Late October- Mid November, 299 AC
Part III: Caged Wolf
Catelyn's belly roiled as she watched the host depart Riverrun. Below the Stark direwolf flapped a scarlet banner bearing a silver fist, the sigil of House Glover. Robett Glover had boasted that he would fling the ironmen into the sea and have Moat Cailin free in no time.
Catelyn wished she could share his optimism. Glover did not mourn her sons as Catelyn did, he did not fret over Lysa's silence or Lord Walder's fury. Winterfell was retaken, wayns of gold were coming from the Westerlands, and Stannis was sent running back to Storm's End. Small wonder the northmen were in good spirits, eager to wreak their vengeance upon the ironmen. With few other options, Robb had commanded Robett to march north up the kingsroad. As they neared Moat Cailin, Wyman Manderly would send ships down to the Bite. It would take weeks to ferry the nine thousand men, even if the weather was fair.
As Catelyn left the ramparts, Ser Perwyn Frey at her heels, she wondered at Robb's strategy. Her son had ordered Glover to leave four thousand of his men at Riverrun, half of them archers. What is Robb planning? The Lannisters were securing their hold over King's Landing; Tywin had no reason to come meet Robb in the field. Nor could Robb march upon the capital; with Margaery Tyrell betrothed to little Tommen the combined Lannister and Tyrell host defending the city numbered over fifty thousand men. All they had to do was wait for Robb to return north, then crush the Riverlands into submission.
"Are you well, my lady?" Ser Perwyn's face was wrinkled with concern.
"I am well enough," Catelyn replied. "I shall see to my father until dinner; you may take your leave."
With a bow Ser Perwyn left, doubtless to train in the yard. The only way to be rid of him was by command. Nearly two moons had passed since word of her sons' deaths, and though she had resumed eating normally, the knight barely left her side. His hovering was both sweet and grating. She was no hysterical maiden to be watched over lest she do herself some harm. Still, Perwyn had been of some help as Catelyn pondered how Robb might make peace with Lord Walder.
If only Lysa would find her courage, Catelyn thought sadly as she made her way to her father's chambers. The knights of the Vale could make all the difference. Who knew how short autumn might be; the Westerlands and the Reach could starve as easily as the North if the levies were not back in the fields soon. With thirty thousand fresh men supporting Robb even Tywin Lannister would have to agree to peace until the end of winter.
Surely there was some way to persuade Lysa. Catelyn still had not sent the letter she had written after realizing what Hoster Tully had done to his youngest daughter. Guilt gnawed at Catelyn as she wondered what she would have done in Hoster's place. She would not have tricked her sister into drinking tansy tea, but what would she have done instead? Would she have let Lysa marry the man who had dishonored her? He could not have been of high birth, or her father might have allowed the match. Still, even a hedge knight was quite different than a wandering singer or a baseborn apprentice.
Her father was asleep when she reached him, his face pale and wan. Catelyn took up her sewing, still pondering the identity of the wretched stripling Lysa had wished to marry. Perhaps if she identified the boy, she might think of a way to convince Lysa. Her memories of Riverrun before the rebellion were dusty, yet she had little else to think of until Robb returned.
She was no closer to identifying the stripling a week later when the howling from the kennels announced Robb's arrival. Only Grey Wind sent the hounds into such a state. Cat hastened to the ramparts, desperate to lay eyes on her only living son. Ser Perwyn was already there, his lips tight as he watched them approach.
It was a King who came to Riverrun, the bronze and iron crown sitting comfortably on his head. Robb's beard was gone, but his face was hard and lean, his bearing regal. Grey Wind loped behind him, as fierce and proud as his master. She did not see Nymeria, nor the great pack of wolves who had followed Robb west.
