Ser Desmond Grell had served House Tully all his life. He had
been a squire when Catelyn was born, a knight when she learned to
walk and ride and swim, master-at-arms by the day that she was wed.
He had seen Lord Hoster’s little Cat become a young woman, a
great lord’s lady, mother to a king. And now he has seen me
become a traitor as well.
Her brother Edmure had named Ser Desmond castellan of Riverrun
when he rode off to battle, so it fell to him to deal with her
crime. To ease his discomfort he brought her father’s steward
with him, dour Utherydes Wayn. The two men stood and looked at her;
Ser Desmond stout, red-faced, embarrassed, Utherydes grave, gaunt,
melancholy. Each waited for the other to speak. They have given
their lives to my father’s service, and I have repaid them
with disgrace, Catelyn thought wearily.
“Your sons,” Ser Desmond said at last.
“Maester Vyman told us. The poor lads. Terrible. Terrible.
But . . . ”
“We share your grief, my lady,” said Utherydes Wayn.
“All Riverrun mourns with you,
but . . . ”
“The news must have driven you mad,” Ser Desmond
broke in, “a madness of grief, a mother’s madness, men
will understand. You did not
know . . . ”
“I did,” Catelyn said firmly. “I understood
what I was doing and knew it was treasonous. If you fail to punish
me, men will believe that we connived together to free Jaime
Lannister. It was mine own act and mine alone, and I alone must
answer for it. Put me in the Kingslayer’s empty irons, and I
will wear them proudly, if that is how it must be.”
“Fetters?” The very word seemed to shock poor Ser
Desmond. “For the king’s mother, my lord’s own
daughter? Impossible.”
“Mayhaps,” said the steward Utherydes Wayn,
“my lady would consent to be confined to her chambers until
Ser Edmure returns. A time alone, to pray for her murdered
sons?”
“Confined, aye,” Ser Desmond said. “Confined
to a tower cell, that would serve.”
“If I am to be confined, let it be in my father’s
chambers, so I might comfort him in his last days.”
Ser Desmond considered a moment. “Very well. You shall
lack no comfort nor courtesy, but freedom of the castle is denied
you. Visit the sept as you need, but elsewise remain in Lord
Hoster’s chambers until Lord Edmure returns.”
“As you wish.” Her brother was no lord while their
father lived, but Catelyn did not correct him. “Set a guard
on me if you must, but I give you my pledge that I shall attempt no
escape.”
Ser Desmond nodded, plainly glad to be done with his distasteful
task, but sad-eyed Utherydes Wayn lingered a moment after the
castellan took his leave. “It was a grave thing you did, my
lady, but for naught. Ser Desmond has sent Ser Robin Ryger after
them, to bring back the Kingslayer . . . Or
failing that, his head.”
Catelyn had expected no less. May the Warrior give strength to
your sword arm, Brienne, she prayed. She had done all she could;
nothing remained but to hope.
Her things were moved into her father’s bedchamber,
dominated by the great canopied bed she had been born in, its
pillars carved in the shapes of leaping trout. Her father himself
had been moved half a turn down the stair, his sickbed placed to
face the triangular balcony that opened off his solar, from whence
he could see the rivers that he had always loved so well.
Lord Hoster was sleeping when Catelyn entered. She went out to
the balcony and stood with one hand on the rough stone balustrade.
Beyond the point of the castle the swift Tumblestone joined the
placid Red Fork, and she could see a long way downriver. If a
striped sail comes from the east, it will be Ser Robin returning.
For the moment the surface of the waters was empty. She thanked the
gods for that, and went back inside to sit with her father.
Catelyn could not say if Lord Hoster knew that she was there, or
if her presence brought him any comfort, but it gave her solace to
be with him. What would you say if you knew my crime, Father? she
wondered. Would you have done as I did, if it were Lysa and me in
the hands of our enemies? Or would you condemn me too, and call it
mother’s madness?
There was a smell of death about that room; a heavy smell, sweet
and foul, clinging. It reminded her of the sons that she had lost,
her sweet Bran and her little Rickon, slain at the hand of Theon
Greyjoy, who had been Ned’s ward. She still grieved for Ned,
she would always grieve for Ned, but to have her babies taken as
well . . . ”It is a monstrous cruel thing
to lose a child,” she whispered softly, more to herself than
to her father.
Lord Hoster’s eyes opened. “Tansy,” he husked
in a voice thick with pain. He does not know me. Catelyn had grown accustomed to him taking
her for her mother or her sister Lysa, but Tansy was a name strange
to her. “It’s Catelyn,” she said.
“It’s Cat, Father.”
“Forgive me . . . the
blood . . . oh,
please . . . Tansy . . . ”
Could there have been another woman in her father’s life?
