The Dowager Maiden

"Lord Hoster, please," the envoy practically begged, "think what you do. You are speaking of allowing thousands of savages into the realm, into your daughters bed!"

"The Riverlands are burning." Ser Brynden Tully snapped, interrupting, his voice tainted with a brittleness Catelyn had never heard from her uncle before. "Don't make excuses Norbert! I've seen what your own riders have done. At the God's Eye, the Crossroads, Pinkmaiden and Stone Hedge, and have the sheer bloody gall to complain to us of savages. You and yours can't claim to defend the realm while you set it aflame."

Her father's council shifted uncomfortably in their seats as the Blackfish jabbed his finger at Lord Norbert Vance. Catelyn wished she could read the thoughts behind their eyes as well as father could, for her uncle seemed to stand alone. "You would bring the wrath of the King down on us all Blackfish."

"Look out the window Norbert, it's already here. You are here on the King's business and it is your men who wish to bring it down. Why should Riverrun back down now, when our only reward will be the stake?"

"His Grace has promised mercy-"

"The mercy he gave Lord Rickard? I wonder who will have to strangle themselves watching my brother burn – me, or Edmure? The boy I'd wager."

"Treason." Norbert spat.

"Truth." Uncle Brynden replied.

"What of the rest of you?" Lord Vance fumed. "Does this ill-omened fish speak for you?"

"We sympathise Norbert," spoke up Lymond Lychester, facing his palms appeasingly skyward, "but the wolf is already at our door, while the King is far away. You speak of Aerys' wroth, but what of Lord Eddard's? He already bested you once at the Old Gods' Ford, and now we have word Fairmarket is taken. Lord Vypren has been destroyed with all his strength, and Lord Robert and Jon Arryn race to meet him. Once they come Tywin Lannister will no doubt join them with the full might of the West at his back." His voice cracked as he failed to meet Norbert's stern look, staring down at the rippling oak of the table. "Forgive me my lord, but I say open the gates."

Arthur Blackwood apparently was not so inclined. "I never thought I'd see so many cravens in one place." he said, rising sharply to his feet to stare down the sunlit table of the riverine chamber. "Stark defeated a blind man, captured an undefended town and used a cattle track we'd forgotten about, he's not the Young Dragon reborn."

"A blind man all here respected and honoured as one of the finest in the realm." Norbert corrected him. "A man who Stark refused to meet honestly in combat, leaving him and his army to perish from thirst where they intended to stand as warriors." Vance found his rhythm again, "But Tristifer Vypren was no man's fool; he charged the northmen all the same, because it was his duty. The last true knight in the Riverlands, cut down like a dog. Would that he was an example to us all."

Her uncle laughed at that, but Catelyn couldn't help but agree; she'd always liked funny old Lord Vypren, despite the disconcerting white film that had covered his eyes. He'd been kind to Edmure, and Petyr too, entertaining them with tales of Maelys the Monstrous, the Brown Dragon and Bloodraven – for whom he'd squired so many years ago. All this in that gruff lisp of his for hours on end, till the sun had fallen and risen again through the windows of the Great Hall of Riverrun. The man had been the Riverlands' most famed knight, Ser Oswell Whent's own tutor and a loyal servant to her father. And her own husband-to-be had seen him killed. The messengers said Fearsome Theo Wull had struck him down, along with the knights to whom Lord Tristifer had been chained in order to help him fight his last gallant battle: but the bloody work had been orchestrated by the dead-eyed Lord Eddard Stark.

"Unlike you Arthur, I have no wish to die like a dog." Lymond said sadly.

"Nor me." Spoke up Ser Desmond Grell, the newly minted master-of-arms. Cat had known him her entire life, for he had spent the best part of two decades in service to Lord Hoster, yet she could not help but miss the sweet voice of Ser Mychel Darry, who'd flown to his brother's side as soon as the fighting had begun. Mychel would have spoken reason, Desmond wanted war.

"Cowards all." Arthur snapped. "We of Raventree have always known our duty to the crown. To think that I should have to hear such treason is only proof that honour is near dead in Westeros. I warn you my lords, should you take up arms against my royal cousin he will destroy you all, man, woman and child, root and branch. Though from what I can see the realm would be well rid of the whole pack of you."

This was too much for Lord Patrek Mallister it seemed, who hitherto had contented himself with staring in tranquilised misery at the table. As Blackwood went to storm out, he was intercepted with the sound of a drawn sword whispering against leather, and gasps from around the table.

"I allowed you to insult my honour once, my lord." Mallister croaked, the quiet man's eyes bulging in his sockets. Catelyn hurried out of his way to stand at her resolutely speechless father's side as Lord Patrek advanced, his steel bare. "But I will not allow you to insult my line. Your Mad King has already taken one son from me, the finest boy in the realm. He was strong, and good, and honourable and my first-born son. And he was cooked like a pig on a spike."

