Chapter Text
The blood had frozen hard in the night, gleaming pink in the pale dawn. Frost gilded his face, dusting his cold blue lips and clinging to his dark lashes.
The Mummers’ savaged bodies were already being gathered as she left, but Petyr still lay where he had fallen. He was not a horror of orphaned limbs and unspooled bowels as Catelyn had feared. He seemed whole, almost peaceful. It was only when she stepped closer that she could see where his narrow throat had been torn away. The edges of the wound were frozen stiff beneath the rime, and the face above was bruised and swollen.
And his eyes… They were wide and glassy and full of terror.
They had spoken just the afternoon before. There was no company Catelyn relished less, but Petyr would share nothing of worth with her son, or Bronze Yohn, or, gods forbid, Edmure. But to her, he offered everything. Truth and lies, sweet and vile; any tantalizing morsel that might keep her at his table.
Catelyn let Littlefinger speak first, as he always did, his voice weaving about her as light and pleasant as a summer breeze. He smiled too, like they were sharing some private jape. Even after his sentence was read at Harrenhal, Petyr had strutted about his dank cell, smiling his secret smile. Spinning, she knew. Always spinning.
Does he think he will find friends at the Wall? she had wondered then. Janos Slynt had been one of Petyr Baelish’s creatures, a butcher raised so high as captain of the Gold Cloaks. Some fools had even put him forth for Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, though that grim honor had fallen instead to Jon Snow.
Her heart did not ache at the thought of the bastard boy—not as it once had. When word came that Snow had spoken his vows, Catelyn had felt no small measure of relief. He would father no sons, raise no banners, make no claims. So far away, it was easier to pity him. Snow had proved an able ally to Robb in the handling of King Stannis as well, better than she might have hoped.
Once, with a shock of horror, she found herself wishing Snow had followed Robb south, to war at his side. He needs more friends about him, she reasoned, her skin prickling with unease. True friends, brothers even, not just bannermen. She did not allow herself to linger on the thought. She could not.
Bran had already written of his wish to visit Snow at Castle Black. Wait for your sisters, she had written back. Such a journey would have to wait for spring, for peace, for Stannis Baratheon to leave his icy roost. The people of Winterfell need you, Bran.
There was much to be done in the north. Wyman Manderly had taken courteous charge of Winterfell’s restoration, though Catelyn knew his ambitions did not end with cutting thatch and hewing timber. He would suffer no less than Stannis Baratheon’s Master of Ships, she thought with dark amusement. And after Manderly was gone, they would needs appoint their own steward and maester, hire new cooks and laundresses and chambermaids to fill the empty halls.
Vayon Poole would have known where to begin. He had been as mild as men were made, but a stalwart steward all the same. His wife, Calla, had been a livelier sort, with sparkling eyes and a surreptitious smile. When Winterfell had still been new and frightening, Calla had bounced Robb on her knee and taught Catelyn all of the household accounts: stores and salaries notched on tally sticks, lists of servants and guardsmen, harvest provisions for each season.
It made Catelyn miss her girlhood days at Riverrun. There had been a dozen ladies from the Twins, Seagard, Stone Hedge, and Raventree Hall to attend her. Some tall, some short, some shy, some bold, and she had loved them all.
And where are they now? Catelyn wondered. Marianne Blackwood had eloped with a marcher lord and bore him ten babes, whilst poor sweet Barbara Bracken died in childbed with her first. Her brother, Lord Jonos, had named his first daughter after her, though the girl did not have Barbara’s look.
Of the Frey maidens, Kyra had been wed to Garse Goodbrook, Lythene to Lucias Vypren, and plump young Morya to Ser Flement Brax. At two-and-ten, Tyta swore she would be a maid for life, and so she was.
Wymarda Whent had been the youngest of them, only ten when last Catelyn had seen her. She had always been a sickly child, prone to stomach pains and sweating fits. Her thin, dark hair came out in clumps when brushed, but her eyes were big and brown and gentle. Crowned her lord father’s queen of love and beauty at the tourney of Harrenhal, Wymarda was dead by the spring.
Catelyn had arrived at Winterfell with only the babe at her breast. As alone as Sansa, she thought with a pang. There had been no word of Jeyne Poole since summer’s end. The girl could only be dead, slaughtered with the rest of Ned’s household in King’s Landing.
Littlefinger had told of the girl on that final day. “She was given over to my care.” Petyr shrugged carelessly, like Jeyne were some misplaced trinket. “And I dare say she has been safer there than in the clutches of Cersei Lannister.”