Some village maiden he had wronged when he was young, perhaps?
Could he have found comfort in some serving wench’s arms
after Mother died? It was a queer thought, unsettling. Suddenly she
felt as though she had not known her father at all. “Who is
Tansy, my lord? Do you want me to send for her, Father? Where would
I find the woman? Does she still live?”
Lord Hoster groaned. “Dead.” His hand groped for
hers. “You’ll have
others . . . Sweet babes, and
trueborn.” Others? Catelyn thought. Has he forgotten that Ned is gone? Is
he still talking to Tansy, or is it me now, or Lysa, or Mother?
When he coughed, the sputum came up bloody. He clutched her
fingers. “. . Be a good wife and the gods will bless
you . . . sons . . . trueborn
sons . . . aaahhh.” The sudden spasm of
pain made Lord Hoster’s hand tighten. His nails dug into her
hand, and he gave a muffled scream.
Maester Vyman came quickly, to mix another dose of milk of the
poppy and help his lord swallow it down. Soon enough, Lord Hoster
Tully had fallen back into a heavy sleep.
“He was asking after a woman,” said Cat.
“Tansy.”
“Tansy?” The maester looked at her blankly.
“You know no one by that name? A serving girl, a woman
from some nearby village? Perhaps someone from years past?”
Catelyn had been gone from Riverrun for a very long time.
“No, my lady. I can make inquiries, if you like. Utherydes
Wayn would surely know if any such person ever served at Riverrun.
Tansy, did you say? The smallfolk often name their daughters after
flowers and herbs.” The maester looked thoughtful.
“There was a widow, I recall, she used to come to the castle
looking for old shoes in need of new soles. Her name was Tansy, now
that I think on it. Or was it Pansy? Some such. But she has not
come for many years . . . ”
“Her name was Violet,” said Catelyn, who remembered
the old woman very well.
“Was it?” The maester looked apologetic. “My
pardons, Lady Catelyn, but I may not stay. Ser Desmond has decreed
that we are to speak to you only so far as our duties
require.”
“Then you must do as he commands.” Catelyn could not
blame Ser Desmond; she had given him small reason to trust her, and
no doubt he feared that she might use the loyalty that many of the
folk of Riverrun would still feel toward their lord’s
daughter to work some further mischief. I am free of the war, at
least, she told herself, if only for a little while.
After the maester had gone, she donned a woolen cloak and
stepped out onto the balcony once more. Sunlight shimmered on the
rivers, gilding the surface of the waters as they rolled past the
castle. Catelyn shaded her eyes against the glare, searching for a
distant sail, dreading the sight of one. But there was nothing, and
nothing meant that her hopes were still alive.
All that day she watched, and well into the night, until her
legs ached from the standing. A raven came to the castle in late
afternoon, flapping down on great black wings to the rookery. Dark
wings, dark words, she thought, remembering the last bird that had
come and the horror it had brought.
Maester Vyman returned at evenfall to minister to Lord Tully and
bring Catelyn a modest supper of bread, cheese, and boiled beef
with horseradish. “I spoke to Utherydes Wayn, my lady. He is
quite certain that no woman by the name of Tansy has ever been at
Riverrun during his service.”
“There was a raven today, I saw. Has Jaime been taken
again?” Or slain, gods forbid?
“No, my lady, we’ve had no word of the
Kingslayer.”
“Is it another battle, then? is Edmure in difficulty? Or
Robb? Please, be kind, put my fears at rest.”
“My lady, I should not . . . ”
Vyman glanced about, as if to make certain no one else was in the
room. “Lord Tywin has left the riverlands. All’s quiet
on the fords.”
“Whence came the raven, then?”
“From the west,” he answered, busying himself with
Lord Hoster’s bedclothes and avoiding her eyes.
“Was it news of Robb?”
He hesitated. “Yes, my lady.”
“Something is wrong.” She knew it from his manner.
He was hiding something from her. “Tell me. Is it Robb? Is he
hurt?” Not dead, gods be good, please do not tell me that he
is dead.
“His Grace took a wound storming the Crag,” Maester
Vyman said, still evasive, “but writes that it is no cause
for concern, and that he hopes to return soon.”
“A wound? What sort of wound? How serious?”
“No cause for concern, he writes.”
“All wounds concern me. Is he being cared for?”
“I am certain of it. The maester at the Crag will tend to
him, I have no doubt.”
“Where was he wounded?”
“My lady, I am commanded not to speak with you. I am
sorry.” Gathering up his potions, Vyman made a hurried exit,
and once again Catelyn was left alone with her father. The milk of
the poppy had done its work, and Lord Hoster was sunk in heavy
sleep. A thin line of spittle ran down from one corner of his open
mouth to dampen his pillow. Catelyn took a square of linen and
wiped it away gently. When she touched him, Lord Hoster moaned.