The normally unflappable lord of Seaguard looked truly unhinged, and Catelyn wondered why her father said nothing, did nothing. Why is no one stopping this madness? How can Uncle Brynden stand to watch this?

"Me and mine will suffer no more threats from you Arthur." Patrek continued, still moving as Blackwood retreated to the wide window at the end of the room. "Nor your King, your royal cousin, whose family uses the women of house Blackwood as a common brothel to sate their vile lusts. Perhaps I'll send that whoremonger of yours your tongue, so he can use it in the manner of a mad dog upon his own scabrous cock."

Pale Lord Blackwood finally found his tongue. "You… you'll regret those words my lord. Strike me down unarmed as I am and prove my words true." He pointed a steady hand at his assailant and stood his ground. "You speak of madness, but you gibber like a beast. Strike me down and be damned yourself to dishonour, I'll hear no more of this. Let's instead meet on the battlefield where you can act the part of a man."

With that he walked straight towards Lord Patrek who stood, sword trembling in the air as his prey strode to the door. Though he faced away from the table Catelyn knew Mallister was weeping. Norbert Vance rushed to his only ally's side, knocking over his goblet in his haste to leave. "You have not heard the last of this." He warned, somewhat pointlessly Catelyn thought. "When next we meet it will end in blood." With that he threw the door open, sending the guard posted outside into a start of shock as he hurried past.

Something is amiss here. Why would father allow such a game to play out in front of him?

Ser Desmond was not one to allow a good silence to settle. "Give me leave my lord, and I shall have them arrested before they flee."

"No." Lord Patrek said tremulously, still gazing out the open window into the blinding midday sun and the green world beyond. "Lord Norbert came as an envoy; it would not be… honourable to detain him."

"Honour or not, those two are as dangerous as any in the Riverlands. They cannot be allowed to join the King." Grell argued.

"Technically," Uncle Bryden pointed out, with a wry smile pulling the ends of his mouth towards the familiar furrows of his face, "Lord Arthur's person is not so inviolate. He is not a guest but rather a vassal who gave counsel to my lord brother, and while he stands with the King, he is not an envoy for the crown."

Lord Lychester looked confused by the logic, rubbing his hand against the bristles of his jaw. Catelyn saw her moment to interject now the more truculent of the council's members had departed so unceremoniously – no one would take offence at her input.

"We all witnessed Lord Blackwood promise to join the King and take arms against Riverrun. As he is sworn to my father, he has committed treason against his liege lord. Father would be well within his rights to have him arrested."

Ser Desmond nodded self-seriously at that, while the Blackfish openly grinned at her across the table. Meanwhile Lord Hoster made an imperceptible reach to where Catelyn stood beside him and poked her leg mischievously. Well done, Little Cat, she could almost imagine him saying. For she now saw what her father planned from the start in having two such proud lords in the same meeting with uncle Brynden to egg them on.

"My daughter, though out of turn, has once again proven herself too clever by half." Announced Lord Hoster, "I find myself thoroughly convinced. Desmond, you may take a squad to arrest Lord Arthur Blackwood and see him escorted to a tower room. See he is treated gently – but securely for the gods' sakes. I'll not have such a valuable prisoner escaping Riverrun. However, Patrek is correct, Norbert Vance is free to leave."

Free to go as proof Lord Hoster Tully doesn't detain lords arbitrarily and keeps to the codes of war. Besides, Catelyn judged Arthur Blackwood the far more dangerous of the two royalists. Attending father was always something of an education, but she'd never seen him so in his element before.

"As for you my naughty Little Cat." He said, giving her a stern look, "You've already gotten one of the great lords of the realm imprisoned today, so perhaps you've done enough attending for the nonce. Go find your sister and have her teach you the proper demure obedience expected of a young lady – she should know given she hasn't spoken a bloody word in months." Father curtly nodded her off as if in a temper, but Catelyn caught the tiny twitch of his right eye she was sure not even her uncle saw. She knew they needed time alone to calm poor Lord Patrek down, and plan for the arrival of her new husband, who even now marched on Riverrun with the blood of thousands of her countrymen dripping from his hands. Though she loved her father, and would never presume to protest the match, Cat was sure she would never forgive him for that. For putting duty and honour ahead of family.