Jeyne? Alive? The relief had been instant, but a dark dread followed. “Where?” Catelyn could think of no place in King’s Landing where the girl might be hidden away from the Lannisters, save…
Her head jerked up to stare at him, but there was nothing useful behind Littlefinger’s eyes. There never was. Only flickers of smug amusement or else cold calculation. Even in that moment, the corners of his thin-lipped mouth threatened to curl. Hatred rose in her breast so swiftly that it frightened her.
“Must I speak it plain, Cat?” he asked silkily. “You were never the fool.”
She rose and slapped him.
Whatever Littlefinger had expected, that was not it. “Cat-” he began, stunned, clutching his cheek. “She was only-”
She slapped him again.
“C-”
By the third blow, her scarred palm had closed into a fist. Blood was streaming from his nose, but she struck him again, and again. Some great fury had awoken in her, roaring in her ears and turning her aching hand to a bludgeon. Would he have done the same to Sansa? To Arya? Calla’s girl, who was scarce three-and-ten…
As she drew her fist back once more, Catelyn realized that Petyr was crying. He looks as he did the day Brandon beat him, she thought, curled up small and broken. She had begged Brandon to spare him, with tears on her cheeks.
Hard bone cracked against her knuckles, sending a painful jolt up her arm.
I will not spare you now.
When she came back to herself, a chill rain was falling, striking Petyr’s face and running down his cheeks in crimson rivulets. He was whimpering like some wounded animal, sodden and bloody and wretched.
With cold revulsion, Catelyn stepped away from him. Her knuckles were split and throbbing, but she pulled a kerchief from her pocket and dabbed at the weeping seams.
The guards stared at her, but none had moved forward to stop her. The catspaw dagger was pulsing against her breast, smooth and sharp and warm as living flesh. She reached for the dragonbone hilt, fingers curling like claws. And if I should draw it, would they stop me?
In the piercing light of a new morning, Petyr seemed even smaller, made a boy again in death. A twisted little thing, tucked beneath a soft white blanket.
“Have the remains brought back to Harrenhal to be cleaned,” she declared. In the stillness, the sound of her voice made the guardsmen jump. The beating may have unsettled them, but the night’s events had left them all but mute with fear. “A letter must be sent to Robb, as well,” she added. And Bronze Yohn, and King Stannis.
Catelyn turned away from the corpse. Far from the vicious satisfaction she expected, a great weariness settled over her. One villain dead, she thought. But hundreds remain.
The ride back to the inn was short and silent. Ser Brynden rode beside her, but he did not intrude on her thoughts. He never pressed her when she had nothing left to give.
After the night’s rain, the day proved brutally cheerful. By the time they broke free of the trees, the sun had burst through the clouds like a battering ram, bright and merciless. It soaked through the back of her dark woolen cloak and burned at her eyes.
The merry work of burying bodies was still underway as they trotted into the inn’s yard. Edmure’s men were griping loudly about the weight of the Mummers, whilst Tom Sevenstrings lounged on the porch strumming “Fifty-Four Tuns.” They had been at the task since daybreak, so the outlaw had reached over forty tuns.
The clamor was joined by a metallic ringing from the forge. The smith, Gendry, emerged shortly, bare-chested beneath his leather apron with a hammer still in hand. Catelyn had taken him for a man at first, with his shaggy beard and hard eyes, but according to Arya, he was younger even than Robb. There was something familiar in the stubborn set of his jaw, but she could not place it.
Catelyn offered him a polite smile, and Gendry returned it with a wary nod. Arya followed on his heels, Needle’s hilt clasped in both hands. Her daughter spoke often of the sword Jon Snow had forged for her, but Catelyn had never glimpsed it before. The blade was narrow, almost delicate, more a stiletto than a sword.
“Where’d you find that, sweetling?” Catelyn called out. Last her daughter knew, the blade had been taken by one of the Mountain’s men.
Arya’s fingers tightened around the hilt, and she cast a glance at the smith that she must have thought was furtive. “Gendry found it.”
“Then it was very kind of him to return it,” Catelyn replied lightly. “You should thank him.”
As Arya ducked her head and muttered her thanks, Catelyn wondered who Gendry had killed for the blade. There had been a hundred broken men hanging in the wood, but for every lion, there was a wolf or trout swaying beside him. She shared a look with the smith. There was a challenge in his eyes, but she did not answer it. Her hands were still raw and aching.
