March-April, 299 AC
The harsh bronze crown seemed to weigh heavily on her son's head as Robb accepted a parchment from his squire, Olyvar. He read it, frowning, then sighed heavily and rested his head in one hand. Olyvar watched Robb nervously, his brown eyes concerned. It was as though Robb were a beloved older brother, not his king and two years the younger.
After a moment Robb seemed to catch himself and sat up straight, his face stern and composed. Like Ned putting on his lord's face, Robb has put on the face of a king. And she could not comfort him lest she shame him. Who will look after him when I am gone? Robb had insisted that she serve as his envoy to Renly, and she must depart within the fortnight.
"Is it word of the Greyjoy lad?" Ser Perwyn Frey asked. Theon had been gone near two weeks. Robb had sent him to Pyke despite her protests, and now Catelyn could only pray that her doubts were wrong.
"No. It is from Lord Tywin at Harrenhal," Robb said, frowning. "He offers to exchange Lords Bolton, Manderly, and Cerwyn for Ser Kevan Lannister, his son Willem, and Ser Harys Swyft. And Lord Cerwyn is badly wounded."
Bolton and Manderly were unwed, but Catelyn's heart wept for Lady Edythe. A kind woman in her early fifties, Edythe Cerwyn had been born an Umber, but she had the temperament of a warm hearth fire, not her cousin Greatjon's wild blaze. Lady Cerwyn often came to Winterfell with her husband, and she'd sat many a time with Catelyn, stitching and talking of their children. Catelyn prayed Edythe would not lose her husband too.
"Did Tywin's men intercept Ser Cleos?" Edmure asked, puzzled. Robb shook his head.
"I think not. There is no mention of our terms."
"If Tywin Lannister knew we openly declared his precious children guilty of incest, he would not be offering to exchange prisoners," Catelyn said flatly. "Once he learns he shall be even more dangerous."
Thank the gods the Lannisters didn't have her girls. Arya could never hold her tongue, and Tywin or Cersei would have it cut out and send her to the silent sisters without a moment's hesitation.
"We've heard the damn song, Cat, we know," Edmure replied irritably, rolling his eyes.
Catelyn felt her cheeks redden with fury. How dare he ignore the danger? Though it was near forty years ago, long before he was born. Folk still talked of it when I was a girl, for it had happened just a few years past... by the time he was a child it was a distant nightmare. But no, he'd been ten when Elia and her children died. There was no excuse for his folly.
"Have a care how you speak to His Grace's mother," Greatjon Umber rumbled from down the table.
Catelyn still didn't quite know what to make of the enormous man. Half the time he seemed amused by her presence in Robb's counsels, but now and then the Greatjon would support her, as he had over threatening to slay Jaime Lannister if any harm came to the "clever little she-wolf."
"I like it not," Ser Perwyn said hesitantly. He was a thoughtful young man, and Olyvar's elder brother. "I've never heard of Tywin Lannister exchanging hostages."
"Nor I," Maege Mormont said grimly.
"It's a fair trade," Robb said, frowning. "Three lords for his brother and a boy. And yet..." Grey Wind whined, and Robb scratched his ears, thinking.
Catelyn's body ached from a long day sitting a horse. On and on they went, past burned fields, past woods and streams and stones. Ser Perwyn Frey rode to her left, quietly singing "Flowers of Spring" in a light baritone. If a Frey had to ride beside her, Ser Perwyn was not so bad. He did not try to force her to make conversation, nor did he blather on. No, Ser Perwyn either rode in silence or he sang.
"I'm not as good as Alesander," Perwyn had said sheepishly a few days past, pushing his brown curls out of his face. "But it helps pass the time on the road." Alesander was a cousin or a nephew or something of the sort, and a fine singer according to Perwyn.
Down through the fields the rivers sing
Rippling and pouring the water they bring
And up sprout the flowers all in a ring
The flowers, the flowers, the flowers of spring.
But it was autumn now, and there were no flowers here. The wheat field before them was scorched, grey ash and blackened stems all that remained.
Despite Glover's stalemate at the Green Fork and Robb's victory at Riverrun, flame and slaughter still consumed the Riverlands. Some foreign sellsword and his company were maiming smallfolk, lopping off hands and feet at whim. Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch burned the crops, killed the livestock, and raped and murdered the smallfolk. When Tywin ordered the murder of Elia and her babes, did he also order that fire and blood were now the Lannister words? But no, fire was not his bride. He'd shown that at 16 when he drowned the Reynes and all their people. His bride was fear, fear and blood and bones.
Edmure had fought with Robb over whether to let the river lords depart to defend the smallfolk. Thank the gods they'd been in Lord Tully's solar, not among Robb's bannermen. Edmure was determined as a dog with a bone. Catelyn had backed Robb, reminding Edmure of the size of the Lannister armies, of how decisive victory was the quickest way to restore the safety of the riverlands.
