Early April, 300 AC
The hall roared with sound. Above in the gallery pipers piped and drummers drummed. Why are there so many of them? Is the old man deaf? Below men packed the benches, drinking horns in hand. A man arose, shouting, and her heart stopped- then she spied the wine stain spreading across his tunic and the cringing servant. Her eyes darted from Frey to Frey, watching them like a she-wolf trapped in a weasel's den, seeking any sign of something amiss.
The old gods and the new damn the man who breaks guest right, she reminded herself, taking a measured sip of her wine. We are safe until morning at least, unless Lord Walder wishes to be the most hated man in the Seven Kingdoms.
Her brother seemed to think himself the most fortunate man in the Seven Kingdoms, from the way he gazed at his bride. Edmure and Roslin sipped from the same cup, Edmure whispering to her softly. Catelyn hoped it was words of comfort for the bedding to come. Roslin was looking anxiously at the riverlords around her, Edmure's friends, and Catelyn suspected she knew why. These were some of the men who would soon be stripping Roslin naked.
Lucas Blackwood was already drunk, laughing at some bawdy jape made by Ser Hosteen Frey. Trystan Ryger was drinking wine like water. Lord Lymond Goodbrook dozed with his head on the table, an empty tankard of ale clutched in his hand. Ser Marq Piper's cheeks were red as apples, the color clashing with his orange whiskers. The young Vances were tossing morsels of food at each other. Only a few morsels were successfully caught in their open mouths. One morsel hit Roslin on the shoulder, and Edmure rose to cuff the offending Vance upside the head. The boy apologized bashfully as the dogs at his feet devoured the rest of the dropped food.
Catelyn wished Robb had Grey Wind at his side. Robb sat between two Frey girls, as sober and courteous as a septon. Half of his honor guard surrounded him, those who were not below on the benches. A Frey sat beside each northman. Or woman, Catelyn amended.
Dacey Mormont was wedged between Ser Aenys Frey and Black Walder Frey, sighing and blushing as she sang along to the musicians' awful rendition of "Flowers of Spring." Her voice was middling, but sweeter than those in the gallery above. The musicians were abysmal, their playing a tuneless cacophony that forced everyone one in the hall to converse at a shout.
Smalljon Umber was telling a disinterested Ser Ryman about some hunt, his speech slurred, his voice booming like a drum. Robin Flint regaled Fair Walda with stories of his sisters back home in the north, hiccuping after every third word. Ser Wendel Manderly attacked a leg of lamb like a man half-starved, gulping at his cup of wine after every bite. Patrek Mallister stared at his plate of juicy pink lamb, grim as a gravedigger. Ser Aenys Frey said something, and Patrek startled, giggling like a blushing maid. Catelyn winced. Not every man could convincingly feign drunkenness.
Roose Bolton was neither drunk nor pretending to be. He sat two seats to her left, sipping hippocras and picking at his food. The Lord of the Dreadfort's arrival had twisted a knife into Catelyn's gut. Bolton claimed the flooding had been less than feared, but Catelyn did not trust those pale lifeless eyes. She made her courtesies, accepted Bolton's praise for the king's victory at Sweet Root, then fled for the maester's tower.
Maester Brenett was a great fat man, bald and double-chinned, yet he was amiable enough. He did not hesitate for a moment when Catelyn requested a raven so that she might beg her sister for comfort. "The Lannisters have my daughter," she explained to the grey-robed man as he entrusted her letter to the bird. "My sister has lost many children; I thought she might be able to offer her sympathies." And the swords of the Vale, Catelyn thought silently.
The maester wiped a tear from his eye, praising the tender hearts of women in a thick voice. The gesture did nothing to ease her nerves. Ignoring the maester's offer to escort her back to her rooms, Catelyn watched until the raven disappeared in the distance.
Whatever Lysa might do, Catelyn would not have her son caught unprepared and unawares. From the ravenry she made her way to the suite set aside for Robb. She found him in his dressing gown, his hair still wet from the bath. Jeyne lay on the featherbed, asleep, her cheeks red from weeping.
