IV
Through the darkness, the beast had coiled up to her.
It loomed over Catelyn, black and huge and black. It was an evil sort, a foe without a face.
She knew she had to end it.
She drew a knife and stabbed the creature with it, only its cackling grin visible through the blackness of it.
The figure was neither man nor woman, it was all of them in a way. It was Tywin Lannister and all the men that would kill for him, it was the queen and the demon she had born, it was them all rolled into one somehow. She slashed once and again at the blackened flesh in front of her, yet the thing only laughed and laughed, and she grew despaired, up to the point the laughter was deafening, a wailing hideous sound. Catelyn only wished it would stop.
Then, she felt she was somewhere else.
It was nighttime, still, but now the full moon rose above her, and the Red Watcher, and torches were lit to break the dark. A great crowd of soldiers surrounded her, and they parted for Catelyn.
As her gaze went down she saw it, her own hands, arms, dress, painted in crimson. She was clad in blood up to the elbow; it was so thick in her hands that it covered the scars in her fingers completely, those from the knife once meant for Bran's throat. The men around saw as well and made jests about it, they had been joking for hours now she knew.
Should we call you the Redfish from now on, my lady?
No. She wanted no such name.
Catelyn walked away, away from their shouts and joy and mockery, and the night grew dark as she left it behind.
Then she saw nothing but black, once again.
Yet she could feel. Warm, gentle hands reached for Catelyn. Strong arms wrapped around her, and she laid on a bed, held and relieved and protected. Ned. The candles had gone out as did the hearth fire, but in this darkness she knew it was him here with her, silently, just him, always him.
Stay with me, she begged him in her mind. Please. Do not leave me again.
Please.
The dream did not last, however, and it was abrupt that she opened her eyes just to see. She was alone, and still daybreak was hours away from that point.
It unsettled her, how much of it was dream and how much memories.
How much wistfulness and fears.
Catelyn's dreams were bloody, as of late, and she wasn't exactly pleased with herself for it. Otherwise, her nights were restless, and these last days...
The next day would be like this one, riding for hours so long she'd end up plenty of tired and sore.
Her own thoughts were the worst of it. She regretted it, how much bitter and spiteful she had become these last weeks.
When the ghost of her hatred left her, grief took its place, some of those times. Huge and suffocating and so difficult to put away.
Tomorrow would be just the same.
It was no matter, how she felt. At the end of the road something waited for her, something truly worthwhile.
Just her duty.
Catelyn's last few days in Riverrun had been long and busy. After her departure Robb would also leave, bound for the west. The keep and the encampment both needed to get thoroughly prepared, before that.
There had been talk among some of Robb's bannermen, lately, Catelyn knew, she had noted the hesitance in some of them. Robb had put an end to it, the way he did, by talking to each of them, setting forth his plans and asking for all of their opinions. Earning their support. They had reached agreement, and what would be next was decided upon.
Catelyn recalled well, the sense of pride she had felt, as Robb told them all. What they would do.
The time for idleness was ended.
A Lannister cousin had been amassing a host at Casterly Rock and they would go to deal with it, first of all, to make sure to prevent them from joining their liege lord. They'd mean more than that. They would bring their fury upon the rich westernlands, take back from them and in kind.
And if with that they would lure the lion out of his current, accursed den...
Robb had been well determined, as he spoke their next movements.
Catelyn had observed him, how he had changed from the boy he had been not so long ago.
War had aged her son, it had turned him stronger. Hard as the North, she had told herself.
In front of the others, Robb showed that side of him that stirred pride in her. Much sure of himself and so resolute about what was to be done.
There was no weak side of him to muster, not even to his mother; if he had shed tears for the sisters he had lost she hadn't seen it. But Catelyn had brought him to this world and she knew, there was a deep pain in him, heavier even than that crown he wore.
Nevertheless, Robb kept himself determined.
There had been commands from their king, for all of them.
For her, a journey away from there.
Catelyn hadn't been charmed, but she had seen no other way.
And for her firstborn she would walk into the very Hells, if that would help him. She had accepted her task.
Edmure, for his part, had been not that contented. Robb had entrusted him with holding Riverrun, and with that to take no part in the fighting. To let the Lannister host pass, if it came to that. Catelyn had noticed her brother's unspoken disagreement, there in front of them all. It had wounded his prided, she saw. Still, he would do his part, as they all would.
It had not just been getting prepared for the battles ahead what had kept them all occupied.
