Catelyn I

She rubbed at the leather strip in her fingers and sighed. It was a mother's burden to worry. Catelyn did not remember much of her own mother but knew in her heart-of-hearts that Lady Minisa must have agonised and fretted at every turn, at every possible mishap. Catelyn remembered her worries, and the memory of her fears. She remembered her every tremulous thought at seeing Robb mount a horse for the first time, Ser Rodrik's strong arms steading him in the saddle. She remembered watching Rickard duelling in the yard, thin-lipped and gasping with every hard-struck blow. She remembered her cold fear at spotting Bran scale the high towers of Winterfell, nimble fingers digging into every ancient ledge and crevice, that dreaded fall ever beckoning. She remembered Rickon not as the wild thing he had grown to be, but as the red-faced, frail child shivering while swaddled in the thickest of wools. She remembered her maternal fear, that animal fear a sickly child arouses in every mother.

Catelyn even spared a memory for the boy now at the Wall, who had quaked and whose lips had trembled amidst a violent fever. She remembered a hushed prayer for the boy's life, an oath to love him as her own. But that memory induced compassion, a danger onto itself, so it was buried alongside other unworthy thoughts. Alongside thoughts of Petyr, Brandon and the faceless woman who her husband had so loved as to break his solemn vows. Whose memory he so cherished as to raise their get within the halls of his fathers. But those thoughts and memories were unworthy, so they lay buried.

A travelling Septon given shelter at Winterfell had once reassured her that as her boys turned to men, her fears would melt like southron snows and she would feel naught but a mother's pride at their great ventures and deeds. He had been right on the latter count, for her heart had burst with pride at watching Robb command the great lords of his council, taking up the burden of Winterfell with an outward ease. She had known her son was all a man when he had returned to her after sweeping Jaime Lannister's siege of her girlhood home, broad-shouldered and gallant. She looked on approvingly as Rickard managed half-a-hundred duties as though he had been a lord for years, not mere months. She watched him return from the Green Fork victorious and smiling a rare open smile unmarred by petty jealousies and puerile worries. She wished then that Ned had been there to greet his two sons, triumphant in their own right.

But the Septon had been wrong on the question of fear, as wrong as he had been right about her pride. For even as Robb had commanded his banners and shown them the truth of his blood, she fretted over every long glance, each sign of hesitation. When he left to rout the Lannisters besieging Riverrun, his Tully hair had gleamed in the moonlight and his beard scarce conjured up the image of the frightened young boy who had slept in her bed in fear of Old Nan's stories. But that was the boy she saw, not the able man who commanded the armies of a kingdom against his enemies. And when he had returned, splattered in blood and sand, her throat had seized for an eternally long moment before his wide-toothed grin gave the lie to her worries. When she learned that Rickard had ridden into the Twins unarmed and alone to find a bride among Walder Frey's issue, she prayed to the Gods for his safety. When he bid his farewells before departing with Lord Bolton to the Green Fork, she had torn a piece from his leather jerkin, tied her favour of Tully blue and Stark white around his arm, and kissed his brow with the desperation of a mother who wished dearly to preserve her boys.

Even news of their victory had not assuaged her worries and only when she had him in her arms had her fears abated, if only momentarily.

And now they had ridden off again. Robb, to the very heart of the Westerlands to strike against a new host, and Rickard to the protection of the many crossings which separated the Riverlands from the West. There was no word of the former, and the latter had left only days past, his face set in the facsimile of an easy-going smile while nervous fingers danced around the pommel of his blade. She had offered words of encouragement and support but they had been brushed aside by the arrogance of youth and her son's ever-present desire to set himself apart from all the rest. He had ridden off on his handsome black destrier with little fanfare in the early dawn, unlike her brother Edmure who had arranged to depart at noon as the peasants encamped outside the walls cried their praises and support for their Liege Lord. She had taken to the high walls of Riverrun to watch her son for as long as he was visible, and her eyes had been trained on his force for many leagues before the swell of the hills forced him from her view.

As she glanced across the small table and the platter of foodstuffs, a frown flitted across her face as he regarded the slight girl sitting opposite her. Roslin Frey, now a Stark, was a pretty girl with ivory skin and an almost fragile nose. Her hair was thick, long and brushed down to her delicate waist. Her figure was small, diminutive even, and Catelyn worried for her fate on the birthing bed. Robb, Rickard and the rest of her boys had not been easy births and she feared for the girl and for any sons or daughters she might bear.

The girl looked almost perennially worried and Catelyn had invited her to share a meal in the hopes of growing closer, to help foster a closer relationship between Roslin and her son. Queen Mother though she might be, Catelyn was not immune to the rumours floating around the castle about the strained nature of the relationship between the girl and her son. And while she would tear out her tongue rather than breathe life into the slander, Catelyn knew well enough that the marriage was not the happiest of affairs. That Rickard oft slept at his desk was well known to her, and that there not an ounce of devotion in that marriage was known better still. But Catelyn did not want to leave things as they were. A change was to come about, and there was no better way than to herself grow closer to the girl.