Catelyn's heart twisted in her chest as she looked at her first born. There were new lines carved at his eyes and mouth. His strong shoulders drooped as though crushed beneath some dread weight. Her son was a lad of sixteen; he should be light and carefree, not the hard, lean warrior that stood before her.
"Bolton is here," she said bluntly. Robb's face turned white as a corpse, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists.
"Would that I could have him clapped in irons," Robb snarled, as wild as his direwolf. Jeyne tossed in her sleep and Robb quieted, eyes softening. In a moment he was at her side, his hands rubbing her back, his lips pressing a kiss to her brow.
When he saw that his bride still slept, he turned back to his mother, eyes hard. "I'd have his head just for helping the Kingslayer, but to give Sansa into Cersei Lannister's hands-"
Robb began to pace, a low growl rumbling deep in his throat. "I must have proof. Gods know how long it will take to find a Dreadfort man brave enough to speak against his lord. Ironmen waiting at Moat Cailin, Freys ready to ambush, Bolton poised with a dagger at my back..." Robb paused, turning toward Catelyn with wide, tired eyes. "Is this what being a king is, mother?"
She had no answer for her king, but she opened her arms to her son.
Robb buried his face in her shoulder, dry sobs wracking his body. We are both too weary and worn for tears. Catelyn stroked his hair as she had when he was small, combing the wet strands with her fingers. It was Robb who pulled away first, grim determination upon his face. Quietly, ever so quietly, they began to plan.
While Robb awoke his queen and warned her of the peril to come, Catelyn fetched the king's honor guard. She half-wished she could have brought Ser Perwyn, but she shook away the notion as Robb began giving orders. Let him comfort Roslin in peace, she thought. No man was like to appreciate his kin being accused of betrayal. She could only pray that Ser Perwyn would not be caught up in the unpleasantness to come.
All would be chaos during the wedding revelry. There was to be a grand supper in each hall, the king and his lords in the western keep, the Frey bastards and lesser knights in the eastern. Servants would be bustling from the kitchens to the hall in each castle; knights and lesser lords would wandering between the Twins, seeking friends and wine. In the darkness no one would miss a northman or two.
As soon as the feast began, Owen Norrey and Donnel Locke would "drunkenly" wander across to the eastern keep, find horses, and ride after Greatjon Umber and the two thousand horse Robb had entrusted him with. The rest of his honor guard would stay close to Robb at the feast, though the Smalljon grumbled when told that Robb wanted them to stay sober.
"It's bad manners," the Smalljon protested. "Frey will take offense."
"Then pretend to be drunk," Robb said evenly, "your king commands it." After that the matter was closed. The men were preparing to return to their rooms to dress for the wedding when a queer instinct seized Catelyn.
"My lords," she said, heart in her throat. "Many a mishap may be blamed on drink. A juggled dagger may go astray; a knife may skid off a shank of meat and into a companion. Wear your hauberks hidden beneath your tunics, I beg you."
"Walder Frey isn't that stupid," Patrek Mallister complained. "Even children remember what happened to the Teagues."
The Teagues had been Kings of the Rivers and the Hills, some few hundred years before Aegon's Conquest. The first Teague had been a sellsword, an Andal adventurer known for despoiling maidens. Humfrey Teague was a different sort of man, pious as a septon. In his youth he showed his devotion to the Seven by encouraging the fostering of orphans and protection of widows. When he came of age he wed Nolla Deddings, great-niece to the High Septon, and together they raised three strong sons.
Humfrey was middle aged by the time he became the seventh of his line to wear a crown. He began his reign by founding septs and motherhouses, and had he stopped there, his rule might have lasted longer. In the seventh year of his reign Humfrey held a great feast announcing his intent to purge the worship of the old gods from the riverlands. When a young Blackwood rose in protest, Humfrey cut his throat, claiming guest right could not shield a heretic.
It was a mistake that would prove calamitous for the Teagues. Blackwood and Bracken, Tully and Vance, Darry and Smallwood, all broke faith with their faithless king. With the help of the Storm King they met Humfrey in blood battle. It was the Blackwood boy's father who killed Humfrey, slitting his throat. Each of Humfrey's sons took up his bloody crown only to be slain in turn. By the end of the battle only Humfrey's brother remained. He died before the sun set, pierced by a thousand wounds, and so ended House Teague.