“Forgive me,” he said, so softly she could scarcely
hear the words.
“Tansy . . . blood . . . the
blood . . . gods be
kind . . . ”
His words disturbed her more than she could say, though she
could make no sense of them. Blood, she thought. Must it all come
back to blood? Father, who was this woman, and what did you do to
her that needs so much forgiveness?
That night Catelyn slept fitfully, haunted by formless dreams of
her children, the lost and the dead. Well before the break of day,
she woke with her father’s words echoing in her ears. Sweet
babes, and trueborn . . . why would he say
that, unless . . . could he have fathered a
bastard on this woman Tansy? She could not believe it. Her brother
Edmure, yes; it would not have surprised her to learn that Edmure
had a dozen natural children. But not her father, not Lord Hoster
Tully, never. Could Tansy be some pet name he called Lysa, the way he called
me Cat? Lord Hoster had mistaken her for her sister before.
You’ll have others, he said. Sweet babes, and trueborn. Lysa
had miscarried five times, twice in the Eyrie, thrice at
King’s Landing . . . but never at
Riverrun, where Lord Hoster would have been at hand to comfort her.
Never, unless . . . unless she was with child,
that first time . . .
She and her sister had been married on the same day, and left in
their father’s care when their new husbands had ridden off to
rejoin Robert’s rebellion. Afterward, when their moon blood
did not come at the accustomed time, Lysa had gushed happily of the
sons she was certain they carried. “Your son will be heir to
Winterfell and mine to the Eyrie. Oh, they’ll be the best of
friends, like your Ned and Lord Robert. They’ll be more
brothers than cousins, truly, I just know it.” She was so
happy.
But Lysa’s blood had come not long after, and all the joy
had gone out of her. Catelyn had always thought that Lysa had
simply been a little late, but if she had been with
child . . .
She remembered the first time she gave her sister Robb to hold;
small, red-faced, and squalling, but strong even then, full of
life. No sooner had Catelyn placed the babe in her sister’s arms than
Lysa’s face dissolved into tears. Hurriedly she had thrust
the baby back at Catelyn and fled. If she had lost a child before, that might explain
Father’s words, and much else
besides . . . Lysa’s match with Lord
Arryn had been hastily arranged, and Jon was an old man even then,
older than their father. An old man without an heir. His first two
wives had left him childless, his brother’s son had been
murdered with Brandon Stark in King’s Landing, his gallant
cousin had died in the Battle of the Bells. He needed a young wife
if House Arryn was to continue . . . a young
wife known to be fertile.
Catelyn rose, threw on a robe, and descended the steps to the
darkened solar to stand over her father. A sense of helpless dread
filled her. “Father,” she said, “Father, I know
what you did.” She was no longer an innocent bride with a
head full of dreams. She was a widow, a traitor, a grieving mother,
and wise, wise in the ways of the world. “You made him take
her,” she whispered. “Lysa was the price Jon Arryn had
to pay for the swords and spears of House Tully.”
Small wonder her sister’s marriage had been so loveless.
The Arryns were proud, and prickly of their honor. Lord Jon might
wed Lysa to bind the Tullys to the cause of the rebellion, and in
hopes of a son, but it would have been hard for him to love a woman
who came to his bed soiled and unwilling. He would have been kind,
no doubt; dutiful, yes; but Lysa needed warmth.
The next day, as she broke her fast, Catelyn asked for quill and
paper and began a letter to her sister in the Vale of Arryn. She
told Lysa of Bran and Rickon, struggling with the words, but mostly
she wrote of their father. His thoughts are all of the wrong he did
you, now that his time grows short. Maester Vyman says he dare not
make the milk of the poppy any stronger. It is time for Father to
lay down his sword and shield. It is time for him to rest. Yet he
fights on grimly, will not yield. It is for your sake, I think. He
needs your forgiveness. The war has made the road from the Eyrie to
Riverrun dangerous to travel, I know, but surely a strong force of
knights could see you safely through the Mountains of the Moon? A
hundred men, or a thousand? And if you cannot come, will you not
write him at least? A few words of love, so he might die in peace?
Write what you will, and I shall read it to him, and ease his
way.
Even as she set the quill aside and asked for sealing wax,
Catelyn sensed that the letter was like to be too little and too
late. Maester Vyman did not believe Lord Hoster would linger long
enough for a raven to reach the Eyrie and return. Though he has
said much the same before . . . Tully men did
not surrender easily, no matter the odds. After she entrusted the
parchment to the maester’s care, Catelyn went to the sept and
lit a candle to the Father Above for her own father’s sake, a
second to the Crone, who had let the first raven into the world
when she peered through the door of death, and a third to the
Mother, for Lysa and all the children they had both lost.
