Early April, 300 AC
The night was black when Catelyn left the warmth of the king's company.
Once she had stood in Renly's pavilion of green silk, shaking her head at the needless luxury. Robb's tent was of fine grey silk, but there the similarities ended. His tent was far smaller, able to be quickly pulled down at need. The furnishings were well made but simple— leather slung camp chairs, a table covered in rolled up maps, braziers, sleeping furs for the king and his bride, and little else.
Ser Perwyn Frey awaited Catelyn at the entrance to her tent, standing guard. She smiled at him as he lifted the flap for her, covering unease with courtesy. Tomorrow they would finally reach the Twins, and foreboding weighed heavy upon her heart.
"Father's tongue is sharper than his sword," Ser Perwyn had reassured her as they left Riverrun, noting how Catelyn glanced at little Jeyne Westerling riding beside the king.
"He has wanted Riverrun for years; he will likely mock the King to his face but that will be all he dares, after His Grace's victory at Sweet Root." The knight smiled bitterly. "My lord father has always put the advancement of House Frey before all else, save self-preservation."
Jeyne had reassured Catelyn as well, claiming that she could tolerate the old man's barbs for Robb's sake. Lady Sybell Westerling had not liked it, but she could not overrule the King in the North, nor her daughter his queen. Whatever it was that the direwolves disliked about Lady Sybell and Ser Rolph Spicer, they were back at Riverrun, under the Blackfish's watchful eye. Still, Catelyn wished Robb had her shrewd uncle leading the outriders, rather than holding Riverrun. Though Robb had had little choice. Brynden Blackfish was the only Tully left, besides Edmure and Lysa. Edmure could hardly miss his own wedding, and Lysa was still hiding atop her mountain.
Before Catelyn completed her nightly ablutions she checked on the girls. Arya shared her mother's pavilion, and where Arya went, so went Jeyne Poole and Meri the dairy maid. All three were asleep, curled together under a pile of sleeping furs. As usual Arya slept with her head facing the tent flap, one hand gripping a dagger under her pillow. Catelyn had not seen fit to inform anyone of the more... unusual habits Arya had aquired since her flight from King's Landing. Doubtless Arya thought herself sneaky, but Catelyn was not so easily fooled.
Her thoughts wandered as Catelyn cleaned her teeth with a powder of salt and sage. It had been nearly five months since her daughter's return. Then the eleventh moon of the old year had shone radiant and full, lighting her way to the godswood where she gave thanks to Ned's gods. Now the fourth moon of the new year hid her face above, the world colder without her pearly glow.
The furs were warm and soft when Catelyn slipped between them. After a long day of riding sleep should have come easily. Robb's host had traveled over a hundred leagues over the past few weeks, through autumn wind and rain. Though Catelyn had managed to keep herself clear from the worst of it, Arya was perpetually covered in mud. She rarely rode with the column, choosing instead to join Lyra and Jonelle Mormont's hunting party. The she-bears had taken to the she-wolf immediately, perhaps reminded of their own little sister back on Bear Island. Arya had beamed with pride when she fetched back a rabbit she'd shot herself.
The Mormont ladies had continued Arya's lessons at archery. Back at Riverrun a freckled bowman named Anguy had spent near a week making a bow that suited Arya's small frame. When it was finished, she practiced in the yard under his watchful eye until she had blisters on her fingers. She was as eager with the bow as Bran had ever been.
Bran. She felt a lump in her throat. When word came of what Theon had done, she had thought her despair would never end. Her boys slain, her girls lost, Robb riding to battle... she would never be able to thank the gods enough for restoring her children to her. Arya slept not ten feet away, Rickon was safe at Winterfell, Robb had escaped his war unscathed... as much as she feared for Sansa, surrounded by enemies at court, at least she knew Sansa yet lived.
Robb's anger had been terrible to behold when he learned that the Lannisters held his sister. Lord Tywin had made no mention of her during the peace talks, and Robb had asked quite pointedly. Sansa's safety had been one of Robb's terms, the treaty requiring the Lannisters to return her unharmed if found. He had sent a blistering letter to King's Landing before leaving Riverrun, carried by maester's second fastest raven, the fastest having inexplicably vanished.
But there was no word of Bran, naught but Arya's claim that Nymeria could still feel Summer. It was something, but not nearly enough.
A light rain pattered on the roof of the tent as Catelyn rolled to her side. Arya was still there across the tent, still sleeping. She had not understood Lysa's desperation, the intensity with which she guarded her son. Now, though, she wondered.
If Ned had proved cold, their marriage loveless, how would she have made the best of it? The answer was clear, for it was the same one any highborn girl would give. Catelyn would have focused on her duty, on running the household and bearing her husband's heirs.
