The drums were pounding, pounding, pounding, and her head with
them. Pipes wailed and flutes trilled from the musicians’
gallery at the foot of the hall; fiddles screeched, horns blew, the
skins skirled a lively tune, but the drumming drove them all. The
sounds echoed off the rafters, whilst the guests ate, drank, and
shouted at one another below. Walder Frey must be deaf as a stone
to call this music. Catelyn sipped a cup of wine and watched
Jinglebell prance to the sounds of “Alysanne.” At
least she thought it was meant to be “Alysanne.” With
these players, it might as easily have been “The Bear and the
Maiden Fair.”
Outside the rain still fell, but within the Twins the air was
thick and hot. A fire roared in the hearth and rows of torches
burned smokily from iron sconces on the walls. Yet most of the heat
came off the bodies of the wedding guests, jammed in so thick along
the benches that every man who tried to lift his cup poked his
neighbor in the ribs.
Even on the dais they were closer than Catelyn would have liked.
She had been placed between Ser Ryman Frey and Roose Bolton, and
had gotten a good noseful of both. Ser Ryman drank as if Westeros
was about to run short of wine, and sweated it all out under his
arms. He had bathed in lemonwater, she judged, but no lemon could
mask so much sour sweat. Roose Bolton had a sweeter smell to him,
yet no more pleasant. He sipped hippocras in preference to wine or
mead, and ate but little.
Catelyn could not fault him for his lack of appetite. The
wedding feast began with a thin leek soup, followed by a salad of
green beans, onions, and beets, river pike poached in almond milk,
mounds of mashed turnips that were cold before they reached the
table, jellied calves’ brains, and a leche of stringy beef.
It was poor fare to set before a king, and the calves’ brains
turned Catelyn’s stomach. Yet Robb ate it uncomplaining, and
her brother was too caught up with his bride to pay much
attention. You would never guess Edmure complained of Roslin all the way
from Riverrun to the Twins. Husband and wife ate from a single
plate, drank from a single cup, and exchanged chaste kisses between
sips. Most of the dishes Edmure waved away. She could not blame him
for that. She remembered little of the food served at her own
wedding feast. Did I even taste it? Or spend the whole time gazing
at Ned’s face, wondering who he was?
Poor Roslin’s smile had a fixed quality to it, as if
someone had sewn it onto her face. Well, she is a maid wedded, but
the bedding’s yet to come. No doubt she’s as terrified
as I was. Robb was seated between Alyx Frey and Fair Walda, two of
the more nubile Frey maidens. “At the wedding feast I hope
you will not refuse to dance with my daughters,” Walder Frey
had said. “It would please an old man’s heart.”
His heart should be well pleased, then; Robb had done his duty like
a king. He had danced with each of the girls, with Edmure’s
bride and the eighth Lady Frey, with the widow Ami and Roose
Bolton’s wife Fat Walda, with the pimply twins Serra and
Sarra, even with Shirei, Lord Walder’s youngest, who must
have been all of six. Catelyn wondered whether the Lord of the
Crossing would be satisfied, or if he would find cause for
complaint in all the other daughters and granddaughters who had not
had a turn with the king. “Your sisters dance very
well,” she said to Ser Ryman Frey, trying to be pleasant.
“They’re aunts and cousins.” Ser Ryman drank a
swallow of wine, the sweat trickling down his cheek into his
beard. A sour man, and in his cups, Catelyn thought. The Late Lord Frey
might be niggardly when it came to feeding his guests, but he did
not stint on the drink. The ale, wine, and mead were flowing as
fast as the river outside. The Greatjon was already roaring drunk.
Lord Walder’s son Merrett was matching him cup for cup, but
Ser Whalen Frey had passed out trying to keep up with the two of
them. Catelyn would sooner Lord Umber had seen fit to stay sober,
but telling the Greatjon not to drink was like telling him not to
breathe for a few hours.
Smalljon Umber and Robin Flint sat near Robb, to the other side
of Fair Walda and Alyx, respectively. Neither of them was drinking;
along with Patrek Mallister and Dacey Mormont, they were her
son’s guards this evening. A wedding feast was not a battle,
but there were always dangers when men were in their cups, and a
king should never be unguarded. Catelyn was glad of that, and even
more glad of the swordbelts hanging on pegs along the walls. No man
needs a longsword to deal with jellied calves’ brains.
“Everyone thought my lord would choose Fair Walda,”
Lady Walda Bolton told Ser Wendel, shouting to be heard above the
music. Fat Walda was a round pink butterball of a girl with watery
blue eyes, limp yellow hair, and a huge bosom, yet her voice was a
fluttering squeak. It was hard to picture her in the Dreadfort in
her pink lace and cape of vair. “My lord grandfather offered
Roose his bride’s weight in silver as a dowry, though, so my
lord of Bolton picked me.” The girl’s chins jiggled
when she laughed. “I weigh six stone more than Fair Walda,
but that was the first time I was glad of it. I’m Lady Bolton
now and my cousin’s still a maid, and she’ll be
nineteen soon, poor thing.”
The Lord of the Dreadfort paid the chatter no mind, Catelyn saw.
Sometimes he tasted a bite of this, a spoon of that, tearing bread
from the loaf with short strong fingers, but the meal could not
distract him. Bolton had made a toast to Lord Walder’s
grandsons when the wedding feast began, pointedly mentioning that
Walder and Walder were in the care of his bastard son. From the way
the old man had squinted at him, his mouth sucking at the air,
Catelyn knew he had heard the unspoken threat. Was there ever a wedding less joyful? she wondered, until she
remembered her poor Sansa and her marriage to the Imp. Mother take
mercy on her. She has a gentle soul. The heat and smoke and noise
were making her sick. The musicians in the gallery might be
numerous and loud, but they were not especially gifted. Catelyn
took another swallow of wine and allowed a page to refill her cup.
A few more hours, and the worst will be over. By this hour tomorrow
Robb would be off to another battle, this time with the ironmen at
Moat Cailin. Strange, how that prospect seemed almost a relief. He
will win his battle. He wins all his battles, and the ironborn are
without a king. Besides, Ned taught him well. The drums were
pounding. Jinglebell hopped past her once again, but the music was
so loud she could scarcely hear his bells.