Beside Robb rode a girl who must be his bride. Jeyne Westerling had a heart-shaped face, soft chestnut curls and a shy smile. Even without the Freys she would be a poor match. Rarely did the Starks wed outside the North, and then only to the sons and daughters of great lords of the Riverlands or the Vale. Ned's great-grandmother had been a Blackwood; his great-aunt Jocelyn Stark had wed a Royce. Robb and Arya would never have been promised to Freys, but for Lord Walder's obstinacy. As for the Westerlings, their house was ancient but impoverished, and worst of all, sworn to Casterly Rock.
"My brother is not here," Perwyn said softly. He did not sound surprised at Olyvar's absence. Lord Walder had ordered all his brood and their men back to the Twins; of course he had summoned Robb's squire. Catelyn wondered if Black Walder Frey had been forced to bodily drag the youth from Robb's side.
"Robb was fortunate to have so staunch a man as his squire," Catelyn said truthfully.
Now a boy of ten rode by Robb, the seashells marking him as another Westerling. He looked up at Robb adoringly when he should have been focused on his horse. From the mop of curls she suspected he was Jeyne's little brother. A young knight and a girl of Sansa's age also wore the seashells, as did an older woman who could only be their mother. Beside her rode an older knight bearing a shield with three black pepperpots. Catelyn noted that both kept well clear of the direwolf.
As Robb advanced toward the gate Catelyn descended the ramparts as quickly as she could while keeping her dignity. She could not throw her arms about her kingly son, but she could be there to greet him as soon as he entered the yard.
She reached the yard just before Robb, and took a moment to tidy her skirts and brush the moistness from her eyes. The smallfolk of Riverrun ringed the yard, their faces eager for a glimpse of the Young Wolf.
"Wolf lady?"
A chubby hand tugged at her skirts, and Catelyn found herself looking down at the toddler who'd darted before her horse when she returned to Riverrun. A single graceful weirwood leaf was stitched on the hem of his tunic, the crimson thread bright against the grey cloth. Catelyn frowned. She knew of no house with such a sigil, and no child so young wore a badge of service.
"Pate, no ." The child's mother picked him up, ignoring his protests. Her simple blue gown bore a weirwood leaf as well, on the cuff of her sleeve.
"I'm sorry m'lady," she said, bobbing a nervous curtsy. "Sorry for my boy disturbing you, and-" she hesitated "-sorry for the loss of your young ones," she whispered.
She bit her lip as though about to say more, then paled as she looked past Catelyn.
"Mother," and the voice was deeper than she remembered, but those were Robb's eyes that she turned to see .
It was with dwindling patience that Cat waited for Robb to finish in the Great Hall. The rivermen and northmen listened raptly to their king as he praised Edmure's victory at the fords, shared news of how much plunder they had brought back from the west, and promised that his people would be well prepared for winter.
When the steward finally called an end, the Greatjon followed with a rousing shout of "KING IN THE NORTH!" The northern lords bellowed a half breath behind him, answered by the river lords shouting "KING OF THE TRIDENT!" Grey Wind joined the clamor with a howl. Robb may have lost the Freys, but he has these hearts at least.
As the lords filed out, Robb beckoned for Catelyn to stay. She approached the dais where Edmure and Uncle Brynden stood, accompanied by the Westerlings and the pepperpot knight. When Robb frowned, Catelyn realized Perwyn was still at her side, stiff and stern. Before Robb could say anything, Jeyne descended from the dais, her hands outstretched.
"I owe your house much, good ser," she said, blushing as she curtsied. "Your brother saved my husband's life."
Perwyn stared at the girl stonefaced. The girl swallowed nervously.
"I am sorry for my part in the dishonor done to your house, and beg of you to tell me how I may make amends." Her words were practiced, if unsteady, and Catelyn wondered if she'd made the same appeal to Black Walder Frey.
"I will think on it, my la- your grace," Perwyn said, his eyes flicking to Robb.
"She speaks truly," Robb said, coming down from the dais and taking his bride's hand, Grey Wind following at his heels. "I would speak to you privily after dinner, ser, and make my own apologies."
Ser Perwyn twitched as Grey Wind approached, sniffing curiously. Then, to Catelyn's surprise, the direwolf sat on his haunches and licked the young knight's trembling hand. Perwyn glanced from king to wolf, utterly bewildered.