Birds have been flying, to some distinct directions.
Any support would be useful and more than welcome, and they were in need of more than what they had.
Alliances.
Ravens had been sent to each of Robert's brothers, as they all shared a common enemy. If any of them willed it, they'd find their hold-out hand in this war.
Robb had made sure to send a letter to Theon, as well. Another one, biding him to gather his father's fleet, already, and lead it to the western shores.
After some talk, they had even decided to write Prince Doran, with the promise of some partaken justice.
Justice and a guarantee. Moons ago, if it were, they would have discussed an alliance through marriage, perhaps Sansa and one of Doran's sons, as the price for them coming together. Now, without that prospect, Catelyn had resigned herself to some painful offer.
Her sweet babe, in the end she had given consent to lose. Rickon would be sent to Sunspear to foster, if Doran so wished it.
So much for what was at hand. Robb had been weary of sending useless words to the Vale of Arryn, at this point. It had been her brother who had written to Lysa this time, while Catelyn had told him to hold no hope in that regard. The command had been sent no less, to join them at once, with a reminder. It had been the young Lord Arryn's blood which had been spilt, his cousins who had been slain. It would be his own blood they were seeking to avenge.
As if Lysa would listen to any of that.
In his stubborness, Edmure had sent his words to their sister either way, and also to the lords of the Vale, if somehow they were willing to aid their cause.
For all their efforts, the only reply they had gotten had been Renly's.
She rode, south, again it was south, through forests and lanes, through sunlight and warm rains that had made her remember her youth.
Robb had chosen her to treat with Lord Renly, to go to him and somehow strike a bargain; though leaving was the last thing she had wanted, she had acceded.
With her, her own guard. Northmen, sworn to Winterfell, along with the sons of a handful of Robb's lords, loyal and high born, to add to her presence and escort her.
She hadn't wanted to depart this way. All of hers were north of her now, her dying father, her brother and her uncle; Robb, before he'd leave. And Bran and Rickon...
Every night came the same, filling her with doubts. With fear, anger. Sorrow.
And every morning she had to gather her strength, and go on.
Maybe her son could lend her a wee bit of his determination, just until she made it back.
They were making camp one of the days, the sun about to set behind the trees when Lucas Blackwood returned from his scouting along with someone else, a rider, worn out by the roads.
The man brought them word from Renly.
Catelyn would not meet with him.
Something more pressing had forced the self-styled king to march, and Catelyn was to meet with envoys of his own, in his stead.
She learned no more than that. It halted her not; she assumed Renly would have chosen someone to speak with his voice, same as Robb had done with her. One of his great storm lords, perhaps one of his most trusted under the Tyrells. Maybe a few of them.
It was no matter. As long as it would come to good terms, Catelyn would treat with whoever.
Still, the way ahead was long.
Sometimes, while the men hunted for game for their supper, Catelyn tried to distract herself.
Bran's latest letter, she could read. Again.
She cherished them, the parchments her son had been writing and Luwin would send her way on his behalf. This one, she reread, told her of a few things.
Bran's days as acting lord of Winterfell, gods, how very young he was.
The thought made her feel both guilty and proud.
He complained, in this letter. She could not blame him, not ever, for having gone from the bright, cheerful child he had been to the prince he was now, charged with tasks too great for a boy of that age.
And with his condition...
Not to speak, with his family half scattered, half bloody gone.
She looked at the letters, at his words, and tried to reach out to him, futilely, leagues and leagues away.
Bran told her, in the letter, of her sweet Rickon behaving the wild little thing he was. Of her wards, Walder and Walder, Bran was adamant that Catelyn would get them away from Winterfell, seemingly the boy misliked them. In the end they would all get along, she sighed to herself. Eventually.
Bran wrote her, about the castle's preparations for the harvest festival that was soon to take place.
Summer was over.
Catelyn needed not to be reminded.
She had written to her son the day before she left Riverrun, to answer Bran's request about her return.
She could not go back, not this yet, Bran would know. Robb needed her, now more than ever.
Catelyn had to do this.
Hopefully, Bran and Rickon would forgive her, her damned absence. Eventually.
It hurt her sharp, the moment she reread the letter one more time, and allowed herself to notice that there was none a mention of the girls.
Bran hadn't known at the moment of his writing.
They would know, right this now.
Her poor children. If the gods were just, she'd get to hold them both, Rickon and Bran, in her arms, again, soon.