No one will die tonight, Catelyn reassured herself as she watched Ser Perwyn twirl one of his little half-sisters, a girl of six. Robin Flint had an even smaller Frey granddaughter on his shoulders, the gap in her teeth visible from the dais as she laughed. Dacey Mormont had left her seat to dance with Black Walder. Robb was dancing too, first with Fair Walda, then Alyx.
Sweat dripped down the king's face. The hall was sweltering from the crowd of revelers, and her son wore chainmail and gambeson beneath his silks. Nor was he the only one. Robb had turned Catelyn's plea into a royal command. Those of his guards not dancing lingered on the dais, close to the swordbelts hung on the wall. Every man had a knife or dirk at his hip; even Catelyn had borrowed a sharp dagger from Dacey Mormont, slipping it in her skirts. The weight of the steel reassured her, giving her strength.
As she noticed Jeyne Westerling's stiff smile, she wished she'd thought to encourage the girl to do the same. While Robb was placed between Fair Walda and Alyx Frey, poor Jeyne had been given the dubious honor of sitting beside Lord Walder so he could "better hear" her apologies. The excuse was threadbare, but Robb could not insult his host in public. The old man had spent half the evening staring at Jeyne's bosom. Were he foolish enough to lay a hand on the queen, Robb would have grounds to intervene. But Lord Walder knew better. So long as he only looked, Robb and his queen must tolerate the humiliation.
Where Lord Walder seemed to delight in his peevishness, Lame Lothar had proved as warm and friendly as ever. The steward was the model of courtesy when he showed Robb's party to their rooms, sending servants running for fresh hot water and cups of wine to ward away the chill. He graciously waved away Arya's absence, offering to send men out to look for her. Catelyn refused him, but she could not refuse his suggestion that perhaps Catelyn might take Elmar Frey, Arya's betrothed, as ward when they returned to Winterfell.
She'd found no sign of falseness in Lothar's close-set eyes, but still she felt uneasy. He had been just as friendly with Black Walder, and Ser Perwyn said the two men despised each other. Lord Walder's family might be large, but it was not happy. When Lord Walder finally died only the gods knew what some of them might do to get ahead. One night, after far too much wine, Ser Perwyn had confided that he suspected Black Walder of involvement in Ser Stevron's sudden death. A man who dared to kill his own grandfather could just as easily kill his king…
The deepest of the seven hells is reserved for oathbreakers, and Lord Walder knows it. The old man is patient enough to wait to for the morrow, Catelyn told herself, trying to calm her racing heart. He will present rude guest gifts and send us on our way with a smile, knowing that down the road an ambush will be waiting. She hoped Owen Norrey and Donnel Locke had found the Greatjon by now. They had slipped away as soon as they dared, and the longer they had to scout ahead, the better.
Soon enough, she thought. Soon enough, they'll bed them, and then I can sink into a featherbed of my own. Catelyn was so tired she felt she might sleep for a thousand years. Yet her nerves were sharper than she could ever recall, sharper than they had been in the Whispering Wood. When Roose Bolton left for the privy she nearly leapt out of her skin. Ser Perwyn was gone too, led off by Ser Benfrey to visit the bastard's feast in the other castle. The absence of Ser Perwyn unsettled her most of all. I am an old woman, jumping at shadows. There will be no attack until the morrow.
Catelyn glanced at Lord Walder. He sat upon his high seat, betwixt his twin black oak towers, his eyes greedily fixed on the twins in Jeyne's gown. With a sigh Catelyn rose to her feet. She could spare the girl some torment, at least.
"Lord Walder," she said as she approached, dipping a low curtsy. "I would borrow my gooddaughter, if you can spare her."
"Spare her, heh, of course I can spare a sweet thing like her," the Lord of the Crossing said. "But what could you have to talk of that is not fit for my hearing?"