Later that day, as she sat at Lord Hoster’s bedside with a
book, reading the same passage over and over, she heard the sound
of loud voices and a trumpet’s blare. Ser Robin, she thought
at once, flinching. She went to the balcony, but there was nothing
to be seen out on the rivers, but she could hear the voices more
clearly from outside, the sound of many horses, the clink of armor,
and here and there a cheer. Catelyn made her way up the winding
stairs to the roof of the keep. Ser Desmond did not forbid me the
roof, she told herself as she climbed.
The sounds were coming from the far side of the castle, by the
main gate. A knot of men stood before the portcullis as it rose in
jerks and starts, and in the fields beyond, outside the castle,
were several hundred riders. When the wind blew, it lifted their
banners, and she trembled in relief at the sight of the leaping
trout of Riverrun. Edmure.
It was two hours before he saw fit to come to her. By then the
castle rang to the sound of noisy reunions as men embraced the
women and children they had left behind. Three ravens had risen
from the rookery, black wings beating at the air as they took
flight. Catelyn watched them from her father’s balcony. She
had washed her hair, changed her clothing, and prepared herself for
her brother’s reproaches . . . but even
so, the waiting was hard.
When at last she heard sounds outside her door, she sat and
folded her hands in her lap. Dried red mud spattered Edmure’s
boots, greaves, and surcoat. To look at him, you would never know
he had won his battle. He was thin and drawn, with pale cheeks,
unkempt beard, and too-bright eyes.
“Edmure,” Catelyn said, worried, “you look
unwell. Has something happened? Have the Lannisters crossed the
river?”
“I threw them back. Lord Tywin, Gregor Clegane, Addam
Marbrand, I turned them away. Stannis,
though . . . ” He grimaced.
“Stannis? What of Stannis?”
“He lost the battle at King’s Landing,” Edmure
said unhappily. “His fleet was burned, his army
routed.”
A Lannister victory was ill tidings, but Catelyn could not share
her brother’s obvious dismay. She still had nightmares about
the shadow she had seen slide across Renly’s tent and the way
the blood had come flowing out through the steel of his gorget.
“Stannis was no more a friend than Lord Tywin.”
“You do not understand. Highgarden has declared for
Joffrey. Dorne as well. All the south.” His mouth tightened.
“And you see fit to loose the Kingslayer. You had no
right.”
“I had a mother’s right.” Her voice was calm,
though the news about Highgarden was a savage blow to Robb’s
hopes. She could not think about that now, though.
“No right,” Edmure repeated. “He was
Robb’s captive, your king’s captive, and Robb charged
me to keep him safe.”
“Brienne will keep him safe. She swore it on her
sword.”
“That woman?”
“She will deliver Jaime to King’s Landing, and bring
Arya and Sansa back to us safely.”
“Cersei will never give them up.”
“Not Cersei. Tyrion. He swore it, in open court. And the
Kingslayer swore it as well.”
“Jaime’s word is worthless. As for the Imp,
it’s said he took an axe in the head during the battle.
He’ll be dead before your Brienne reaches King’s
Landing, if she ever does.”
“Dead?” Could the gods truly be so merciless? She
had made Jaime swear a hundred oaths, but it was his
brother’s promise she had pinned her hopes on.
Edmure was blind to her distress. “Jaime was my charge,
and I mean to have him back. I’ve sent ravens—”
“Ravens to whom? How many?”
“Three,” he said, “so the message will be
certain to reach Lord Bolton. By river or road, the way from
Riverrun to King’s Landing must needs take them close by
Harrenhal.”
“Harrenhal.” The very word seemed to darken the
room. Horror thickened her voice as she said, “Edmure, do you
know what you have done?”
“Have no fear, I left your part out. I wrote that Jaime
had escaped, and offered a thousand dragons for his
recapture.” Worse and worse, Catelyn thought in despair. My brother is a
fool. Unbidden, unwanted, tears filled her eyes. “If this was
an escape,” she said softly, “and not an exchange of
hostages, why should the Lannisters give my daughters to
Brienne?”
“It will never come to that. The Kingslayer will be
returned to us, I have made certain of it.”
“All you have made certain is that I shall never see my
daughters again. Brienne might have gotten him to King’s
Landing safely . . . so long as no one was
hunting for them. But now . . . ” Catelyn
could not go on. “Leave me, Edmure.” She had no right
to command him, here in the castle that would soon be his, yet her
tone would brook no argument. “Leave me to Father and my
grief, I have no more to say to you. Go. Go.” All she wanted
was to lie down, to close her eyes and sleep, and pray no dreams
would come.