First, she would have to make her way halfway across the continent, and then back.
In her cot, some nights it was just too difficult just to drift into sleep. She could squeeze her eyes shut, pleading with herself to just rest.
While she didn't, the snoring of the men kept her company, as away as they were. She could make out Perwin Frey's, this one night, and Hal's, and Wendel Manderly who seemed to have laid himself a bit further away today.
Some nights she scarcely slept at all, in truth.
Monsters fancied to haunt her dreams, these days, and some of the times they even wore her own face.
Instead, she could think of her own.
She could picture so well, the scent and sight of the trees and flowers that lead to the heart of Riverrun's godswood. The sound of its streams and of the birds who took residence in between the leaves and branches.
There she had found him, hours before her departure. From afar, Catelyn almost had thought it was her brother, there, the one lowering his knee before the weirwood. A rare sight that'd be, if certain.
A trick for her eyes, only that. Her eldest son had grown tall, sturdy as well, and his gorgeous thick hair was as auburn as ever, lustrous in the sunlight.
She had approached him, quietly, not wanting to intrude. Her hand met his shoulder in a gentle touch. Robb's gaze told her she wasn't unwelcome.
Softly, she had spoken to him.
"You know this shan't bring them back to us."
She was certain of what he had been praying for. He had told her before.
Robb would be leaving the Riverlands too, soon, not too long after her.
To battle. To blood and vengeance.
"Aye, it won't. But when I plunge my greatsword through Cersei Lannister you might want to give it a good twist. And end her life yourself, Mother."
It had been a pretty thought, of sorts. Robb knew she would like that.
But it wouldn't do.
"I'd sooner see Ice against her neck, and you wielding it."
Cersei's end would be a different one, as Catelyn had once promised Lord Tywin. The lioness would be given to the men, rivermen and northern alike, before she'd get put to death.
Robb must have thought of himself killing her, Catelyn had noted, for something akin to a smile had managed to appear on his face.
She could remember her son's open, beautiful smiles, back in Winterfell. When the boy was little, when he shared laughter with Theon and Jon Snow, when he played with his younger siblings, none a care in any of them.
She had taken his hand. He was no boy now, so near to being sixteen, a man grown, and his happiness had fled him along with her own. Catelyn would see his open smiles again, she had vowed to herself.
She would carry with her, all those fleeting moments she had shared with Robb, one with the other, these past weeks. The comforting he had given her.
It had been him who had soothed her rage, back when the pain was too much and her peace all too little. Him, the boy she had taught how to live.
Her son and king.
It had been with her father who she had spent the most of her last hours, back in Riverrun.
It was the least she could do, after all, to be with Lord Hoster a little longer before leaving him there.
To his bloody dying illness.
She hated that she had to do it.
In Father's chambers she had bidden her farewells, before the start of her journey.
Uncle Brynden had listened to all she had to say, her fears and her longings, with his usual patience, and his words always sensible had reassured her.
Her uncle would go west with Robb, his right hand he had turned. For that, Catelyn was thankful.
Edmure had smiled at her, upset, once she had told him to try not to put a bastard in the belly of one of the serving girls while Catelyn was away.
"Maybe I will find you a bride in lord Renly's court." A well-born girl, from the Stormlands, or a fancy one, from the Reach perhaps.
It was only jest, of course, to tease her little brother a wee bit and see the irritation in him, for something that didn't matter for once.
"I'd rather choose mine own bride, Cat, if you don't mind."
She had given him a kiss, on the top of his head, to soften that annoyance on his brow. In return, he had teased her back, challenging her to go and find one for their uncle, perhaps.
Serious at the end, he assured her that he would take good care of Lord Hoster during her absence. It was what she needed to hear.
The hour eventually had come, when she had to leave his father's solar for so long it'd be this time.
"Wait for me, Father," she had told him. Lord Hoster had slept through their farewell, the fever in him burning fiercely.
"We'll be back to you."
And my Robb will get you Lord Tywin's head on his return, if the gods are good, for the atrocities he ordered done upon your lands and your people.
Would that it be. She had left her father in his bed, and only the warmth of the touch of his soft hand had lingered there, with her, as she had walked away. Only for an instant.
She wouldn't hope to see him awake again. Lord Hoster had been battling a war of his own, and it was one that he was grievously losing, at this point.
Some part of Catelyn told her, she wouldn't see him again, not alive.
