly. “Lord Rickard, the
Kingslayer’s dying would not have bought life for your
children. His living may buy life for mine.”
The lord was
unappeased. “Jaime Lannister has played you for a fool.
You’ve bought a bag of empty words, no more. My Torrhen and
my Eddard deserved better of you.”
“Leave off, Karstark,” rumbled the Greatjon,
crossing his huge arms against his chest. “It was a
mother’s folly. Women are made that way.”
“A mother’s folly?” Lord Karstark rounded on
Lord Umber. “I name it treason.”
“Enough.” For just an instant Robb sounded more like
Brandon than his father. “No man calls my lady of Winterfell
a traitor in my hearing, Lord Rickard.” When he turned to
Catelyn, his voice softened. “If I could wish the Kingslayer
back in chains I would. You freed him without my knowledge or
consent . . . but what you did, I know you did
for love. For Arya and Sansa, and out of grief for Bran and Rickon.
Love’s not always wise, I’ve learned. It can lead us to
great folly, but we follow our
hearts . . . wherever they take us. Don’t
we, Mother?” Is that what I did? “If my heart led me into folly, I
would gladly make whatever amends I can to Lord Karstark and
yourself.”
Lord Rickard’s face was implacable. “Will your
amends warm Torrhen and Eddard in the cold graves where the
Kingslayer laid them?” He shouldered between the Greatjon and
Maege Mormont and left the hall.
Robb made no move to detain him. “Forgive him,
Mother.”
“If you will forgive me.”
“I have. I know what it is to love so greatly you can
think of nothing else.”
Catelyn bowed her head. “Thank you.” I have not lost
this child, at least.
“We must talk,” Robb went on. “You and my
uncles. Of this and . . . other things.
Steward, call an end.”
Utherydes Wayn slammed his staff on the floor and shouted the
dismissal, and river lords and northerners alike moved toward the
doors. It was only then that Catelyn realized what was amiss. The
wolf. The wolf is not here. Where is Grey Wind? She knew the
direwolf had returned with Robb, she had heard the dogs, but he was
not in the hall, not at her son’s side where he belonged.
Before she could think to question Robb, however, she found
herself surrounded by a circle of well-wishers. Lady Mormont took
her hand and said, “My lady, if Cersei Lannister held two of
my daughters, I would have done the same.” The Greatjon, no
respecter of proprieties, lifted her off her feet and squeezed her
arms with his huge hairy hands. “Your wolf pup mauled the
Kingslayer once, he’ll do it again if need be.” Galbart
Glover and Lord Jason Mallister were cooler, and Jonos Bracken
almost icy, but their words were courteous enough. Her brother was
the last to approach her. “I pray for your girls as well,
Cat. I hope you do not doubt that. “
“Of course not.” She kissed him. “I love you
for it.”
When all the words were done, the Great Hall of Riverrun was
empty save for Robb, the three Tullys, and the six strangers
Catelyn could not place. She eyed them curiously. “My lady,
sers, are you new to my son’s cause?”
“New,” said the younger knight, him of the
seashells, “but fierce in our courage and firm in our
loyalties, as I hope to prove to you, my lady.”
Robb looked uncomfortable. “Mother, “ he said,
“may I present the Lady Sybell, the wife of Lord Gawen
Westerling of the Crag.” The older woman came forward with
solemn mien. “Her husband was one of those we took captive in
the Whispering Wood.” Westerling, yes, Catelyn thought. Their banner is six seashells,
white on sand. A minor house sworn to the Lannisters.
Robb beckoned the other strangers forward, each in turn.
“Ser Rolph Spicer, Lady Sybell’s brother. He was
castellan at the Crag when we took it.” The pepperpot knight
inclined his head. A square-built man with a broken nose and a
close-cropped grey beard, he looked doughty enough. “The
children of Lord Gawen and Lady Sybell. Ser Raynald
Westerling.” The seashell knight smiled beneath a bushy
mustache. Young, lean, rough-hewn, he had good teeth and a thick
mop of chestnut hair. “Elenya.” The little girl did a
quick curtsy. “Rollam Westerling, my squire.” The boy
started to kneel, saw no one else was kneeling, and bowed
instead.
“The honor is mine,” Catelyn said. Can Robb have won
the Crag’s allegiance? If so, it was no wonder the
Westerlings were with him. Casterly Rock did not suffer such
betrayals gently. Not since Tywin Lannister had been old enough to
go to war . . .
The maid came forward last, and very shy. Robb took her hand.
“Mother,” he said, “I have the great honor to
present you the Lady Jeyne Westerling. Lord Gawen’s elder
daughter, and
my . . . ah . . . my lady
wife.”
The first thought that flew across Catelyn’s mind was, No,
that cannot be, you are only a child.
The second was, And besides, you have pledged another.
The third was, Mother have mercy, Robb, what have you done?
Only then came her belated remembrance. Follies done for love?
He has bagged me neat as a hare in a snare. I seem to have already
forgiven him. Mixed with her annoyance was a rueful admiration; the
scene had been staged with the cunning worthy of a master
mummer . . . or a king. Catelyn saw no choice
but to take Jeyne Westerling’s hands. “I have a new
daughter,” she said, more stiffly than she’d intended.
She kissed the terrified girl on both cheeks. “Be welcome to
our hall and hearth.”
“Thank you, my lady. I shall be a good and true wife to
Robb, I swear. And as wise a queen as I can.” Queen. Yes, this pretty little girl is a queen, I must remember
that. She was pretty, undeniably, with her chestnut curls and
heart-shaped face, and that shy smile. Slender, but with good hips,
Catelyn noted. She should have no trouble bearing children, at
least.