Sansa, Arya said, was inside the inn sharing breakfast with Sers Marq Piper and Patrek Mallister. Edmure was at the far end of the yard, chopping firewood. The inn girl was watching over him with her hands on her hips, elbows jutting out like sharpened stakes. She was a brown-haired, brown-eyed, skinny thing, not unlike Arya.
Or Jeyne. The reminder made her queasy.
Edmure’s wound, even cleaned and stitched, seemed all the more grievous in the light of day. Catelyn ached to fix his bandage, but he would not take kindly to her fussing. Still, he stopped at the sight of them, letting the axe fall into the dirt. “Uncle,” he greeted. “Cat.”
“Petyr Baelish is dead,” she told him, too weary to soften the blow.
Edmure gaped at her for a moment, then he turned to Ser Brynden. “Uncle, is this true? How?” He scratched unthinkingly at his wound and winced. “Was it the Mummers?”
Nymeria. Catelyn had heard her daughters whispering in the quiet covenant of night. I could be your knight, Arya had sworn, fierce and solemn. With her wolf for her blade, she knew, even then. As swift and sure as any steel.
They had inherited her heart, Catelyn feared, each of them half: Sansa the ache, and Arya the fury. The good as well, she hoped. The joy, not just the grief.
“It appears to have been the work of some wild animal,” the Blackfish said mildly. “A wolf.”
It took a moment for Edmure to grasp their uncle’s meaning, then something hard settled over his face. “I see,” he said at last. “That’s dealt with, then.”
Catelyn shot him a sharp look. She wished Petyr dead, she wished him to suffer, but men would ask questions. “Robb gave his word that Petyr would have safe passage north, Edmure.”
“So he did. But it could not be Grey Wind who slew Littlefinger, could it?” His voice was colder than she had ever heard it, and it took her aback. “And even if it was, who should mourn him?”
“Petyr was like a brother to you once.” A strange feeling had come crawling up her throat. What would Lord Hoster make of this? she wondered. Of Lysa, his beloved daughter, and little Petyr, his ward? Of us, so frigid and full of hate?
“And Lysa was my sister!” Edmure threw up his hands. “But she was a villain to your daughter, a murderer, and no friend of mine.”
“Edmure,” the Blackfish censured.
Her brother deflated at once, seeming suddenly all of two-and-ten. Ser Brynden was the one they always ran to to settle their spats when Lord Hoster was too busy and Lady Minisa too ill. When we were small, he’d settle us on either knee, she remembered sadly.
“I do not mourn him,” she replied. “Or Lysa. But I would not have my daughters bear my vengeance. Nymeria would not have gone to Petyr unless it was Arya’s wish.”
That made Edmure shift uncomfortably. He had seen Grey Wind’s work in the western mountains, but he did not like being reminded of its queerness. “They are only girls, Cat.”
And you are a fool, she thought, but that was unfair. “And if the lords of the Vale should blame Robb?” she asked pointedly. “If they think him an oathbreaker?”
Edmure shrugged helplessly. “It isn’t true.”
Puddles of frozen rain were still melting in the yard. They glittered like glass in the rising sun, catching her eye. Petyr’s blood had been just as bright, the same blush pink as the dawn. One of his arms was outstretched, reaching toward her with an open palm.
I should have killed you, she had thought, looking at the tender white curl of his fingers. It should have been my burden.
“What does the truth matter?” Catelyn asked. The sick feeling in her gut had grown into a sour seething, but it was nothing to the terror of the night before. That had beggared description, squeezing her heart to pulp in its fist. She had spun desperately between the shattered bodies, the rain lashing at her face and turning the bloody ground to a wine-dark sea. And her daughter, standing amidst the horror—small, trembling, and alone.
“Is Robb’s position not precarious enough?” she demanded. “Even now, I cannot say whether he shall live to see spring. And Arya, almost murdered by the very outlaws you chased into her path!”
Edmure took a step back, wounded. “I never thought-”
“I am sure you were not thinking,” she snapped. “You do not-” But she knew the words were too cruel to say. She could only shake her head.
“Cat,” said Ser Brynden, but already Edmure had turned on his heel, slinking away to sulk. Catelyn watched him go, her cheeks filling with color. That was unkind, she chided herself, shamed. Edmure was as worn thin as she, and wounded besides. Doubly wounded now.
