CATELYN

Catelyn and the other folk of Riverrun stood at attention in the courtyard one fine sunny morning. The portcullis rose, the drawbridge fell, and Ser Edmure Tully rode into his father's castle, flanked by hundreds of his men-at-arms. Bright were their swords and helms and mail and the dye of their standards, but grim was the expression on her brother's face. He dismounted in a single bound and called swiftly for Utherydes Wayn, Ser Robin Ryger and Ser Desmond Grell. With them he closeted himself in Lord Hoster's solar for the rest of the day, save for the splendid dinner in the Great Hall which had been prepared for his return, where he attended but spoke seldom, picked distractedly at the seven courses, exchanged a few requisite pleasantries and departed to speak with his steward, captain of guards and master-at-arms as soon as he had eaten his fill.

The next morning, after Catelyn quietly arranged for a servant to speak with her brother, they broke their fast together on fried pike, white and mild, and dark seeded bread, along with a little Torentine red wine. "I suppose you're to ask me about the visit," Edmure said, rubbing at his bleary eyes.

"I am."

"Terrible," her brother said bluntly. "The timing couldn't have been worse. There I go, to Greenpool, singing to Benedict Keath and his cousins and sons the song that you and Robb have written for me, counselling caution, pledging new deals for his copper if he keeps faith in this difficult time, seeking to reassure him about the lack of threat Lord Tywin's army poses to his lands. Then, not two-dozen miles from my presence, reaving westermen sack Fairmarket. 'Twas a barbaric affair, I'm told. The messengers spared no detail. I'll be kinder than that. Homes looted, septs despoiled, hundreds of women, and not a few boys, raped, half the town set afire ere they left… Now he's convinced that all the angry, pleading letters he wrote me were true as the Seven-Pointed Star and my calmer replies were naught but cowardice. The air when I left him was so hot with anger I'm half-surprised it didn't spark. Riverrun must prepare for another campaign, an offensive eastward."

He plans to march? "That is ill news," Catelyn said with alarm, "but we need Lord Tywin to go west, Robb left no doubt, you have a written royal command. Lord Keath's dissatisfaction is unfortunate but we cannot allow the anger of one bannerman to scupper our plans."

"Unfortunate?" Edmure turned so red he looked like to burst. "'Tis worse than that. I go to a lord's castle, tell him that he is safe, that Lord Tywin's fingers are not reaching so far west, and whilst I eat his bread and sip his wine he suffers his greatest town despoiled. How do you imagine that will make men think of Tully? Damn it, we have a duty, Cat. I am their liegelord—"

"Father is their liegelord," Catelyn interrupted hotly.

"Yes, yes," said Edmure, waving a hand as if her interjection had been childish, "but he cannot do much from a sickbed, so his duties fall to me. Do you think the Keaths stand alone? The exiled lords from the lands east of the Mudwash and south of the Trident already hate me. I have kept the allegiance of the others to this damn fool plan of yours mostly by their confidence that Tully strength will not allow Lannister to advance further. That looks foolish—"

"Damn fool plan? You speak of your king."

"It is damn foolish. What does Robb expect? He thought Lord Tywin would march westward. He was wrong. Lord Tywin dares not attempt to reach past Riverrun, and why should he? His strategy now serves him perfectly. There he sits, with his main body at the cross of the high road and the kingsroad, reaching out to rape, pillage and burn his way across father's kingdom, while Robb wallows in the west, doing naught. It was a good plan at first, mayhaps—truth be told, I'm not certain even of that—but it has plainly failed now, a blind man could see it. How is it that your son does not?" Edmure's voice was thick with frustration. "Surely he's not so proud that he refuses to allow himself to see Lord Tywin has not done as he expected. So what in all the gods' names is he doing?"

"Fighting war," Catelyn answered. She loved her brother, truly, but sometimes he could be so blind. "You have been hearing the complaints of Riverrun's vassals. Lord Tywin, too, has been hearing the complaints of Casterly Rock's. And the bulk of the strength of Robb's kingdom is here in the riverlands. What does Lord Tywin have in the west, since Robb broke the host of Stafford Lannister? Naught, or near naught. Only the household levies of his vassals."