Lady Sybell took a hand before any more was said. “We are
honored to be joined to House Stark, my lady, but we are also very
weary. We have come a long way in a short time. Perhaps we might
retire to our chambers, so you may visit with your son?”
“That would be best.” Robb kissed his Jeyne.
“The steward will find you suitable
accommodations.”
“I’ll take you to him,” Ser Edmure Tully
volunteered.
“You are most kind,” said Lady Sybell.
“Must I go too?” asked the boy, Rollam.
“I’m your squire.”
Robb laughed. “But I’m not in need of squiring just
now.”
“Oh.”
“His Grace has gotten along for sixteen years without you,
Rollam,” said Ser Raynald of the seashells. “He will
survive a few hours more, I think.” Taking his little brother
firmly by the hand, he walked him from the hall.
“Your wife is lovely,” Catelyn said when they were
out of earshot, “and the Westerlings seem
worthy . . . though Lord Gawen is Tywin
Lannister’s sworn man, is he not?”
“Yes. Jason Mallister captured him in the Whispering Wood
and has been holding him at Seagard for ransom. Of course
I’ll free him now, though he may not wish to join me. We wed
without his consent, I fear, and this marriage puts him in dire
peril. The Crag is not strong. For love of me, Jeyne may lose
all.”
“And you,” she said softly, “have lost the
Freys.”
His wince told all. She understood the angry voices now, why
Perwyn Frey and Martyn Rivers had left in such haste, trampling
Robb’s banner into the ground as they went.
“Dare I ask how many swords come with your bride,
Robb?”
“Fifty. A dozen knights.” His voice was glum, as
well it might be. When the marriage contract had been made at the
Twins, old Lord Walder Frey had sent Robb off with a thousand
mounted knights and near three thousand foot. “Jeyne is
bright as well as beautiful. And kind as well. She has a gentle
heart.” It is swords you need, not gentle hearts. How could you do this,
Robb? How could you be so heedless, so stupid? How could you be
so . . . so
very . . . young. Reproaches would not serve
here, however. All she said was, “Tell me how this came to
be.”
“I took her castle and she took my heart.,’ Robb
smiled. “The Crag was weakly garrisoned, so we took it by
storm one night. Black Walder and the Smalljon led scaling parties
over the walls, while I broke the main gate with a ram. I took an
arrow in the arm just before Ser Rolph yielded us the castle. It
seemed nothing at first, but it festered. Jeyne had me taken to her
own bed, and she nursed me until the fever passed. And she was with
me when the Greatjon brought me the news
of . . . of Winterfell. Bran and Rickon.”
He seemed to have trouble saying his brothers’ names.
“That night, she . . . she comforted me,
Mother.”
Catelyn did not need to be told what sort of comfort Jeyne
Westerling had offered her son. “And you wed her the next
day.”
He looked her in the eyes, proud and miserable all at once.
“It was the only honorable thing to do. She’s gentle
and sweet, Mother, she will make me a good wife.”
“Perhaps. That will not appease Lord Frey.”
“I know,” her son said, stricken. “I’ve
made a botch of everything but the battles, haven’t I? I
thought the battles would be the hard part,
but . . . if I had listened to you and kept
Theon as my hostage, I’d still rule the north, and Bran and
Rickon would be alive and safe in Winterfell.”
“Perhaps. Or not. Lord Balon might still have chanced war.
The last time he reached for a crown, it cost him two sons. He
might have thought it a bargain to lose only one this time.”
She touched his arm. “What happened with the Freys, after you
wed?”
Robb shook his head. “With Ser Stevron, I might have been
able to make amends, but Ser Ryman is dull-witted as a stone, and
Black Walder . . . that one was not named for
the color of his beard, I promise you. He went so far as to say
that his sisters would not be loath to wed a widower. I would have
killed him for that if Jeyne had not begged me to be
merciful.”
“You have done House Frey a grievous insult,
Robb.”
“I never meant to. Ser Stevron died for me, and Olyvar was
as loyal a squire as any king could want. He asked to stay with me,
but Ser Ryman took him with the rest. All their strength. The
Greatjon urged me to attack
them . . . ”
“Fighting your own in the midst of your enemies?”
she said. “It would have been the end of you.”
“Yes. I thought perhaps we could arrange other matches for
Lord Walder’s daughters. Ser Wendel Manderly has offered to
take one, and the Greatjon tells me his uncles wish to wed again.
If Lord Walder will be reasonable—”
“He is not reasonable,” said Catelyn. “He is
proud, and prickly to a fault. You know that. He wanted to be
grandfather to a king. You will not appease him with the offer of
two hoary old brigands and the second son of the fattest man in the
Seven Kingdoms. Not only have you broken your oath, but
you’ve slighted the honor of the Twins by choosing a bride
from a lesser house.”
Robb bristled at that. “The Westerlings are better blood
than the Freys. They’re an ancient line, descended from the
First Men. The Kings of the Rock sometimes wed Westerlings before
the Conquest, and there was another Jeyne Westerling who was queen
to King Maegor three hundred years ago.”
“All of which will only salt Lord Walder’s wounds.
It has always rankled him that older houses look down on the Freys
as upstarts. This insult is not the first he’s borne, to hear
him tell it. Jon Arryn was disinclined to foster his grandsons, and
my father refused the offer of one of his daughters for
Edmure.” She inclined her head toward her brother as he
rejoined them.
“Your Grace,” Brynden Blackflsh said, “perhaps
we had best continue this in private.”
“Yes.” Robb sounded tired. “I would kill for a
cup of wine. The audience chamber, I think.”
As they started up the steps, Catelyn asked the question that
had been troubling her since she entered the hall. “Robb,
where is Grey Wind?”
“In the yard, with a haunch of mutton. I told the
kennelmaster to see that he was fed.”
