Note: Large segments of this are copied or slightly adjusted from A Storm of Swords by George RR Martin.

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CHAPTER 5: Hope and Anger and Promises of Revenge

Lord Hoster died next. Everyone knew it had been coming, but no one like death and there was grief in Riverrun.

His mother, who had sat day in and day out with the man for weeks and had to have known it was coming better than anyone but perhaps the maester, still cried bitterly when it happened. Robb knew that the Starks of Winterfell resided in the crypts underground, and that the Targaryens of old burned their dead. He knew the Watch either did the same or else buried them. He knew the Tyrell custom was to bury their dead and plant a tree of their favorite fruit on top. He knew that there were factions of those who kept the Seven that painted rocks with blue eyes and placed them over the dead's during their funeral, so that the dead may see their loved ones one last time from beyond death.

He also knew that when a Tully of Riverrun died, they were sent from this world through the river.

And so Lord Hoster Tully was laid out in glittering silver armor, with a blue and red cloak spread beneath him on a slender wood boat. The leaping trout that was his sigil was born on his chest, and when you took care not to see his wasted hands and emancipated face, he could have seemed almost strong. Next to him in the boat heavy stones were stacked to weigh the boat down and eventually bring whatever was left of it to the bottom of the river. On top of them, papers and driftwood and kindling were pressed into every crevice except what was needed to let air find its way in.

Since the Tullys kept the Seven, seven had been called upon to push Lord Hoster's boat out to the river. Robb was one of them, and he had asked Ser Desmond to stand aside and allow one of the Freys to take his place. The other five were to be the Lords Bracken, Blackwood, Vance and Mallister, as well as Ser Marq Piper.

Of the Freys that had arrived within hours of Lord Hoster's death (the party included Walder Rivers and a Walder Frey Robb hadn't met but was told went by the style of 'Walder the Fat'), it was Lame Lothar Frey who was chosen by the Freys for this honor. It had taken Robb and Ser Brynden almost an hour to calm the new Lord Tully down from this insult.

"Walder Frey should be flayed and quartered!" Edmure had shouted. "He sends a cripple and a bastard to treat with us, tell me there is no insult meant by that."

His mother had chimed in here, her voice brittle and broken from crying. "I have no doubt that Lord Walder chose his envoys with care. It was indeed a peevish thing to do, a petty sort of revenge, but remember who we are dealing with. The Late Lord Frey, Father used to call him. The man is ill-tempered, envious, and above all prideful."

As the seven of them cast Lord Hoster out into the water that would be his burial ground, Robb's mind cast to other things, to other places. Word had come from the Wall, from Donal Noye, of his brother's apparent betrayal.

Robb had been tempted to believe it for a while, for perhaps half a day.

But no longer. He wasn't sure what Jon had done, but he was certain Jon had not betrayed his vows and had not betrayed his brothers. Well, most of Robb was certain... a few doubts remained, but he denied them any voice in his head. And at any rate he'd had precious little time to think about it.

The wedding of Joffrey was growing closer and closer, and soon after that Tywin would retake the field, likely with his son at his side once more. That Jamie had managed to slip away still vexed him. They had dozens of men combing the forests beyond where Ser Robyar had last fought with him, still, but no positive reports or sightings came back. The Kingslayer had well and truly disappeared.

Although his mother had apparently brokered an agreement with the man to send Sansa and Arya to them for his freedom, Robb cast no hope in that. He put no stock in Arya even being alive. But far be it from him to tell his mother that, or anything else that would squash her hope. Hope and anger and promise of revenge were all that were holding her upright after the death of her husband and her two sons, and now her father, Robb knew. All that, and probably love for him and Sansa.

Robb turned to look at her now. She was crying again. He waded out of the water and stood next to her. With hesitation, he put a hand on her shoulder. She didn't acknowledge it, but he sensed that she was grateful for it all the same.

He watched her grope for her brother's hand. Lord Edmure wasn't looking though, he was staring out at the water as his father was given to it. Robb couldn't name the expression on his face, except to say it was terrible. The Blackfish took her hand instead.