Above the din came a sudden snarling as two dogs fell upon each
other over a scrap of meat. They rolled across the floor, snapping
and biting, as a howl of mirth went up. Someone doused them with a
flagon of ale and they broke apart. One limped toward the dais.
Lord Walder’s toothless mouth opened in a bark of laughter as
the dripping wet dog shook ale and hair all over three of his
grandsons.
The sight of the dogs made Catelyn wish once more for Grey Wind,
but Robb’s direwolf was nowhere to be seen. Lord Walder had
refused to allow him in the hall. “Your wild beast has a
taste for human flesh, I hear, heh,” the old man had said.
“Rips out throats, yes. I’ll have no such creature at
my Roslin’s feast, amongst women and little ones, all my
sweet innocents.”
“Grey Wind is no danger to them, my lord,” Robb
protested. “Not so long as I am there.”
“You were there at my gates, were you not? When the wolf
attacked the grandsons I sent to greet you? I heard all about that,
don’t think I didn’t, heh.”
“No harm was done—”
“No harm, the king says? No harm? Petyr fell from his
horse, fell. I lost a wife the same way, falling.” His mouth
worked in and out. “Or was she just some strumpet? Bastard
Walder’s mother, yes, now I recall. She fell off her horse
and cracked her head. What would Your Grace do if Petyr had broken
his neck, heh? Give me another apology in place of a grandson? No,
no, no. Might be you’re king, I won’t say you’re
not, the King in the North, heh, but under my roof, my rule. Have
your wolf or have your wedding, sire. You’ll not have
both.”
Catelyn could tell that her son was furious, but he yielded with
as much courtesy as he could summon. If it pleases Lord Walder to
serve me stewed crow smothered in maggots, he’d told her,
I’ll eat it and ask for a second bowl. And so he had.
The Greatjon had drunk another of Lord Walder’s brood
under the table, Petyr Pimple this time. The lad has a third his
capacity, what did he expect? Lord Umber wiped his mouth, stood,
and began to sing. “A bear there was, a bear, a BEAR! All
black and brown and covered with hair!” His voice was not at
all bad, though somewhat thick from drink. Unfortunately the
fiddlers and drummers and flutists up above were playing
“Flowers of Spring,” which suited the words of
“The Bear and the Maiden Fair” as well as snails might
suit a bowl of porridge. Even poor Jinglebell covered his ears at
the cacophony.
Roose Bolton murmured some words too soft to hear and went off
in search of a privy. The cramped hall was in a constant uproar of
guests and servants coming and going. A second feast, for knights
and lords of somewhat lesser rank, was roaring along in the other
castle, she knew. Lord Walder had exiled his baseborn children and
their offspring to that side of the river, so that Robb’s
northmen had taken to referring to it as “the bastard
feast.” Some guests were no doubt stealing off to see if the
bastards were having a better time than they were. Some might even
be venturing as far as the camps. The Freys had provided wagons of
wine, ale and mead, so the common soldiers could drink to the
wedding of Riverrun and the Twins.
Robb sat down in Bolton’s vacant place. “A few more
hours and this farce is done, Mother,” he said in a low
voice, as the Greatjon sang of the maid with honey in her hair.
“Black Walder’s been mild as a lamb for once. And Uncle
Edmure seems well content in his bride.” He leaned across
her. “Ser Ryman?”
Ser Ryman Frey blinked and said, “Sire. Yes?”
“I’d hoped to ask Olyvar to squire for me when we
march north,” said Robb, “but I do not see him here.
Would he be at the other feast?”
“Olyvar?” Ser
Ryman shook his head. “No. Not Olyvar.
Gone . . . gone from the castles.
Duty.”
“I see.” Robb’s tone suggested otherwise. When
Ser Ryman offered nothing more, the king got to his feet again.
“Would you care for a dance, Mother?”
“Thank you, but no.” A dance was the last thing she
needed, the way her head was throbbing. “No doubt one of Lord
Walder’s daughters would be pleased to partner
you.”
“Oh, no doubt.” His smile was resigned.
The musicians were playing “Iron Lances” by then,
while the Greatjon sang “The Lusty Lad.” Someone should
acquaint them with each other, it might improve the harmony.
Catelyn turned back to Ser Ryman. “I had heard that one of
your cousins was a singer.”
“Alesander. Symond’s son. Alyx is his sister.”
He raised a cup toward where she danced with Robin Flint.
“Will Alesander be playing for us tonight?”
Ser Ryman squinted at her. “Not him. He’s
away.” He wiped sweat from his brow and lurched to his feet.
“Pardons, my lady. Pardons.” Catelyn watched him
stagger toward the door.
Edmure was kissing Roslin and squeezing her hand. Elsewhere in
the hall, Ser Marq Piper and Ser Danwell Frey played a drinking
game, Lame Lothar said something amusing to Ser Hosteen, one of the
younger Freys juggled three daggers for a group of giggly girls,
and Jinglebell sat on the floor sucking wine off his fingers. The
servers were bringing out huge silver platters piled high with cuts
of juicy pink lamb, the most appetizing dish they’d seen all
evening. And Robb was leading Dacey Mormont in a dance.
When she wore a dress in place of a hauberk, Lady Maege’s
eldest daughter was quite pretty; tall and willowy, with a shy
smile that made her long face light up. It was pleasant to see that
she could be as graceful on the dance floor as in the training
yard. Catelyn wondered if Lady Maege had reached the Neck as yet.
She had taken her other daughters with her, but as one of
Robb’s battle companions Dacey had chosen to remain by his
side. He has Ned’s gift for inspiring loyalty. Olyvar Frey
had been devoted to her son as well. Hadn’t Robb said that
Olyvar wanted to remain with him even after he’d married
Jeyne?
Seated betwixt his black oak towers, the Lord of the Crossing
clapped his spotted hands together. The noise they made was so
faint that even those on the dais scarce heard it, but Ser Aenys
and Ser Hosteen saw and began to pound their cups on the table.
Lame Lothar joined them, then Marq Piper and Ser Danwell and Ser
Raymund. Half the guests were soon pounding. Finally even the mob
of musicians in the gallery took note. The piping, drumming, and
fiddling trailed off into quiet.
“Your Grace,” Lord Walder called out to Robb,
“the septon has prayed his prayers, some words have been
said, and Lord Edmure’s wrapped my sweetling in a fish cloak,
but they are not yet man and wife. A sword needs a sheath, heh, and
a wedding needs a bedding. What does my sire say? Is it meet that
we should bed them?”