“You always kept him with you before.”
“A hall is no place for a wolf. He gets restless,
you’ve seen. Growling and snapping. I should never have taken
him into battle with me. He’s killed too many men to fear
them now. Jeyne’s anxious around him, and he terrifies her
mother.” And there’s the heart of it, Catelyn thought. “He is
part of you, Robb. To fear him is to fear you.”
“I am not a wolf, no matter what they call me.” Robb
sounded cross. “Grey Wind killed a man at the Crag, another
at Ashemark, and six or seven at Oxcross. If you had seen—”
“I saw Bran’s wolf tear out a man’s throat at
Winterfell,” she said sharply, “and loved him for
it.”
“That’s different. The man at the Crag was a knight
Jeyne had known all her life. You can’t blame her for being
afraid. Grey Wind doesn’t like her uncle either. He bares his
teeth every time Ser Rolph comes near him.”
A chill went through her. “Send Ser Rolph away. At
once.”
“Where? Back to the Crag, so the Lannisters can mount his
head on a spike? Jeyne loves him. He’s her uncle, and a fair
knight besides. I need more men like Rolph Spicer, not fewer. I am
not going to banish him just because my wolf doesn’t seem to
like the way he smells.”
“Robb.” She stopped and held his arm. “I told
you once to keep Theon Greyjoy close, and you did not listen.
Listen now. Send this man away. I am not saying you must banish
him. Find some task that requires a man of courage, some honorable
duty, what it is matters not . . . but do not
keep him near you.”
He frowned. “Should I have Grey Wind sniff all my knights?
There might be others whose smell he mislikes.”
“Any man Grey Wind mislikes is a man I do not want close
to you. These wolves are more than wolves, Robb. You must know
that. I think perhaps the gods sent them to us. Your father’s
gods, the old gods of the north. Five wolf pups, Robb, five for
five Stark children.”
“Six,” said Robb. “There was a wolf for Jon as
well. I found them, remember? I know how many there were and where
they came from. I used to think the same as you, that the wolves
were our guardians, our protectors,
until . . . ”
“Until?” she prompted.
Robb’s mouth tightened. “ . . . Until they told me that Theon had
murdered Bran and Rickon. Small good their wolves did them. I am no
longer a boy, Mother. I’m a king, and I can protect
myself.” He sighed. “I will find some duty for Ser
Rolph, some pretext to send him away. Not because of his smell, but
to ease your mind. You have suffered enough.”
Relieved, Catelyn kissed him lightly on the cheek before the
others could come around the turn of the stair, and for a moment he
was her boy again, and not her king.
Lord Hoster’s private audience chamber was a small room
above the Great Hall, better suited to intimate discussions. Robb
took the high seat, removed his crown, and set it on the floor
beside him as Catelyn rang for wine. Edmure was filling his
uncle’s ear with the whole story of the fight at the Stone
Mill. It was only after the servants had come and gone that the
Blackfish cleared his throat and said, “I think we’ve
all heard sufficient of your boasting, Nephew.”
Edmure was taken aback. “Boasting? What do you
mean?”
“I mean,” said the Blackfish, “that you owe
His Grace your thanks for his forbearance. He played out that
mummer’s farce in the Great Hall so as not to shame you
before your own people. Had it been me I would have flayed you for
your stupidity rather than praising this folly of the
fords.”
“Good men died to defend those fords, Uncle.” Edmure
sounded outraged. “What, is no one to win victories but the
Young Wolf? Did I steal some glory meant for you, Robb?”
“Your Grace,” Robb corrected, icy. “You took
me for your king, Uncle. Or have you forgotten that as
well?”
The Blackfish said, “You were commanded to hold Riverrun,
Edmure, no more.”
“I held Riverrun, and I bloodied Lord Tywin’s
nose—”
“So you did,” said Robb. “But a bloody nose
won’t win the war, will it? Did you ever think to ask
yourself why we remained in the west so long after Oxcross? You
knew I did not have enough men to threaten Lannisport or Casterly
Rock.”
“Why . . . there were other
castles . . . gold,
cattle . . . ”
“You think we stayed for plunder?” Robb was
incredulous. “Uncle, I wanted Lord Tywin to come
west.”
“We were all horsed,” Ser Brynden said. “The
Lannister host was mainly foot. We planned to run Lord Tywin a
merry chase up and down the coast, then slip behind him to take up
a strong defensive position athwart the gold road, at a place my
scouts had found where the ground would have been greatly in our
favor. If he had come at us there, he would have paid a grievous
price. But if he did not attack, he would have been trapped in the
west, a thousand leagues from where he needed to be. All the while
we would have lived off his land, instead of him living off
ours.”
“Lord Stannis was about to fall upon King’s
Landing,” Robb said. “He might have rid us of Joffrey,
the queen, and the Imp in one red stroke. Then we might have been
able to make a peace.”
Edmure looked from uncle to nephew. “You never told
me.”
“I told you to hold Riverrun, “ said Robb.
“What part of that command did you fail to
comprehend?”
“When you stopped Lord Tywin on the Red Fork,” said
the Blackfish, “you delayed him just long enough for riders out of
Bitterbridge to reach him with word of what was happening to the
east. Lord Tywin turned his host at once, joined up with Matthis
Rowan and Randyll Tarly near the headwaters of the Blackwater, and
made a forced march to Tumbler’s Falls, where he found Mace
Tyrell and two of his sons waiting with a huge host and a fleet of
barges. They floated down the river, disembarked half a day’s
ride from the city, and took Stannis in the rear.”