Catelyn decided she had excuse enough not to meet Maester Luwin today – he would not know father had released her early. It was hard not to think of (and treat) her tutor as a fresh-faced youth despite his bullneck and bald pate, as the only maester Cat had ever known was the ever faithful Kym, who had served so far back as her grandfather towards the end of his life. Next to Old Kym even Father looked half a boy. Besides Luwin would have his hands full with Edmure and the other squires, and Catelyn knew only too well her little brother well needed the lessons. As for Lysa… Well she needed tutoring more even than Edmure, but Catelyn's sister had been sulking in her rooms ever since Father had told her she was to be married to Jon Arryn. Her sister could be such a fool sometimes: Jon Arryn might be an older man, but everyone said how honourable he was, and how gentle a lord. It was Catelyn who was to be sold to a monster, yet all the same her Lysa saw her older sibling has having won some imaginary game. In truth Lysa had been truly impossible to be around ever since…

Catelyn finally realised where she was walking, unconsciously tracing the steps of the horror that had been brought to Riverrun months ago, like an omen of the conflict that now raged on its doorstep. She had walked to the lower bailey of the castle where the ruddy red stone would never seem clean to her again.

When Brandon Stark had come to Winterfell to court her before their wedding, she had been well-wooed over the first several weeks of his visit. He had been a charming suitor, and though somewhat shielded by her long betrothal, Catelyn had had some exposure to those.

The young squires that surrounded Edmure were perpetually challenging each other to flatter the lady of Riverrun. Lordlings from across the Riverlands, as well as a fair few from the West, Vale, Reach, Crown territories and even the Stormlands had made seemingly aimless visits across the years; handsome boys who inexplicably often seemed more interested in speaking to her and Lysa than the Lord of Riverrun or his war-hero brother. Lord Frey had ritualistically sent at least three sons or grandsons a year this way since Catelyn could remember. And Petyr had courted her with the earnest enthusiasm of the dear foolish romantic boy he was. Brandon had been very much like all of them, and yet entirely different.

For one, Catelyn had never met a Northman before; except in stories told by her wet nurse. She'd shivered in delighted terror as a girl to hear about the men who lived in a frozen waste, who sacrificed naughty young boys like Edmure and Petyr to their trees, men who cannibalised each other when the snows grew to the height of the Wall. In that regard Brandon had been something of a disappointment. Rather than a gruff savage in skins, he had spoken like one raised in the south, with an easy-going manner and a sharp beauty that had been all very exciting. And no other suitor had ever been so forward – she could not decide when father had been angrier: when Brandon had run off to murder Prince Rhaegar, or when he had tried to kiss Catelyn in front of half of Riverrun at his welcome feast.

Perhaps the only person more enraged than Hoster had been Petyr Baelish. Catelyn's legs had carried her down the water stair: which ran down the castle bailey and to the very waters of the Trident where the river could intrude into the castle itself. The water had been shallow that day, when Brandon had pursued Petyr down these very steps – their final bout had been fought in a calf-deep current, already dyed from the many wounds Petyr had borne.

Her Florian, Petyr had called himself, before he had begged a kiss and her favour for luck. But I did my duty didn't I? Then, as now. I refused and gave my favour to a wild stranger who swore not to kill the boy I loved as a brother. Father hadn't watched the fight, hadn't wanted Brandon to accept the bout. He'd have happily pulled Petyr's sword from his hand and spanked him when the boy had stormed into the Great Hall that cloudy morning and challenged Brandon Stark for her hand. But Brandon had rushed to accept, though his challenger was so far beneath him Lord Stark's heir simply could have ignored the reedy boy like an irritating gnat. Was that honourable or cruel?

Brandon had cut poor Petyr nearly in two with that final blow, ending the duel with a backhanded strike which had cut his lightly armoured foe from nipple to groin. Lysa fell screaming at the sight, as if she herself had been slain. Catelyn had frozen in place, because this kind of nonsense lived in stories, not real life. Near-commoners didn't challenge great heirs for their betrothed. Crown princes didn't steal highborn ladies in desperate obsession. Real fathers didn't sell off their daughters to some warlord to secure their own position. That all belonged to the realm of old wives' tales; of brave princesses and evil kings, fools and pig boys. But she'd seen the blood flow from Littlefinger's mailed fist herself, watched Brandon ride off to bring justice to Rhaegar Targaryen, who everyone said was the most perfect and beautiful prince the gods ever made. Yet Littlefinger lived yet, in exile on the desolate rock of his birth, while puissant Brandon lay dead. The story had gone crooked, and only Catelyn was left.

She watched the water a while, until the sun began to set, and she began to hear hymns from the castle sept. She should be there she knew - father never went anymore, and the people expected to see the lady of Riverrun at their prayers. But I'm so tired of being the lady, the mother, the dutiful daughter. The gods had been cruel to take her own mother, a woman Lysa and Edmure remembered not at all, Catelyn but little, and her father perhaps too much.

"Perhaps I could ride to the Fingers." She mused to herself. "Marry Petyr and spend the rest of my life as some old fishwife. No manners, no castles, and a husband to adore me." She never would of course. Not just because she would never forgive herself for doing so, or because she would be caught two miles outside of Riverrun, or by some roving band of Darry or Vance men to the East, but because the prospect didn't appeal to her. She didn't love Petyr Baelish, and she was no fishwife.