Ser Desmond Grell had served House Tully all his life. He had
been a squire when Catelyn was born, a knight when she learned to
walk and ride and swim, master-at-arms by the day that she was wed.
He had seen Lord Hoster’s little Cat become a young woman, a
great lord’s lady, mother to a king. And now he has seen me
become a traitor as well.
Her brother Edmure had named Ser Desmond castellan of Riverrun
when he rode off to battle, so it fell to him to deal with her
crime. To ease his discomfort he brought her father’s steward
with him, dour Utherydes Wayn. The two men stood and looked at her;
Ser Desmond stout, red-faced, embarrassed, Utherydes grave, gaunt,
melancholy. Each waited for the other to speak. They have given
their lives to my father’s service, and I have repaid them
with disgrace, Catelyn thought wearily.
“Your sons,” Ser Desmond said at last.
“Maester Vyman told us. The poor lads. Terrible. Terrible.
But . . . ”
“We share your grief, my lady,” said Utherydes Wayn.
“All Riverrun mourns with you,
but . . . ”
“The news must have driven you mad,” Ser Desmond
broke in, “a madness of grief, a mother’s madness, men
will understand. You did not
know . . . ”
“I did,” Catelyn said firmly. “I understood
what I was doing and knew it was treasonous. If you fail to punish
me, men will believe that we connived together to free Jaime
Lannister. It was mine own act and mine alone, and I alone must
answer for it. Put me in the Kingslayer’s empty irons, and I
will wear them proudly, if that is how it must be.”
“Fetters?” The very word seemed to shock poor Ser
Desmond. “For the king’s mother, my lord’s own
daughter? Impossible.”
“Mayhaps,” said the steward Utherydes Wayn,
“my lady would consent to be confined to her chambers until
Ser Edmure returns. A time alone, to pray for her murdered
sons?”
“Confined, aye,” Ser Desmond said. “Confined
to a tower cell, that would serve.”
“If I am to be confined, let it be in my father’s
chambers, so I might comfort him in his last days.”
Ser Desmond considered a moment. “Very well. You shall
lack no comfort nor courtesy, but freedom of the castle is denied
you. Visit the sept as you need, but elsewise remain in Lord
Hoster’s chambers until Lord Edmure returns.”
“As you wish.” Her brother was no lord while their
father lived, but Catelyn did not correct him. “Set a guard
on me if you must, but I give you my pledge that I shall attempt no
escape.”
Ser Desmond nodded, plainly glad to be done with his distasteful
task, but sad-eyed Utherydes Wayn lingered a moment after the
castellan took his leave. “It was a grave thing you did, my
lady, but for naught. Ser Desmond has sent Ser Robin Ryger after
them, to bring back the Kingslayer . . . Or
failing that, his head.”
Catelyn had expected no less. May the Warrior give strength to
your sword arm, Brienne, she prayed. She had done all she could;
nothing remained but to hope.
Her things were moved into her father’s bedchamber,
dominated by the great canopied bed she had been born in, its
pillars carved in the shapes of leaping trout. Her father himself
had been moved half a turn down the stair, his sickbed placed to
face the triangular balcony that opened off his solar, from whence
he could see the rivers that he had always loved so well.
Lord Hoster was sleeping when Catelyn entered. She went out to
the balcony and stood with one hand on the rough stone balustrade.
Beyond the point of the castle the swift Tumblestone joined the
placid Red Fork, and she could see a long way downriver. If a
striped sail comes from the east, it will be Ser Robin returning.
For the moment the surface of the waters was empty. She thanked the
gods for that, and went back inside to sit with her father.
Catelyn could not say if Lord Hoster knew that she was there, or
if her presence brought him any comfort, but it gave her solace to
be with him. What would you say if you knew my crime, Father? she
wondered. Would you have done as I did, if it were Lysa and me in
the hands of our enemies? Or would you condemn me too, and call it
mother’s madness?
There was a smell of death about that room; a heavy smell, sweet
and foul, clinging. It reminded her of the sons that she had lost,
her sweet Bran and her little Rickon, slain at the hand of Theon
Greyjoy, who had been Ned’s ward. She still grieved for Ned,
she would always grieve for Ned, but to have her babies taken as
well . . . ”It is a monstrous cruel thing
to lose a child,” she whispered softly, more to herself than
to her father.
Lord Hoster’s eyes opened. “Tansy,” he husked
in a voice thick with pain. He does not know me. Catelyn had grown accustomed to him taking
her for her mother or her sister Lysa, but Tansy was a name strange
to her. “It’s Catelyn,” she said.
“It’s Cat, Father.”
“Forgive me . . . the
blood . . . oh,
please . . . Tansy . . . ”
Could there have been another woman in her father’s life?