"More jam, daughter?"

It shook the girl from her reverie if nothing else. Her doe-brown eyes widened in alarm as she shook her head jerkily.

"No, thank you. I find it too sweet."

Catelyn smiled then, endless memories of Winterfell breakfasts with Sansa flashing before her eyes. The girl was right; the jam was too sweet. She said as much with a laugh but was met with little more than a nervous breath of amusement as the girl returned to her trance. The approach of the serving girl did little to disturb the oddly tense silence as both neatly tucked into their fare. The food was hardly exceptional, but it was filling and its warmth kept away the chill of the ever-present rains. The girl looked out the window, her eyes trained on the swift Tumblestone as it swelled with rain. Her ever-distant gaze gave the truth of the matter to Catelyn, and she moved to sympathise.

"A woman's worry never stops, my dear. I felt the same when my Ned had ridden away to put down Balon's rebellion. It is an ever-present worry, but you mustn't permit yourself to be consumed by your worries. It breeds wrinkles like mine, you see."

She finished with a smile, inviting the girl to share the joke, but she strangely bent her lips into a wide smirk.

"And now we are the rebels, my lady."

Catelyn found herself taken aback at the girl's wit and for a moment found it difficult to share in her amusement. But this was hardly the time and place to chastise the poor girl, so Catelyn buried her indignation and joined in her laughter while remembering to maintain her reserve.

"The Gods work in mysterious ways, daughter. All we can do is remain faithful and defend our House from all those who would transgress against it."

She nodded dutifully and they lapsed into a more companionable silence, but the merriment had opened the girl up for she spoke further still.

"I am worried, my lady. I know he is brave, and a capable warrior, but I am worried all the same. After all, he is so far away in the Westerlands that it would be weeks before we know what came of him."

Catelyn made the appropriate noises of sympathy but the girl's words aroused her confusion. The Westerlands?

"You… are mistaken, daughter. Only the King is in the Westerlands. Rickard remains yet in the Riverlands, defending the crossing against Lord Tywin's forces."

Strangely, as though in mortification, that girl's ears turned the brightest of crimson and she tore her eyes away from the window to fix them on her plate. Catelyn waved away her stammered apologies and motioned to a slice of apple tart even as her mind whirred in trying to mask her bewilderment. What had gone on there?

A mother knows. A mother always knows. The weather had been pleasant enough so as not to prompt any excessive antipathy. Indeed, the sun shone high in the sky and the heat was offset by a cool breeze. In Rickard's solar, she nursed a carafe of ice-cold water from the Tumblestone while pouring over an account the steward had prepared for her. Nearly two decades as Lady of Winterfell had overcome any girlhood aversion to figures and now she was as adept a mistress of a keep as any other. Given Edmure's constant prevarication regarding the question of marriage, the duty of overseeing the keep had fallen to Ser Desmond Grell, who had gladly accepted Catelyn's offer of assistance.

The figures hardly made for pleasurable reading, both for their innate dullness and the picture which they painted. A picture of quickly depleting granaries and slowly depleting gold; both necessities for the prosecution of a war. While the question of gold could be set aside for the moment, the question of the pantry could not. A keep and an encamped army consumed enough during war, but Edmure had decided to exacerbate their worries by allowing what seemed to be the entirety of the peasantry of the Riverlands to camp beside Riverrun. A chivalric action, no doubt, but one with little appreciation for the demands of warfare. She admired her brother, in some small way, but any admiration faded when she considered its potential impact on Robb's war.

And thus, she had commanded the Castellan to begin slowly dispersing the peasants outside the walls, a task which the man took to with no small amount of relief. While she could not so obviously countermand her brother's wishes, the command was given to permit no more peasants from joining the mass that had already assembled, and the most disruptive had already been ordered to leave. While she desperately wanted to address the quantity of rations which were dispersed daily, she did not yet have enough power to question her brother so openly. That would be a fight for another time.

Still, there were matters aside from the question of rations. Chiefly, she dipped her quill in the inkpot as such mused over their situation in the Riverlands. With the Riverlords scattered across a hundred different holdfasts, the force Edmure and her son had assembled had been weaker than preferred, but the demands of war left little time for the ponderous collection of armies. As such, the garrison at Riverrun had been left relatively bare-boned, and the command to recall the scattered lords had long gone out to make up for any threat. Still, assembling the forces of a dozen different lords was no minor task, and Catelyn had been left to the task of penning a dozen letters to coordinate a general summons. Her fingers ached and she pushed them against the oaken wood of the desk to relieve her of the oncoming cramp, to little avail. Her nails spotted with ink, she sighed and leant back in her son's chair, grateful for the cool breeze and low hum of Riverrun's chatter. The sun shone, the birds chirped, and she was not left helpless whiling away her time. So what was that shade in the back of her mind? She sighed, again, and dipped once more the quill in the inkpot to carry out her duties as the mother of a King.

The man was soaked, sweat and mud dripping from him in equal measure onto the cold stone floor of the Great Hall as she watched Ser Desmond command the man to repeat his words for the court. The trembling, exhausted man brushed a broad hand against his face and gulped in a large breath before speaking.