Her breath caught in her throat as a terrible image rose out of the darkness. Catelyn was at Riverrun, her belly round, blood seeping from between her legs. They took her to the maester, but still she bled, on and on, a river of blood that drowned Robb before he quickened. Then she was at Winterfell, a midwife handing her a babe, but no matter how long she wept Sansa's bright eyes never opened. They handed her Arya, silent instead of screaming. They handed her Bran, his small body limp. They handed her Rickon, and though she held him at her breast he never opened his mouth to nurse.
Lysa had miscarried five times, her children washed away in blood. No, six , Catelyn remembered, thinking of her father muttering of tansy. And there has been stillbirths too, two corpses laid in Lysa's arms. Eight dead children, eight disappointed hopes. And Sweetrobin, small and sickly, the only child the gods let her keep.
What would Catelyn do, if she had but one child to show for all that blood and sorrow? What would she do to keep that child safe by her side? Small wonder Lysa's rage had been terrible when Catelyn offered to foster her son at Winterfell.
"Sister or no," Lysa had said, "if you try to steal my son, you will leave by the Moon Door."
A cold chill ran down her spine. King Robert had told Ned of the plan to foster Robert Arryn with the Lannisters, how Lysa had fled in the dead of night. Yet Maester Colemon said the boy was meant to be fostered at Dragonstone. Catelyn searched her memory, sensing she had missed something. "She frosted up as if I'd suggested selling her boy to a mummer's show," old Lord Walder groused, the memory faint. "When Lord Arryn said the child was going to Dragonstone to foster with Stannis Baratheon, she stormed off without a word of regrets."
Jon Arryn was going to take her son. Lysa could not gainsay him, could not leave her husband as a common woman might. She had no powerful friends at court who might intercede, none except- Catelyn sat up, heedless of the goosepimples on her skin as the furs fell away.
Lysa had one powerful friend at court, a friend from childhood. How often had she followed after Petyr as a girl, starry-eyed? She would try anything he suggested, eager to win his approval. If that fondness had turned to love... but Petyr had dueled Brandon for Cat's hand, not Lysa's, and Hoster had sent him away. "Impertinent boy," he'd said once, when a hapless visitor asked after his former ward...
And suddenly she knew. She knew Lysa's wretched stripling, the man she longed to marry, the father of the babe Lord Hoster denied her. She knew why Jon Arryn had died, why her sister had written to accuse the Lannisters of murder...
Gods, Lysa, what have you done?
Her sleep was short, troubled by dreams of her sister crying in a pool of blood, a babe clutched to her chest. When Catelyn rose with the dawn her eyes were puffy and sore, her cheeks marked with the traces of her tears. Across the tent the girls were helping Arya with her gown, dark grey wool trimmed in white. Arya gave her mother a questioning look, but Catelyn shook her head. When we reach the Twins, I'll send her a raven , Catelyn decided as she pulled on her stockings. Until then Catelyn must keep her mind clear; Lord Walder awaited.
The sun was shining by the time the host was ready, a gentle breeze stirring in her hair. The banners flirted and fluttered as Catelyn made her way to the head of the column, Karstark sunburst and Umber giant, the whitecaps of the Flints and the trident of the Manderlys, Mallister eagle and Mormont bear, the pink maiden of House Piper and the quartered dragons and towers of House Vance.
When Robb gave the order to move out the host howled as one, a custom started during the fighting in the Westerlands. The sound gave Catelyn chills, even moreso when Grey Wind and Nymeria threw their heads back, their howls soaring over the host like birds in flight.
Robb's host had shrunk since she watched them ride away to fight Tywin Lannister. A few had departed before the Battle of Sweet Root, bringing the wayns full of gold back to Riverrun. The gods had smiled upon those who remained to fight, granting them victory with few casualties. When the battle was over and peace made, Galbart Glover and much of Robb's host had gone on ahead, tasked with protecting the gold train for the rest of its long journey to the Bite. There Lord Manderly's ships would take the gold to White Harbor, then Winterfell, so long as the autumn storms did not wax too strong.
At Fairmarket all the Mormonts save Dacey had departed along with Lord Mallister. From Seagard his longships would take them north, to search for the crannogmen at Robb's command. Now only two thousand horse rode at Robb's side, along with two thousand foot. Usually Catelyn conversed with Robb's guard to pass the time, but today she rode in silence, with no company but her thoughts.
By midday the squat, ugly castles were visible in the distance; by midafternoon they were close enough to spy the men on the battlements, or at least the flashes of sunlight shining off their helms. Grey clouds were gathering in the distance, the sign of approaching rain, but they should be sheltered before it arrived. On the far bank she could spy an encampment, likely the Frey levies awaiting Robb's orders once the wedding was done and peace restored.