But Edmure's soft heart ruled him. "I have a duty to defend my people," he said stubbornly, "the harvest is burning and winter is coming."
It was a neat trap, Catelyn had to admit. The white raven was come from the citadel, and in one strike Edmure turned the Stark and Tully words against them. Near 18,000 men had gone after Robb yielded, Vance and Piper, Bracken and Blackwood, Mallister and Darry, sweeping east to chase off the raiders. At least Robett Glover's host had rejoined Robb at Riverrun before she left.
Catelyn shivered. She didn't want to think of that frightening evening. She must think of her duty as Robb's envoy to Renly. The man was a fool to claim his brother's crown, but he might have enough sense to ally with them against the Lannisters. Yet how was she to convince him?
Ser Perwyn made it through "The Fair Maids of Summer" and had just begun "Fallen Leaves" when they stopped to make camp for the night. Catelyn ate her supper without tasting it, then retired to her lonely tent.
Ned's smile was soft and sweet as he ran a hand through Catelyn's hair, his grey eyes shining. He stroked the long auburn strands, running them through his fingers, gently twisting a lock until it curled.
"Wake up, Cat," Ned murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple, to her cheek, to her nose. She groaned and sighed, and he chuckled.
"It's snowing!"
A stampede of little feet pitter pattered into the room. With a thump Arya flung herself onto her parents, landing half on Catelyn's legs, half on Ned's stomach. Ned wheezed as Arya clambered over him, accidentally kicking him in the gut.
"Arya, you're supposed to knock," Sansa scolded from the doorway with all the dignity a four year old could muster.
Despite the attempt at courtesy Sansa was grinning, dimples in her rosy cheeks. She wore a cloak and a warm wool gown, and there were snowflakes in her hair. Catelyn beckoned to her, and Sansa ran to the bed, climbing up carefully and pressing a kiss to Catelyn's swollen belly.
"Where are your brothers?" Ned asked, smiling as Arya burrowed between her parents. The snowflakes in her dark hair were half melted already, and her little hands and feet were cold.
"In th' yard," Arya said, her high voice still marred by a toddler's lisp. "Jon made a thnow fort, he'th lord of the Wall and Robb is th' lord of Winterfell."
"The stableboys are playing the Others," Sansa informed her mother breathlessly.
"And who are you?" Catelyn asked.
"A wildling!" Arya interrupted, half shouting in her excitement. "Old Nan sayth wildling women fight!" Ned laughed.
"And I'm Good Queen Alysanne coming to see the wall," Sansa said, wrapping an arm around Catelyn's belly. The babe kicked, greeting his sister. Sansa's eyes grew big as saucers.
"It's kicking!" Sansa squealed.
"Let me feel!" Arya put her hand on Catelyn's belly, and the babe kicked again.
Dimly Catelyn heard yelling and shrieking and whooping outside. Arya was off like a flash, Sansa close behind, their laughter echoing through the halls. Catelyn rested a hand on her belly, feeling the babe kick. With a fond groan Ned pulled Catelyn against his side, his hand splaying over hers.
"I think this one will be a knight," Catelyn said, the babe kicking so fierce and sharp that her hand throbbed.
It was the throbbing pain in her hands that woke her. It would rain today, she could feel it in the swollen red scars on her hands. I shall never write fine letters nor embroider again, but Bran's life is worth the price, even if he can't be a knight. A small, angry part of her wished that she'd taken the dagger and cut the catspaw's throat. But she'd been so weak, starved and tired from keeping her vigil. Without the direwolf... but no. Bran still lived, safe at Winterfell with Rickon.
Her heart clenched with sorrow at the memory of Sansa and Arya's laughter. Where were they? Were they alone and frightened? Had they been captured by outlaws or Lannisters? Firmly Catelyn pushed those thoughts away. She could do nothing for her lost daughters. It was Robb who needed her now.
They had barely finished breaking their fast when the rain arrived, sweeping across the fields like a silver curtain. At least it will make it harder for the fields to catch fire. On and on and on they rode, the horses carefully picking their way through the mud as the rain seeped into their riders' clothes.
I want to go home , Catelyn thought. She wanted to hold her babes in her arms, to play with them as she had when they were small, Ned at her side. Ned loved being a father, loved tickling the babes until they smiled and burbled. Did Tywin Lannister ever dandle his children on his knee to make them laugh? Did he sing them to sleep or kiss them when they fell? Ned's singing voice was rough and uneven, but he'd sung to them anyway, rocking them in his arms before laying them in their beds.
But there was no song now to rouse Catelyn from her melancholy. Ser Perwyn was a groggy man in the morning, and the rain seemed to dishearten him further. Yet she must have some distraction. Already her thoughts drifted to the last night before the walls of Riverrun. No, she mustn't think of Robb, not now. Sansa, she would think of Sansa, whose gentle heart always yearned for songs.
"Ser Perwyn, do you know the words to 'Alysanne?'"