A score or more of Walder Frey’s sons and grandsons began
to bang their cups again, shouting, “To bed! To bed! To bed
with them!” Roslin had gone white. Catelyn wondered whether
it was the prospect of losing her maidenhead that frightened the
girl, or the bedding itself. With so many siblings, she was not
like to be a stranger to the custom, but it was different when you
were the one being bedded. On Catelyn’s own wedding night,
Jory Cassell had torn her gown in his haste to get her out of it,
and drunken Desmond Grell kept apologizing for every bawdy joke,
only to make another. When Lord Dustin had beheld her naked,
he’d told Ned that her breasts were enough to make him wish
he’d never been weaned. Poor man, she thought. He had ridden
south with Ned, never to return. Catelyn wondered how many of the
men here tonight would be dead before the year was done. Too many,
I fear.
Robb raised a hand. “if you think the time is meet, Lord
Walder, by all means let us bed them.”
A roar of approval greeted his pronouncement. Up in the gallery
the musicians took up their pipes and horns and fiddles again, and
began to play “The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took
Off His Crown.” Jinglebell hopped from foot to foot, his own
crown ringing. “I hear Tully men have trout between their
legs instead of cocks,” Alyx Frey called out boldly.
“Does it take a worm to make them rise?” To which Ser
Marq Piper threw back, “I hear that Frey women have two gates
in place of one!” and Alyx said, “Aye, but both are
closed and barred to little things like you!” A gust of
laughter followed, until Patrek Mallister climbed up onto a table
to propose a toast to Edmure’s one-eyed fish. “And a
mighty pike it is!” he proclaimed. “Nay, I’ll
wager it’s a minnow,” Fat Walda Bolton shouted out from
Catelyn’s side. Then the general cry of “Bed them! Bed
them!” went up again.
The guests swarmed the dais, the drunkest in the forefront as
ever. The men and boys surrounded Roslin and lifted her into the
air whilst the maids and mothers in the hall pulled Edmure to his
feet and began tugging at his clothing. He was laughing and
shouting bawdy jokes back at them, though the music was too loud
for Catelyn to hear. She heard the Greatjon, though. “Give
this little bride to me,” he bellowed as he shoved through
the other men and threw Roslin over one shoulder. “Look at
this little thing! No meat on her at all!”
Catelyn felt sorry for the girl. Most brides tried to return the
banter, or at least pretended to enjoy it, but Roslin was stiff
with terror, clutching the Greatjon as if she feared he might drop
her. She’s crying too, Catelyn realized as she watched Ser
Marq Piper pull off one of the bride’s shoes. I hope Edmure
is gentle with the poor child. Jolly, bawdy music still poured down
from the gallery; the queen was taking off her kirtle now, and the
king his tunic.
She knew she should join the throng of women round her brother,
but she would only ruin their fun. The last thing she felt just now
was bawdy. Edmure would forgive her absence, she did not doubt;
much jollier to be stripped and bedded by a score of lusty,
laughing Freys than by a sour, stricken sister.
As man and maid were carried from the hall, a trail of clothing
behind them, Catelyn saw that Robb had also remained. Walder Frey
was prickly enough to see some insult to his daughter in that. He
should join in Roslin’s bedding, but is it my place to tell
him so? She tensed, until she saw that others had stayed as well.
Petyr Pimple and Ser Whalen Frey slept on, their heads on the
table. Merrett Frey poured himself another cup of wine, while
Jinglebell wandered about stealing bites off the plates of those
who’d left. Ser Wendel Manderly was lustily attacking a leg
of lamb. And of course Lord Walder was far too feeble to leave his
seat without help. He will expect Robb to go, though. She could
almost hear the old man asking why His Grace did not want to see
his daughter naked. The drums were pounding again, pounding and
pounding and pounding.
Dacey Mormont, who seemed to be the only woman left in the hall
besides Catelyn, stepped up behind Edwyn Frey, and touched him
lightly on the arm as she said something in his ear. Edwyn wrenched
himself away from her with unseemly violence. “No,” he
said, too loudly. “I’m done with dancing for the
nonce.” Dacey paled and turned away. Catelyn got slowly to
her feet. What just happened there? Doubt gripped her heart, where
an instant before had been only weariness. It is nothing, she tried
to tell herself, you are seeing grumkins in the woodpile, you are
become an old silly woman sick with grief and fear. But something
must have shown on her face. Even Ser Wendel Manderly took note.
“Is something amiss?” he asked, the leg of lamb in his
hands.
She did not answer him. Instead she went after Edwyn Frey. The
players in the gallery had finally gotten both king and queen down
to their name-day suits. With scarcely a moment’s respite,
they began to play a very different sort of song. No one sang the
words, but Catelyn knew “The Rains of Castamere” when
she heard it. Edwyn was hurrying toward a door. She hurried faster,
driven by the music. Six quick strides and she caught him. And who
are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low? She grabbed
Edwyn by the arm to turn him and went cold all over when she felt
the iron rings beneath his silken sleeve.
Catelyn slapped him so hard she broke his lip. Olyvar, she
thought, and Perwyn, Alesander, all absent. And Roslin
wept . . .
Edwyn Frey shoved her aside. The music drowned all other sound,
echoing off the walls as if the stones themselves were playing.
Robb gave Edwyn an angry look and moved to block his
way . . . and staggered suddenly as a quarrel
sprouted from his side, just beneath the shoulder. If he screamed
then, the sound was swallowed by the pipes and horns and fiddles.
Catelyn saw a second bolt pierce his leg, saw him fall. Up in the
gallery, half the musicians had crossbows in their hands instead of
drums or lutes. She ran toward her son, until something punched in
the small of the back and the hard stone floor came up to slap her.
“Robb!” she screamed. She saw Smalljon Umber wrestle a
table off its trestles. Crossbow bolts thudded into the wood, one
two three, as he flung it down on top of his king. Robin Flint was
ringed by Freys, their daggers rising and falling. Ser Wendel
Manderly rose ponderously to his feet, holding his leg of lamb. A
quarrel went in his open mouth and came out the back of his neck.