Catelyn was squinting up at the castle on the near bank, one hand shading her eyes, when she saw the raven. It descended swiftly, wings shimmering like oil in the sun, heading straight for the host. A piercing whistle rose from behind her, and Catelyn turned to see Arya with a thumb and finger pressed to her mouth. Greatjon Umber swore as the raven dived, pulling up at the last moment to perch on Arya's outstretched arm.
The raven quorked. Arya's lips moved, though Catelyn heard no sound, her daughter's grey eyes intent on the bird. By the time the bird took flight, those eyes were wide with fear.
"What is it?" Catelyn asked, reining up beside her.
"Sansa sent her," Arya blurted. "The raven. She says there's hunters in the woods, she saw them, they slew the wolves and their pups, even though Robb said not to. They took the Kingslayer's gold and Sansa too, and they're going to hunt Robb!"
"Who?" Catelyn demanded, trying to make sense of Arya's babbling as the Greatjon stared. Nymeria gnashed her teeth, as though snapping at some unseen enemy.
"Bolton," Arya growled. The direwolf snarled deep in her throat, the horses shying back. Even the Greatjon's enormous destrier gave a snort of dismay.
"Bolton?" The Greatjon asked in his bass rumble. Out of the corner of her eye Catelyn saw the flash of Robb's bronze and iron crown, riders giving way so the king and his family might converse privily.
"They caught Sansa by Harrenhal, Bolton men, they were escorting the Kingslayer south and they took her too," Arya said, rage shining in her eyes. "There were no wolves nearby to help her, the Boltons killed them all. Sansa heard him, she heard Lord Tywin, he said the wolf could run north, because there were hunters waiting."
"Lord Bolton is not here." Grey Wind's pacing gave the lie to Robb's calm words. "His orders were to depart Harrenhal and return north for the winter. Before we left Riverrun he sent a raven reporting flooding along the Trident that would prevent him from reaching the Twins until after the wedding."
Arya shook her head, worrying at her lip with her teeth.
"Nymeria doesn't like Lame Lothar either," Arya hissed quietly. "Ask Grey Wind."
"I have," Robb said sharply. "He cannot explain what is amiss, and I cannot break my word to the Freys. Not again. A king owes a duty to his bannermen as much as they owe a duty to their liege lord."
"But-"
"My lord, would you ride with me?" Catelyn asked, giving the Greatjon a pointed look. He did not need to be party to his king arguing with a little sister who said anything that came into her head.
"A fierce one, is the princess," the Greatjon chortled when they were out of earshot. Catelyn chose to ignore the slight whiff of condescension. If men underestimated what Arya might do, it was all for the better.
At last Arya rejoined her mother, Robb riding back to the head of the column. Her little face was twisted in a scowl; Nymeria's yellow eyes burning like flames.
"He doesn't believe me," Arya muttered, ducking her head when Catelyn gave her a look of reproach. Catelyn sighed.
"Ser Perwyn!" She called. As her guard he had stayed near, though not close enough to eavesdrop.
"Dismount."
Ser Perwyn did not question Catelyn's command to tie Arya's mare with the string of spare mounts. To her surprise Arya did not throw a fit when the Greatjon lifted her up to ride pillion in front of her mother. Catelyn wrapped her cloak around her daughter's shoulders, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
"He believes you," Catelyn whispered, nudging her horse to a trot. "But kings cannot do as they please. A king must keep his oaths. Do you remember the Tully words?"
"Family, duty..." Arya paused, struggling.
"Honor," Catelyn finished for her. "He loves you, Arya, but his duty and his honor matter too. You have a duty to respect his decisions, though you may argue with them in private. Your father oft sought my counsel, and when you are older Robb may seek yours."
"He needs to listen now," Arya insisted. She did not speak again.
As they neared the gatehouse four Freys emerged on horseback. Ser Perwyn gave names to each. The oldest face, broad and fleshy, belonged to Ser Ryman, heir to the Twins since the death of his father Ser Stevron at Oxcross. The three younger men were Ser Ryman's sons. The pale slender man was Edwyn, his eldest, the bearded man was Black Walder, and the gawky youth was Petyr.
The men were drawing near when Nymeria suddenly gave a great snarl.
"Nymeria, no !" Arya called, her voice frightened.
The she-wolf ignored her, leaping for the Freys' horses. Suddenly Arya went limp against her mother and Nymeria froze in place, snarling and snapping as though caught by an invisible net.
"Arya?" Catelyn shook her daughter's shoulders. When she received no response, she took her by the chin. Her eyes were pure white, unseeing.
The Freys were struggling to control their panicking horses when the wolf suddenly veered away, running north along the riverbank. Arya's eyes went grey as she sat up, ignoring her mother's frantic embrace.
"Nymeria!" She cried, sliding down off the horse.
"Arya, get back here!"
But she was already gone, dashing after the direwolf. At Robb's side Grey Wind was growling, his dark golden eyes fixed on the Freys. Suddenly he turned, glanced up at Robb, and loped after the others.