"A mark of esteem," Robb said as the direwolf returned to his side. "Until this evening."
When Perwyn was gone Robb introduced Catelyn to the strangers on the dais. As Catelyn suspected, the three young ones were Jeyne's siblings. The boyish knight with the mustache was Raynald, the excitable squire was Rollam, and the maid was Elenya. The distinguished woman was Lady Sybell Westerling; the pepperpot knight her brother Ser Rolph Spicer. The last two were as courteous as could be, but Catelyn noticed that Grey Wind watched them closely, his fangs bared. They seemed quite happy to leave the hall for their chambers, but Rollam had to be taken in hand by his older brother before he would leave Robb's side.
The Blackfish walked with Catelyn as they abandoned the cavernous hall for the private audience chamber above. While Edmure rang for wine and food her uncle held her close, murmuring words of comfort. Robb took the high seat, looking as weary as a man of eighty. He had not embraced her yet, and Cat knew why. He fears that one or both of us should start to weep and never stop.
When the Blackfish released her the direwolf padded over to sit by Catelyn's feet. While her brother filled their uncle's ear with the whole story of the fight at the Stone Mill, Catelyn stroked Grey Wind's ears. It was only after the servants had come and gone that the Blackfish cleared his throat and said, "I think we've all heard sufficient of your boasting, nephew."
Edmure was taken aback. "Boasting? What do you mean?"
"I mean," said the Blackfish, "that you owe His Grace your thanks for his forbearance. He played out that mummer's farce in the Great Hall so as not to shame you before your own people."
"Good men died to defend those fords, Uncle." Edmure sounded outraged. "What, is no one to win victories but the Young Wolf? Did I steal some glory meant for you, Robb?"
"Your Grace," Robb corrected, icy, as his direwolf rumbled. "You took me for your king, Uncle. Or have you forgotten that as well?"
The Blackfish said, "You were commanded to hold Riverrun, Edmure, no more."
"I held Riverrun, and I bloodied Lord Tywin's nose—"
"So you did," said Robb. "But a bloody nose won't win the war, will it? We remained in the west because I wanted Lord Tywin to come after us."
And Edmure slammed the gates shut , Catelyn thought, horrified.
"We were all horsed," Ser Brynden said. "The Lannister host was mainly foot. We planned to run Lord Tywin a merry chase up and down the coast, then slip behind him to take up a strong defensive position athwart the gold road, at a place my scouts had found where the ground would have been greatly in our favor. If he had come at us there, he would have paid a grievous price. But if he did not attack, he would have been trapped in the west, a thousand leagues from where he needed to be. All the while we would have lived off his land, instead of him living off ours."
"Lord Stannis was about to fall upon King's Landing," Robb said. "He might have rid us of Tommen, the queen, and the Imp in one red stroke. Then we might have been able to make a peace."
Edmure looked from uncle to nephew. "You never told me."
"I told you to hold Riverrun," said Robb. " Hold it, not seek battles of your own."
"When you stopped Lord Tywin on the Red Fork," said the Blackfish, "you delayed him just long enough for riders out of Bitterbridge to reach him with word of what was happening to the east. Lord Tywin turned his host at once, joined up with Matthis Rowan and Randyll Tarly near the headwaters of the Blackwater, and made a forced march to Tumbler's Falls, where he found Mace Tyrell and two of his sons waiting with a huge host and a fleet of barges. They floated down the river, disembarked half a day's ride from the city, and took Stannis in the rear."
Edmure had turned the color of cheese, his eyes darting from his uncle to his king.
"I- I-"
"You did not think," Catelyn said quietly. "And it cannot be undone." Edmure looked at her, his expression halfway between shame and anger. "But I know of a way you may make amends, if it please your grace."
Robb inclined his head.
"This insult to the Freys must be set right. A Frey as Lady of Riverrun would soothe some of Lord Walder's wounds." Edmure gaped, and Catelyn ignored him.