"Moon blood, my lord," Jeyne said softly, placing a hand on her stomach. The old man sucked in air, a vague look of disgust crossing his face.
"Blood I've never feared, heh, but that's another matter." He flapped a spotted hand irritibly. "Go on then, pay your respects before you abandon me for your goodmother."
To her credit Jeyne showed no sign of revulsion as she pressed a kiss to those leathery cheeks. Catelyn took her by the hand gently, leading her to Roose Bolton's empty seat.
"Once the bedding is over you and Robb will be free to leave the hall, Your Grace" Catelyn said, handing the girl queen an applecake. Jeyne accepted it with trembling fingers. "No one will make you help undress Lord Edmure, if that's any comfort."
Jeyne smiled nervously. "It is, my lady. I feel sorry for Lady Roslin, though." She blushed. "I know what Robb and I did was... improper, but it was a blessing to be spared a bedding." She hesitated. "What was yours like, my lady?"
"Small and loud," Catelyn replied, taking a tiny sip of wine. "We wed in a time of war, with only those bannermen not fighting in the field. Those present decided to make the most of it."
There had been two brides after all, two pretty Tully girls to undress and caress. Catelyn had done her best to keep her good humor and reply to some of the bawdy jokes, but Lysa had been frightened nearly witless. And afterwards, to be thrown naked on a bed beside a stranger... Ned was still Eddard then, solemn beyond his years, methodical in his duty. He bedded her every night for two weeks and never hurt her, but laughter and pleasure would not come until much later.
She did not see her lord husband again until after the war. A year and a half had passed when Catelyn arrived at Winterfell, Robb swaddled in her arms. Eddard Stark was not at the gates to meet her, but she took no offense at that. He was waiting in the nursery, they told her, and she'd made her way there, so proud of herself she could almost dance. She had done her duty, she had given her lord his first son... and then she had found her husband in the nursery, a babe already in his arms. A dark-haired babe, a babe who looked more like Eddard than Robb did. This is Jon Snow, Eddard told her in a choked voice. My son. Only then had he given the bastard to a wet nurse so that he could hold the trueborn son Catelyn had given him.
When Catelyn denied him his rights he did not protest. Day after day went by, and every day Eddard Stark visited both his sons. He held them in his arms, singing softly offkey. He patted their little hands, praising how strongly they clung to his finger. He questioned the wet nurse as to their appetites, he questioned the maester as to the speed of their growth. When Robb first crawled across the floor Ned was there, his eyes wet with unshed tears.
That was when she first began to love Ned Stark. Robb was the child they made for duty; Sansa was the child they made for love. To her surprise Catelyn found she desired her husband even while she already carried his child. With Maester Luwin's blushing permission they had lain together like rabbits, their cares slipping further away they more they grew to know each other, to rely on each other. How cold and empty her bed had been, when Ned went away to fight with Robert during Greyjoy's rebellion. There was no Ned to rub Catelyn's back and brush her hair, no Ned to comfort six-year-old Robb when he overheard a servant say that women died in childbirth.
Catelyn wondered if Robb still remembered the hysterical tantrum he had thrown, convinced that his mother would die. She glanced at Jeyne, at her wide hips and trim waist. The girl was still nibbling at her applecake, taking ladylike bites. Maester Luwin was a good man, skilled in delivering babes. Only once had he lost a mother, Jory Cassel's wife. Shyra's first child had come suddenly, several months too early, and she bled out before the weeping Jory could bring the maester.
No, that will not be Jeyne's fate, Catelyn decided. Shyra had always been prone to fainting spells; any small cut she suffered would bleed forever unless bandaged quickly. Jeyne was healthy, and Catelyn sensed a core of iron beneath the gentle smiles and trembling hands. This girl had tended bloody wounds; she had remained calm when Robb warned her of the dangers ahead. She would survive childbirth.
"Your Grace," Catelyn said, a thought occuring to her. Jeyne swallowed her last morsel of applecake and brushed away the crumbs.
"Yes, my lady?"
"You might offer comfort to Lady Roslin. I would offer it myself, but as I am Edmure's sister..."