"What is the meaning of this?" Black Walder shouted, sword in hand.
"I pray you will see fit to forgive the princess," Robb said with careful courtesy. "Her time in the wild has left her skittish, and my sister's direwolf seems to sense her mood. She shall return when she has calmed herself, and beg your pardons."
Catelyn could have kissed him for the deftness of his words. He had neither lied nor insulted Arya, though Catelyn doubted she would return before the wedding.
Black Walder sheathed his sword and Ser Ryman bid them welcome. Catelyn watched the Freys closely as Robb graciously thanked them. Petyr sat his horse awkwardly, his eyes shifting back and forth. Was he hiding something, or just nervous? Black Walder was clearly angry, though he bit his tongue and smiled when he should. Edwyn seemed a little stiff, as did Ser Ryman, but given that a direwolf had just charged them, that was understandable. If only Nymeria could explain why the men upset her so!
"We don't have enough fodder for two thousand horse," Ser Ryman said regretfully. "We are rationing our food carefully for winter, as Your Grace commanded. But if you will send your men across the river, there is excellent grazing a few leagues to the east. As for those on foot," Ser Ryman gestured at the far side of the Green Fork. "We have set up three great feast tents to keep off the rain and chill, and there is ale and wine to celebrate the wedding."
Catelyn peered across the river. As he said, there were three enormous tents, placed in a row beyond the edge of the encampment.
"Greatjon," Robb called.
The big man brought his horse up, his beard bristling as Robb directed him where the grazing might be found and instructed him to lead the host across the bridge. To Catelyn's relief Robb kept his honor guard with him, as well as twenty of the most senior knights and northmen.
At last Ser Ryman and his sons turned their horses toward the gatehouse, and Catelyn drew near Robb.
"Something is amiss." His voice was low, so quiet she could barely hear him. "First Sansa's raven, then the direwolves..."
"I feel it too," Catelyn replied, her voice as soft as his. "Robb, as soon as we enter the keep, you must ask for bread and salt. Even Walder Frey would not dare defy guest right, though I fear once we depart..."
"An ambush, most likely." Robb's eyes were hard as stone. "Thank the gods Bolton is not here. I can hardly name him traitor without proof. If all the northmen were as devout as the Greatjon perhaps they might believe Arya, but the rivermen..." Robb fell silent as grooms emerged to take their horses.
Lord Frey's welcome was as peevish as Catelyn had feared. He refused to kneel to Robb, pleading his knees were too old and weak. He smirked through Robb's apology, his eyes devouring Jeyne Westerling as if she were the lowest whore. When Robb finished speaking the Lord of the Crossing thanked him for making amends, and praised the beauty of his new queen. Then, to Catelyn's dismay, he noted that several of his girls had larger bosoms.
"Not that every man prefers a large bosom, heh ," he cackled, still looking at Jeyne's chest. To his credit Robb kept his temper, though his voice was icy as he slipped an arm around Jeyne's trembling shoulders.
"We thank you for your kind words, my lord, but we are weary from the road. Bread and salt would be most welcome."
"Of course, of course," the old man said, a strange light in his eyes as he smiled. He clapped his gnarled hands together, and servants came into the hall, bearing flagons of wine and trays of bread, cheese, and butter.
Lord Walder took a cup of red himself, and raised it high with a spotted hand. "My guests," he said. "My honored guests. Be welcome beneath my roof, and at my table."
"We thank you for your hospitality, my lord," Robb replied.
Edmure echoed him, along with Dacey Mormont, Ser Marq Piper, and the others. They drank his wine and ate his bread and butter. The bread was fresh and warm, the butter smooth and creamy. Catelyn washed it down with a sip of wine, the flavor sour upon her tongue. Whatever ambush might await on the other side of the river, they would sleep safe this night.
She hoped Arya had found a safe place to sleep. Jeyne and Meri had been desperate to ride after her, but Catelyn had taken them in hand, sending them across the river with the Greatjon. Not for the first time Catelyn was grateful for the strange lessons she had insisted upon. Arya knew how to build a crude shelter, how to find what plants were safe to eat. The wolves would bring her game to cook over her fire. She will turn up in the morning like as not, muddy and penitent.
There would be no mud, no crude shelter for Lady Catelyn. Her rooms were warm and handsomely furnished, a hot bath already awaiting her. As she bathed she composed her thoughts, sorting out what she would say to Lysa. When she was finished a servant helped her into her dressing gown. Another serving girl brought ink and quill and paper. It took several attempts, but at last she was satisfied.
Catelyn was walking through the halls, searching for the maester, when she felt a strange tingle run up her spine, that sense that someone was watching her.
"Well met, my lady," a soft voice said. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, her heart thudding in her chest, as she turned to meet the cold pale eyes of Roose Bolton.