Catelyn remembered King Renly’s court, as she had seen it
at Bitterbridge. A thousand golden roses streaming in the wind,
Queen Margaery’s shy smile and soft words, her brother the
Knight of Flowers with the bloody linen around his temples. If you
had to fall into a woman’s arms, my son, why couldn’t
they have been Margaery Tyrell’s? The wealth and power of
Highgarden could have made all the difference in the fighting yet
to come. And perhaps Grey Wind would have liked the smell of her as
well.
Edmure looked ill. “I never
meant . . . never, Robb, you must let me make
amends. I will lead the van in the next battle!” For amends, Brother? Or for glory? Catelyn wondered.
“The next battle,” Robb said. “Well, that will
be soon enough. Once Joffrey is wed, the Lannisters will take the
fleld against me once more, I don’t doubt, and this time the
Tyrells will march beside them. And I may need to fight the Freys
as well, if Black Walder has his
way . . . ”
“So long as Theon Greyjoy sits in your father’s seat
with your brothers’ blood on his hands, these other foes must
wait,” Catelyn told her son. “Your first duty is to
defend your own people, win back Winterfell, and hang Theon in a
crow’s cage to die slowly. Or else put off that crown for
good, Robb, for men will know that you are no true king at
all.”
From the way Robb looked at her, she could tell that it had been
a long while since anyone had dared speak to him so bluntly.
“When they told me Winterfell had fallen, I wanted to go
north at once,” he said, with a hint of defensiveness.
“I wanted to free Bran and Rickon, but I
thought . . . I never dreamed that Theon could
harm them, truly. If I had . . . ”
“It is too late for ifs, and too late for rescues,”
Catelyn said. “All that remains is vengeance.”
“The last word we had from the north, Ser Rodrik had
defeated a force of ironmen near Torrhen’s Square, and was
assembling a host at Castle Cerwyn to retake Winterfell.” said Robb. “By now he may have done it. There has
been no news for a long while. And what of the Trident, if I turn
north? I can’t ask the river lords to abandon their own
people.”
“No,” said Catelyn. “Leave them to guard their
own, and win back the north with northmen.”
“How will you get the northmen to the north?” her
brother Edmure asked. “The ironmen control the sunset sea.
The Greyjoys hold Moat Cailin as well. No army has ever taken Moat
Cailin from the south. Even to march against it is madness. We
could be trapped on the causeway, with the ironborn before us and
angry Freys at our backs.”
“We must win back the Freys,” said Robb. “With
them, we still have some chance of success, however small. Without
them, I see no hope. I am willing to give Lord Walder whatever he
requires . . . apologies, honors, lands,
gold . . . there must be something that would
soothe his pride . . . ”
“Not something,” said Catelyn.
“Someone.”
Robb, she knew, the moment she heard the kennels erupt.
Her son had returned to Riverrun, and Grey Wind with him. Only
the scent of the great grey direwolf could send the hounds into
such a frenzy of baying and barking. He will come to me, she knew.
Edmure had not returned after his first visit, preferring to spend
his days with Marq Piper and Patrek Mallister, listening to Rymund
the Rhymer’s verses about the battle at the Stone Mill. Robb
is not Edmure, though. Robb will see me.
It had been raining for
days now, a cold grey downpour that well suited Catelyn’s
mood. Her father was growing weaker and more delirious with every
passing day, waking only to mutter, “Tansy,” and beg
forgiveness. Edmure shunned her, and Ser Desmond Grell still denied
her freedom of the castle, however unhappy it seemed to make him.
Only the return of Ser Robin Ryger and his men, footweary and
drenched to the bone, served to lighten her spirits. They had
walked back, it seemed. Somehow the Kingslayer had contrived to
sink their galley and escape, Maester Vyman confided. Catelyn asked
if she might speak with Ser Robin to learn more of what had
happened, but that was refused her.
Something else was wrong as well. On the day her brother
returned, a few hours after their argument, she had heard angry
voices from the yard below. When she climbed to the roof to see,
there were knots of men gathered across the castle beside the main
gate. Horses were being led from the stables, saddled and bridled,
and there was shouting, though Catelyn was too far away to make out
the words. One of Robb’s white banners lay on the ground, and
one of the knights turned his horse and trampled over the direwolf
as he spurred toward the gate. Several others did the same. Those
are men who fought with Edmure on the fords, she thought. What
could have made them so angry? Has my brother slighted them
somehow, given them some insult? She thought she recognized Ser
Perwyn Frey, who had traveled with her to Bitterbridge and
Storm’s End and back, and his bastard half brother Martyn
Rivers as well, but from this vantage it was hard to be certain.
Close to forty men poured out through the castle gates, to what end
she did not know.
They did not come back. Nor would Maester Vyman tell her who
they had been, where they had gone, or what had made them so angry.
“I am here to see to your father, and only that, my
lady,” he said. “Your brother will soon be Lord of
Riverrun. What he wishes you to know, he must tell you.”
But now Robb was returned from the west, returned in triumph. He
will forgive me, Catelyn told herself. He must forgive me, he is my
own son, and Arya and Sansa are as much his blood as mine. He will
free me from these rooms and then I will know what has
happened.
By the time Ser Desmond came for her, she had bathed and dressed
and combed out her auburn hair. “King Robb has returned from
the west, my lady,” the knight said, “and commands that
you attend him in the Great Hall.”
It was the moment she had dreamt of and dreaded. Have I lost two
sons, or three? She would know soon enough.
The hall was crowded when they entered. Every eye was on the
dais, but Catelyn knew their backs: Lady Mormont’s patched
ringmail, the Greatjon and his son looming above every other head
in the hall, Lord Jason Mallister white-haired with his winged helm
in the crook of his arm, Tytos Blackwood in his magnificent
raven-feather cloak . . . Half of them will
want to hang me now. The other half may only turn their eyes away.
She had the uneasy feeling that someone was missing, too.