Some village maiden he had wronged when he was young, perhaps?
Could he have found comfort in some serving wench’s arms
after Mother died? It was a queer thought, unsettling. Suddenly she
felt as though she had not known her father at all. “Who is
Tansy, my lord? Do you want me to send for her, Father? Where would
I find the woman? Does she still live?”
Lord Hoster groaned. “Dead.” His hand groped for
hers. “You’ll have
others . . . Sweet babes, and
trueborn.” Others? Catelyn thought. Has he forgotten that Ned is gone? Is
he still talking to Tansy, or is it me now, or Lysa, or Mother?
When he coughed, the sputum came up bloody. He clutched her
fingers. “. . Be a good wife and the gods will bless
you . . . sons . . . trueborn
sons . . . aaahhh.” The sudden spasm of
pain made Lord Hoster’s hand tighten. His nails dug into her
hand, and he gave a muffled scream.
Maester Vyman came quickly, to mix another dose of milk of the
poppy and help his lord swallow it down. Soon enough, Lord Hoster
Tully had fallen back into a heavy sleep.
“He was asking after a woman,” said Cat.
“Tansy.”
“Tansy?” The maester looked at her blankly.
“You know no one by that name? A serving girl, a woman
from some nearby village? Perhaps someone from years past?”
Catelyn had been gone from Riverrun for a very long time.
“No, my lady. I can make inquiries, if you like. Utherydes
Wayn would surely know if any such person ever served at Riverrun.
Tansy, did you say? The smallfolk often name their daughters after
flowers and herbs.” The maester looked thoughtful.
“There was a widow, I recall, she used to come to the castle
looking for old shoes in need of new soles. Her name was Tansy, now
that I think on it. Or was it Pansy? Some such. But she has not
come for many years . . . ”
“Her name was Violet,” said Catelyn, who remembered
the old woman very well.
“Was it?” The maester looked apologetic. “My
pardons, Lady Catelyn, but I may not stay. Ser Desmond has decreed
that we are to speak to you only so far as our duties
require.”
“Then you must do as he commands.” Catelyn could not
blame Ser Desmond; she had given him small reason to trust her, and
no doubt he feared that she might use the loyalty that many of the
folk of Riverrun would still feel toward their lord’s
daughter to work some further mischief. I am free of the war, at
least, she told herself, if only for a little while.
After the maester had gone, she donned a woolen cloak and
stepped out onto the balcony once more. Sunlight shimmered on the
rivers, gilding the surface of the waters as they rolled past the
castle. Catelyn shaded her eyes against the glare, searching for a
distant sail, dreading the sight of one. But there was nothing, and
nothing meant that her hopes were still alive.
All that day she watched, and well into the night, until her
legs ached from the standing. A raven came to the castle in late
afternoon, flapping down on great black wings to the rookery. Dark
wings, dark words, she thought, remembering the last bird that had
come and the horror it had brought.
Maester Vyman returned at evenfall to minister to Lord Tully and
bring Catelyn a modest supper of bread, cheese, and boiled beef
with horseradish. “I spoke to Utherydes Wayn, my lady. He is
quite certain that no woman by the name of Tansy has ever been at
Riverrun during his service.”
“There was a raven today, I saw. Has Jaime been taken
again?” Or slain, gods forbid?
“No, my lady, we’ve had no word of the
Kingslayer.”
“Is it another battle, then? is Edmure in difficulty? Or
Robb? Please, be kind, put my fears at rest.”
“My lady, I should not . . . ”
Vyman glanced about, as if to make certain no one else was in the
room. “Lord Tywin has left the riverlands. All’s quiet
on the fords.”
“Whence came the raven, then?”
“From the west,” he answered, busying himself with
Lord Hoster’s bedclothes and avoiding her eyes.
“Was it news of Robb?”
He hesitated. “Yes, my lady.”
“Something is wrong.” She knew it from his manner.
He was hiding something from her. “Tell me. Is it Robb? Is he
hurt?” Not dead, gods be good, please do not tell me that he
is dead.
“His Grace took a wound storming the Crag,” Maester
Vyman said, still evasive, “but writes that it is no cause
for concern, and that he hopes to return soon.”
“A wound? What sort of wound? How serious?”
“No cause for concern, he writes.”
“All wounds concern me. Is he being cared for?”
“I am certain of it. The maester at the Crag will tend to
him, I have no doubt.”
“Where was he wounded?”
“My lady, I am commanded not to speak with you. I am
sorry.” Gathering up his potions, Vyman made a hurried exit,
and once again Catelyn was left alone with her father. The milk of
the poppy had done its work, and Lord Hoster was sunk in heavy
sleep. A thin line of spittle ran down from one corner of his open
mouth to dampen his pillow. Catelyn took a square of linen and
wiped it away gently. When she touched him, Lord Hoster moaned.
