Let the kings of winter have their cold crypt under the earth,
Catelyn thought. The Tullys drew their strength from the river, and
it was to the river they returned when their lives had run their
course.
They laid Lord Hoster in a slender wooden boat, clad in shining
silver armor, plate-and-mail. His cloak was spread beneath him,
rippling blue and red. His surcoat was divided blue-and-red as
well. A trout, scaled in silver and bronze, crowned the crest of
the greathelm they placed beside his head. On his chest they placed
a painted wooden sword, his fingers curled about its hilt. Mail
gauntlets hid his wasted hands, and made him look almost strong
again. His massive oak-and-iron shield was set by his left side,
his hunting horn to his right. The rest of the boat was filled with
driftwood and kindling and scraps of parchment, and stones to make
it heavy in the water. His banner flew from the prow, the leaping
trout of Riverrun.
Seven were chosen to push the funereal boat to the water, in
honor of the seven faces of god. Robb was one, Lord Hoster’s
liege lord. With him were the Lords Bracken, Blackwood, Vance, and
Mallister, Ser Marq Piper . . . and Lame Lothar
Frey, who had come down from the Twins with the answer they had
awaited. Forty soldiers rode in his escort, commanded by Walder
Rivers, the eldest of Lord Walder’s bastard brood, a stern,
grey-haired man with a formidable reputation as a warrior. Their
arrival, coming within hours of Lord Hoster’s passing, had
sent Edmure into a rage. “Walder Frey should be flayed and
quartered!” he’d shouted. “He sends a cripple and
a bastard to treat with us, tell me there is no insult meant by
that.”
“I have no doubt that Lord Walder chose his envoys with
care,” she replied. “It was a peevish thing to do, a
petty sort of revenge, but remember who we are dealing with. The
Late Lord Frey, Father used to call him. The man is ill-tempered,
envious, and above all prideful.”
Blessedly, her son had shown better sense than her brother. Robb
had greeted the Freys with every courtesy, found barracks space for
the escort, and quietly asked Ser Desmond Grell to stand aside so
Lothar might have the honor of helping to send Lord Hoster on his
last voyage. He has learned a rough wisdom beyond his years, my
son. House Frey might have abandoned the King in the North, but the
Lord of the Crossing remained the most powerful of Riverrun’s
bannermen, and Lothar was here in his stead.
The seven launched Lord Hoster from the water stair, wading down
the steps as the portcullis was winched upward. Lothar Frey, a
soft-bodied portly man, was breathing heavily as they shoved the
boat out into the current. Jason Mallister and Tytos Blackwood, at
the prow, stood chest deep in the river to guide it on its way.
Catelyn watched from the battlements, waiting and watching as
she had waited and watched so many times before. Beneath her, the
swift wild Tumblestone plunged like a spear into the side of the
broad Red Fork, its blue-white current churning the muddy red-brown
flow of the greater river. A morning mist hung over the water, as
thin as gossamer and the wisps of memory. Bran and Rickon will be waiting for him, Catelyn thought sadly,
as once I used to wait.
The slim boat drifted out from under the red stone arch of the
Water Gate, picking up speed as it was caught in the headlong rush
of the Tumblestone and pushed out into the tumult where the waters
met. As the boat emerged from beneath the high sheltering walls of
the castle, its square sail filled with wind, and Catelyn saw
sunlight flashing on her father’s helm. Lord Hoster
Tully’s rudder held true, and he sailed serenely down the
center of the channel, into the rising sun.
“Now,” her uncle urged. Beside him, her brother
Edmure—Lord Edmure now in truth, and how long would that take to
grow used to?—nocked an arrow to his bowstring. His squire held a
brand to its point. Edmure waited until the flame caught, then
lifted the great bow, drew the string to his ear, and let fly. With
a deep thrum, the arrow sped upward. Catelyn followed its flight
with her eyes and heart, until it plunged into the water with a
soft hiss, well astern of Lord Hoster’s boat.
Edmure cursed softly. “The wind,” he said, pulling a
second arrow. “Again.” The brand kissed the oil-soaked
rag behind the arrowhead, the flames went licking up, Edmure
lifted, pulled, and released. High and far the arrow flew. Too far.
It vanished in the river a dozen yards beyond the boat, its fire
winking out in an instant. A flush was creeping up Edmure’s
neck, red as his beard. “Once more,” he commanded,
taking a third arrow from the quiver. He is as tight as his
bowstring, Catelyn thought.
Ser Brynden must have seen the same thing. “Let me, my
lord,” he offered.
“I can do it,” Edmure insisted. He let them light
the arrow, jerked the bow up, took a deep breath, drew back the
arrow. For a long moment he seemed to hesitate while the fire crept
up the shaft, crackling. Finally he released. The arrow flashed up
and up, and finally curved down again, falling,
falling . . . and hissing past the billowing
sail.
A narrow miss, no more than a handspan, and yet a miss.
“The Others take it!” her brother swore. The boat was
almost out of range, drifting in and out among the river mists.
Wordless, Edmure thrust the bow at his uncle.
“Swiftly,” Ser Brynden said, He nocked an arrow,
held it steady for the brand, drew and released before Catelyn was
quite sure that the fire had caught . . . but
as the shot rose, she saw the flames trailing through the air, a
pale orange pennon. The boat had vanished in the mists. Falling,
the flaming arrow was swallowed up as
well . . . but only for a heartbeat. Then,
sudden as hope, they saw the red bloom flower. The sails took fire,
and the fog glowed pink and orange. For a moment Catelyn saw the
outline of the boat clearly, wreathed in leaping flames. Watch for me, little cat, she could hear him whisper.
Catelyn reached out blindly, groping for her brother’s
hand, but Edmure had moved away, to stand alone on the highest
point of the battlements. Her uncle Brynden took her hand instead,
twining his strong fingers through hers. Together they watched the
little fire grow smaller as the burning boat receded in the
distance.
And then it was gone . . . drifting
downriver still, perhaps, or broken up and sinking. The weight of
his armor would carry Lord Hoster down to rest in the soft mud of
the riverbed, in the watery halls where the Tullys held eternal
court, with schools of fish their last attendants.
No sooner had the burning boat vanished from their sight than
Edmure walked off. Catelyn would have liked to embrace him, if only
for a moment; to sit for an hour or a night or the turn of a moon
to speak of the dead and mourn. Yet she knew as well as he that
this was not the time; he was Lord of Riverrun now, and his knights
were falling in around him, murmuring condolences and promises of
fealty, walling him off from something as small as a sister’s
grief. Edmure listened, hearing none of the words.