Lady Catelyn turned to look at him and he wondered what she saw there, for her shoulders started to shake in sobs instead of what had been silent tears. Well, he thought, she might have been sobbing now but she was still silent. Not a sound escaped her.

He wondered if so many blows before this particular death had made her grief weaker, too much to be borne and herself desensitized in a way, or stronger in her heart of hearts. He thought both might be the case. But listening to the lack of noise she made as she sobbed, he wondered which had taken hold of her now. Robb truly wasn't sure.

And suddenly Robb felt beyond tired.

It had been such a long road to trek since his father had died. And such a hard one.

Father, dead. Sansa, gone. Arya, dead. Jon, gone. Bran, dead. Theon, gone and a traitor. Rickon, his smallest brother, dead.

A report from Winterfell had come in yesterday. It was written, actually, by Ser Westen, a minor knight belonging to House Stark. He wrote he had fallen back to a minor castle in the North, having escaped Winterfell with barely his life after the Ironborn had taken it. Robb supposed it wasn't, in that way, actually from Winterfell, but it was close enough it made no matter. The maester had given him the letter and Robb had read it alone.

In it were the details of his brothers' deaths. Bran and Rickon… so young and innocent… and killed by the boy Robb thought was his brother.

Robb threw up violently after reading it. For the first time since his father died, he had cried. And cried hard. For what felt like hours, the emotions he had held deep inside himself made themselves known. Robb hoped he had exhausted them; certainly, he had exhausted himself. Jeyne had held him as he cried, and then as he slept, and the next morning he had burned the letter. His mother would not hear the grisly details inside if he could help it.

Picturing Bran and Rickon now and trying to reconcile them with what he had read... Robb thought he might be sick again, but he had not eaten this morning, and as he forced himself to watch Edmure, the feeling soon went away. Would that all his problems went away as docilly.

Lord Edmure was notching an arrow. He held it to fire, raised the bow and shot.

Robb followed the flight of the arrow... only to watch it fall well short of Lord Hoster's boat and plunge into the water. He winced.

Edmure gathered himself, took another arrow and again attempted the feat. Again, the arrow found only water.

"Once more," he said and took a third arrow.

"Let me, my lord," the Blackfish offered.

"I can do it."

There was a long pause before Edmure let the arrow loose that time. But it was for nothing, as the arrow again fell short of Hoster, who was slowly approaching the curve of the river where he would be out of sight.

"The Others take it," Edmure cursed. Then he handed the bow to his uncle and stepped back. Robb nodded to him, letting only solemn respect show on his face. Truly, he felt only exhausted.

"Quickly now," Robb heard Ser Brynden say under his breath as he lit then notched the arrow. He kept his eyes on the boat at he pulled the bow nearly in half before letting it go. The boat was nearly hidden inside mist, and Robb couldn't see if the arrow landed. But a moment later, the boat caught on fire and a relieved breath went up among the assembled crowd.

Edmure left quickly, and Catelyn turned to Ser Brynden. There were no words in her heart or mind, and she stayed silent in her grief.

To Robb, Ser Brynden said quietly, "It is no disgrace to miss your shot. Edmure should hear that. The day my own father went downriver, Hoster missed as well."

Jeyne found them. During the funeral she had been in the second row. Only those seven who would push him to the water and his brother and children stood so close to the water their feet got wet. She took Robb's hand, kissed his cheek, then turned solemnly to Catelyn.

"Lord Hoster looked as noble as a king, my lady. Would that I had been given the chance to know him." Her voice was a low murmur, and she didn't quite look at Catelyn, not wanting to intrude.

"And I to know him better," Robb added.

"He would have wished that too," said Catelyn. Her face was dry as her voice, and her eyes stared at a place far from here even as she spoke. "There were too many leagues between Riverrun and Winterfell."

As King Robb and Queen Jeyne turned from the river they were met by their people. Lord Jason Mallister, the Greatjon, and Ser Rolph Spicer talked to them in turn. Catelyn hovered nearby, waiting to talk to her son alone. She was curt to those who spoke to her, and her mind fuzzy with grief. Finally, her son returned from the well-wishers and consolations to look to her.

"There is something we must speak of. Will you walk with me?" he asked to her relief.