Please, watch for me, this time. Wait for your little Cat, my lord father.
Now, leagues and leagues away, she couldn't know.
She despised this uncertainty. Was he still waiting for her...?
She had spent so many of her tears already.
Life went on, around her, and the days came and went.
As they neared closer and closer to the lands washed by the Mander, Catelyn's companions grew more careful.
Or so she had thought.
One morning a handful of men ahorse approached them, without notice, taking them all unawares.
Armed men, wearing a sigil, brown nails over blue.
"These aren't ours, my lady," Hallis Mollen announced. "Renly's perhaps."
The man leading was stocky, past fifty, with a thick beard darker than the grizzled hair that covered his head. Moryn seemed to be his name.
He pawed at the hilt of his sword as he told them. Catelyn and her companions were in Shermer lands; his lord had declared for King Renly Baratheon, and would be honoured to give Catelyn and hers a roof for the day.
Well. If Renly had sent word for it, there would not be much choice.
And anything sounded better, really, than spending another night in that tent of hers.
It took long hours still, and their riding off-course, to get to their destination.
Smithyton, she recalled.
The castle was modest, in its size, yet solidly built. Tall, thin circular towers sat upon a rocky crag, overlooking the small village and possibly a good part of the region. A vast gate and grey stone walls waited for them to be received. And, again, the copper and blue banner, Catelyn spied, along with the rose of Highgarden and the prancing stag.
Lord Shermer would not be greeting them, she got told, for the man had left his land with his troops after Renly's call. Only a sparse garrison seemed to remain, green boys and old men for the most part, and not much else, as far as she could tell.
Catelyn was given an ample, simple chamber for her rest. Once she had had the chance to refresh herself, Ser Androw Shermer was so gracious as to put together a feast for them for the evening.
Ser Androw was brother to the lord of the castle, who Catelyn seemed to recall paid homage to House Rowan. He was a grey man, well past his prime, plain of face and clothing and dry of manners. She learned he had been his brother's castellan for a long time, and the reminder of a spear that he had taken through the leg years past had left him unfit to join his own in the battles that were to come.
The servants brought cod and raisins pie, and river octopus in oil, paprika and salt; brown bread, and pork shoulder with turnip greens; mutton chop, and roast veal in its sauce; and even more pork courses. The regional cheese followed, with some peculiar shape, along with quince paste with honey and sweet almond cake. Dishes of these lands.
Arbor red, and white wine, plus brown ale were also served to fill their cups. Catelyn found herself with little appetite.
As the food kept coming, Ser Androw asked Catelyn about her family, how her father fared, how Edmure and Robb and Robb's brothers.
Delena was the man's daughter, a maiden of around eight-and-ten, with chestnut hair and round eyes, but not particularly pretty. She was very polite, anyway, and gave Catelyn kind condolences for her losses.
Her handmaid was far more talkative than the man and his daughter altogether, and joyfully told Catelyn that her young lady was quietly delighted for the match they've recently arranged, she was to be married soon, to a nephew of Lord Ashford. A comely one, by the girl's words. The lady blushed endearingly, and Catelyn tried not to think of a particular girl, daydreaming of love and chivalry and princes. The handmaid insisted on how great it'd be, herself and Lady Delena going to the Cockelwhent, and it seemed to her that the serving girl was more excited for it than her mistress.
Catelyn tried to inquire about Renly, what he would do and where he would go, and why he had felt the need to change his meeting with her. She was answered only with vague words.
It went into merriment, the night, plenty of soon. She scarcely had tried some of the dishes but her companions couldn't just say the same. Near her, Ser Wendel ended an entire tray of stuffed pork belly on top of everything else, and Robin Flint seemed to be enjoying the local white wine, just judging by the manner in which he kept asking for more.
The men of the castle and the household had joined them, and the noise of many voices filled the hall. As the ale and the wine flowed, it was no wonder that they started to sing. Someone may start a song, one from these lands, for others to follow; then they would be answered by her men, with one northern song, the next from the Trident. Next, they all would join their voices in one that everyone knew, and loud laughter would follow.
Lord Shermer's heiress was a girl of about seven, with her aunt's brown hair and some missing teeth in her cheerful smile. There was a clutter of giggles and jolly cries coming from the table she shared with the children of the house.
One of the servants had come with a flagon of red wine; Catelyn found herself putting her hand over the cup. To her side, Ser Androw was telling her that he would lend her an escort of his own men to lead Catelyn to the appointed place.