“It is no disgrace to miss your shot,” her uncle
told her quietly. “Edmure should hear that. The day my own
lord father went downriver, Hoster missed as well.”
“With his first shaft.” Catelyn had been too young
to remember, but Lord Hoster had often told the tale. “His
second found the sail.” She sighed. Edmure was not as strong
as he seemed. Their father’s death had been a mercy when it
came at last, but even so her brother had taken it hard.
Last night in his cups he had broken down and wept, full of
regrets for things undone and words unsaid. He ought never to have
ridden off to fight his battle on the fords, he told her tearfully;
he should have stayed at their father’s bedside. “I
should have been with him, as you were,” he said. “Did
he speak of me at the end? Tell me true, Cat. Did he ask for
me?”
Lord Hoster’s last word had been “Tansy,” but
Catelyn could not bring herself to tell him that. “He
whispered your name,” she lied, and her brother had nodded
gratefully and kissed her hand. If he had not tried to drown his
grief and guilt, he might have been able to bend a bow, she thought
to herself, sighing, but that was something else she dare not
say.
The Blackfish escorted her down from the battlements to where
Robb stood among his bannermen, his young queen at his side. When
he saw her, her son took her silently in his arms.
“Lord Hoster looked as noble as a king, my lady,”
murmured Jeyne. “Would that I had been given the chance to
know him.”
“And I to know him better,” added Robb.
“He would have wished that too,” said Catelyn.
“There were too many leagues between Riverrun and
Winterfell.” And too many mountains and rivers and armies
between Riverrun and the Eyrie, it would seem. Lysa had made no
reply to her letter.
And from King’s Landing came only silence as well. By now
she had hoped that Brienne and Ser Cleos would have reached the
city with their captive. It might even be that Brienne was on her
way back, and the girls with her. Ser Cleos swore he would make the
Imp send a raven once the trade was made. He swore it! Ravens did
not always win through. Some bowman could have brought the bird
down and roasted him for supper. The letter that would have set her
heart at ease might even now be lying by the ashes of some campfire
beside a pile of raven bones.
Others were waiting to offer Robb their consolations, so Catelyn
stood aside patiently while Lord Jason Mallister, the Greatjon, and
Ser Rolph Spicer spoke to him each in turn. But when Lothar Frey
approached, she gave his sleeve a tug. Robb turned, and waited to
hear what Lothar would say.
“Your Grace.” A plump man in his middle thirties,
Lothar Frey had close-set eyes, a pointed beard, and dark hair that
fell to his shoulders in ringlets. A leg twisted at birth had
earned him the name Lame Lothar. He had served as his
father’s steward for the past dozen years. “We are
loath to intrude upon your grief, but perhaps you might grant us
audience tonight?”
“It would be my pleasure,” said Robb. “It was
never my wish to sow enmity between us.”
“Nor mine to be the cause of it,” said Queen
Jeyne.
Lothar Frey smiled. “I understand, as does my lord father.
He instructed me to say that he was young once, and well remembers
what it is like to lose one’s heart to beauty.”
Catelyn doubted very much that Lord Walder had said any such
thing, or that he had ever lost his heart to beauty. The Lord of
the Crossing had outlived seven wives and was now wed to his
eighth, but he spoke of them only as bedwarmers and brood mares.
Still, the words were fairly spoken, and she could scarce object to
the compliment. Nor did Robb. “Your father is most
gracious,” he said. “I shall look forward to our
talk.”
Lothar bowed, kissed the queen’s hand, and withdrew. By
then a dozen others had gathered for a word. Robb spoke with them
each, giving a thanks here, a smile there, as needed. Only when the
last of them was done did he turn back to Catelyn. “There is
something we must speak of. Will you walk with me?”
“As you command, Your Grace.”
“That wasn’t a command, Mother.”
“It will be my pleasure, then.” Her son had treated
her kindly enough since returning to Riverrun, yet he seldom sought
her out. If he was more comfortable with his young queen, she could
scarcely blame him. Jeyne makes him smile, and I have nothing to
share with him but grief. He seemed to enjoy the company of his
bride’s brothers, as well; young Rollam his squire and Ser
Raynald his standard-bearer. They are standing in the boots of
those he’s lost, Catelyn realized when she watched them
together. Rollam has taken Bran’s place, and Raynald is part
Theon and part Jon Snow. Only with the Westerlings did she see Robb
smile, or hear him laugh like the boy he was. To the others he was
always the King in the North, head bowed beneath the weight of the
crown even when his brows were bare.
Robb kissed his wife gently, promised to see her in their
chambers, and went off with his lady mother. His steps led them
toward the godswood. “Lothar seemed amiable, that’s a
hopeful sign. We need the Freys.”
“That does not mean we shall have them.”
He nodded, and there was glumness to his face and a slope to his
shoulders that made her heart go out to him. The crown is crushing
him, she thought. He wants so much to be a good king, to be brave
and honorable and clever, but the weight is too much for a boy to
bear. Robb was doing all he could, yet still the blows kept
falling, one after the other, relentless. When they brought him
word of the battle at Duskendale, where Lord Randyll Tarly had
shattered Robett Glover and Ser Helman Tallhart, he might have been
expected to rage. Instead he’d stared in dumb disbelief and
said, “Duskendale, on the narrow sea? Why would they go to
Duskendale?” He’d shook his head, bewildered. “A
third of my foot, lost for Duskendale?”
“The ironmen have my castle and now the Lannisters hold my
brother,” Galbart Glover said, in a voice thick with despair.
Robett Glover had survived the battle, but had been captured near
the kingsroad not long after.
“Not for long,” her son promised. “I will
offer them Martyn Lannister in exchange. Lord Tywin will have to
accept, for his brother’s sake.” Martyn was Ser
Kevan’s son, a twin to the Willem that Lord Karstark had
butchered. Those murders still haunted her son, Catelyn knew. He
had tripled the guard around Martyn, but still feared for his
safety.
“I should have traded the Kingslayer for Sansa when you
first urged it,” Robb said as they walked the gallery.
“If I’d offered to wed her to the Knight of Flowers,
the Tyrells might be ours instead of Joffrey’s. I should have
thought of that.”
“Your mind was on your battles, and rightly so. Even a
king cannot think of everything.”
“Battles,” muttered Robb as he led her out beneath
the trees. “I have won every battle, yet somehow I’m
losing the war.” He looked up, as if the answer might be
written on the sky. “The ironmen hold Winterfell, and Moat
Cailin too. Father’s dead, and Bran and Rickon, maybe Arya.
And now your father too.”
She could not let him despair. She knew the taste of that
draught too well herself. “My father has been dying for a
long time. You could not have changed that. You have made mistakes,
Robb, but what king has not? Ned would have been proud of
you.”