"Perwyn is the oldest of his sons by Bethany Rosby, and Olyvar was Lord Gyles Rosby's ward. They cannot inherit Rosby if they defy the crown; offer lands to Perwyn and perhaps a few other sons. There are plenty of empty keeps near the gift that might be repaired."
"Lord Walder won't be placated by frozen ruins," Edmure grumbled. Robb smiled unpleasantly.
"Then your marriage is even more important, isn't it, uncle?"
After a long pause Edmure nodded, his shoulders slumped. The raven was already winging its way to the Twins by the time Robb visited Catelyn's solar the next afternoon.
She had already received a bevy of visitors as every northern lord came to share their condolences. The Greatjon had swept her up in an enormous hug, while the Smalljon convinced his father to let go before he suffocated his king's mother. Galbart Glover and Rickard Karstark showed more propriety, but their words were no less sincere.
Maege Mormont tried to lift her spirits by jesting that if Theon wasn't murdered by his fellow brothers of the night's watch, a wildling spearwife would surely slay him. Or Jon Snow might. Bastard born or no, Jon had been very fond of Bran and Rickon, and he'd never liked Greyjoy.
Medger Cerwyn had already shared his condolences, as he'd been at Riverrun for months, recovering from the wounds he took at the Green Fork. The Maester thought it a miracle that he had survived captivity long enough for the hostage exchange. Ser Wylis Manderly, who had returned in the same exchange, was long gone. Shortly after taking the Crag Robb had sent a raven ordering Ser Wylis off on some mission.
As Robb rang for hot cider Catelyn examined his face. There were new lines at his eyes and on his brow, the same lines of sorrow she bore. Grief hangs heavily between us, for no others knew Bran and Rickon so well. She wondered if Sansa and Arya had heard of their brothers' deaths.
"Where did you send Ser Wylis?" Catelyn asked, determined not to fall to pieces before her son. Grey Wind nuzzled Robb's knee with his snout as Robb frowned, confused, running a hand through the hair that fell to his shoulders. He looks so very weary.
"To Braavos and the Free Cities," Robb said finally. Catelyn blinked, nonplussed.
"Braavos? Why?"
Robb looked at Grey Wind, his mouth set. The direwolf gave a soft whuff, and licked his hand.
"Have you ever had strange dreams?"
It depends what you mean by strange. She dreamed her family was safe and whole at Winterfell; she dreamed of cutting Theon's throat; she dreamed of Sansa in a gown of leaves, singing in a ring of weirwoods.
"I have," she said. Robb ran his hands through his hair again.
"I keep dreaming of Bran watching me," he said at last, his voice barely a whisper. "He tells me to keep Grey Wind close, and not worry about Nymeria running off. I dream of weirwoods that look like maidens, of blizzards so strong herds freeze in place, of-" he swallowed. "Of men who are not men, with skin pale as milk and eyes like chips of burning ice."
In the Long Night the Others came, so Old Nan had said. But those were children's stories, old wives' tales…. Catelyn looked at the direwolf panting at her son's feet. Encouraged by her silence, Robb continued.
"It will be a bad winter, I know it. Ser Wylis is to buy as much grain and glass as can be had; Lord Manderly agreed to provide his son with silver, and we will repay them with Lannister gold. What gold is not spent on food will pay women to make blankets and winter clothes, and men to hunt for furs."
"Even with all the gold you captured in the west, will it be enough?"
Robb smiled, boyish for just a moment.
"Don't worry, mother. We will have plenty of gold."
When Robb rode south, his banners hung limply in the pouring rain. Cat watched them leave from her father's balcony, wrapped in a thick cloak. Despite the rain the host was in good spirits. Rollam Westerling was practically dancing in the saddle, while Raynald bore Robb's banner proudly.