"Lord Tywin can do far more damage to us than we can to him. Some of his reavers have already been marching northward to spook the Freys. Lord Walder has been pestering me so harshly 'tis as if he doesn't know how far away the main body of Lord Tywin's strength is from the Twins. Mayhaps," he added with an inflection of mockery, "the late lord is too old to read a map. But Lord Tywin has also taken to harassing lords to the west of the Green and Blue Forks, and there he's found a goldmine. My lords bannermen are terrified, Cat, more by far than you perceive. What can we do in the westerlands to match the fact that half the riverlands are being ravaged? Little; too little. House Lannister's vassals have been in the habit of obeying them for thousands of years, not like House Tully's; only a fool refuses to believe in the existence of his weaknesses because the thought is intolerable to him. As long as the Lannisters rule in Casterly Rock the westerlands will answer to them, and since the Age of Heroes the Rock has never been taken."

"The Rock has never been taken," Catelyn echoed. "True. That is a boon for House Lannister. But what good does it do for House Banefort or Marbrand or Payne or Sarsfield or Brax? None. You say half the riverlands are being ravaged. I would call it less than that; but regardless, Robb has all of the westerlands open to his power. Lord Tywin needs must rest outside his kingdom while Robb puts it to the sword. He has mayhaps fifteen-thousand men, the remnant of the forty-thousand that marched to war with him and the Kingslayer, young and strong and able-bodied, the flower of the west. How long do you think those westermen will countenance fighting a war to keep their liege's grandson on a throne a thousand miles from their homes while that liege does naught to stop their homes from burning?"

"Longer than you believe," said Edmure. "Lord Tywin has a fearsome reputation. The riverlords will defy Riverrun a hundred times ere the westerlords dare to move against the Rock."

"Lord Tywin has a fearsome reputation," Catelyn conceded, "but Aerys Targaryen was a promising young king once. Reputations change with men's actions, and their inactions too. 'Tis not so very long ago that westermen were laughing at Lord Tytos and openly defying the Rock. Lord Tywin changed that by strength. If he is perceived to have lost it, to be cowering away from danger, he will need to act."

"Only if he truly believes there is a risk his vassals will defy him."

"He'll be a fool if he does not. I was not speaking of great and noble Houses of the westerlands at chance. Every House I named is one whose stronghold has been taken by House Stark. And Renly Baratheon has surely reached King's Landing long past, with his host of eighty-thousand swords. Lord Tywin is losing this war. He may be indecisive now, but he has reason to be desperate, Edmure, good reason. He needs must act rashly, boldly, playing into Robb's hands, to defeat House Stark as soon as he can, because if he does not, Lord Renly will take King's Landing and doubtless slay Joffrey and Tommen and their mother in a single bloody stroke—"

"Slay children?" Edmure protested. "Surely you do him a disservice."

"You know nothing of Renly Baratheon. You should have seen him when he was speaking of the men hanged at Storm's End during the siege for eating other men's flesh, or when he showed his rare unguarded self after the Clash of the Stags. He wears charm and piety and open-handedness like cloaks, but underneath he is a shrewder, harder, colder man than he pretends."

"You may have misjudged him."

"He usurped and slew his elder brother. Is that the act of a kind man?"

"No," her brother admitted, "but he has done no injury to House Tully, or to House Stark for that matter. 'Twould be for the best if he were to triumph in the capital."

"Truly?" Catelyn was incredulous. "If we are to survive the victor's wrath, it must be hoped that the Lannisters and Lord Renly drown in an ocean of mixed blood. Taking a defended city is no easy task, and that remains a likely conclusion. If the gods are kind, the uncountable armies of the Reach and the stormlands will batter themselves to pieces against the walls then the streets of the capital, losing most of their men, and the Lannisters will also lose theirs."

"That was not fair-spoken, Cat," said Edmure with a frown. "The commonborn soldiers of the Reach, the stormlands and even the westerlands have done us no injustice. They merely obeyed their lords. We should not profane the Seven by praying for their deaths."