"Yes, my lady. Shall I sing it for you?"
Catelyn nodded, and Ser Perwyn cleared his throat and began to sing.
Oh Alysanne, oh Alysanne
Our kind and noble Queen
Oh Alysanne, oh Alysanne
When shall your like again be seen?
They camped that night by a small stream, its banks screened by willows. Catelyn's tent was drafty in the cool night breeze, and she clutched the blankets in her stiff hands.
In the distance, a wolf howled alone, her voice sweet yet sorrowful. Catelyn shivered, and against her will she remembered.
It had been a clear day, the sun dipping to kiss the horizon as Robett Glover's men returned to Riverrun. Catelyn had watched from the battlements, Robb at her side with Grey Wind lying between them. Most of the northern lords and remaining river lords were on the battlements as well, to watch the banners stream in and gauge the state of Glover's host. There was the Karstark sunburst- Catelyn hoped the safe return of his eldest son would lift Rickard Karstark's low spirits. There was the Glover fist and the Cerwyn axe, the flayed man of Bolton and the towers of the Freys.
Suddenly a howl split the dusk. It was different than the howl she'd heard in the Whispering Wood, fierce in a way that reminded her of Arya. Grey Wind sat up on his smoky haunches, ears twitching, golden eyes staring. The howl came again, echoing from across the river. Grey Wind bolted for the steps, dashing across half the keep in the blink of an eye. Robb followed at the direwolf's heels, and Catelyn and the lords followed Robb. The howls were coming closer.
Grey Wind darted across the drawbridge, down the center of Glover's host. The host split in two as men and horses backed away, creating a grassy path for the direwolf.
Suddenly Grey Wind halted, throwing his head back in a great howl. The sound rang across the silent host, and there was something strange in it, some ancient music. Catelyn and the other lords stopped before the drawbridge, watching and waiting as their King ran to his direwolf's side.
No sooner had Robb reached Grey Wind than a grey blur sped through the middle of the host, coming straight at king and direwolf. Catelyn's heart leapt into her throat as the strange direwolf tackled Grey Wind. The two wolves wrestled, snarling and snapping at each other. The second wolf was larger than Grey Wind, with fur the grey of storm clouds. Robb laughed and laughed as the men stared with wide eyes. The strange wolf pinned Grey Wind, then leapt at Robb. A few men cried out, and the Greatjon drew his sword, but there was no need. The wolf put its paws on Robb's chest and licked his face. It was then that she realized why Robb laughed.
"Nymeria," Catelyn breathed. The lords looked to her, but it was the Greatjon who spoke.
"What?"
"Arya's wolf," Catelyn explained, watching as the she-wolf sat back on her haunches, letting Robb scratch behind her ear.
"She was set loose near Darry, when Ned came south." How did she know to come to Riverrun? Was Arya dead, or hidden somewhere close?
Robb murmured something and Grey Wind sat. The direwolf had grown, his head even with Robb's elbow when he sat on his haunches. But even as Grey Wind sat, Nymeria rose. Her dark golden eyes met Catelyn's for a moment, then the direwolf turned to face the host.
The direwolf surveyed the host for a long moment as the northmen stared at the she-wolf. A few muttered, their eyes wide with fear, but most were as silent as the heart trees they worshipped. Catelyn had never followed the old gods of forest, stream, and stone, yet something in her heart sang as Nymeria threw her head back and howled.
It was a terrible howl, a howl that reminded her of rocks breaking and thunder clapping, and yet in the howl she heard the whistling of winds and the rippling of rivers.
And a chorus of howls replied, so many Catelyn could not count them. Wolves ran up the sward of grass in the center of the host. They moved together down the path, staying clear of the men, their eyes fixed on Robb. Some men reached for their spears, but they froze when Robb glanced their way. When the first wolves reached Nymeria they halted, the rest of the wolves forming a column behind them.
"Gods be good," Greatjon Umber whispered in his bass rumble.
There had to be near a hundred wolves, their coats grey and brown and black, their fangs gleaming white. Nymeria gave a little yip, and all the wolves sat on their haunches, their proud eyes glowing in the setting sun. Nymeria circled Robb once, twice, three times, then returned to her place at the head of the wolf pack, her muzzle facing Robb. Catelyn's heart pounded in her chest, her nerves taut as a bowstring.
Nymeria bowed her head before Robb. One by one, the wolf pack followed, inclining their shaggy heads as the host around them gasped. They are paying homage. And they were not alone. The host fell to their knees, some dropping immediately, some slowly as they stared in wonder. Behind her Catelyn heard the clink of steel as the lords knelt, and at last Catelyn sank to her knees.
No man present would forget this night. There would be songs and stories about King Robb, about Grey Wind and Nymeria and her pack. She should be proud, proud and grateful and amazed.
Yet as she knelt, trembling and afraid, Catelyn wished the gods had sent the wolves to her daughters instead.