“Mother, there is something you must know.”
Catelyn’s heart skipped a beat. This is something he
hates. Something he dreads to tell me. All she could think of was
Brienne and her mission. “Is it the Kingslayer?”
“No. It’s Sansa.” She’s dead, Catelyn thought at once. Brienne failed, Jaime
is dead, and Cersei has killed my sweet girl in retribution. For a
moment she could barely speak.
“Is . . . is she gone, Robb?”
“Gone?” He looked startled. “Dead? Oh, Mother,
no, not that, they haven’t harmed her, not that way,
only . . . a bird came last night, but I
couldn’t bring myself to tell you, not until your father was
sent to his rest.” Robb took her hand. “They married
her to Tyrion Lannister.”
Catelyn’s fingers clutched at his. “The
Imp.”
“Yes.”
“He swore to trade her for his brother,” she said
numbly. “Sansa and Arya both. We would have them back if we
returned his precious Jaime, he swore it before the whole court.
How could he marry her, after saying that in sight of gods and
men?”
“He’s the Kingslayer’s brother. Oathbreaking
runs in their blood.” Robb’s fingers brushed the pommel
of his sword. “If I could I’d take his ugly head off. Sansa
would be a widow then, and free. There’s no other way that I
can see. They made her speak the vows before a septon and don a
crimson cloak.”
Catelyn remembered the twisted little man she had seized at the
crossroads inn and carried all the way to the Eyrie. “I
should have let Lysa push him out her Moon Door. My poor sweet
Sansa . . . why would anyone do this to
her?”
“For Winterfell,” Robb said at once. “With
Bran and Rickon dead, Sansa is my heir. If anything should happen
to me . . . ”
She clutched tight at his hand. “Nothing will happen to
you. Nothing. I could not stand it. They took Ned, and your sweet
brothers. Sansa is married, Arya is lost, my father’s
dead . . . if anything befell you, I would go
mad, Robb. You are all I have left. You are all the north has
left.”
“I am not dead yet, Mother.”
Suddenly Catelyn was full of dread. “Wars need not be
fought until the last drop of blood.” Even she could hear the
desperation in her voice. “You would not be the first king to
bend the knee, nor even the first Stark.”
His mouth tightened. “No. Never.”
“There is no shame in it. Balon Greyjoy bent the knee to
Robert when his rebellion failed. Torrhen Stark bent the knee to
Aegon the Conqueror rather than see his army face the
fires.”
“Did Aegon kill King Torrhen’s father?” He
pulled his hand from hers. “Never, I said.” He is playing the boy now, not the king. “The Lannisters
do not need the north. They will require homage and hostages, no
more . . . and the Imp will keep Sansa no
matter what we do, so they have their hostage. The ironmen will
prove a more implacable enemy, I promise you. To have any hope of
holding the north, the Greyjoys must leave no single sprig of House
Stark alive to dispute their right. Theon’s murdered Bran and
Rickon, so now all they need do is kill
you . . . and Jeyne, yes. Do you think Lord
Balon can afford to let her live to bear you heirs?”
Robb’s face was cold. “Is that why you freed the
Kingslayer? To make a peace with the Lannisters?”
“I freed Jaime for Sansa’s
sake . . . and Arya’s, if she still
lives. You know that. But if I nurtured some hope of buying peace
as well, was that so ill?”
“Yes,” he said. “The Lannisters killed my
father.”
“Do you think I have forgotten that?”
“I don’t know. Have you?”
Catelyn had never struck her children in anger, but she almost
struck Robb then. It was an effort to remind herself how frightened
and alone he must feel. “You are King in the North, the
choice is yours. I only ask that you think on what I’ve said.
The singers make much of kings who die valiantly in battle, but
your life is worth more than a song. To me at least, who gave it to
you.” She lowered her head. “Do I have your leave to
go?”
“Yes.” He turned away and drew his sword. What he
meant to do with it, she could not say. There was no enemy there,
no one to fight. Only her and him, amongst tall trees and fallen
leaves. There are fights no sword can win, Catelyn wanted to tell
him, but she feared the king was deaf to such words.
Hours later, she was sewing in her bedchamber when young Rollam
Westerling came running with the summons to supper. Good, Catelyn
thought, relieved. She had not been certain that her son would want
her there, after their quarrel. “A dutiful squire,” she
said to Rollam gravely. Bran would have been the same.
If Robb seemed cool at table and Edmure surly, Lame Lothar made
up for them both. He was the model of courtesy, reminiscing warmly
about Lord Hoster, offering Catelyn gentle condolences on the loss
of Bran and Rickon, praising Edmure for the victory at Stone Mill,
and thanking Robb for the “swift sure justice” he had
meted out to Rickard Karstark. Lothar’s bastard brother
Walder Rivers was another matter; a harsh sour man with old Lord
Walder’s suspicious face, he spoke but seldom and devoted
most of his attention to the meat and mead that was set before
him.
When all the empty words were said, the queen and the other
Westerlings excused themselves, the remains of the meal were
cleared away, and Lothar Frey cleared his throat. “Before we
turn to the business that brings us here, there is another
matter,” he said solemnly. “A grave matter, I fear. I
had hoped it would not fall to me to bring you these tidings, but
it seems I must. My lord father has had a letter from his
grandsons.”
Catelyn had been so lost in grief for her own that she had
almost forgotten the two Freys she had agreed to foster. No more,
she thought. Mother have mercy, how many more blows can we bear?
Somehow she knew the next words she heard would plunge yet another
blade into her heart. “The grandsons at Winterfell?”
she made herself ask. “My wards?”
“Walder and Walder, yes. But they are presently at the
Dreadfort, my lady. I grieve to tell you this, but there has been a
battle. Winterfell is burned.”
“Burned?” Robb’s voice was incredulous.
“Your northern lords tried to retake it from the ironmen.
When Theon Greyjoy saw that his prize was lost, he put the castle
to the torch.”
“We have heard naught of any battle,” said Ser
Brynden.
“My nephews are young, I grant you, but they were there.
Big Walder wrote the letter, though his cousin signed as well. It
was a bloody bit of business, by their account. Your castellan was
slain. Ser Rodrik, was that his name?”
“Ser Rodrik Cassel,” said Catelyn numbly. That dear
brave loyal old soul. She could almost see him, tugging on his
fierce white whiskers. “What of our other people?”
“The ironmen put many of them to the sword, I
fear.”
Wordless with rage, Robb slammed a fist down on the table and
turned his face away, so the Freys would not see his tears.