Robb stood on the dais. He is a boy no longer, she realized with
a pang. He is sixteen now, a man grown. Just look at him. War had
melted all the softness from his face and left him hard and lean.
He had shaved his beard away, but his auburn hair fell uncut to his
shoulders. The recent rains had rusted his mail and left brown
stains on the white of his cloak and surcoat. Or perhaps the stains
were blood. On his head was the sword crown they had fashioned him
of bronze and iron. He bears it more comfortably now. He bears it
like a king.
Edmure stood below the crowded dais, head bowed modestly as Robb
praised his victory. “ . . . fell at the
Stone Mill shall never be forgotten. Small wonder Lord Tywin ran
off to fight Stannis. He’d had his fill of northmen and
rivermen both.” That brought laughter and approving shouts,
but Robb raised a hand for quiet. “Make no mistake, though.
The Lannisters will march again, and there will be other battles to
win before the kingdom is secure.”
The Greatjon roared out, “King in the North!” and
thrust a mailed fist into the air. The river lords answered with a
shout of “King of the Trident!” The hall grew
thunderous with pounding fists and stamping feet.
Only a few noted Catelyn and Ser Desmond amidst the tumult, but
they elbowed their fellows, and slowly a hush grew around her. She
held her head high and ignored the eyes. Let them think what they
will. It is Robb’s judgment that matters.
The sight of Ser Brynden Tully’s craggy face on the dais
gave her comfort. A boy she did not know seemed to be acting as
Robb’s squire. Behind him stood a young knight in a
sand-colored surcoat blazoned with seashells, and an older one who
wore three black pepperpots on a saffron bend, across a field of
green and silver stripes. Between them were a handsome older lady
and a pretty maid who looked to be her daughter. There was another
girl as well, near Sansa’s age. The seashells were the sigil
of some lesser house, Catelyn knew; the older man’s she did
not recognize. Prisoners? Why would Robb bring captives onto the
dais?
Utherydes Wayn banged his staff on the floor as Ser Desmond
escorted her forward. If Robb looks at me as Edmure did, I do not
know what I will do. But it seemed to her that it was not anger she
saw in her son’s eyes, but something
else . . . apprehension, perhaps? No, that made
no sense. What should he fear? He was the Young Wolf, King of the
Trident and the North.
Her uncle was the first to greet her. As black a fish as ever,
Ser Brynden had no care for what others might think. He leapt off
the dais and pulled Catelyn into his arms. When he said, “It
is good to see you home, Cat,” she had to struggle to keep
her composure. “And you,” she whispered.
“Mother.”
Catelyn looked up at her tall kingly son. “Your Grace, I
have prayed for your safe return. I had heard you were
wounded.”
“I took an arrow through the arm while storming the
Crag,” he said. “It’s healed well, though. I had
the best of care.”
“The gods are good, then.” Catelyn took a deep
breath. Say it. It cannot be avoided. “They will have told
you what I did. Did they tell you my reasons?”
“For the girls.”
“I had five children. Now I have three.”
“Aye, my lady.” Lord Rickard Karstark pushed past
the Greatjon, like some grim specter with his black mail and long
ragged grey beard, his narrow face pinched and cold. “And I
have one son, who once had three. You have robbed me of my
vengeance.”
Catelyn faced him calmly. “Lord Rickard, the
Kingslayer’s dying would not have bought life for your
children. His living may buy life for mine.”
The lord was
unappeased. “Jaime Lannister has played you for a fool.
You’ve bought a bag of empty words, no more. My Torrhen and
my Eddard deserved better of you.”
“Leave off, Karstark,” rumbled the Greatjon,
crossing his huge arms against his chest. “It was a
mother’s folly. Women are made that way.”
“A mother’s folly?” Lord Karstark rounded on
Lord Umber. “I name it treason.”
“Enough.” For just an instant Robb sounded more like
Brandon than his father. “No man calls my lady of Winterfell
a traitor in my hearing, Lord Rickard.” When he turned to
Catelyn, his voice softened. “If I could wish the Kingslayer
back in chains I would. You freed him without my knowledge or
consent . . . but what you did, I know you did
for love. For Arya and Sansa, and out of grief for Bran and Rickon.
Love’s not always wise, I’ve learned. It can lead us to
great folly, but we follow our
hearts . . . wherever they take us. Don’t
we, Mother?” Is that what I did? “If my heart led me into folly, I
would gladly make whatever amends I can to Lord Karstark and
yourself.”
Lord Rickard’s face was implacable. “Will your
amends warm Torrhen and Eddard in the cold graves where the
Kingslayer laid them?” He shouldered between the Greatjon and
Maege Mormont and left the hall.
Robb made no move to detain him. “Forgive him,
Mother.”
“If you will forgive me.”
“I have. I know what it is to love so greatly you can
think of nothing else.”
Catelyn bowed her head. “Thank you.” I have not lost
this child, at least.
“We must talk,” Robb went on. “You and my
uncles. Of this and . . . other things.
Steward, call an end.”
Utherydes Wayn slammed his staff on the floor and shouted the
dismissal, and river lords and northerners alike moved toward the
doors. It was only then that Catelyn realized what was amiss. The
wolf. The wolf is not here. Where is Grey Wind? She knew the
direwolf had returned with Robb, she had heard the dogs, but he was
not in the hall, not at her son’s side where he belonged.
Before she could think to question Robb, however, she found
herself surrounded by a circle of well-wishers. Lady Mormont took
her hand and said, “My lady, if Cersei Lannister held two of
my daughters, I would have done the same.” The Greatjon, no
respecter of proprieties, lifted her off her feet and squeezed her
arms with his huge hairy hands. “Your wolf pup mauled the
Kingslayer once, he’ll do it again if need be.” Galbart
Glover and Lord Jason Mallister were cooler, and Jonos Bracken
almost icy, but their words were courteous enough. Her brother was
the last to approach her. “I pray for your girls as well,
Cat. I hope you do not doubt that. “
“Of course not.” She kissed him. “I love you
for it.”