“Forgive me,” he said, so softly she could scarcely
hear the words.
“Tansy . . . blood . . . the
blood . . . gods be
kind . . . ”
His words disturbed her more than she could say, though she
could make no sense of them. Blood, she thought. Must it all come
back to blood? Father, who was this woman, and what did you do to
her that needs so much forgiveness?
That night Catelyn slept fitfully, haunted by formless dreams of
her children, the lost and the dead. Well before the break of day,
she woke with her father’s words echoing in her ears. Sweet
babes, and trueborn . . . why would he say
that, unless . . . could he have fathered a
bastard on this woman Tansy? She could not believe it. Her brother
Edmure, yes; it would not have surprised her to learn that Edmure
had a dozen natural children. But not her father, not Lord Hoster
Tully, never. Could Tansy be some pet name he called Lysa, the way he called
me Cat? Lord Hoster had mistaken her for her sister before.
You’ll have others, he said. Sweet babes, and trueborn. Lysa
had miscarried five times, twice in the Eyrie, thrice at
King’s Landing . . . but never at
Riverrun, where Lord Hoster would have been at hand to comfort her.
Never, unless . . . unless she was with child,
that first time . . .
She and her sister had been married on the same day, and left in
their father’s care when their new husbands had ridden off to
rejoin Robert’s rebellion. Afterward, when their moon blood
did not come at the accustomed time, Lysa had gushed happily of the
sons she was certain they carried. “Your son will be heir to
Winterfell and mine to the Eyrie. Oh, they’ll be the best of
friends, like your Ned and Lord Robert. They’ll be more
brothers than cousins, truly, I just know it.” She was so
happy.
But Lysa’s blood had come not long after, and all the joy
had gone out of her. Catelyn had always thought that Lysa had
simply been a little late, but if she had been with
child . . .
She remembered the first time she gave her sister Robb to hold;
small, red-faced, and squalling, but strong even then, full of
life. No sooner had Catelyn placed the babe in her sister’s arms than
Lysa’s face dissolved into tears. Hurriedly she had thrust
the baby back at Catelyn and fled. If she had lost a child before, that might explain
Father’s words, and much else
besides . . . Lysa’s match with Lord
Arryn had been hastily arranged, and Jon was an old man even then,
older than their father. An old man without an heir. His first two
wives had left him childless, his brother’s son had been
murdered with Brandon Stark in King’s Landing, his gallant
cousin had died in the Battle of the Bells. He needed a young wife
if House Arryn was to continue . . . a young
wife known to be fertile.
Catelyn rose, threw on a robe, and descended the steps to the
darkened solar to stand over her father. A sense of helpless dread
filled her. “Father,” she said, “Father, I know
what you did.” She was no longer an innocent bride with a
head full of dreams. She was a widow, a traitor, a grieving mother,
and wise, wise in the ways of the world. “You made him take
her,” she whispered. “Lysa was the price Jon Arryn had
to pay for the swords and spears of House Tully.”
Small wonder her sister’s marriage had been so loveless.
The Arryns were proud, and prickly of their honor. Lord Jon might
wed Lysa to bind the Tullys to the cause of the rebellion, and in
hopes of a son, but it would have been hard for him to love a woman
who came to his bed soiled and unwilling. He would have been kind,
no doubt; dutiful, yes; but Lysa needed warmth.
The next day, as she broke her fast, Catelyn asked for quill and
paper and began a letter to her sister in the Vale of Arryn. She
told Lysa of Bran and Rickon, struggling with the words, but mostly
she wrote of their father. His thoughts are all of the wrong he did
you, now that his time grows short. Maester Vyman says he dare not
make the milk of the poppy any stronger. It is time for Father to
lay down his sword and shield. It is time for him to rest. Yet he
fights on grimly, will not yield. It is for your sake, I think. He
needs your forgiveness. The war has made the road from the Eyrie to
Riverrun dangerous to travel, I know, but surely a strong force of
knights could see you safely through the Mountains of the Moon? A
hundred men, or a thousand? And if you cannot come, will you not
write him at least? A few words of love, so he might die in peace?
Write what you will, and I shall read it to him, and ease his
way.
Even as she set the quill aside and asked for sealing wax,
Catelyn sensed that the letter was like to be too little and too
late. Maester Vyman did not believe Lord Hoster would linger long
enough for a raven to reach the Eyrie and return. Though he has
said much the same before . . . Tully men did
not surrender easily, no matter the odds. After she entrusted the
parchment to the maester’s care, Catelyn went to the sept and
lit a candle to the Father Above for her own father’s sake, a
second to the Crone, who had let the first raven into the world
when she peered through the door of death, and a third to the
Mother, for Lysa and all the children they had both lost.