As if in answer to her, a horn blew from the north-east wall. Catelyn hiked up her skirts and ran up the stairs, even as her people streamed out into the bailey, no doubt desperate to know if it was the Northmen, or Jon Arryn, or some host of the King. She calmed her stride once among them, knowing that they looked to her to know how to react. It itched at her not to move more swiftly to the walls, to know whether it was groom or grave that approached the gates. But she set her face still and strolled as if through a mild day in the godswood with her ladies, to where Ser Robin Ryger waited at the gate, the tough knight bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"The North is here my lady; your father should be told."

The Northmen then. Catelyn's insides coiled with dread. Silly girl, would you prefer the King? All the same… "He will have heard, no doubt. Perhaps you could escort me to the wall Ser, so I may see for myself?"

Ser Robin grimly took her arm as if planning to march her down the aisle himself and took her up the gatehouse steps to look down on the surrounding countryside across Riverrun's wide moat. Lord Tully had ordered that the river be unleashed around the castle when the war had broken out, so it seemed a perfect island in an ancient lake – to come and go was only possible across three drawbridges lowered across the water.

There, with the late afternoon sun in the west to illuminate them, she saw an army advancing in an ordered column towards Riverrun, kicking up a cloud of dust that stretched over the tall hedges of her lands. It was only when the sun began to set did they finally arrive, a vanguard draped with strange colours; some she recognised, Manderly merman, the twin axes of the Dustins, Tallheart pines and Ryswell quarters. Others she could not recall, as the sigils of the North were little seen in the Riverlands.

Maester Kym would no doubt tell her she should have made better study of the houses of her betrothed, but Catelyn had enough to do without knowing the names of houses who ruled poor lands far away, all with a tithe of the good people in her own country. So, the pink man, the crossed keys, the chained prisoner and… are those buckets for the gods' sakes?

Catelyn descended the steps with Ser Robin to stand with uncle Brynden and Father to greet their guests at the gate. Already the Northern lords began their crossing of the immense drawbridge, blowing their mournful horns in welcome. It felt wrong after months of effective isolation to see armed men enter Riverrun. They did not feel like guests, but an occupying army that Father must make good with. She could see some of them bore visible signs of fighting, the dinted plate, torn surcoats and limping horses from a long march. Catelyn had never seen a bandit, but surely even the Kingswood brotherhood had borne themselves with more dignity.

However, at their head she saw something that made her heart skip a beat. A huge red stallion that towered over its fellows, grander even than anything in father's stables. She knew only one horse with which to compare it, and even he had not been so proud a beast as the creature that stood before her. It had been ridden by Brandon Stark, who had teased her by claiming it was a present from a besotted maiden in the North. The rider wore no helm, but the resemblance was plain. Though his hair was darker, and as he approached Catelyn could see he did not have Brandon's cool grey eyes, he did have that same easy smile and long hair that fell in a messy tide across the brow.

So, this is Eddard Stark. Lord Rickard had clearly been blessed in his children, to have two such fine sons and a daughter reputed to be so beautiful Prince Rhaegar had turned mad with love. The senior lords dismounted and approached, bending their knees before Lord Hoster in welcome. One slight youth however went so far as to walk towards Father and pull out his sword to lay it at Lord Hoster's feet.

"I thank you Lord Eddard, Riverrun welcomes you and your leal lords to aid in our defence. I offer bread and salt, wine and water as you desire it."

Lord Eddard?

The boy arose and nodded graciously and gave Father his thanks. It was only then she noticed the arms emblazoned upon his chest, a great wolf bounding across a sea of white. She had been so transfixed by the other man's resemblance to Brandon and his mount that she had failed to notice the Dustin sigil he wore and who he had followed.

It was only when Eddard Stark turned to her that she remembered her manners. Father was frowning at her, clearly, she had missed some word of welcome.

"It is a great pleasure to look upon your face, Lord Eddard." Catelyn managed to get out, "I have looked forward to your coming for some time."

The boy looked at her in confusion and shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, whereupon an awkward silence fell. Lord Hoster had to intervene as smoothly as he could, "My daughter thanks you for your condolences my lord, Brandon is greatly missed here in Riverrun, not least by Lady Catelyn. No doubt she is happy to share her grief with of one of his own blood."

Hells. "Yes," said Cat quickly, "I had long wished to properly express how I mourn for your losses my lord, I meant no insult."

"And none was felt my lady." Answered Eddard Stark. But that long plain face certainly failed to show it; she could discern nothing at all from this disappointingly ordinary stranger and his unreadable grey eyes. No joy at the sight of her, or anger at her inattention. Even though he was safely dead, Brandon seemed more alive than his brother. So this is what it is like to be betrothed to a corpse.