Mid September, 299 AC

Though autumn descended upon the land, the godswood of Riverrun was much as Catelyn remembered- bright and airy, full of birds and flowers. Yet the beauty served only to sharpen her anger. How could the world be so beautiful when her boys were gone?

Catelyn did not bother to spread a cloak before seating herself on the grass. Her gown was simple, the Tully blue wool long faded. Catelyn had brought it on her travels because it had already known more than its fair share of mud. Rickon's hands were often filthy when he flung his arms around her skirts to give her a hug. The little handprints had made her sigh and laugh in equal measure.

As she stared up at the slender heart tree, Catelyn could almost see Rickon's little face in the pale weirwood. Yet Rickon had never worn the tree's sad expression. When she left Winterfell her youngest son had shown his distress with anger, not sorrow. The wind blew fallen leaves through the air, and she caught a glimpse of Bran in the ridges of bark. When Bran learned he would never walk again, was there anyone to comfort her sweet boy in her place? Gods forgive me, I left them there to die.

A trumpet blared in the distance. Soon she heard the clamor of horses and of armor, men cheering and shouting. Edmure must be back. She should go to him, bid him and his men welcome to Riverrun. Yet she could not stir from her seat. Let him find me here. Surely someone would tell him of the news the raven had brought three days past, but it would not be Catelyn.

When Maester Vyman had awoken her, she'd hoped Ser Rodrik had retaken Winterfell. But then Catelyn lit a candle and saw the look on the maester's face, and hope had died in a heartbeat.

All day she said nothing, as though clutching the grief tight would make it hurt the less. Ser Perwyn had asked what was wrong after she barely touched her supper, but she had ignored the question and bade him join the revelry in the yard. Unwilling to press his king's mother, he had gone, leaving with his brow furrowed.

The knight might have left her be, if not for the fact that he sat beside her at meals. He watched as she broke her fast with a few bites of egg; he fretted as she lunched on a mouthful of bread. After she ate not a single morsel at dinner, the knight followed her to the sept. Catelyn took her time, lighting candles to each of the Seven and praying in obdurate silence. But the knight was patient. Ser Perwyn knelt as she did, lighting candles of his own to the Warrior. How long she knelt she could not say. When she rose her knees ached, and she stumbled as the world spun.

Ser Perwyn had steadied her with a warm hand, and the simple kindness breached her walls. His face was a mask of horror as she told him of the raven's tidings, his words coming in awkward stammers as he tried to comfort her.

They had not spoken since. Oh, he still served Catelyn faithfully- he bade the kitchens bring her simple fare, and she ate it to stop the worry in his eyes. Yes, she could rely upon Ser Perwyn to tell Edmure where to find her. She could rely upon him to tell her brother what Theon had done.

The weirwood's face shifted, the sorrowful lips quirking into a sly smile. Theon. She had long wondered whether his slyness was how he protected himself. It could not be easy, to be taken from hearth and home at ten. Fostering was common enough, but to be a hostage... she had never trusted the boy, but she had watched him grow nonetheless. Theon had been a child of eleven when Bran was born, still trying to adjust to living so far from the sea. He had held Bran when he was only a week old, a soft smile on his face before he decided holding a baby was beneath him.

He saved Bran's life, only to take it himself. Robb had told her, half angry, half proud, of Theon's actions in the wolfswood. How he'd put an arrow through the wildling who held a dagger at Bran's throat. At the Twins, when she'd told Theon to have the Blackfish shoot down any ravens, he'd promised to bring her their feathers for a hat. In the Whispering Wood he had fought at Robb's side, had boasted of how near he came to crossing swords with the Kingslayer. Theon always thirsted for glory.

Edmure was years older, nearly a lord paramount, and still he longed to prove himself to their dying father. Even she with all her doubts had not foreseen how far Theon might go to win the approval of a father he had not seen in ten years. Robb never should have sent him away.

Robb. The ridges beneath the heart tree's lips blurred into a beard. A beard grown to lend him dignity, though he would not turn sixteen for several moons yet. Her firstborn son. Her only son. Her king. Gods save us Robb, what have you done?

The raven from the Crag had come yesterday as the sun was setting, an ill omen. Her stomach was already roiling when Maester Vyman brought the letter. I took an arrow in the arm while storming the Crag, Robb had written. When the wound festered, Jeyne had me taken to her own bed, and she nursed me until the fever passed. I captured her castle, and she has captured my heart.

A twig snapped on the ground behind her. Still looking at the heart tree, Catelyn broke her silence.

"I would have solitude, Ser Perwyn."

"It's me, Cat."

She turned. Edmure was spattered with dried red mud, his face pale and drawn.

"Perwyn told me I could find you here. He went off with Martyn Rivers; there was a raven for them." Edmure winced as he lowered himself to the ground beside her. His eyes were hollow and red-rimmed, his beard scraggly and unkempt.

"Did they tell you?" Catelyn asked, dreading the answer.

"Of Winterfell and of the Crag," Edmure replied.