When all the words were done, the Great Hall of Riverrun was
empty save for Robb, the three Tullys, and the six strangers
Catelyn could not place. She eyed them curiously. “My lady,
sers, are you new to my son’s cause?”
“New,” said the younger knight, him of the
seashells, “but fierce in our courage and firm in our
loyalties, as I hope to prove to you, my lady.”
Robb looked uncomfortable. “Mother, “ he said,
“may I present the Lady Sybell, the wife of Lord Gawen
Westerling of the Crag.” The older woman came forward with
solemn mien. “Her husband was one of those we took captive in
the Whispering Wood.” Westerling, yes, Catelyn thought. Their banner is six seashells,
white on sand. A minor house sworn to the Lannisters.
Robb beckoned the other strangers forward, each in turn.
“Ser Rolph Spicer, Lady Sybell’s brother. He was
castellan at the Crag when we took it.” The pepperpot knight
inclined his head. A square-built man with a broken nose and a
close-cropped grey beard, he looked doughty enough. “The
children of Lord Gawen and Lady Sybell. Ser Raynald
Westerling.” The seashell knight smiled beneath a bushy
mustache. Young, lean, rough-hewn, he had good teeth and a thick
mop of chestnut hair. “Elenya.” The little girl did a
quick curtsy. “Rollam Westerling, my squire.” The boy
started to kneel, saw no one else was kneeling, and bowed
instead.
“The honor is mine,” Catelyn said. Can Robb have won
the Crag’s allegiance? If so, it was no wonder the
Westerlings were with him. Casterly Rock did not suffer such
betrayals gently. Not since Tywin Lannister had been old enough to
go to war . . .
The maid came forward last, and very shy. Robb took her hand.
“Mother,” he said, “I have the great honor to
present you the Lady Jeyne Westerling. Lord Gawen’s elder
daughter, and
my . . . ah . . . my lady
wife.”
The first thought that flew across Catelyn’s mind was, No,
that cannot be, you are only a child.
The second was, And besides, you have pledged another.
The third was, Mother have mercy, Robb, what have you done?
Only then came her belated remembrance. Follies done for love?
He has bagged me neat as a hare in a snare. I seem to have already
forgiven him. Mixed with her annoyance was a rueful admiration; the
scene had been staged with the cunning worthy of a master
mummer . . . or a king. Catelyn saw no choice
but to take Jeyne Westerling’s hands. “I have a new
daughter,” she said, more stiffly than she’d intended.
She kissed the terrified girl on both cheeks. “Be welcome to
our hall and hearth.”
“Thank you, my lady. I shall be a good and true wife to
Robb, I swear. And as wise a queen as I can.” Queen. Yes, this pretty little girl is a queen, I must remember
that. She was pretty, undeniably, with her chestnut curls and
heart-shaped face, and that shy smile. Slender, but with good hips,
Catelyn noted. She should have no trouble bearing children, at
least.
Lady Sybell took a hand before any more was said. “We are
honored to be joined to House Stark, my lady, but we are also very
weary. We have come a long way in a short time. Perhaps we might
retire to our chambers, so you may visit with your son?”
“That would be best.” Robb kissed his Jeyne.
“The steward will find you suitable
accommodations.”
“I’ll take you to him,” Ser Edmure Tully
volunteered.
“You are most kind,” said Lady Sybell.
“Must I go too?” asked the boy, Rollam.
“I’m your squire.”
Robb laughed. “But I’m not in need of squiring just
now.”
“Oh.”
“His Grace has gotten along for sixteen years without you,
Rollam,” said Ser Raynald of the seashells. “He will
survive a few hours more, I think.” Taking his little brother
firmly by the hand, he walked him from the hall.
“Your wife is lovely,” Catelyn said when they were
out of earshot, “and the Westerlings seem
worthy . . . though Lord Gawen is Tywin
Lannister’s sworn man, is he not?”
“Yes. Jason Mallister captured him in the Whispering Wood
and has been holding him at Seagard for ransom. Of course
I’ll free him now, though he may not wish to join me. We wed
without his consent, I fear, and this marriage puts him in dire
peril. The Crag is not strong. For love of me, Jeyne may lose
all.”
“And you,” she said softly, “have lost the
Freys.”
His wince told all. She understood the angry voices now, why
Perwyn Frey and Martyn Rivers had left in such haste, trampling
Robb’s banner into the ground as they went.
“Dare I ask how many swords come with your bride,
Robb?”
“Fifty. A dozen knights.” His voice was glum, as
well it might be. When the marriage contract had been made at the
Twins, old Lord Walder Frey had sent Robb off with a thousand
mounted knights and near three thousand foot. “Jeyne is
bright as well as beautiful. And kind as well. She has a gentle
heart.” It is swords you need, not gentle hearts. How could you do this,
Robb? How could you be so heedless, so stupid? How could you be
so . . . so
very . . . young. Reproaches would not serve
here, however. All she said was, “Tell me how this came to
be.”
“I took her castle and she took my heart.,’ Robb
smiled. “The Crag was weakly garrisoned, so we took it by
storm one night. Black Walder and the Smalljon led scaling parties
over the walls, while I broke the main gate with a ram. I took an
arrow in the arm just before Ser Rolph yielded us the castle. It
seemed nothing at first, but it festered. Jeyne had me taken to her
own bed, and she nursed me until the fever passed. And she was with
me when the Greatjon brought me the news
of . . . of Winterfell. Bran and Rickon.”