"We rode out in 4 contingents to defend the fords from Lord Tywin's force, and the command was split between the Lords Mallister, Vance, Stark and our Lord Tully. Upon arriving, our scouts learned we were greatly outmatched in the field, but Lord Edmure swore to defend the fords yet."

A general murmur of approval rang through the Great Hall, but Catelyn paid no mind to the noise.

"The first day's work was easy enough, Ser. We fended off a dozen attacks across the fords but did not give away. Lord Vance's forces faced most the Lannisters, but he threw across the river."

He stopped again to clear his throat and Catelyn wished for half-a-moment to shriek in frustration, but he soon carried on and she forgot her growing rage, for it had been replaced by an ever-keening fear.

"Three days hence, Lord Tywin threw himself against our lines. We held, but only just. Lord Mallister's scorpions killed some scores of Westermen, but they came across the river all the same. We held on that day, Ser, and we knew the next would be harder to deal with."

Ever-present, ever-growing, the shade of growing dread pressed against her heart.

"And it was. In a dozen or more places, Lord Tywin flung his forces across the fords, and we were forced to give ground. Fighting from dawn to dusk, we were forced to retreat as the Lannisters crossed one ford, then the next. By sundown, all but Lord Rickard's forces in the South had retired from the field. Lord Edmure heads here now, with the remains of our forces and our wounded."

She did not let out a sharp gasp; she did not howl as a wounded mother ought to. And when she did speak, her voice silencing Ser Desmond, she spoke clearly and with nary a quiver.

"And what of my son? Does he ride with my brother?"

Absently, she noted the man's bravery at meeting her eyes.

"The fighting, my Lady, was fiercest at the Stone Mill where Lord Rickard commanded. The water was shallowest, and the Lannister thrust the strongest. His forces fought well into the dusk, my Lady, and allowed us to escape."

"But what of my son?" she repeated, a rawness now in her voice, "Does he yet ride with my brother?"

"He… lives, my Lady. It is said that a dozen men at arms swarmed his mount but that he slew them to a man, and rose again to rout the Lannisters, felling Lord Lefford in single combat, But scores more had crossed the ford and there was little our men could do from holding back the rush. It was his wolf that saved him, my Lady, dragging him from the melee just as Lord Tywin's men surrounded Lord Rickard." He paused again, tearing his eyes from hers as he scuffed his boot against the uneven stones, his earlier exhaustion forgotten.

"Unfortunately, he was not so lucky as to escape unscathed. Lord Lefford exacted a price for his life, my Lady, and it was a steep price for such a man."

And for all their exaltations and pleas, the man would say no more. Eventually, Ser Desmond dismissed and commanded him to rest, a task which the man took to with a bone-deep weariness.

She did not sleep well that night, nor for all the nights hence. And when word came that her brother's forces were in sight, and as the banners came fluttering over the gentle slope of the hill, Catelyn whispered one final prayer to her Gods and steeled herself to receive her son, swearing to maintain her composure come what may.

But as she watched her brother ride up to the gates, drained and weary, she could not spot her son. Her brother was surrounded by men, but her son was not among them. Her gaze flitted from horse to horse, from rider to rider but she did not spot her son. In the end, it was the wolf that gave it away, as she spied it padding alongside an unfamiliar man on an unfamiliar white horse. As he grew closer, she saw a pallid complexion with sunken eyes, she saw a grey cloth wrapped around the left hand, and she saw that reins that had been tied around his waist and right arm. A thousand nicks covered his face and throat and she knew then this was not the boy she had watched ride off across the plains of Riverrun. But still, she watched him grow ever closer, eventually helped off his horse by a pair of young squires. The man sagged against them, little strength in his legs and Catelyn tore her eyes from him, a spark of guilt rising in her stomach at watching this man in his time of weakness. But a strange flash caught her eye, and she found herself drawn to a cloth tied to the man's arm. It was stained and ragged, and the sun and the rain had dimmed its brilliance but the colours were unmistakable even from across the yard. Tully blue and Stark white shone with the rays of the sun and before she had understood it, Catelyn had taken off in his direction, an unknowable anguish in her throat as she approached.

She slowed as she got closer, her eyes focusing on every little detail. On a particular mole on the chin, on an old scar below the ear. Her terror grew, discordant, and yet she walked forward until she was within a few paces of the broken man who had not noticed her, his head lolling as though he were drunk. And it was only as she approached that her eyes returned to the grey cloth wrapped around his left hand, and a sense of dawning horror came upon her as she saw, strangely, that the cloth was tied too far up the arm to cover the hand. Catelyn made a note to later scold the man who had tied the cloth, but more questions arose to take the place of her indignation. The absence of my fingers made itself known, and so did the puzzling shortness of the arm.

Later, when she had been roused in the Maester's chambers, they told her that she had fainted in the yard, and that the finest craftsmen from across the North and the Riverlands would be called on to provide a replacement for his son's severed left hand.