"As you command, Your Grace."

"That wasn't a command, Mother."

"It will be my pleasure then."

Robb departed from his court and his young wife, and he and his mother headed towards the godswood, by mutual, unspoken agreement.

"Lothar seemed amiable, that's a hopeful sign. We need the Freys," Robb said as they walked.

Catelyn had not even noticed him speaking to Lame Lothar earlier. "That does not mean we shall have them."

Robb nodded... the inexpressible exhaustion pressed heavy on him, as his crown did. He was realizing more and more that he got right far less than he got wrong.

"I should have traded the Kingslayer for Sansa when you first urged it," he told his mother softly. "If I'd offered to wed her to the Knight of Flowers, the Tyrells might have been ours instead of Joffrey's. I should have thought of that."

"Your mind was on your battles, and rightfully so. Even a king cannot think of everything."

"Battles," Robb said under his breath. He looked at the sky. "I have won every battle, yet somehow I'm losing the war. The Ironborn hold Winterfell, and Moat Caitlin too. Father's dead, and Bran and Rickon... and now your father too."

Despair creeped in on him and Robb felt perilously close to crying again. He turned his head away and looked out over the trees unseeingly. This was not how he should be. This was not how his father would be and this is not how a king should be.

"My father has been dying for a long time. You could not have changed that. You have made mistakes, Robb, but what king has not? Ned would have been proud of you."

Her words made him feel slightly better. Maybe letting his emotions out had helped too, as Jeyne had told him as he cried with her arms around him. "Mother there is something you must know."

"Is it the Kingslayer?"

"No. It's Sansa."

She went rigid next to him. Robb, stupidly, wasn't sure why.

"Is... is she gone?" His mother's voice was a croak.

"Gone?" Robb asked. He didn't understand what she meant. Then understanding came, and Robb kicked himself for not realizing what her first thoughts would be. "Oh, Mother, no, no, not that. They haven't harmed her, not that way, only... a bird came a few nights ago, but I couldn't bring myself to tell you, not until your father was sent to his rest... They married her to Tyrion Lannister." He had taken her hand as he said this, and if felt thin and papery in his hand.

"The Imp."

"Yes."

His mother did not quite seem to understand, he could see it on her face.

"He swore to trade her for his brother... Sansa and Arya both. We would have them back if we returned his precious Jaime, he swore it before the whole court. How could he marry her, after saying that in sight of gods and men?"

"He's the Kingslayer's brother," was all Robb could think to say. Unbidden, his hand went for his sword, but he allowed himself to only to brush its pommel. "If I could I'd take his ugly head off. Sansa would be a widow then, and free. There's no other way I can see. They made her speak the vows before a septon and don a crimson cloak." The letter had been full of specifics, particularly how Sansa had reportedly actually wept during the ceremony. From happiness, the writer, a Maester Pycelle on behalf of King Joffrey and Queen Cersei, had said. Robb felt anger overtake his exhaustion, and he knew he would someday kill Tyrion. He would. And he would retake Winterfell, and defeat Tywin and somehow trade for Sansa and have Jon by his side. He would do these things, and more. Others take the exhaustion, these things he would do.

"I should have let Lysa push him out her Moon door. My poor sweet Sansa... why would anyone do this to her?"

"For Winterfell. With Bran and Rickon dead, Sansa is my heir. If anything should happen to me..."

"Nothing will happen to you... but, yes you are correct." She spoke as if in a dream, Robb could see the feeling and knew it on her face. "You... are right to recall Jon from the Wall. I'm sorry I couldn't see that before."

Something like relief made his shoulders relax where he had not realized they were tense. "I sent them a letter saying his head's to remain affixed to his body, or they'll face the wrath of the King in the North. I swore to him I'd hang the man that kills Jon. I don't believe he's a deserter or a wildling, but even if he is I mean to have him by my side. I've also commanded this Donal Noye not to tell anyone else about Jon's apparent desertion."

She nodded. "That's good. Well and good. It's been weeks as well, perhaps he has already reached the Wall. And I don't think Noye's threat to behead him was ever any good... It is always the Lord Commander who has that privilege, and especially considering Noye is just acting head while Mormont's gone, and Jon is his steward... doubtlessly the worst that can happen to Jon on the Wall is imprisonment."