Later that day, as she sat at Lord Hoster’s bedside with a
book, reading the same passage over and over, she heard the sound
of loud voices and a trumpet’s blare. Ser Robin, she thought
at once, flinching. She went to the balcony, but there was nothing
to be seen out on the rivers, but she could hear the voices more
clearly from outside, the sound of many horses, the clink of armor,
and here and there a cheer. Catelyn made her way up the winding
stairs to the roof of the keep. Ser Desmond did not forbid me the
roof, she told herself as she climbed.
The sounds were coming from the far side of the castle, by the
main gate. A knot of men stood before the portcullis as it rose in
jerks and starts, and in the fields beyond, outside the castle,
were several hundred riders. When the wind blew, it lifted their
banners, and she trembled in relief at the sight of the leaping
trout of Riverrun. Edmure.
It was two hours before he saw fit to come to her. By then the
castle rang to the sound of noisy reunions as men embraced the
women and children they had left behind. Three ravens had risen
from the rookery, black wings beating at the air as they took
flight. Catelyn watched them from her father’s balcony. She
had washed her hair, changed her clothing, and prepared herself for
her brother’s reproaches . . . but even
so, the waiting was hard.
When at last she heard sounds outside her door, she sat and
folded her hands in her lap. Dried red mud spattered Edmure’s
boots, greaves, and surcoat. To look at him, you would never know
he had won his battle. He was thin and drawn, with pale cheeks,
unkempt beard, and too-bright eyes.
“Edmure,” Catelyn said, worried, “you look
unwell. Has something happened? Have the Lannisters crossed the
river?”
“I threw them back. Lord Tywin, Gregor Clegane, Addam
Marbrand, I turned them away. Stannis,
though . . . ” He grimaced.
“Stannis? What of Stannis?”
“He lost the battle at King’s Landing,” Edmure
said unhappily. “His fleet was burned, his army
routed.”
A Lannister victory was ill tidings, but Catelyn could not share
her brother’s obvious dismay. She still had nightmares about
the shadow she had seen slide across Renly’s tent and the way
the blood had come flowing out through the steel of his gorget.
“Stannis was no more a friend than Lord Tywin.”
“You do not understand. Highgarden has declared for
Joffrey. Dorne as well. All the south.” His mouth tightened.
“And you see fit to loose the Kingslayer. You had no
right.”
“I had a mother’s right.” Her voice was calm,
though the news about Highgarden was a savage blow to Robb’s
hopes. She could not think about that now, though.
“No right,” Edmure repeated. “He was
Robb’s captive, your king’s captive, and Robb charged
me to keep him safe.”
“Brienne will keep him safe. She swore it on her
sword.”
“That woman?”
“She will deliver Jaime to King’s Landing, and bring
Arya and Sansa back to us safely.”
“Cersei will never give them up.”
“Not Cersei. Tyrion. He swore it, in open court. And the
Kingslayer swore it as well.”
“Jaime’s word is worthless. As for the Imp,
it’s said he took an axe in the head during the battle.
He’ll be dead before your Brienne reaches King’s
Landing, if she ever does.”
“Dead?” Could the gods truly be so merciless? She
had made Jaime swear a hundred oaths, but it was his
brother’s promise she had pinned her hopes on.
Edmure was blind to her distress. “Jaime was my charge,
and I mean to have him back. I’ve sent ravens—”
“Ravens to whom? How many?”
“Three,” he said, “so the message will be
certain to reach Lord Bolton. By river or road, the way from
Riverrun to King’s Landing must needs take them close by
Harrenhal.”
“Harrenhal.” The very word seemed to darken the
room. Horror thickened her voice as she said, “Edmure, do you
know what you have done?”
“Have no fear, I left your part out. I wrote that Jaime
had escaped, and offered a thousand dragons for his
recapture.” Worse and worse, Catelyn thought in despair. My brother is a
fool. Unbidden, unwanted, tears filled her eyes. “If this was
an escape,” she said softly, “and not an exchange of
hostages, why should the Lannisters give my daughters to
Brienne?”
“It will never come to that. The Kingslayer will be
returned to us, I have made certain of it.”
“All you have made certain is that I shall never see my
daughters again. Brienne might have gotten him to King’s
Landing safely . . . so long as no one was
hunting for them. But now . . . ” Catelyn
could not go on. “Leave me, Edmure.” She had no right
to command him, here in the castle that would soon be his, yet her
tone would brook no argument. “Leave me to Father and my
grief, I have no more to say to you. Go. Go.” All she wanted
was to lie down, to close her eyes and sleep, and pray no dreams
would come.