But his mother saw them. The world grows a little darker every
day. Catelyn’s thoughts went to Ser Rodrik’s little
daughter Beth, to tireless Maester Luwin and cheerful Septon
Chayle, Mikken at the forge, Farlen and Palla in the kennels, Old
Nan and simple Hodor. Her heart was sick. “Please, not
all.”
“No,” said Lame Lothar. “The women and
children hid, my nephews Walder and Walder among them. With
Winterfell in ruins, the survivors were carried back to the
Dreadfort by this son of Lord Bolton’s.”
“Bolton’s son?” Robb’s voice was
strained.
Walder Rivers spoke up. “A bastard son, I
believe.”
“Not Ramsay Snow? Does Lord Roose have another
bastard?” Robb scowled. “This Ramsay was a monster and
a murderer, and he died a coward. Or so I was told.”
“I cannot speak to that. There is much confusion in any
war. Many false reports. All I can tell you is that my nephews
claim it was this bastard son of Bolton’s who saved the women
of Winterfell, and the little ones. They are safe at the Dreadfort
now, all those who remain.”
“Theon,” Robb said suddenly. “What happened to
Theon Greyjoy? Was he slain?”
Lame Lothar spread his hands. “That I cannot say, Your
Grace. Walder and Walder made no mention of his fate. Perhaps Lord
Bolton might know, if he has had word from this son of
his.”
Ser Brynden said, “We will be certain to ask
him.”
“You are all distraught, I see. I am sorry to have brought
you such fresh grief. Perhaps we should adjourn until the morrow.
Our business can wait until you have composed
yourselves . . . ”
“No,” said Robb, “I want the matter
settled.”
Her brother Edmure nodded. “Me as well. Do you have an
answer to our offer, my lord?”
“I do.” Lothar smiled. “My lord father bids me
tell Your Grace that he will agree to this new marriage alliance
between our houses and renew his fealty to the King in the North,
upon the condition that the King’s Grace apologize for the
insult done to House Frey, in his royal person, face to
face.”
An apology was a small enough price to pay, but Catelyn misliked
this petty condition of Lord Walder’s at once.
“I am pleased,” Robb said cautiously. “It was
never my wish to cause this rift between us, Lothar. The Freys have
fought valiantly for my cause. I would have them at my side once
more.”
“You are too kind, Your Grace. As you accept these terms,
I am then instructed to offer Lord Tully the hand of my sister, the
Lady Roslin, a maid of sixteen years. Roslin is my lord
father’s youngest daughter by Lady Bethany of House Rosby,
his sixth wife. She has a gentle nature and a gift for
music.”
Edmure shifted in his seat. “Might not it be better if I
first met—”
“You’ll meet when you’re wed,” said
Walder Rivers curtly. “Unless Lord Tully feels a need to
count her teeth first?”
Edmure kept his temper. “I will take your word so far as
her teeth are concerned, but it would be pleasant if I might gaze
upon her face before I espoused her.”
“You must accept her now, my lord,” said Walder
Rivers. “Else my father’s offer is
withdrawn.”
Lame Lothar spread his hands. “My brother has a
soldier’s bluntness, but what he says is true. It is my lord
father’s wish that this marriage take place at
once.”
“At once?” Edmure sounded so unhappy that Catelyn
had the unworthy thought that perhaps he had been entertaining
notions of breaking the betrothal after the fighting was done.
“Has Lord Walder forgotten that we are fighting a
war?” Brynden Blackfish asked sharply.
“Scarcely,” said Lothar. “That is why he
insists that the marriage take place now, ser. Men die in war, even
men who are young and strong. What would become of our alliance
should Lord Edmure fall before he took Roslin to bride? And there
is my father’s age to consider as well. He is past ninety and
not like to see the end of this struggle. It would put his noble
heart at peace if he could see his dear Roslin safely wed before
the gods take him, so he might die with the knowledge that the girl
had a strong husband to cherish and protect her.” We all want Lord Walder to die happy. Catelyn was growing less
and less comfortable with this arrangement. “My brother has
just lost his own father. He needs time to mourn.”
“Roslin is a cheerful girl,” said Lothar. “She
may be the very thing Lord Edmure needs to help him through his
grief.”
“And my grandfather has come to mislike lengthy
betrothals,” the bastard Walder Rivers added. “I cannot
imagine why.”
Robb gave him a chilly look. “I take your meaning, Rivers.
Pray excuse us.”
“As Your Grace commands.” Lame Lothar rose, and his
bastard brother helped him hobble from the room.
Edmure was seething. “They’re as much as saying that
my promise is worthless. Why should I let that old weasel choose my
bride? Lord Walder has other daughters besides this Roslin.
Granddaughters as well. I should be offered the same choice you
were. I’m his liege lord, he should be overjoyed that
I’m willing to wed any of them.”
“He is a proud man, and we’ve wounded him,”
said Catelyn.
“The Others take his pride! I will not be shamed in my own
hall. My answer is no.”
Robb gave him a weary look. “I will not command you. Not
in this. But if you refuse, Lord Frey will take it for another
slight, and any hope of putting this arights will be
gone.”
“You cannot know that,” Edmure insisted. “Frey
has wanted me for one of his daughters since the day I was born. He
will not let a chance like this slip between those grasping fingers
of his. When Lothar brings him our answer, he’ll come
wheedling back and accept a betrothal . . . and
to a daughter of my choosing.”
“Perhaps, in time,” said Brynden Blackfish.
“But can we wait, while Lothar rides back and forth with
offers and counters?”
Robb’s hands curled into fists. “I must get back to
the north. My brothers dead, Winterfell burned, my smallfolk put to
the sword . . . the gods only know what this
bastard of Bolton’s is about, or whether Theon is still alive
and on the loose. I can’t sit here waiting for a wedding that
might or might not happen.”
“It must happen,” said Catelyn, though not gladly.
“I have no more wish to suffer Walder Frey’s insults
and complaints than you do, Brother, but I see little choice here.
Without this wedding, Robb’s cause is lost. Edmure, we must
accept.”
“We must accept?” he echoed peevishly. “I
don’t see you offering to become the ninth Lady Frey,
Cat.”
“The eighth Lady Frey is still alive and well, so far as I
know,” she replied. Thankfully. Otherwise it might well have
come to that, knowing Lord Walder.
The Blackfish said, “I am the last man in the Seven
Kingdoms to tell anyone who they must wed, Nephew. Nonetheless, you
did say something of making amends for your Battle of the
Fords.”
“I had in mind a different sort of amends. Single combat
with the Kingslayer. Seven years of penace as a begging brother.
Swimming the sunset sea with my legs tied.” When he saw that
no one was smiling, Edmure threw up his hands. “The Others
take you all! Very well, I’ll wed the wench. As
amends.”