Robb had not thought of it like that. "You're right," he said with relief in his voice. "Of course, you're right."

She gave him a small smile. Robb returned it. They looked around Riverrun's small godswood for a moment.

"And you'll... mother when Jon is here things cannot be as they were when we were at Winterfell between you both. I need Jon as I need you."

She nodded slowly and wouldn't met his eyes. "You are right," she said once more, slowly. "Has Jon ever spoken of how I treated him then?"

Robb shook his head, and his voice was somewhat curious as he said, "No. But he was always in a pensive sort of mood after speaking to you... not that Jon wasn't always half inclined to be pensive."

"I was crueler to him than I like to remember. Cold, as well. I... when I think of how close you two were and how young he was... remembering how I was shames me as you cannot believe, Robb. Perhaps it has to do with your father's death as well... Jon was always just a motherless child..."

There were tears running down her face. But she didn't look at him and he knew acknowledging them would be a mistake.

When she spoke next her voice was quite steady, despite her wet face. "Have I ever told you about when he was just a babe, Robb?"

"No."

"It was the winter you both were born in. Jon could not have been more than seven or eight months then... and at that age sickness can be very dangerous to a child. Especially in the winter. There was an illness going around... and... Robb… I resented Jon and his faceless mother more than you, a remarkably forgiving person, can ever understand. Hated him, even. I prayed to the Stranger to take this strange woman's child who looked so much like his father where you looked like me. I prayed every night for it and then... Jon took ill. Very ill."

Robb stared at her and she turned away from him so he could not see her face.

Horribly, she continued. "So ill in fact it looked like I might get my wish... and, I... I changed my mind, Robb. I changed it. I did not want this small lump of a child to die. I wanted him to live very badly, then. I sat by his crib in the nursery for all hours of the day and night. I held him as he cried and pressed cool cloths to his face to cool his fever and made him keep blankets on in the night when it would kill you to not have one. Still, it looked as though I would get my wish. It destroyed your father to see Jon so sick. He seemed to wither in on himself... a few times he…" she trailed off and shook her head. Whatever his father had done, she wouldn't tell him now, not when Father was dead.

She continued, "I was so thankful you didn't catch ill, Robb... so thankful, because it looked like Jon would die. One night he was breathing so shallowly, and his face was so pale and his hands and feet so cold I feared him well and truly dying. I can still hear the sound of his breathing... his rasping, gasping desperate breaths. I called the Maester, sobbing, and he said Jon would not last the night. You were given to a wet nurse for the night and Ned and I sat with this dying baby. The entire time your father held him is his hands, surely feeling him struggle to breathe as I had. Seeing a child like that will destroy you, Robb."

She seemed lost to her memories for a long moment. Lady Catelyn stared into the trees, her face still and wet. She said nothing.

Then, quietly, she continued as if from far away, "It was the only time I had ever seen your father cry, when he thought Jon Snow was dying. I heard him say, just one thing that entire night... he said, "I'm sorry," but he must have said it half a hundred times and at first, I thought he was saying it to Jon, but he wouldn't look at the child as he said it and I knew then he was speaking to Jon's mother... It was then I knew Jon's mother was surely dead... Otherwise he wouldn't have apologized, I didn't think. Seeing Ned like that... I prayed to the Mother, the Father, all of them to just... to spare this child."

Robb didn't want to hear more. It made him feel slightly sick to hear of Jon's illness and how his mother had wished for his death. Worse still, to hear of his father and to think of Jon's mother.

Her voice, trembling and breaking as she told him this sorry tale, began then to shake harshly. Tears coursed down her face in streams. "I swore to be his mother. To love him like my own. I would ask Ned to do as he wanted but had never dared to say and ask Robert to legitimize him and make him last in line of succession and be done with it. I prayed and prayed and promised and promised... but when Jon survived that night and every other... I failed in the promise I had made the gods. I'm being punished for that now I know it... Bran and Rickon and Arya... all because I could not love a motherless child."