"Do you think they do not pray for ours? Lysa remains closeted away, unwilling to give succour to her own family. The east is silent. Only if south and west bleed each other white can the north hope to prevail."

"That may be so, and let us pray for the defeat of the Lannisters, certainly. But not for needless bloodshed."

Poor brother, Catelyn thought with pity, you so often prefer to act the man, yet you are more of a boy than Robb, some ways, no matter that you've seen more namedays. Do you not realise that they are one and the same?

She did not say it, though. Some truths were best not spoken.

Instead, she continued: "If Lord Renly slays Queen Cersei's sons, what does that make Lord Tywin? Merely the extravagantly storied master of an outnumbered band of rebels trapped in a kingdom far from their own. Lord Tywin cannot allow that. So he must crush us first. He sought to finish his business with House Stark before turning his attention to Lord Renly. He had plenty of time, but he failed. He is forced to end this campaign now, and cannot afford to wait for a time of his choosing. He must move at Robb's wish, so Robb has the advantage. There will be a battle to decide the issue between Stark and Lannister, that is beyond doubt now. The only question is whether it will be on our terms, as Robb has planned, or on the Lannisters'. Allow Lord Tywin to choose the time and place of battle, come to him, and you award him the advantage. Let him come to us, as he soon must, and fight according to our king's design, and he may be vanquished yet."

"Very well," said Edmure with a sigh. "I will speak to Ser Desmond and Ser Robin and Utherydes. Riverrun's strength will remain here for a while longer. But I warn you, Cat, I will not stay forever if your plan does not bear fruit. If Lord Tywin marches west as you expect, I'll follow Robb's wishes to the letter, as his leal subject. But if you're once again wrong, and he remains…"

"You'll do what?" Her brother had fallen silent.

"I will do my duty."

It was two days thence that Catelyn went to visit her father. Lord Hoster's breath was an arhythmic wheeze, and in his bed his thighs were at a slight angle from his torso and lower legs, as if he were trying, but lacked the strength, to curl. Yet his blue eyes opened when she came into his bedchamber and took his hand.

"Minisa," he rasped.

"No, father. I'm Cat."

"Cat…"

"Yes."

"Sweet Cat," her father murmured. "You have… strong husband, ancient House, healthy sons… I did right by you, at least… did right by one. Or did I? I don't know… so much I don't know… so much… seemed clear as glass, now as a pond gone murky…"

Sons. That alone brought her to tears. It was enough.

"Of course you did, father," Catelyn said, raising her voice. "You did. Don't you ever think otherwise."

"Good…" He broke into a fit of coughing. "Yes… Cat… one… I am glad… good…"

"Vyman woke me this morning," she told him. "A raven came from Cerwyn. Not from Lord Cerwyn, but from Ser Rodrik Cassel, whom I left as castellan of Winterfell."

Lord Hoster, plainly, understood naught of why she was saying this, but he heard the distress in his daughter's voice. "Cat?" His pale hand, with a maze of blue veins protruding much too starkly, clutched her warmer, darker one, tight, too tight.

Foolish woman, she thought of herself, will dancing around it in words make it any less true? If you never tell, never speak of it, not even to father, will it become only a dream, less than a dream, a nightmare half-remembered? Oh, if only the gods would be so good.

"Bran and Rickon tried to escape, but Theon Greyjoy tracked them to a mill and mounted their heads on the walls of Winterfell. Robb is my only son."

I have uttered it, Mother be merciful. It is not just words in the maester's letter now. Now it is true.

"Cat…" Lord Hoster must have understood something of the horror she had spoken. "My sweet Cat… always good… always do your duty… your mother… so proud… poor sweet Cat…"

"I did my duty," she agreed. "What good did it do me? I oft prayed, but the gods mocked my entreaties, else they'd have ended the war and I'd have been able to return to my sons, or at least they'd have let them be safe. Now Rickon will never grow to be more than a baby, and Bran… when I left the north, he had not opened his eyes since his fall. I had to go before he woke. Now I can never return to him, or hear him laugh again." She showed her father her palms, her fingers, as if she had not done so many times already. "These scars… they sent a man to cut Bran's throat as he lay sleeping. He would have died then, and me with him, but Bran's wolf tore out the man's throat." That gave her a moment's pause. "I suppose Theon killed the wolves too. He must have, elsewise… I was certain the boys would be safe so long as the direwolves were with them. Like Robb with his Grey Wind. But my daughters have no wolves now."