Ser Wendel crashed forward, knocking the table off its trestles and
sending cups, flagons, trenchers, platters, turnips, beets, and
wine bouncing, spilling, and sliding across the floor.
Catelyn’s back was on fire. I have to reach him. The
Smalljon bludgeoned Ser Raymund Frey across the face with a leg of
mutton. But when he reached for his swordbelt a crossbow bolt drove
him to his knees. In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still
has claws. She saw Lucas Blackwood cut down by Ser Hosteen Frey.
One of the Vances was hamstrung by Black Walder as he was wrestling
with Ser Harys Haigh. And mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long
and sharp as yours. The crossbows took Donnel Locke, Owen Norrey,
and half a dozen more. Young Ser Benfrey had seized Dacey Mormont
by the arm, but Catelyn saw her grab up a flagon of wine with her
other hand, smash it full in his face, and run for the door. It
flew open before she reached it. Ser Ryman Frey pushed into the
hall, clad in steel from helm to heel. A dozen Frey men-at-arms
packed the door behind him. They were armed with heavy
longaxes.
“Mercy!” Catelyn cried, but horns and drums and the
clash of steel smothered her plea. Ser Ryman buried the head of his
axe in Dacey’s stomach. By then men were pouring in the other
doors as well, mailed men in shaggy fur cloaks with steel in their
hands. Northmen! She took them for rescue for half a heartbeat,
till one of them struck the Smalljon’s head off with two huge
blows of his axe. Hope blew out like a candle in a storm.
In the
midst of slaughter, the Lord of the Crossing sat on his carved
oaken throne, watching greedily.
There was a dagger on the floor a few feet away. Perhaps it had
skittered there when the Smalljon knocked the table off its
trestles, or perhaps it had fallen from the hand of some dying man.
Catelyn crawled toward it. Her limbs were leaden, and the taste of
blood was in her mouth. I will kill Walder Frey, she told herself.
Jinglebell was closer to the knife, hiding under a table, but he
only cringed away as she snatched up the blade. I will kill the old
man, I can do that much at least.
Then the tabletop that the Smalljon had flung over Robb shifted, and her son struggled to his knees. He had an arrow in his side,
a second in his leg, a third through his chest. Lord Walder raised
a hand, and the music stopped, all but one drum. Catelyn heard the
crash of distant battle, and closer the wild howling of a wolf.
Grey Wind, she remembered too late. “Heh,” Lord Walder
cackled at Robb, “the King in the North arises. Seems we
killed some of your men, Your Grace. Oh, but I’ll make you an
apology, that will mend them all again, heh.”
Catelyn grabbed a handful of Jinglebell Frey’s long grey
hair and dragged him out of his hiding place. “Lord
Walder!” she shouted. “LORD WALDER!” The drum
beat slow and sonorous, doom boom doom. “Enough,” said
Catelyn. “Enough, I say. You have repaid betrayal with
betrayal, let it end.” When she pressed her dagger to
Jinglebell’s throat, the memory of Bran’s sickroom came
back to her, with the feel of steel at her own throat. The drum
went boom doom boom doom boom doom. “Please,” she said.
“He is my son. My first son, and my last. Let him go. Let him
go and I swear we will forget this . . . forget
all you’ve done here. I swear it by the old gods and new,
we . . . we will take no
vengeance . . . ”
Lord Walder peered at her in mistrust. “Only a fool would
believe such blather. D’you take me for a fool, my
lady?”
“I take you for a father. Keep me for a hostage, Edmure as
well if you haven’t killed him. But let Robb go.”
“No. “ Robb’s voice was whisper faint.
“Mother, no . . . ”
“Yes. Robb, get up. Get up and walk out, please, please.
Save yourself . . . if not for me, for
Jeyne.”
“Jeyne?” Robb grabbed the edge of the table and
forced himself to stand. “Mother,” he said, “Grey
Wind . . . ”
“Go to him. Now. Robb, walk out of here.”
Lord Walder snorted. “And why would I let him do
that?”
She pressed the blade deeper into Jinglebell’s throat. The
lackwit rolled his eyes at her in mute appeal. A foul stench
assailed her nose, but she paid it no more mind than she did the
sullen ceaseless pounding of that drum, boom doom boom doom boom
doom. Ser Ryman and Black Walder were circling round her back, but
Catelyn did not care. They could do as they wished with her;
imprison her, rape her, kill her, it made no matter. She had lived
too long, and Ned was waiting. It was Robb she feared for. “On my honor as a Tully,” she told Lord Walder,
“on my honor as a Stark, I will trade your boy’s life
for Robb’s. A son for a son.” Her hand shook so badly
she was ringing Jinglebell’s head. Boom, the drum sounded, boom doom boom doom. The old man’s
lips went in and out. The knife trembled in Catelyn’s hand,
slippery with sweat. “A son for a son, heh,” he
repeated. “But that’s a
grandson . . . and he never was much
use.”
A man in dark armor and a pale pink cloak spotted with blood
stepped up to Robb. “Jaime Lannister sends his
regards.” He thrust his longsword through her son’s
heart, and twisted.
Robb had broken his word, but Catelyn kept hers. She tugged hard
on Aegon’s hair and sawed at his neck until the blade grated
on bone. Blood ran hot over her fingers. His little bells were
ringing, ringing, ringing, and the drum went boom doom boom.
Finally someone took the knife away from her. The tears burned
like vinegar as they ran down her cheeks. Ten flerce ravens were
raking her face with sharp talons and tearing off strips of flesh,
leaving deep furrows that ran red with blood. She could taste it on
her lips. It hurts so much, she thought. Our children, Ned, all our sweet
babes. Rickon, Bran, Arya, Sansa,
Robb . . . Robb . . . please,
Ned, please, make it stop, make it stop
hurting . . . the white tears and the red ones
ran together until her face was torn and tattered, the face that
Ned had loved. Catelyn Stark raised her hands and watched the blood
run down her long fingers, over her wrists, beneath the sleeves of
her gown. Slow red worms crawled along her arms and under her
clothes. It tickles. That made her laugh until she screamed.
“Mad,” someone said, “she’s lost her
wits,” and someone else said, “Make an end,” and
a hand grabbed her scalp just as she’d done with Jinglebell,
and she thought, No, don’t, don’t cut my hair, Ned
loves my hair. Then the steel was at her throat, and its bite was
red and cold.