Jeyne nodded, eyes bright. "A queen should be kind to her ladies." The young queen had just reached Roslin's side when old Lord Walder began to clap.
At first no one heard the noise. Then Ser Aenys and Ser Hosteen saw and began to pound their cups on the table. Soon the entire hall was pounding, and even the musicians in the gallery finally fell quiet.
On the dais Roslin shook with terror, her face white as a sheet. The young queen was whispering in her ear, but Roslin seemed not to hear. She clutched Jeyne's hand so tightly that Catelyn could see the nails digging into her gooddaughter's skin. Catelyn was so intent on watching the bride that she barely heard Lord Walder ask Robb's permission to begin the bedding.
Robb raised a hand, gracious as the king he was. "If you think the time is meet, Lord Walder, by all means let us bed them."
A roar of sound assailed Catelyn's ears. Drunk men were swarming the dais, baying at Roslin like hounds scenting a doe. Before they could reach her Marq Piper and Lucas Blackwood staggered to their feet, lifting up the bride with the aid of the young Vances. A crowd of Frey women pulled Edmure from his chair, shouting bawdy jests.
Tradition dictated that Catelyn join them, but she sipped at her wine slowly, delaying as long as possible. The men had already carried Roslin off, half naked, by the time the women had Edmure out of his tunic and shirt. Finally she arose to follow the press of women, half heartedly cheering as they managed to remove his breeches. As they neared the doors Catelyn turned away. She had no intention of letting Robb out of her sight.
She cast her eyes about the hall. Up in the gallery the musicians were still playing "The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown." Why are there so many of them? The din was unbearable, it was if half of them could not play at all.
Yet even so Robb was dancing with Jeyne in the middle of the hall, their slow movements and lovestruck eyes illsuited to the bawdy song. Robb's honor guard were all about them, most on the benches, a few swaying in place on the dais as though drunk. A king should know better than to offer such offense to a bannermen as prickly as Walder Frey; had Robb forgotten himself, or had he decided he did not care?
From his oaken throne Lord Walder watched the king and queen dance. Catelyn expected a look of anger, but the old man was smirking, as if he knew something his king did not…
With a screeching of strings the musicians took up a new song. They sang no words but Catelyn knew "The Rains of Castamere" all the same. And who are you, the proud lord said, that I must bow so low?
"Robb!" She screamed, realizing the trap that had been laid. "Crossbowmen!" Something hit her in the back of the head, her vision blurring as she fell to her knees.
The first quarrel took Robb in the leg, the second under the arm. Half the men in the gallery bore crossbows, and their target was her son. Jeyne shrieked, flinging herself in front of Robb. For a moment the quarrels ceased, and bile rose in Catelyn's throat. Of course I can spare a sweet thing like her , he said. He wants her unharmed so he can rape her. Robb pushed Jeyne behind him, unaware of the terrible protection she had been granted.
Smalljon Umber had just enough time to fling a table in front of Robb, knocking his king to the ground, before five more quarrels thudded into the wood. Robin Flint, the Smalljon, and the northmen who had been seated on the benches formed a ring around Robb and Jeyne, frantically throwing up tables, benches, anything to stop the rain of quarrels.
Catelyn watched like a woman trapped in a nightmare. On the dais Dacey Mormont lunged for her sword belt, drawing her blade just in time to parry a strike from Ser Hosteen Frey. She was six feet tall but Ser Hosteen overtopped her, his build like that of a bull. He pushed her back, steel ringing.
Ser Wendel Manderly rose to his feet, and a quarrel took him in the shoulder. He staggered backward, grasping for his sword, only to trip over Merrett Frey, who had fallen to the floor in a drunken stupor. Patrek Mallister was fighting with Ser Raymund Frey; from below Ser Wendel grabbed at his leg, distracting him long enough for Patrek to run Raymund through.
A scream echoed through the hall, so shrill it could be heard over the booming drums. Blood streamed from Petyr Pimple's wrist, his hand taken by Dacey Mormont's sword. Her cheek was bleeding too, and she was sorely pressed to dodge Ser Hosteen's blows. Patrek Mallister ran to help her, only to find himself fighting both Rhaegar Frey and Ser Jared Frey.