He seemed to have trouble saying his brothers’ names.
“That night, she . . . she comforted me,
Mother.”
Catelyn did not need to be told what sort of comfort Jeyne
Westerling had offered her son. “And you wed her the next
day.”
He looked her in the eyes, proud and miserable all at once.
“It was the only honorable thing to do. She’s gentle
and sweet, Mother, she will make me a good wife.”
“Perhaps. That will not appease Lord Frey.”
“I know,” her son said, stricken. “I’ve
made a botch of everything but the battles, haven’t I? I
thought the battles would be the hard part,
but . . . if I had listened to you and kept
Theon as my hostage, I’d still rule the north, and Bran and
Rickon would be alive and safe in Winterfell.”
“Perhaps. Or not. Lord Balon might still have chanced war.
The last time he reached for a crown, it cost him two sons. He
might have thought it a bargain to lose only one this time.”
She touched his arm. “What happened with the Freys, after you
wed?”
Robb shook his head. “With Ser Stevron, I might have been
able to make amends, but Ser Ryman is dull-witted as a stone, and
Black Walder . . . that one was not named for
the color of his beard, I promise you. He went so far as to say
that his sisters would not be loath to wed a widower. I would have
killed him for that if Jeyne had not begged me to be
merciful.”
“You have done House Frey a grievous insult,
Robb.”
“I never meant to. Ser Stevron died for me, and Olyvar was
as loyal a squire as any king could want. He asked to stay with me,
but Ser Ryman took him with the rest. All their strength. The
Greatjon urged me to attack
them . . . ”
“Fighting your own in the midst of your enemies?”
she said. “It would have been the end of you.”
“Yes. I thought perhaps we could arrange other matches for
Lord Walder’s daughters. Ser Wendel Manderly has offered to
take one, and the Greatjon tells me his uncles wish to wed again.
If Lord Walder will be reasonable—”
“He is not reasonable,” said Catelyn. “He is
proud, and prickly to a fault. You know that. He wanted to be
grandfather to a king. You will not appease him with the offer of
two hoary old brigands and the second son of the fattest man in the
Seven Kingdoms. Not only have you broken your oath, but
you’ve slighted the honor of the Twins by choosing a bride
from a lesser house.”
Robb bristled at that. “The Westerlings are better blood
than the Freys. They’re an ancient line, descended from the
First Men. The Kings of the Rock sometimes wed Westerlings before
the Conquest, and there was another Jeyne Westerling who was queen
to King Maegor three hundred years ago.”
“All of which will only salt Lord Walder’s wounds.
It has always rankled him that older houses look down on the Freys
as upstarts. This insult is not the first he’s borne, to hear
him tell it. Jon Arryn was disinclined to foster his grandsons, and
my father refused the offer of one of his daughters for
Edmure.” She inclined her head toward her brother as he
rejoined them.
“Your Grace,” Brynden Blackflsh said, “perhaps
we had best continue this in private.”
“Yes.” Robb sounded tired. “I would kill for a
cup of wine. The audience chamber, I think.”
As they started up the steps, Catelyn asked the question that
had been troubling her since she entered the hall. “Robb,
where is Grey Wind?”
“In the yard, with a haunch of mutton. I told the
kennelmaster to see that he was fed.”
“You always kept him with you before.”
“A hall is no place for a wolf. He gets restless,
you’ve seen. Growling and snapping. I should never have taken
him into battle with me. He’s killed too many men to fear
them now. Jeyne’s anxious around him, and he terrifies her
mother.” And there’s the heart of it, Catelyn thought. “He is
part of you, Robb. To fear him is to fear you.”
“I am not a wolf, no matter what they call me.” Robb
sounded cross. “Grey Wind killed a man at the Crag, another
at Ashemark, and six or seven at Oxcross. If you had seen—”
“I saw Bran’s wolf tear out a man’s throat at
Winterfell,” she said sharply, “and loved him for
it.”
“That’s different. The man at the Crag was a knight
Jeyne had known all her life. You can’t blame her for being
afraid. Grey Wind doesn’t like her uncle either. He bares his
teeth every time Ser Rolph comes near him.”
A chill went through her. “Send Ser Rolph away. At
once.”
“Where? Back to the Crag, so the Lannisters can mount his
head on a spike? Jeyne loves him. He’s her uncle, and a fair
knight besides. I need more men like Rolph Spicer, not fewer. I am
not going to banish him just because my wolf doesn’t seem to
like the way he smells.”
“Robb.” She stopped and held his arm. “I told
you once to keep Theon Greyjoy close, and you did not listen.
Listen now. Send this man away. I am not saying you must banish
him. Find some task that requires a man of courage, some honorable
duty, what it is matters not . . . but do not
keep him near you.”
He frowned. “Should I have Grey Wind sniff all my knights?
There might be others whose smell he mislikes.”
“Any man Grey Wind mislikes is a man I do not want close
to you. These wolves are more than wolves, Robb. You must know
that. I think perhaps the gods sent them to us. Your father’s
gods, the old gods of the north. Five wolf pups, Robb, five for
five Stark children.”
“Six,” said Robb. “There was a wolf for Jon as
well. I found them, remember? I know how many there were and where
they came from. I used to think the same as you, that the wolves
were our guardians, our protectors,
until . . . ”
“Until?” she prompted.
Robb’s mouth tightened. “ . . . Until they told me that Theon had
murdered Bran and Rickon. Small good their wolves did them. I am no
longer a boy, Mother. I’m a king, and I can protect
myself.” He sighed. “I will find some duty for Ser
Rolph, some pretext to send him away. Not because of his smell, but
to ease your mind. You have suffered enough.”
Relieved, Catelyn kissed him lightly on the cheek before the
others could come around the turn of the stair, and for a moment he
was her boy again, and not her king.