Let the kings of winter have their cold crypt under the earth,
Catelyn thought. The Tullys drew their strength from the river, and
it was to the river they returned when their lives had run their
course.
They laid Lord Hoster in a slender wooden boat, clad in shining
silver armor, plate-and-mail. His cloak was spread beneath him,
rippling blue and red. His surcoat was divided blue-and-red as
well. A trout, scaled in silver and bronze, crowned the crest of
the greathelm they placed beside his head. On his chest they placed
a painted wooden sword, his fingers curled about its hilt. Mail
gauntlets hid his wasted hands, and made him look almost strong
again. His massive oak-and-iron shield was set by his left side,
his hunting horn to his right. The rest of the boat was filled with
driftwood and kindling and scraps of parchment, and stones to make
it heavy in the water. His banner flew from the prow, the leaping
trout of Riverrun.
Seven were chosen to push the funereal boat to the water, in
honor of the seven faces of god. Robb was one, Lord Hoster’s
liege lord. With him were the Lords Bracken, Blackwood, Vance, and
Mallister, Ser Marq Piper . . . and Lame Lothar
Frey, who had come down from the Twins with the answer they had
awaited. Forty soldiers rode in his escort, commanded by Walder
Rivers, the eldest of Lord Walder’s bastard brood, a stern,
grey-haired man with a formidable reputation as a warrior. Their
arrival, coming within hours of Lord Hoster’s passing, had
sent Edmure into a rage. “Walder Frey should be flayed and
quartered!” he’d shouted. “He sends a cripple and
a bastard to treat with us, tell me there is no insult meant by
that.”
“I have no doubt that Lord Walder chose his envoys with
care,” she replied. “It was a peevish thing to do, a
petty sort of revenge, but remember who we are dealing with. The
Late Lord Frey, Father used to call him. The man is ill-tempered,
envious, and above all prideful.”
Blessedly, her son had shown better sense than her brother. Robb
had greeted the Freys with every courtesy, found barracks space for
the escort, and quietly asked Ser Desmond Grell to stand aside so
Lothar might have the honor of helping to send Lord Hoster on his
last voyage. He has learned a rough wisdom beyond his years, my
son. House Frey might have abandoned the King in the North, but the
Lord of the Crossing remained the most powerful of Riverrun’s
bannermen, and Lothar was here in his stead.
The seven launched Lord Hoster from the water stair, wading down
the steps as the portcullis was winched upward. Lothar Frey, a
soft-bodied portly man, was breathing heavily as they shoved the
boat out into the current. Jason Mallister and Tytos Blackwood, at
the prow, stood chest deep in the river to guide it on its way.
Catelyn watched from the battlements, waiting and watching as
she had waited and watched so many times before. Beneath her, the
swift wild Tumblestone plunged like a spear into the side of the
broad Red Fork, its blue-white current churning the muddy red-brown
flow of the greater river. A morning mist hung over the water, as
thin as gossamer and the wisps of memory. Bran and Rickon will be waiting for him, Catelyn thought sadly,
as once I used to wait.
The slim boat drifted out from under the red stone arch of the
Water Gate, picking up speed as it was caught in the headlong rush
of the Tumblestone and pushed out into the tumult where the waters
met. As the boat emerged from beneath the high sheltering walls of
the castle, its square sail filled with wind, and Catelyn saw
sunlight flashing on her father’s helm. Lord Hoster
Tully’s rudder held true, and he sailed serenely down the
center of the channel, into the rising sun.
“Now,” her uncle urged. Beside him, her brother
Edmure—Lord Edmure now in truth, and how long would that take to
grow used to?—nocked an arrow to his bowstring. His squire held a
brand to its point. Edmure waited until the flame caught, then
lifted the great bow, drew the string to his ear, and let fly. With
a deep thrum, the arrow sped upward. Catelyn followed its flight
with her eyes and heart, until it plunged into the water with a
soft hiss, well astern of Lord Hoster’s boat.
Edmure cursed softly. “The wind,” he said, pulling a
second arrow. “Again.” The brand kissed the oil-soaked
rag behind the arrowhead, the flames went licking up, Edmure
lifted, pulled, and released. High and far the arrow flew. Too far.
It vanished in the river a dozen yards beyond the boat, its fire
winking out in an instant. A flush was creeping up Edmure’s
neck, red as his beard. “Once more,” he commanded,
taking a third arrow from the quiver. He is as tight as his
bowstring, Catelyn thought.
Ser Brynden must have seen the same thing. “Let me, my
lord,” he offered.
“I can do it,” Edmure insisted. He let them light
the arrow, jerked the bow up, took a deep breath, drew back the
arrow. For a long moment he seemed to hesitate while the fire crept
up the shaft, crackling. Finally he released. The arrow flashed up
and up, and finally curved down again, falling,
falling . . . and hissing past the billowing
sail.
A narrow miss, no more than a handspan, and yet a miss.
“The Others take it!” her brother swore. The boat was
almost out of range, drifting in and out among the river mists.
Wordless, Edmure thrust the bow at his uncle.
“Swiftly,” Ser Brynden said, He nocked an arrow,
held it steady for the brand, drew and released before Catelyn was
quite sure that the fire had caught . . . but
as the shot rose, she saw the flames trailing through the air, a
pale orange pennon. The boat had vanished in the mists. Falling,
the flaming arrow was swallowed up as
well . . . but only for a heartbeat. Then,
sudden as hope, they saw the red bloom flower. The sails took fire,
and the fog glowed pink and orange. For a moment Catelyn saw the
outline of the boat clearly, wreathed in leaping flames. Watch for me, little cat, she could hear him whisper.
Catelyn reached out blindly, groping for her brother’s
hand, but Edmure had moved away, to stand alone on the highest
point of the battlements. Her uncle Brynden took her hand instead,
twining his strong fingers through hers. Together they watched the
little fire grow smaller as the burning boat receded in the
distance.
And then it was gone . . . drifting
downriver still, perhaps, or broken up and sinking. The weight of
his armor would carry Lord Hoster down to rest in the soft mud of
the riverbed, in the watery halls where the Tullys held eternal
court, with schools of fish their last attendants.
No sooner had the burning boat vanished from their sight than
Edmure walked off. Catelyn would have liked to embrace him, if only
for a moment; to sit for an hour or a night or the turn of a moon
to speak of the dead and mourn. Yet she knew as well as he that
this was not the time; he was Lord of Riverrun now, and his knights
were falling in around him, murmuring condolences and promises of
fealty, walling him off from something as small as a sister’s
grief. Edmure listened, hearing none of the words.