The drums were pounding, pounding, pounding, and her head with
them. Pipes wailed and flutes trilled from the musicians’
gallery at the foot of the hall; fiddles screeched, horns blew, the
skins skirled a lively tune, but the drumming drove them all. The
sounds echoed off the rafters, whilst the guests ate, drank, and
shouted at one another below. Walder Frey must be deaf as a stone
to call this music. Catelyn sipped a cup of wine and watched
Jinglebell prance to the sounds of “Alysanne.” At
least she thought it was meant to be “Alysanne.” With
these players, it might as easily have been “The Bear and the
Maiden Fair.”
Outside the rain still fell, but within the Twins the air was
thick and hot. A fire roared in the hearth and rows of torches
burned smokily from iron sconces on the walls. Yet most of the heat
came off the bodies of the wedding guests, jammed in so thick along
the benches that every man who tried to lift his cup poked his
neighbor in the ribs.
Even on the dais they were closer than Catelyn would have liked.
She had been placed between Ser Ryman Frey and Roose Bolton, and
had gotten a good noseful of both. Ser Ryman drank as if Westeros
was about to run short of wine, and sweated it all out under his
arms. He had bathed in lemonwater, she judged, but no lemon could
mask so much sour sweat. Roose Bolton had a sweeter smell to him,
yet no more pleasant. He sipped hippocras in preference to wine or
mead, and ate but little.
Catelyn could not fault him for his lack of appetite. The
wedding feast began with a thin leek soup, followed by a salad of
green beans, onions, and beets, river pike poached in almond milk,
mounds of mashed turnips that were cold before they reached the
table, jellied calves’ brains, and a leche of stringy beef.
It was poor fare to set before a king, and the calves’ brains
turned Catelyn’s stomach. Yet Robb ate it uncomplaining, and
her brother was too caught up with his bride to pay much
attention. You would never guess Edmure complained of Roslin all the way
from Riverrun to the Twins. Husband and wife ate from a single
plate, drank from a single cup, and exchanged chaste kisses between
sips. Most of the dishes Edmure waved away. She could not blame him
for that. She remembered little of the food served at her own
wedding feast. Did I even taste it? Or spend the whole time gazing
at Ned’s face, wondering who he was?
Poor Roslin’s smile had a fixed quality to it, as if
someone had sewn it onto her face. Well, she is a maid wedded, but
the bedding’s yet to come. No doubt she’s as terrified
as I was. Robb was seated between Alyx Frey and Fair Walda, two of
the more nubile Frey maidens. “At the wedding feast I hope
you will not refuse to dance with my daughters,” Walder Frey
had said. “It would please an old man’s heart.”
His heart should be well pleased, then; Robb had done his duty like
a king. He had danced with each of the girls, with Edmure’s
bride and the eighth Lady Frey, with the widow Ami and Roose
Bolton’s wife Fat Walda, with the pimply twins Serra and
Sarra, even with Shirei, Lord Walder’s youngest, who must
have been all of six. Catelyn wondered whether the Lord of the
Crossing would be satisfied, or if he would find cause for
complaint in all the other daughters and granddaughters who had not
had a turn with the king. “Your sisters dance very
well,” she said to Ser Ryman Frey, trying to be pleasant.
“They’re aunts and cousins.” Ser Ryman drank a
swallow of wine, the sweat trickling down his cheek into his
beard. A sour man, and in his cups, Catelyn thought. The Late Lord Frey
might be niggardly when it came to feeding his guests, but he did
not stint on the drink. The ale, wine, and mead were flowing as
fast as the river outside. The Greatjon was already roaring drunk.
Lord Walder’s son Merrett was matching him cup for cup, but
Ser Whalen Frey had passed out trying to keep up with the two of
them. Catelyn would sooner Lord Umber had seen fit to stay sober,
but telling the Greatjon not to drink was like telling him not to
breathe for a few hours.
Smalljon Umber and Robin Flint sat near Robb, to the other side
of Fair Walda and Alyx, respectively. Neither of them was drinking;
along with Patrek Mallister and Dacey Mormont, they were her
son’s guards this evening. A wedding feast was not a battle,
but there were always dangers when men were in their cups, and a
king should never be unguarded. Catelyn was glad of that, and even
more glad of the swordbelts hanging on pegs along the walls. No man
needs a longsword to deal with jellied calves’ brains.
“Everyone thought my lord would choose Fair Walda,”
Lady Walda Bolton told Ser Wendel, shouting to be heard above the
music. Fat Walda was a round pink butterball of a girl with watery
blue eyes, limp yellow hair, and a huge bosom, yet her voice was a
fluttering squeak. It was hard to picture her in the Dreadfort in
her pink lace and cape of vair. “My lord grandfather offered
Roose his bride’s weight in silver as a dowry, though, so my
lord of Bolton picked me.” The girl’s chins jiggled
when she laughed. “I weigh six stone more than Fair Walda,
but that was the first time I was glad of it. I’m Lady Bolton
now and my cousin’s still a maid, and she’ll be
nineteen soon, poor thing.”
The Lord of the Dreadfort paid the chatter no mind, Catelyn saw.
Sometimes he tasted a bite of this, a spoon of that, tearing bread
from the loaf with short strong fingers, but the meal could not
distract him. Bolton had made a toast to Lord Walder’s
grandsons when the wedding feast began, pointedly mentioning that
Walder and Walder were in the care of his bastard son. From the way
the old man had squinted at him, his mouth sucking at the air,
Catelyn knew he had heard the unspoken threat. Was there ever a wedding less joyful? she wondered, until she
remembered her poor Sansa and her marriage to the Imp. Mother take
mercy on her. She has a gentle soul. The heat and smoke and noise
were making her sick. The musicians in the gallery might be
numerous and loud, but they were not especially gifted. Catelyn
took another swallow of wine and allowed a page to refill her cup.
A few more hours, and the worst will be over. By this hour tomorrow
Robb would be off to another battle, this time with the ironmen at
Moat Cailin. Strange, how that prospect seemed almost a relief. He
will win his battle. He wins all his battles, and the ironborn are
without a king. Besides, Ned taught him well. The drums were
pounding. Jinglebell hopped past her once again, but the music was
so loud she could scarcely hear his bells.