She was pleased to hear that. No doubt they would get there much quicker, that way.
This time, she let them fill her cup with pale gold wine.
Over there, some of her companions pawed at the leftover cheese, plainly joking. Now half in their cups, nobody missed the fact that the pieces resembled a woman's teat, round and ending in a nipple. She overheard, from her seat, a tale about it, about an exuberant statue of a queen -someone said it had been the Good Queen, another told him to shut up- and some angry septon who had ordered her large stone breasts cut off, and an end to such indecency. Of course, the local folk hadn't been glad about it, and shaped their cheeses that way, from then on, in open protest.
As amused as hers seemed to be, there in their place, Catelyn concentrated on her own conversation. She queried her host about a few things, the war and Renly's forces, about the man's liege and the Tyrells. Not that it got her anywhere. Trying to get answers from this man was making her feel as if she was talking to one of the tapestry-covered walls that surrounded them.
The men had started to clap and sing louder, at some point. She turned to see.
The captain of guards Moryn was dancing with little Lia. Beren of her Winterfell men felt up a giggling serving girl.
Catelyn had no joy left to have with them. Perhaps the food had been a novelty to her, and the place, and the wine she would have savoured well at another time in her life, but not this day.
She thought of the young woman, and of her unspoken dreams of marrying a good, handsome lad. She gazed at the girl with her childish cries of glee, as she was spun in their dance, her pretty dress smeared with grease and paprika.
She saw Sansa in the older, and both her daughters in the little one.
Catelyn swallowed the last of her wine and sadness gathered in her stomach, only a bit of the drink getting to her head.
The smile she had painted on her face was false and foul, as she beheld all of them, these men, women, and children that hadn't ever known her daughters.
It wasn't long before Catelyn excused herself and left all of them to their revelry. Her companions deserved some fun, certainly, after so long a journey.
She did not.
The bed she had been given found her in the dim solitude of the chamber, and her back was grateful to have it after all those days.
Catelyn wouldn't sleep easy, least of all in an unfamiliar place like this, but she was tired no less.
But here, she made herself halt the damning thoughts, those that kept pulling her back to the past.
There was nothing to be gained by dwelling on a time she could not return to, on things no one could change, she told herself. In channelling her resentment into a future that wouldn't come fast enough.
What mattered now was something else.
Once the dawn broke they would resume their riding. And she had to be looking forward to that. Shermer men would escort them as they'd left, and in a few days' time Catelyn would try her finest at diplomacy, for Robb's cause's sake.
The best she could do was try to get some rest.
The wine in her belly gradually dulled her thinking into some light slumber, earlier than she had thought.
Later it'd be, when she thought she heard a soft knocking and light made its way through the door.
Catelyn saw the girl Delena's handmaid, carrying a lit candle. She apologized for bothering her rest, but Ser Androw seemed to be wanting of Catelyn's presence.
"I saw him with the maester. It may be that a bird came this night, m'lady."
Catelyn rose and put on a gown, wondering if there'd be news.
Earlier, she had managed to pull out of the man that they were seemingly going to Bitterbridge. She wondered if there would be word from there, or from Renly's whereabouts, or news from the war itself.
By the door of Catelyn's bedchamber her guard Ellard seemed to be dozing, she saw when the girl and herself went to leave. On the floor, and with a tankard still in his hand, she noted. As she pulled the wooden door closed behind herself Ellard reacted, motioning as if to rise. She twisted her mouth in a smile and gestured for him to stay.
She went to follow the maid, then, while she asked Catelyn if their humble castle was to her liking. Indeed it was, for a short visit. She would not mind leaving it behind as she would ride tomorrow on her way to the east.
From down in the hall came the muffled sound of drunken singing and shouting and the laughter of some. She wondered which men of hers would still be revelling and which had already left for the night.
Hopefully most. They were due to leave, well early in the next day, after all. All of them.
Through the corridors, the girl led the way. She was a lithe one, this wench, young and graceful, the smile never leaving her face. Trying to shake off her own tiredness, Catelyn realized she couldn't seem to remember her name.
The handmaid soon opened the door to Shermer's solar and as Catelyn stepped into the chamber some soft breeze brushed against her.
She sensed it, then, the presence behind her. Ser Androw must have entered just right after her, she thought.
More on ao3: archiveofourownDOTorg/works/32842936 (heed the tags)