“It is no disgrace to miss your shot,” her uncle
told her quietly. “Edmure should hear that. The day my own
lord father went downriver, Hoster missed as well.”
“With his first shaft.” Catelyn had been too young
to remember, but Lord Hoster had often told the tale. “His
second found the sail.” She sighed. Edmure was not as strong
as he seemed. Their father’s death had been a mercy when it
came at last, but even so her brother had taken it hard.
Last night in his cups he had broken down and wept, full of
regrets for things undone and words unsaid. He ought never to have
ridden off to fight his battle on the fords, he told her tearfully;
he should have stayed at their father’s bedside. “I
should have been with him, as you were,” he said. “Did
he speak of me at the end? Tell me true, Cat. Did he ask for
me?”
Lord Hoster’s last word had been “Tansy,” but
Catelyn could not bring herself to tell him that. “He
whispered your name,” she lied, and her brother had nodded
gratefully and kissed her hand. If he had not tried to drown his
grief and guilt, he might have been able to bend a bow, she thought
to herself, sighing, but that was something else she dare not
say.
The Blackfish escorted her down from the battlements to where
Robb stood among his bannermen, his young queen at his side. When
he saw her, her son took her silently in his arms.
“Lord Hoster looked as noble as a king, my lady,”
murmured Jeyne. “Would that I had been given the chance to
know him.”
“And I to know him better,” added Robb.
“He would have wished that too,” said Catelyn.
“There were too many leagues between Riverrun and
Winterfell.” And too many mountains and rivers and armies
between Riverrun and the Eyrie, it would seem. Lysa had made no
reply to her letter.
And from King’s Landing came only silence as well. By now
she had hoped that Brienne and Ser Cleos would have reached the
city with their captive. It might even be that Brienne was on her
way back, and the girls with her. Ser Cleos swore he would make the
Imp send a raven once the trade was made. He swore it! Ravens did
not always win through. Some bowman could have brought the bird
down and roasted him for supper. The letter that would have set her
heart at ease might even now be lying by the ashes of some campfire
beside a pile of raven bones.
Others were waiting to offer Robb their consolations, so Catelyn
stood aside patiently while Lord Jason Mallister, the Greatjon, and
Ser Rolph Spicer spoke to him each in turn. But when Lothar Frey
approached, she gave his sleeve a tug. Robb turned, and waited to
hear what Lothar would say.
“Your Grace.” A plump man in his middle thirties,
Lothar Frey had close-set eyes, a pointed beard, and dark hair that
fell to his shoulders in ringlets. A leg twisted at birth had
earned him the name Lame Lothar. He had served as his
father’s steward for the past dozen years. “We are
loath to intrude upon your grief, but perhaps you might grant us
audience tonight?”
“It would be my pleasure,” said Robb. “It was
never my wish to sow enmity between us.”
“Nor mine to be the cause of it,” said Queen
Jeyne.
Lothar Frey smiled. “I understand, as does my lord father.
He instructed me to say that he was young once, and well remembers
what it is like to lose one’s heart to beauty.”
Catelyn doubted very much that Lord Walder had said any such
thing, or that he had ever lost his heart to beauty. The Lord of
the Crossing had outlived seven wives and was now wed to his
eighth, but he spoke of them only as bedwarmers and brood mares.
Still, the words were fairly spoken, and she could scarce object to
the compliment. Nor did Robb. “Your father is most
gracious,” he said. “I shall look forward to our
talk.”
Lothar bowed, kissed the queen’s hand, and withdrew. By
then a dozen others had gathered for a word. Robb spoke with them
each, giving a thanks here, a smile there, as needed. Only when the
last of them was done did he turn back to Catelyn. “There is
something we must speak of. Will you walk with me?”
“As you command, Your Grace.”
“That wasn’t a command, Mother.”
“It will be my pleasure, then.” Her son had treated
her kindly enough since returning to Riverrun, yet he seldom sought
her out. If he was more comfortable with his young queen, she could
scarcely blame him. Jeyne makes him smile, and I have nothing to
share with him but grief. He seemed to enjoy the company of his
bride’s brothers, as well; young Rollam his squire and Ser
Raynald his standard-bearer. They are standing in the boots of
those he’s lost, Catelyn realized when she watched them
together. Rollam has taken Bran’s place, and Raynald is part
Theon and part Jon Snow. Only with the Westerlings did she see Robb
smile, or hear him laugh like the boy he was. To the others he was
always the King in the North, head bowed beneath the weight of the
crown even when his brows were bare.
Robb kissed his wife gently, promised to see her in their
chambers, and went off with his lady mother. His steps led them
toward the godswood. “Lothar seemed amiable, that’s a
hopeful sign. We need the Freys.”
“That does not mean we shall have them.”
He nodded, and there was glumness to his face and a slope to his
shoulders that made her heart go out to him. The crown is crushing
him, she thought. He wants so much to be a good king, to be brave
and honorable and clever, but the weight is too much for a boy to
bear. Robb was doing all he could, yet still the blows kept
falling, one after the other, relentless. When they brought him
word of the battle at Duskendale, where Lord Randyll Tarly had
shattered Robett Glover and Ser Helman Tallhart, he might have been
expected to rage. Instead he’d stared in dumb disbelief and
said, “Duskendale, on the narrow sea? Why would they go to
Duskendale?” He’d shook his head, bewildered. “A
third of my foot, lost for Duskendale?”
“The ironmen have my castle and now the Lannisters hold my
brother,” Galbart Glover said, in a voice thick with despair.
Robett Glover had survived the battle, but had been captured near
the kingsroad not long after.
“Not for long,” her son promised. “I will
offer them Martyn Lannister in exchange. Lord Tywin will have to
accept, for his brother’s sake.” Martyn was Ser
Kevan’s son, a twin to the Willem that Lord Karstark had
butchered. Those murders still haunted her son, Catelyn knew. He
had tripled the guard around Martyn, but still feared for his
safety.
“I should have traded the Kingslayer for Sansa when you
first urged it,” Robb said as they walked the gallery.
“If I’d offered to wed her to the Knight of Flowers,
the Tyrells might be ours instead of Joffrey’s. I should have
thought of that.”
“Your mind was on your battles, and rightly so. Even a
king cannot think of everything.”
“Battles,” muttered Robb as he led her out beneath
the trees. “I have won every battle, yet somehow I’m
losing the war.” He looked up, as if the answer might be
written on the sky. “The ironmen hold Winterfell, and Moat
Cailin too. Father’s dead, and Bran and Rickon, maybe Arya.
And now your father too.”
She could not let him despair. She knew the taste of that
draught too well herself. “My father has been dying for a
long time. You could not have changed that. You have made mistakes,
Robb, but what king has not? Ned would have been proud of
you.”