Above the din came a sudden snarling as two dogs fell upon each
other over a scrap of meat. They rolled across the floor, snapping
and biting, as a howl of mirth went up. Someone doused them with a
flagon of ale and they broke apart. One limped toward the dais.
Lord Walder’s toothless mouth opened in a bark of laughter as
the dripping wet dog shook ale and hair all over three of his
grandsons.
The sight of the dogs made Catelyn wish once more for Grey Wind,
but Robb’s direwolf was nowhere to be seen. Lord Walder had
refused to allow him in the hall. “Your wild beast has a
taste for human flesh, I hear, heh,” the old man had said.
“Rips out throats, yes. I’ll have no such creature at
my Roslin’s feast, amongst women and little ones, all my
sweet innocents.”
“Grey Wind is no danger to them, my lord,” Robb
protested. “Not so long as I am there.”
“You were there at my gates, were you not? When the wolf
attacked the grandsons I sent to greet you? I heard all about that,
don’t think I didn’t, heh.”
“No harm was done—”
“No harm, the king says? No harm? Petyr fell from his
horse, fell. I lost a wife the same way, falling.” His mouth
worked in and out. “Or was she just some strumpet? Bastard
Walder’s mother, yes, now I recall. She fell off her horse
and cracked her head. What would Your Grace do if Petyr had broken
his neck, heh? Give me another apology in place of a grandson? No,
no, no. Might be you’re king, I won’t say you’re
not, the King in the North, heh, but under my roof, my rule. Have
your wolf or have your wedding, sire. You’ll not have
both.”
Catelyn could tell that her son was furious, but he yielded with
as much courtesy as he could summon. If it pleases Lord Walder to
serve me stewed crow smothered in maggots, he’d told her,
I’ll eat it and ask for a second bowl. And so he had.
The Greatjon had drunk another of Lord Walder’s brood
under the table, Petyr Pimple this time. The lad has a third his
capacity, what did he expect? Lord Umber wiped his mouth, stood,
and began to sing. “A bear there was, a bear, a BEAR! All
black and brown and covered with hair!” His voice was not at
all bad, though somewhat thick from drink. Unfortunately the
fiddlers and drummers and flutists up above were playing
“Flowers of Spring,” which suited the words of
“The Bear and the Maiden Fair” as well as snails might
suit a bowl of porridge. Even poor Jinglebell covered his ears at
the cacophony.
Roose Bolton murmured some words too soft to hear and went off
in search of a privy. The cramped hall was in a constant uproar of
guests and servants coming and going. A second feast, for knights
and lords of somewhat lesser rank, was roaring along in the other
castle, she knew. Lord Walder had exiled his baseborn children and
their offspring to that side of the river, so that Robb’s
northmen had taken to referring to it as “the bastard
feast.” Some guests were no doubt stealing off to see if the
bastards were having a better time than they were. Some might even
be venturing as far as the camps. The Freys had provided wagons of
wine, ale and mead, so the common soldiers could drink to the
wedding of Riverrun and the Twins.
Robb sat down in Bolton’s vacant place. “A few more
hours and this farce is done, Mother,” he said in a low
voice, as the Greatjon sang of the maid with honey in her hair.
“Black Walder’s been mild as a lamb for once. And Uncle
Edmure seems well content in his bride.” He leaned across
her. “Ser Ryman?”
Ser Ryman Frey blinked and said, “Sire. Yes?”
“I’d hoped to ask Olyvar to squire for me when we
march north,” said Robb, “but I do not see him here.
Would he be at the other feast?”
“Olyvar?” Ser
Ryman shook his head. “No. Not Olyvar.
Gone . . . gone from the castles.
Duty.”
“I see.” Robb’s tone suggested otherwise. When
Ser Ryman offered nothing more, the king got to his feet again.
“Would you care for a dance, Mother?”
“Thank you, but no.” A dance was the last thing she
needed, the way her head was throbbing. “No doubt one of Lord
Walder’s daughters would be pleased to partner
you.”
“Oh, no doubt.” His smile was resigned.
The musicians were playing “Iron Lances” by then,
while the Greatjon sang “The Lusty Lad.” Someone should
acquaint them with each other, it might improve the harmony.
Catelyn turned back to Ser Ryman. “I had heard that one of
your cousins was a singer.”
“Alesander. Symond’s son. Alyx is his sister.”
He raised a cup toward where she danced with Robin Flint.
“Will Alesander be playing for us tonight?”
Ser Ryman squinted at her. “Not him. He’s
away.” He wiped sweat from his brow and lurched to his feet.
“Pardons, my lady. Pardons.” Catelyn watched him
stagger toward the door.
Edmure was kissing Roslin and squeezing her hand. Elsewhere in
the hall, Ser Marq Piper and Ser Danwell Frey played a drinking
game, Lame Lothar said something amusing to Ser Hosteen, one of the
younger Freys juggled three daggers for a group of giggly girls,
and Jinglebell sat on the floor sucking wine off his fingers. The
servers were bringing out huge silver platters piled high with cuts
of juicy pink lamb, the most appetizing dish they’d seen all
evening. And Robb was leading Dacey Mormont in a dance.
When she wore a dress in place of a hauberk, Lady Maege’s
eldest daughter was quite pretty; tall and willowy, with a shy
smile that made her long face light up. It was pleasant to see that
she could be as graceful on the dance floor as in the training
yard. Catelyn wondered if Lady Maege had reached the Neck as yet.
She had taken her other daughters with her, but as one of
Robb’s battle companions Dacey had chosen to remain by his
side. He has Ned’s gift for inspiring loyalty. Olyvar Frey
had been devoted to her son as well. Hadn’t Robb said that
Olyvar wanted to remain with him even after he’d married
Jeyne?
Seated betwixt his black oak towers, the Lord of the Crossing
clapped his spotted hands together. The noise they made was so
faint that even those on the dais scarce heard it, but Ser Aenys
and Ser Hosteen saw and began to pound their cups on the table.
Lame Lothar joined them, then Marq Piper and Ser Danwell and Ser
Raymund. Half the guests were soon pounding. Finally even the mob
of musicians in the gallery took note. The piping, drumming, and
fiddling trailed off into quiet.
“Your Grace,” Lord Walder called out to Robb,
“the septon has prayed his prayers, some words have been
said, and Lord Edmure’s wrapped my sweetling in a fish cloak,
but they are not yet man and wife. A sword needs a sheath, heh, and
a wedding needs a bedding. What does my sire say? Is it meet that
we should bed them?”