His mother cried in earnest then, raising her hands to her face. Robb stared at her a moment, reeling at what she had said. Finally, he grabbed her shoulder and turned her around to face him. Gently he hugged his mother.

"You aren't being punished," he said. "You're not. And in any case, when Jon is here, he will forgive you himself."

He held her while she cried.

Robb cast his eyes at the stars over her head and wondered at what he had heard. He couldn't imagine his father crying but knowing that he had gave Robb relief like nothing else could. But still, the story was slightly disturbing. He could never have imagined his mother praying for the death of a child, any child.

And about Jon's mother being dead... Jon had agonized over the identity of his mother when they were young. It was a conflict brewing underneath the surface at all times with Jon. Robb had urged him half a hundred times to ask their father and be done with the agonizing, but Jon had stubbornly said that Lord Stark would tell him when he was ready.

That was another thing... It had always hurt Robb in a strange way to hear Jon call their father "Lord Stark"; as though he was not even one of the family. He thought it had hurt Jon too, but Jon had been good at hiding these things. If the woman really was dead...

"Do you have any idea who his mother was?" Robb asked hesitantly when she stopped crying.

She pulled away from him and wiped her eyes. Her voice was clear, he was relieved to hear.

She said, "There were a few candidates in the rumors since Jon was brought to Winterfell. Ashara Dayne was one of them. She and Ned had danced before he and I were to marry, at Harrenhall. To hear the tales, he was in love with her. But I never asked and suspect that was just embellishment after the fact. Jon's eyes have flecks of purple in them, and the Dayne's hail from Valerya, and purple eyes are, though uncommon, known in their family."

"Jon doesn't have purple in his eyes," Robb said, startled.

"He does," Catelyn said gently. "I pointed them out to your father when Jon was just a baby, back when Jon would still look me in the eyes. Ned looked stricken. I knew then it was because he got them from his mother. It's not exactly subtle either, but it's odd... They're grey, for sure, but not the grey of your father's side of the family. Look next time you see him, Robb. There's purple there, and plenty of it."

Robb had never noticed.

"There was another woman, named Wylla. She was Jon's wetnurse. She was the second most popular choice for his mother... but it was not her."

"How do you know?"

Catelyn smiled humorlessly at him. "Because when she was at Winterfell with Jon, I cornered her and asked her quite... harshly if there was anything between her and my husband, and if she was Jon's mother. She said no and no. When I asked her who was his mother, she said she didn't know. And lastly," she hesitated, and her mouth twisted slightly. Finally, she continued, "it has always been persistently, if quietly, thought that Jon is the son not of Ned but of his older brother, Brandon's. The woman varies slightly, being likely either Ashara Dayne or a whore. If this rumor is to be believed, Jon is not your brother but your cousin... and both his parents are dead."

Both his parents were dead anyway, Robb thought. But he didn't say this—what would the point have been?

"Jon is my brother," Robb said, his voice hotter than he had meant.

Catelyn bowed her head. "Indeed," she said, "and Brandon being his father would not change that... but I find this to be the most unlikely of the rumors. Brandon was dead before Jon was born, and I'm unsure how Ned would have come across Jon as his brother's son if not through his brother... it's possible, I suppose, but I find it unlikely. No, Robb, I think the most likely candidate is Ashara Dayne and that Ned is Jon's true father... Are you sure Ned never told Jon about his mother?"

"Yes."

Catelyn nodded. "I thought so... in any case, the true identity of his mother is lost with Ned then, unless I'm wrong and the woman is still alive."

"I wish I knew."

Catelyn looked at the face of the hearttree. "Me too... I'm glad you're legitimizing him," she said almost absently. "Ned always wanted to. We argued over it many times as Jon grew up."

Robb hadn't known that. He was learning all sorts that night. "Thank you for speaking with me, Mother."

"You're welcome, Robb. I hope Jon arrives here soon, and I hope he will forgive me, as you said. But I have my doubts."

Robb had doubts to, but not on that front. "I hope he's here soon, too." His own eyes found the hearttree, and he stared into the red eyes and thought bizarrely of the unnoticed purple of his brother's eyes.