Lady Sybell had not wanted them to go south. She had quite eloquently begged Robb to leave them with their sister, but Robb had refused. Instead he had left Ser Rolph Spicer to watch over Jeyne, and Catelyn to keep watch over Ser Rolph and Lady Sybell. Grey Wind did not like them, and that was cause for alarm. She had not spoken to Robb of it, but she had seen him glance at the direwolf when he stalked after them.
Though she watched closely, a week went by without aught that gave her reason to be suspicious. Ser Rolph spent his time in the yard or with the other lords, always careful to avoid Ser Perwyn. Lady Sybell stayed in her chambers for the most part, sewing and reading with her daughter Elenya.
To Cat's mild dismay, Jeyne Westerling did not join them. The little queen had become Catelyn's persistent shadow. Jeyne ate beside Catelyn at meals, taking dainty bites that painfully reminded Cat of Sansa, and tentatively venturing questions about northern customs. Jeyne prayed in the sept, lighting candles to the Warrior for Robb and to the Mother for the goodbrothers she would never meet. Jeyne sat in Lord Hoster's solar, occasionally seeking Catelyn's advice on the doublet she was embroidering with direwolves.
Catelyn had thought Lord Hoster's condition might upset the girl, but she seemed used to the smells and sounds of a sickroom. True, the little queen had tended Robb's wound, but she was neither nurse nor Maester.
"How did you come to heal the king who took your keep?" Catelyn asked late one afternoon, as rain pelted against the windows. "My son is handsome, but there must have been some other reason."
Jeyne smiled shyly, and the story tumbled out of her. Robb was handsome, very handsome. But she had been terrified when the attack began, afraid that the castle would be put to the torch and the occupants slain. Grey Wind's howls had been like nothing she'd ever heard, and she's seen him rip out the throat of a knight she'd known since birth.
Yet when the fighting had ended, Robb had accepted their surrender gallantly, keeping his men in good order. No maid had been molested, no jewels ripped from ladies' throats. The terrifying direwolf had covered Robb's laughing squire in kisses, somehow knowing he'd saved his master's life. So when Robb's wound began to trouble him, Jeyne had fretted over the brave young king.
"Our Maester was busy with men badly hurt, and Robb didn't want to take him from those who might be saved," Jeyne said, starry eyed. "My mother taught me much of healing, and she suggested that I might help."
Catelyn's eyes narrowed. If her mother taught Jeyne of healing, then Lady Sybell could have tended Robb herself. Or am I jumping at shadows, eager for any reason to mistrust her? Yet how else would Jeyne and Robb be left alone together?
"How-" She fell silent as the kennels erupted. Robb cannot be back already. Yet they never howled so, except when the direwolf was about… Catelyn rose to her feet, her heart pounding, her sewing falling to the floor.
"My lady?" Jeyne asked timidly.
"Nymeria," Catelyn breathed.
With a swish of her skirts she darted from the room. There was only one reason Nymeria would have abandoned Robb, only one reason she would return to Riverrun. When Cat reached the ramparts Edmure was already there, shouting obscenities at a group of raggedy outlaws. The rain had stopped, but even so the mud was ankle deep. They were clustered in a circle, obscuring one of their number from view. The sun was sinking below the horizon, the full moon faint overhead.
"-the Others take you! Beric Dondarrion is dead; begone before we fill you with arrows."
"That's news to us," a singer clutching a wood harp drawled.
"Hush, Tom," a knight in battered armor replied, his voice rusty. "Is Catelyn Tully there or not?"
"That's no concern of yours-"
"I am," Catelyn shouted.
"Mother?"
Catelyn grabbed Edmure so hard she nearly knocked him over. "Lower the bridge."
"Cat-"
"Lower it!" She hissed, shaking him as the direwolf's howl echoed across the water.
Catelyn flew down the ramparts, not waiting to see if her brother obeyed. She slipped and fell in the muddy yard, drenching her skirts. In an instant she was back on her feet, running for the gate. As soon as the bridge was lowered she sprinted across, toward the huddle of shabby men in their mismatched armor. The outlaws parted, a small blur dashing out to meet her, and Catelyn wept with joy as she hugged her daughter tight.