A score or more of Walder Frey’s sons and grandsons began
to bang their cups again, shouting, “To bed! To bed! To bed
with them!” Roslin had gone white. Catelyn wondered whether
it was the prospect of losing her maidenhead that frightened the
girl, or the bedding itself. With so many siblings, she was not
like to be a stranger to the custom, but it was different when you
were the one being bedded. On Catelyn’s own wedding night,
Jory Cassell had torn her gown in his haste to get her out of it,
and drunken Desmond Grell kept apologizing for every bawdy joke,
only to make another. When Lord Dustin had beheld her naked,
he’d told Ned that her breasts were enough to make him wish
he’d never been weaned. Poor man, she thought. He had ridden
south with Ned, never to return. Catelyn wondered how many of the
men here tonight would be dead before the year was done. Too many,
I fear.
Robb raised a hand. “if you think the time is meet, Lord
Walder, by all means let us bed them.”
A roar of approval greeted his pronouncement. Up in the gallery
the musicians took up their pipes and horns and fiddles again, and
began to play “The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took
Off His Crown.” Jinglebell hopped from foot to foot, his own
crown ringing. “I hear Tully men have trout between their
legs instead of cocks,” Alyx Frey called out boldly.
“Does it take a worm to make them rise?” To which Ser
Marq Piper threw back, “I hear that Frey women have two gates
in place of one!” and Alyx said, “Aye, but both are
closed and barred to little things like you!” A gust of
laughter followed, until Patrek Mallister climbed up onto a table
to propose a toast to Edmure’s one-eyed fish. “And a
mighty pike it is!” he proclaimed. “Nay, I’ll
wager it’s a minnow,” Fat Walda Bolton shouted out from
Catelyn’s side. Then the general cry of “Bed them! Bed
them!” went up again.
The guests swarmed the dais, the drunkest in the forefront as
ever. The men and boys surrounded Roslin and lifted her into the
air whilst the maids and mothers in the hall pulled Edmure to his
feet and began tugging at his clothing. He was laughing and
shouting bawdy jokes back at them, though the music was too loud
for Catelyn to hear. She heard the Greatjon, though. “Give
this little bride to me,” he bellowed as he shoved through
the other men and threw Roslin over one shoulder. “Look at
this little thing! No meat on her at all!”
Catelyn felt sorry for the girl. Most brides tried to return the
banter, or at least pretended to enjoy it, but Roslin was stiff
with terror, clutching the Greatjon as if she feared he might drop
her. She’s crying too, Catelyn realized as she watched Ser
Marq Piper pull off one of the bride’s shoes. I hope Edmure
is gentle with the poor child. Jolly, bawdy music still poured down
from the gallery; the queen was taking off her kirtle now, and the
king his tunic.
She knew she should join the throng of women round her brother,
but she would only ruin their fun. The last thing she felt just now
was bawdy. Edmure would forgive her absence, she did not doubt;
much jollier to be stripped and bedded by a score of lusty,
laughing Freys than by a sour, stricken sister.
As man and maid were carried from the hall, a trail of clothing
behind them, Catelyn saw that Robb had also remained. Walder Frey
was prickly enough to see some insult to his daughter in that. He
should join in Roslin’s bedding, but is it my place to tell
him so? She tensed, until she saw that others had stayed as well.
Petyr Pimple and Ser Whalen Frey slept on, their heads on the
table. Merrett Frey poured himself another cup of wine, while
Jinglebell wandered about stealing bites off the plates of those
who’d left. Ser Wendel Manderly was lustily attacking a leg
of lamb. And of course Lord Walder was far too feeble to leave his
seat without help. He will expect Robb to go, though. She could
almost hear the old man asking why His Grace did not want to see
his daughter naked. The drums were pounding again, pounding and
pounding and pounding.
Dacey Mormont, who seemed to be the only woman left in the hall
besides Catelyn, stepped up behind Edwyn Frey, and touched him
lightly on the arm as she said something in his ear. Edwyn wrenched
himself away from her with unseemly violence. “No,” he
said, too loudly. “I’m done with dancing for the
nonce.” Dacey paled and turned away. Catelyn got slowly to
her feet. What just happened there? Doubt gripped her heart, where
an instant before had been only weariness. It is nothing, she tried
to tell herself, you are seeing grumkins in the woodpile, you are
become an old silly woman sick with grief and fear. But something
must have shown on her face. Even Ser Wendel Manderly took note.
“Is something amiss?” he asked, the leg of lamb in his
hands.
She did not answer him. Instead she went after Edwyn Frey. The
players in the gallery had finally gotten both king and queen down
to their name-day suits. With scarcely a moment’s respite,
they began to play a very different sort of song. No one sang the
words, but Catelyn knew “The Rains of Castamere” when
she heard it. Edwyn was hurrying toward a door. She hurried faster,
driven by the music. Six quick strides and she caught him. And who
are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low? She grabbed
Edwyn by the arm to turn him and went cold all over when she felt
the iron rings beneath his silken sleeve.
Catelyn slapped him so hard she broke his lip. Olyvar, she
thought, and Perwyn, Alesander, all absent. And Roslin
wept . . .
Edwyn Frey shoved her aside. The music drowned all other sound,
echoing off the walls as if the stones themselves were playing.
Robb gave Edwyn an angry look and moved to block his
way . . . and staggered suddenly as a quarrel
sprouted from his side, just beneath the shoulder. If he screamed
then, the sound was swallowed by the pipes and horns and fiddles.
Catelyn saw a second bolt pierce his leg, saw him fall. Up in the
gallery, half the musicians had crossbows in their hands instead of
drums or lutes. She ran toward her son, until something punched in
the small of the back and the hard stone floor came up to slap her.
“Robb!” she screamed. She saw Smalljon Umber wrestle a
table off its trestles. Crossbow bolts thudded into the wood, one
two three, as he flung it down on top of his king. Robin Flint was
ringed by Freys, their daggers rising and falling. Ser Wendel
Manderly rose ponderously to his feet, holding his leg of lamb. A
quarrel went in his open mouth and came out the back of his neck.
Ser Wendel crashed forward, knocking the table off its trestles and
sending cups, flagons, trenchers, platters, turnips, beets, and
wine bouncing, spilling, and sliding across the floor.