Lord Hoster’s private audience chamber was a small room
above the Great Hall, better suited to intimate discussions. Robb
took the high seat, removed his crown, and set it on the floor
beside him as Catelyn rang for wine. Edmure was filling his
uncle’s ear with the whole story of the fight at the Stone
Mill. It was only after the servants had come and gone that the
Blackfish cleared his throat and said, “I think we’ve
all heard sufficient of your boasting, Nephew.”
Edmure was taken aback. “Boasting? What do you
mean?”
“I mean,” said the Blackfish, “that you owe
His Grace your thanks for his forbearance. He played out that
mummer’s farce in the Great Hall so as not to shame you
before your own people. Had it been me I would have flayed you for
your stupidity rather than praising this folly of the
fords.”
“Good men died to defend those fords, Uncle.” Edmure
sounded outraged. “What, is no one to win victories but the
Young Wolf? Did I steal some glory meant for you, Robb?”
“Your Grace,” Robb corrected, icy. “You took
me for your king, Uncle. Or have you forgotten that as
well?”
The Blackfish said, “You were commanded to hold Riverrun,
Edmure, no more.”
“I held Riverrun, and I bloodied Lord Tywin’s
nose—”
“So you did,” said Robb. “But a bloody nose
won’t win the war, will it? Did you ever think to ask
yourself why we remained in the west so long after Oxcross? You
knew I did not have enough men to threaten Lannisport or Casterly
Rock.”
“Why . . . there were other
castles . . . gold,
cattle . . . ”
“You think we stayed for plunder?” Robb was
incredulous. “Uncle, I wanted Lord Tywin to come
west.”
“We were all horsed,” Ser Brynden said. “The
Lannister host was mainly foot. We planned to run Lord Tywin a
merry chase up and down the coast, then slip behind him to take up
a strong defensive position athwart the gold road, at a place my
scouts had found where the ground would have been greatly in our
favor. If he had come at us there, he would have paid a grievous
price. But if he did not attack, he would have been trapped in the
west, a thousand leagues from where he needed to be. All the while
we would have lived off his land, instead of him living off
ours.”
“Lord Stannis was about to fall upon King’s
Landing,” Robb said. “He might have rid us of Joffrey,
the queen, and the Imp in one red stroke. Then we might have been
able to make a peace.”
Edmure looked from uncle to nephew. “You never told
me.”
“I told you to hold Riverrun, “ said Robb.
“What part of that command did you fail to
comprehend?”
“When you stopped Lord Tywin on the Red Fork,” said
the Blackfish, “you delayed him just long enough for riders out of
Bitterbridge to reach him with word of what was happening to the
east. Lord Tywin turned his host at once, joined up with Matthis
Rowan and Randyll Tarly near the headwaters of the Blackwater, and
made a forced march to Tumbler’s Falls, where he found Mace
Tyrell and two of his sons waiting with a huge host and a fleet of
barges. They floated down the river, disembarked half a day’s
ride from the city, and took Stannis in the rear.”
Catelyn remembered King Renly’s court, as she had seen it
at Bitterbridge. A thousand golden roses streaming in the wind,
Queen Margaery’s shy smile and soft words, her brother the
Knight of Flowers with the bloody linen around his temples. If you
had to fall into a woman’s arms, my son, why couldn’t
they have been Margaery Tyrell’s? The wealth and power of
Highgarden could have made all the difference in the fighting yet
to come. And perhaps Grey Wind would have liked the smell of her as
well.
Edmure looked ill. “I never
meant . . . never, Robb, you must let me make
amends. I will lead the van in the next battle!” For amends, Brother? Or for glory? Catelyn wondered.
“The next battle,” Robb said. “Well, that will
be soon enough. Once Joffrey is wed, the Lannisters will take the
fleld against me once more, I don’t doubt, and this time the
Tyrells will march beside them. And I may need to fight the Freys
as well, if Black Walder has his
way . . . ”
“So long as Theon Greyjoy sits in your father’s seat
with your brothers’ blood on his hands, these other foes must
wait,” Catelyn told her son. “Your first duty is to
defend your own people, win back Winterfell, and hang Theon in a
crow’s cage to die slowly. Or else put off that crown for
good, Robb, for men will know that you are no true king at
all.”
From the way Robb looked at her, she could tell that it had been
a long while since anyone had dared speak to him so bluntly.
“When they told me Winterfell had fallen, I wanted to go
north at once,” he said, with a hint of defensiveness.
“I wanted to free Bran and Rickon, but I
thought . . . I never dreamed that Theon could
harm them, truly. If I had . . . ”
“It is too late for ifs, and too late for rescues,”
Catelyn said. “All that remains is vengeance.”
“The last word we had from the north, Ser Rodrik had
defeated a force of ironmen near Torrhen’s Square, and was
assembling a host at Castle Cerwyn to retake Winterfell.” said Robb. “By now he may have done it. There has
been no news for a long while. And what of the Trident, if I turn
north? I can’t ask the river lords to abandon their own
people.”
“No,” said Catelyn. “Leave them to guard their
own, and win back the north with northmen.”
“How will you get the northmen to the north?” her
brother Edmure asked. “The ironmen control the sunset sea.
The Greyjoys hold Moat Cailin as well. No army has ever taken Moat
Cailin from the south. Even to march against it is madness. We
could be trapped on the causeway, with the ironborn before us and
angry Freys at our backs.”
“We must win back the Freys,” said Robb. “With
them, we still have some chance of success, however small. Without
them, I see no hope. I am willing to give Lord Walder whatever he
requires . . . apologies, honors, lands,
gold . . . there must be something that would
soothe his pride . . . ”
“Not something,” said Catelyn.
“Someone.”