“Mother, there is something you must know.”
Catelyn’s heart skipped a beat. This is something he
hates. Something he dreads to tell me. All she could think of was
Brienne and her mission. “Is it the Kingslayer?”
“No. It’s Sansa.” She’s dead, Catelyn thought at once. Brienne failed, Jaime
is dead, and Cersei has killed my sweet girl in retribution. For a
moment she could barely speak.
“Is . . . is she gone, Robb?”
“Gone?” He looked startled. “Dead? Oh, Mother,
no, not that, they haven’t harmed her, not that way,
only . . . a bird came last night, but I
couldn’t bring myself to tell you, not until your father was
sent to his rest.” Robb took her hand. “They married
her to Tyrion Lannister.”
Catelyn’s fingers clutched at his. “The
Imp.”
“Yes.”
“He swore to trade her for his brother,” she said
numbly. “Sansa and Arya both. We would have them back if we
returned his precious Jaime, he swore it before the whole court.
How could he marry her, after saying that in sight of gods and
men?”
“He’s the Kingslayer’s brother. Oathbreaking
runs in their blood.” Robb’s fingers brushed the pommel
of his sword. “If I could I’d take his ugly head off. Sansa
would be a widow then, and free. There’s no other way that I
can see. They made her speak the vows before a septon and don a
crimson cloak.”
Catelyn remembered the twisted little man she had seized at the
crossroads inn and carried all the way to the Eyrie. “I
should have let Lysa push him out her Moon Door. My poor sweet
Sansa . . . why would anyone do this to
her?”
“For Winterfell,” Robb said at once. “With
Bran and Rickon dead, Sansa is my heir. If anything should happen
to me . . . ”
She clutched tight at his hand. “Nothing will happen to
you. Nothing. I could not stand it. They took Ned, and your sweet
brothers. Sansa is married, Arya is lost, my father’s
dead . . . if anything befell you, I would go
mad, Robb. You are all I have left. You are all the north has
left.”
“I am not dead yet, Mother.”
Suddenly Catelyn was full of dread. “Wars need not be
fought until the last drop of blood.” Even she could hear the
desperation in her voice. “You would not be the first king to
bend the knee, nor even the first Stark.”
His mouth tightened. “No. Never.”
“There is no shame in it. Balon Greyjoy bent the knee to
Robert when his rebellion failed. Torrhen Stark bent the knee to
Aegon the Conqueror rather than see his army face the
fires.”
“Did Aegon kill King Torrhen’s father?” He
pulled his hand from hers. “Never, I said.” He is playing the boy now, not the king. “The Lannisters
do not need the north. They will require homage and hostages, no
more . . . and the Imp will keep Sansa no
matter what we do, so they have their hostage. The ironmen will
prove a more implacable enemy, I promise you. To have any hope of
holding the north, the Greyjoys must leave no single sprig of House
Stark alive to dispute their right. Theon’s murdered Bran and
Rickon, so now all they need do is kill
you . . . and Jeyne, yes. Do you think Lord
Balon can afford to let her live to bear you heirs?”
Robb’s face was cold. “Is that why you freed the
Kingslayer? To make a peace with the Lannisters?”
“I freed Jaime for Sansa’s
sake . . . and Arya’s, if she still
lives. You know that. But if I nurtured some hope of buying peace
as well, was that so ill?”
“Yes,” he said. “The Lannisters killed my
father.”
“Do you think I have forgotten that?”
“I don’t know. Have you?”
Catelyn had never struck her children in anger, but she almost
struck Robb then. It was an effort to remind herself how frightened
and alone he must feel. “You are King in the North, the
choice is yours. I only ask that you think on what I’ve said.
The singers make much of kings who die valiantly in battle, but
your life is worth more than a song. To me at least, who gave it to
you.” She lowered her head. “Do I have your leave to
go?”
“Yes.” He turned away and drew his sword. What he
meant to do with it, she could not say. There was no enemy there,
no one to fight. Only her and him, amongst tall trees and fallen
leaves. There are fights no sword can win, Catelyn wanted to tell
him, but she feared the king was deaf to such words.
Hours later, she was sewing in her bedchamber when young Rollam
Westerling came running with the summons to supper. Good, Catelyn
thought, relieved. She had not been certain that her son would want
her there, after their quarrel. “A dutiful squire,” she
said to Rollam gravely. Bran would have been the same.
If Robb seemed cool at table and Edmure surly, Lame Lothar made
up for them both. He was the model of courtesy, reminiscing warmly
about Lord Hoster, offering Catelyn gentle condolences on the loss
of Bran and Rickon, praising Edmure for the victory at Stone Mill,
and thanking Robb for the “swift sure justice” he had
meted out to Rickard Karstark. Lothar’s bastard brother
Walder Rivers was another matter; a harsh sour man with old Lord
Walder’s suspicious face, he spoke but seldom and devoted
most of his attention to the meat and mead that was set before
him.
When all the empty words were said, the queen and the other
Westerlings excused themselves, the remains of the meal were
cleared away, and Lothar Frey cleared his throat. “Before we
turn to the business that brings us here, there is another
matter,” he said solemnly. “A grave matter, I fear. I
had hoped it would not fall to me to bring you these tidings, but
it seems I must. My lord father has had a letter from his
grandsons.”
Catelyn had been so lost in grief for her own that she had
almost forgotten the two Freys she had agreed to foster. No more,
she thought. Mother have mercy, how many more blows can we bear?
Somehow she knew the next words she heard would plunge yet another
blade into her heart. “The grandsons at Winterfell?”
she made herself ask. “My wards?”
“Walder and Walder, yes. But they are presently at the
Dreadfort, my lady. I grieve to tell you this, but there has been a
battle. Winterfell is burned.”
“Burned?” Robb’s voice was incredulous.
“Your northern lords tried to retake it from the ironmen.
When Theon Greyjoy saw that his prize was lost, he put the castle
to the torch.”
“We have heard naught of any battle,” said Ser
Brynden.
“My nephews are young, I grant you, but they were there.
Big Walder wrote the letter, though his cousin signed as well. It
was a bloody bit of business, by their account. Your castellan was
slain. Ser Rodrik, was that his name?”
“Ser Rodrik Cassel,” said Catelyn numbly. That dear
brave loyal old soul. She could almost see him, tugging on his
fierce white whiskers. “What of our other people?”
“The ironmen put many of them to the sword, I
fear.”
Wordless with rage, Robb slammed a fist down on the table and
turned his face away, so the Freys would not see his tears.