Her son, where was her son? She could not see him through the makeshift barricade his men had thrown up around their king. Down on the floor the crossbows had taken Robin Flint and half a dozen others, quarrels sprouting from their bodies. There were no crossbows or longbows hanging on the walls, no way to stop the crossbowmen…
In the midst of slaughter, the Lord of the Crossing sat on his throne, watching greedily.
The old man, Catelyn realized. The knife thudded against her leg as she ran, ran toward the dais. Something punched her in the arm but she ignored it, her eyes fixed on her goal. She leaped over Merrett Frey, shoved Tytos Frey out of her way, and pressed her knife against Lord Walder's wrinkled throat.
"You will end this, my lord," Catelyn growled.
He raised a spotted hand; the music stopped. All around the hall his sons and grandsons froze, their eyes fixed on the Lord of the Crossing. Ser Arwood Frey gaped in shock; Black Walder and Lame Lothar looked at Catelyn, then eyed each other. In the distance she could hear the clamor of battle. A door burst open and Ser Ryman pushed into the hall, clad in steel, an axe in hand. Men-at-arms followed at his heels.
"Not another step," Catelyn shouted.
"Lord Walder," she said in a voice meant for him alone. "Let my son go. Keep me as a hostage; do what you will, but if you do not let my son leave this hall—" she pressed down on the blade until blood trickled down the old man's neck.
"Let him go," Lord Walder commanded.
Ser Hosteen stepped aside, allowing Dacey Mormont to limp away. Rhaegar Frey lay dying on the floor; Patrek Mallister stepped over him as Ser Jared Frey watched with hate in his eyes. Ser Wendel Manderly staggered to his feet, his shoulder stained red with blood. The Smalljon watched distrustfully as Robb rose to his feet, one arm around Jeyne's shoulders. A crossbow quarrel was deeply embedded in his calf; another lodged under his arm.
"You and your men may leave my hall, Your Grace," Lord Walder called, remarkably calm for a man in his precarious position. "Though I doubt you'll get much further, heh."
"What about my mother?" Robb shouted, his face grey with pain.
"Go, Robb," Catelyn urged, gripping the blade tight. "Your sisters need you, and Bran and Rickon… tell them how much I love them. Tell them I'm sorry. Now do as I say. Go."
Her son limped out of the hall, his bride at his side. His honor guard followed, those that still lived. In the distance she heard the howling of wolves.
"How far do you think they'll get?" Lord Walder asked as Ser Hosteen and Ser Jared approached with wary steps. "There's twenty of my sons and only one of yours, heh. My boys will be after him as soon as the knife is away from my throat."
So many sons and grandsons, Catelyn thought, looking about the hall. So many grudges, so many rivalries, and only one inheritance.
"I'm afraid your sons will be too busy to chase mine, my lord," Catelyn said. Lord Walder sucked in air, confused, and she slit his throat from ear to ear.
His blood sprayed out in a gush of red, the taste coppery on her lips. Men were shouting all around, the clash of steel ringing through the hall. Black Walder cut down his elder brother Edwyn as Ser Hosteen guarded his back. Ser Aenys was dueling Ser Jared, Petyr Pimple's head rolling on the floor between them. Lord Walder's limp body lay forgotten on his throne. Not a one of his brood was rushing out of the hall; not a one of them was chasing her son.
Catelyn was still laughing when the first quarrel took her in the breast. The force of the impact knocked her back against the wall as a second quarrel took her in the gut. She sank to her knees with a sigh of triumph, pressing her bloody hands to her heart.
The world was going dim, visions shining against her eyelids. She saw Robb handing a babe to a brown-haired maid. She saw Sansa singing in a ring of weirwood saplings. She saw Arya grown to beauty, her smile sharp as her sword. She saw Bran, no longer a boy but a handsome youth astride a prancing horse; she saw Rickon kissing a girl in a meadow of spring flowers.
Last of all she saw Ned, his grey eyes soft, and then Catelyn Stark saw no more.