"Ser Rodrik swears to take Winterfell back," she said bitterly. Never again would she sleep within those warm walls. Not now, not when her sons' heads had been mounted on them. "He has 2,000 men, he says, and Theon only fifty. But it took only one to slay my sons."

Edmure opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. There were no words of comfort that could ease her pain. Awkwardly he patted her shoulder, flecks of dried mud dusting her gown. She looked at her brother again, noting how thin he was, how weary.

"How went the battle? Have the Lannisters crossed the river?"

"I threw them back. Lord Tywin, Gregor Clegane, Addam Marbrand, I turned them away. Stannis, though …" He grimaced, burying his head in his hands.

"Stannis? What of Stannis?"

"Stannis lost the battle at King's Landing," Edmure said. "His fleet was burned, his army defeated. And Highgarden has declared for Tommen. Dorne as well."

And Robb has lost the Freys, Edmure did not say. Shouts were ringing in the yard; doubtless the raven for Perwyn and Martyn had brought news of Robb's broken oath.

"Highgarden is a blow, but Dorne as well?"

Catelyn shook her head, wondering how much Lannister gold it had taken to pay for Princess Elia and her babes. A tremendous sum, surely, for bold as he was Robert had never dared visit Dorne, no more than the Martells or their bannermen came to court. But they had nursed their grief for twenty years; perhaps the pain had dulled.

Or perhaps not. Time was a strange thing. Lord Hoster whimpered on his deathbed, tormented by a cup of tansy tea served so long ago. No wonder Lysa had not come to ease his passing. When she realized the meaning of her father's moans she had begun a letter to Lysa, a letter begging her to come to their father before he died. The letter still sat in her solar, unsent. Twenty years had not dulled Lysa's grief, of that she was certain, and twenty years would not be enough to dull Catelyn's rage.

She looked at her scarred hands. Valyrian steel cut deep, but it had been worth it to save Bran's life, even if it were only for a year. Would that she could cut Theon's throat herself, but that grim task would not fall to her. Either Theon would fall in battle, or be kept for Robb's judgment when he returned. She had sent Ned's bones north to Winterfell, but Ice she had kept at Riverrun for Robb. Theon had carried Ice for Ned many a time, had handed it to him so he could do justice.

When Ice drank the turncloak's blood, she would not look away.


It was a fortnight before the raven came. Ser Perwyn brought the letter to her in her solar, setting it gently in her lap before taking his leave. She was weary, weary from hours spent with her dying father, from hours pondering how they might placate the Freys. Lord Walder was a hard man to make peace with, and Robb's marriage to a Westerling, a poor house with an ancient name, was sure to salt the wound. Martyn Rivers had departed the same day Edmure returned, taking nearly every Frey men with him.

All but Perwyn. Whatever anger he might feel toward Robb, he did not show it to Catelyn. She did not know why he had stayed, and she did not ask. Nor did she ask him for counsel on how they might make amends to Lord Walder. The wound was too raw; she did not wish to risk losing him. Sometimes she wished for Brienne's company, but Perwyn had done as well as any young knight might do.

She stared at the scroll, at the grey seal with its rows of wolf's heads. Whatever news Ser Rodrik sent, it could be no worse than that which came before. She broke the seal, bits of wax falling in her lap.

Catelyn read quickly, the words blurring before her eyes. We have retaken Winterfell , it read. Maester Luwin was injured... milk of the poppy... we pray he wakes. It was he that persuaded Theon Turncloak to yield and take the black...

She stood, the scroll rustling as she clenched it tight in her fist. He killed my sons. He deserves to die, not serve on the Wall. Catelyn prayed Maester Luwin would wake; he had brought her children into the world, nursed them through every illness... yet he had denied her justice, and that she could not forgive.

With angry strides she made her way to the godswood, heedless of the darkening sky. The Seven were her gods, the sept was her place, yet she did not know if the Seven could reach the Wall. Catelyn looked up at the mournful face, her eyes hard. Ned's nameless, ancient gods had not saved his life, but perhaps they might avenge his sons. She prayed in silence until she could not longer stand the chill, then made her way to the sept.

Unlike the lonely godswood, there were plenty of folk scattered about the sept. Edmure was on his knees, lighting a candle to the Mother. Men-at-arms and nobles alike lit candles to the Warrior and the Father, while servant women lit candles to the Mother and Maiden, even the Smith.

Catelyn began by lighting a candle to the Father Above, praying for justice for Bran and Rickon. To the Mother she prayed for Lysa and her lost child, asking her to soothe Lysa's hurt. She begged the Warrior to protect Robb and Brienne from harm, to strengthen their arms and uplift their hearts. From the Maiden she sought protection for Sansa and Arya; from the Smith she sought aid for the plowmen planting the last crops before winter. From the Stranger she sought nothing, though she lit a candle in memory of all her dead, her husband and her sons.

At last she came to the Crone. Her statue was shorter than the others, her back bent with age and care. Yet her pearly eyes still shone with wisdom, the light of her crystal lamp flickering upon her face. Show me the path, wise lady. It would take all the Crone's wisdom to restore the alliance with the Freys, but it could be done. It must be done.