Catelyn’s back was on fire. I have to reach him. The
Smalljon bludgeoned Ser Raymund Frey across the face with a leg of
mutton. But when he reached for his swordbelt a crossbow bolt drove
him to his knees. In a coat of gold or a coat of red, a lion still
has claws. She saw Lucas Blackwood cut down by Ser Hosteen Frey.
One of the Vances was hamstrung by Black Walder as he was wrestling
with Ser Harys Haigh. And mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long
and sharp as yours. The crossbows took Donnel Locke, Owen Norrey,
and half a dozen more. Young Ser Benfrey had seized Dacey Mormont
by the arm, but Catelyn saw her grab up a flagon of wine with her
other hand, smash it full in his face, and run for the door. It
flew open before she reached it. Ser Ryman Frey pushed into the
hall, clad in steel from helm to heel. A dozen Frey men-at-arms
packed the door behind him. They were armed with heavy
longaxes.
“Mercy!” Catelyn cried, but horns and drums and the
clash of steel smothered her plea. Ser Ryman buried the head of his
axe in Dacey’s stomach. By then men were pouring in the other
doors as well, mailed men in shaggy fur cloaks with steel in their
hands. Northmen! She took them for rescue for half a heartbeat,
till one of them struck the Smalljon’s head off with two huge
blows of his axe. Hope blew out like a candle in a storm.
In the
midst of slaughter, the Lord of the Crossing sat on his carved
oaken throne, watching greedily.
There was a dagger on the floor a few feet away. Perhaps it had
skittered there when the Smalljon knocked the table off its
trestles, or perhaps it had fallen from the hand of some dying man.
Catelyn crawled toward it. Her limbs were leaden, and the taste of
blood was in her mouth. I will kill Walder Frey, she told herself.
Jinglebell was closer to the knife, hiding under a table, but he
only cringed away as she snatched up the blade. I will kill the old
man, I can do that much at least.
Then the tabletop that the Smalljon had flung over Robb shifted, and her son struggled to his knees. He had an arrow in his side,
a second in his leg, a third through his chest. Lord Walder raised
a hand, and the music stopped, all but one drum. Catelyn heard the
crash of distant battle, and closer the wild howling of a wolf.
Grey Wind, she remembered too late. “Heh,” Lord Walder
cackled at Robb, “the King in the North arises. Seems we
killed some of your men, Your Grace. Oh, but I’ll make you an
apology, that will mend them all again, heh.”
Catelyn grabbed a handful of Jinglebell Frey’s long grey
hair and dragged him out of his hiding place. “Lord
Walder!” she shouted. “LORD WALDER!” The drum
beat slow and sonorous, doom boom doom. “Enough,” said
Catelyn. “Enough, I say. You have repaid betrayal with
betrayal, let it end.” When she pressed her dagger to
Jinglebell’s throat, the memory of Bran’s sickroom came
back to her, with the feel of steel at her own throat. The drum
went boom doom boom doom boom doom. “Please,” she said.
“He is my son. My first son, and my last. Let him go. Let him
go and I swear we will forget this . . . forget
all you’ve done here. I swear it by the old gods and new,
we . . . we will take no
vengeance . . . ”
Lord Walder peered at her in mistrust. “Only a fool would
believe such blather. D’you take me for a fool, my
lady?”
“I take you for a father. Keep me for a hostage, Edmure as
well if you haven’t killed him. But let Robb go.”
“No. “ Robb’s voice was whisper faint.
“Mother, no . . . ”
“Yes. Robb, get up. Get up and walk out, please, please.
Save yourself . . . if not for me, for
Jeyne.”
“Jeyne?” Robb grabbed the edge of the table and
forced himself to stand. “Mother,” he said, “Grey
Wind . . . ”
“Go to him. Now. Robb, walk out of here.”
Lord Walder snorted. “And why would I let him do
that?”
She pressed the blade deeper into Jinglebell’s throat. The
lackwit rolled his eyes at her in mute appeal. A foul stench
assailed her nose, but she paid it no more mind than she did the
sullen ceaseless pounding of that drum, boom doom boom doom boom
doom. Ser Ryman and Black Walder were circling round her back, but
Catelyn did not care. They could do as they wished with her;
imprison her, rape her, kill her, it made no matter. She had lived
too long, and Ned was waiting. It was Robb she feared for. “On my honor as a Tully,” she told Lord Walder,
“on my honor as a Stark, I will trade your boy’s life
for Robb’s. A son for a son.” Her hand shook so badly
she was ringing Jinglebell’s head. Boom, the drum sounded, boom doom boom doom. The old man’s
lips went in and out. The knife trembled in Catelyn’s hand,
slippery with sweat. “A son for a son, heh,” he
repeated. “But that’s a
grandson . . . and he never was much
use.”
A man in dark armor and a pale pink cloak spotted with blood
stepped up to Robb. “Jaime Lannister sends his
regards.” He thrust his longsword through her son’s
heart, and twisted.
Robb had broken his word, but Catelyn kept hers. She tugged hard
on Aegon’s hair and sawed at his neck until the blade grated
on bone. Blood ran hot over her fingers. His little bells were
ringing, ringing, ringing, and the drum went boom doom boom.
Finally someone took the knife away from her. The tears burned
like vinegar as they ran down her cheeks. Ten flerce ravens were
raking her face with sharp talons and tearing off strips of flesh,
leaving deep furrows that ran red with blood. She could taste it on
her lips. It hurts so much, she thought. Our children, Ned, all our sweet
babes. Rickon, Bran, Arya, Sansa,
Robb . . . Robb . . . please,
Ned, please, make it stop, make it stop
hurting . . . the white tears and the red ones
ran together until her face was torn and tattered, the face that
Ned had loved. Catelyn Stark raised her hands and watched the blood
run down her long fingers, over her wrists, beneath the sleeves of
her gown. Slow red worms crawled along her arms and under her
clothes. It tickles. That made her laugh until she screamed.
“Mad,” someone said, “she’s lost her
wits,” and someone else said, “Make an end,” and
a hand grabbed her scalp just as she’d done with Jinglebell,
and she thought, No, don’t, don’t cut my hair, Ned
loves my hair. Then the steel was at her throat, and its bite was
red and cold.