But his mother saw them. The world grows a little darker every
day. Catelyn’s thoughts went to Ser Rodrik’s little
daughter Beth, to tireless Maester Luwin and cheerful Septon
Chayle, Mikken at the forge, Farlen and Palla in the kennels, Old
Nan and simple Hodor. Her heart was sick. “Please, not
all.”
“No,” said Lame Lothar. “The women and
children hid, my nephews Walder and Walder among them. With
Winterfell in ruins, the survivors were carried back to the
Dreadfort by this son of Lord Bolton’s.”
“Bolton’s son?” Robb’s voice was
strained.
Walder Rivers spoke up. “A bastard son, I
believe.”
“Not Ramsay Snow? Does Lord Roose have another
bastard?” Robb scowled. “This Ramsay was a monster and
a murderer, and he died a coward. Or so I was told.”
“I cannot speak to that. There is much confusion in any
war. Many false reports. All I can tell you is that my nephews
claim it was this bastard son of Bolton’s who saved the women
of Winterfell, and the little ones. They are safe at the Dreadfort
now, all those who remain.”
“Theon,” Robb said suddenly. “What happened to
Theon Greyjoy? Was he slain?”
Lame Lothar spread his hands. “That I cannot say, Your
Grace. Walder and Walder made no mention of his fate. Perhaps Lord
Bolton might know, if he has had word from this son of
his.”
Ser Brynden said, “We will be certain to ask
him.”
“You are all distraught, I see. I am sorry to have brought
you such fresh grief. Perhaps we should adjourn until the morrow.
Our business can wait until you have composed
yourselves . . . ”
“No,” said Robb, “I want the matter
settled.”
Her brother Edmure nodded. “Me as well. Do you have an
answer to our offer, my lord?”
“I do.” Lothar smiled. “My lord father bids me
tell Your Grace that he will agree to this new marriage alliance
between our houses and renew his fealty to the King in the North,
upon the condition that the King’s Grace apologize for the
insult done to House Frey, in his royal person, face to
face.”
An apology was a small enough price to pay, but Catelyn misliked
this petty condition of Lord Walder’s at once.
“I am pleased,” Robb said cautiously. “It was
never my wish to cause this rift between us, Lothar. The Freys have
fought valiantly for my cause. I would have them at my side once
more.”
“You are too kind, Your Grace. As you accept these terms,
I am then instructed to offer Lord Tully the hand of my sister, the
Lady Roslin, a maid of sixteen years. Roslin is my lord
father’s youngest daughter by Lady Bethany of House Rosby,
his sixth wife. She has a gentle nature and a gift for
music.”
Edmure shifted in his seat. “Might not it be better if I
first met—”
“You’ll meet when you’re wed,” said
Walder Rivers curtly. “Unless Lord Tully feels a need to
count her teeth first?”
Edmure kept his temper. “I will take your word so far as
her teeth are concerned, but it would be pleasant if I might gaze
upon her face before I espoused her.”
“You must accept her now, my lord,” said Walder
Rivers. “Else my father’s offer is
withdrawn.”
Lame Lothar spread his hands. “My brother has a
soldier’s bluntness, but what he says is true. It is my lord
father’s wish that this marriage take place at
once.”
“At once?” Edmure sounded so unhappy that Catelyn
had the unworthy thought that perhaps he had been entertaining
notions of breaking the betrothal after the fighting was done.
“Has Lord Walder forgotten that we are fighting a
war?” Brynden Blackfish asked sharply.
“Scarcely,” said Lothar. “That is why he
insists that the marriage take place now, ser. Men die in war, even
men who are young and strong. What would become of our alliance
should Lord Edmure fall before he took Roslin to bride? And there
is my father’s age to consider as well. He is past ninety and
not like to see the end of this struggle. It would put his noble
heart at peace if he could see his dear Roslin safely wed before
the gods take him, so he might die with the knowledge that the girl
had a strong husband to cherish and protect her.” We all want Lord Walder to die happy. Catelyn was growing less
and less comfortable with this arrangement. “My brother has
just lost his own father. He needs time to mourn.”
“Roslin is a cheerful girl,” said Lothar. “She
may be the very thing Lord Edmure needs to help him through his
grief.”
“And my grandfather has come to mislike lengthy
betrothals,” the bastard Walder Rivers added. “I cannot
imagine why.”
Robb gave him a chilly look. “I take your meaning, Rivers.
Pray excuse us.”
“As Your Grace commands.” Lame Lothar rose, and his
bastard brother helped him hobble from the room.
Edmure was seething. “They’re as much as saying that
my promise is worthless. Why should I let that old weasel choose my
bride? Lord Walder has other daughters besides this Roslin.
Granddaughters as well. I should be offered the same choice you
were. I’m his liege lord, he should be overjoyed that
I’m willing to wed any of them.”
“He is a proud man, and we’ve wounded him,”
said Catelyn.
“The Others take his pride! I will not be shamed in my own
hall. My answer is no.”
Robb gave him a weary look. “I will not command you. Not
in this. But if you refuse, Lord Frey will take it for another
slight, and any hope of putting this arights will be
gone.”
“You cannot know that,” Edmure insisted. “Frey
has wanted me for one of his daughters since the day I was born. He
will not let a chance like this slip between those grasping fingers
of his. When Lothar brings him our answer, he’ll come
wheedling back and accept a betrothal . . . and
to a daughter of my choosing.”
“Perhaps, in time,” said Brynden Blackfish.
“But can we wait, while Lothar rides back and forth with
offers and counters?”
Robb’s hands curled into fists. “I must get back to
the north. My brothers dead, Winterfell burned, my smallfolk put to
the sword . . . the gods only know what this
bastard of Bolton’s is about, or whether Theon is still alive
and on the loose. I can’t sit here waiting for a wedding that
might or might not happen.”
“It must happen,” said Catelyn, though not gladly.
“I have no more wish to suffer Walder Frey’s insults
and complaints than you do, Brother, but I see little choice here.
Without this wedding, Robb’s cause is lost. Edmure, we must
accept.”
“We must accept?” he echoed peevishly. “I
don’t see you offering to become the ninth Lady Frey,
Cat.”
“The eighth Lady Frey is still alive and well, so far as I
know,” she replied. Thankfully. Otherwise it might well have
come to that, knowing Lord Walder.
The Blackfish said, “I am the last man in the Seven
Kingdoms to tell anyone who they must wed, Nephew. Nonetheless, you
did say something of making amends for your Battle of the
Fords.”
“I had in mind a different sort of amends. Single combat
with the Kingslayer. Seven years of penace as a begging brother.
Swimming the sunset sea with my legs tied.” When he saw that
no one was smiling, Edmure threw up his hands. “The Others
take you all! Very well, I’ll wed the wench. As
amends.”