Her father struggled to keep pace with the angry, hopeless churning of her thoughts. "Cat…? Wolves…? Your husband…"

He thinks I am speaking of sigils. He does not remember the direwolves at all. Does he remember I have sons and daughters? Some things, Catelyn decided, she knew not and wanted not to know. "Your granddaughters, father. You have two. Sansa was a lady at three, always so courteous and eager to please. She loved nothing so well as tales of knightly valour. Men would say she had my look, but she will grow into a woman far more beautiful than I ever was, you can see that. I often sent away her maid so I could brush her hair myself. She had auburn hair, lighter than mine, and so thick and soft… the red in it would catch the light of the torches and shine like copper.

"And Arya, well… Ned's visitors would oft mistake her for a stableboy if they rode into the yard unannounced. Arya was a trial, it must be said. Half a boy and half a wolf pup. Forbid her anything and it became her heart's desire. She had Ned's long face, and brown hair that always looked as though a bird had been nesting in it. I despaired of ever making a lady of her. She collected scabs as other girls collect dolls, and would say anything that came into her head. I think she must be dead too." When she said that, it felt as though a giant hand were squeezing her chest. "I want them all dead, father. Theon Greyjoy first, then Jaime Lannister and Cersei and the Imp, every one, every one. But my girls… my girls will die. The Lannisters will kill my daughters in a heartbeat if they think it serves their purpose. So against them, if not Theon Greyjoy, there can be no bloody vengeance. Only war can avenge Ned and my sons. Only peace can bring back his daughters, and I think he would prefer that, if he were given the choice.

"But men are proud, lords and kings more than others, and even my Robb is a man grown nowadays. They love the sight of a bloody sword and hate the sight of knees falling. Is it even possible for this fire that has consumed the Seven Kingdoms to burn out without House Lannister destroyed or House Stark? It needs must be hoped, but I fear elsewise.

"Last night I dreamt of that time Lysa and I got lost while riding back from Seagard. Do you remember? That strange fog came up and we fell behind the rest of the party. Everything was grey, and I could not see a foot past the nose of my horse. We lost the road. The branches of the trees were like long skinny arms reaching out to grab us as we passed. Lysa started to cry, and when I shouted the fog seemed to swallow the sound. But Petyr knew where we were, and he rode back and found us…

"But there's no-one to find me now, is there? This time I have to find our own way, and it is hard, so hard.

"I keep remembering the Stark words. Winter has come, father. For me. For me. Robb must fight the Greyjoys now as well as Lord Renly and the Lannisters, and for what? For a gold hat and an iron chair? Surely the land has bled enough. I want my girls back, I want Robb to lay down his sword and pick some homely daughter of Walder Frey to make him happy and give him sons. I want Bran and Rickon back, I want…" Catelyn hung her head. "I want," she said once more, and then her words were gone.

Her father was asleep again. Nowadays his custom was to sleep longer by far than waking. Catelyn studied Lord Hoster's white beard and hair, his chest rising and falling, but slightly such that she could scarcely see it, ever so slightly. There she sat for a time, till Maester Vyman came and she took her leave to her chambers, and to a night without slumber.

Author's Note: I should emphasise that I don't write with an omniscient narrator. You shouldn't take Catelyn's thoughts about what Tywin is likely to do, what Renly is likely to do, what it would be advisable for Robb to do, what is going to happen in the war et cetera as gospel truth. Nor Edmure's, for that matter, nor Robb's nor Tyrion's nor anybody else's. None of my characters are mouthpieces of the author and none of them know everything there is to know; all of them have limited information and are viewing that information through the lens formed by their own experiences and their own way of thinking.