The Blackfish cleared his throat. “Words are arrows, niece. Best loosed carefully.” Still, even he looked discomfitted. “Littlefinger is dead, and that arrow cannot be called back either. We will say what needs saying and let this pass. Pray that no banners should rise for him, nor should any man mourn.”
Catelyn nodded grimly. “Let us hope.”
Edmure was still sulking as they readied to ride. She knew she ought go to him, but the words stuck in her throat. I know your good heart, she thought. I am sorry mine has turned to stone.
Arya and Sansa were as sullen as their uncle. The news of Petyr did not rock them, not as Catelyn had expected. They are not children anymore, she reminded herself, sick with grief.
“Truly?” Sansa asked, her voice trembling with delicate, fearful hope. The relief on her face was swiftly replaced by horror. “How?”
“A wolf,” she replied evenly. Sansa’s hands twisted together in front of her skirts, but Catelyn reached out to soothe them, squeezing gently. “A wolf came in the night and killed him.”
Sansa cast a desperate look at her sister, but Arya said nothing. Her daughter’s gaze was pinned firmly to the ground, a hand still on Needle’s hilt.
Catelyn put a finger under Arya’s chin and raised it. She looked into her daughter’s face and tried to read the truth there, but Arya’s eyes were as hard and grey as granite. It made her sad.
May they lighten again one day, she prayed, stroking Arya’s chin tenderly with her thumb. May they dance with laughter.
But Brienne had ridden out at first light and taken all her daughters’ joy with her.
With the sky still dim and grey, Catelyn had slipped a stack of folded letters into Brienne’s saddlebags, the parchment sketched with maps and instructions. Her blue armor was hidden beneath a large dun cloak, but Catelyn could see her eyes gleaming beneath the hood.
“I swear it,” Brienne said hoarsely. “On my life. On my honor. I will see Lady Jeyne returned to you, or die in the attempt.”
Catelyn took one of the girl’s huge, strong, scarred hands and gave it a squeeze. “Live,” she said quietly. “I would have you live. Be safe, and may the gods protect you.”
Still in their sleeping shifts, her daughters followed. Sansa had given Brienne a favor, embroidered swiftly with a sun and moon, whilst Arya cut a strip off of her tunic with Needle. They tied them to either of Brienne’s pauldrons.
“Thank you,” said Sansa. “For Jeyne. Tell her… tell her I miss her. We all do. I’m sorry for her father. I never should have told them-” She shook her head, shamed.
“Come back,” said Arya in a small voice.
Brienne looked as though she might cry, but she steeled herself and rode out into the soft blue twilight.
Her daughters were distant and dispirited hours into their ride. They lagged behind Catelyn’s own mount, whispering only to each other. Any time she thought to draw close, they went quiet. She tried not to let it wound her, and failed.
By then, Tom was singing “Ride of the Seven” spliced into “The Song of the Seven,” such that it was the Crone and Maiden riding to rescue Rhaenyra Targaryen’s son from the Dragonpit.
Edmure grimaced at the melody. For all he esteemed Lord Beric, her brother had little love for the singer. He would not tell her why, though she had heard some mutterings about a girl and floppy fish.
“Of the seven, which do you suppose I’d be?” Ser Marq Piper asked, jovial as always. He and Ser Patrek Mallister’s vigor oft left Catelyn feeling as old and brittle as Lord Walder Frey. “Ser Harrold Darke? Iron-Banger?
“The Maiden,” Ser Patrek replied with a grin. He pointed at Ser Marq’s chest. “Look, you’ve even got your likeness stitched on your doublet.”
“Pat thinks I’m pretty,” Ser Marq told Sansa in a high, breathy voice, just to make her giggle.
Ser Patrek turned to Edmure. “Which is he then, Ed? Mother, Maiden, or Crone?”
Her brother had spent the morning plodding along despondently, but he managed a smile for his friends. “The Fool, clearly.”
“That’s eight!” Ser Marq gasped. “Blasphemy!”
It was only an hour’s ride to the Trident, but no ferries awaited them on the bank.
“I do believe Lord Walder means for us to drown,” said Ser Patrek.
Edmure shot him a reproving look. His new wife was a Frey, and he had grown sensitive to any slight against her house. Doubtless, Lord Walder is laughing himself sick, Catelyn thought with a sigh.
“We could always swim,” Tom Sevenstrings suggested. “My lord and his knightly uncle are trouts, are they not?”
The Blackfish ignored him. “It seems we must ride for Darry. There, we might send a raven to Lord Walder and see our passage settled.”
To Catelyn’s dismay, the outlaws meant to follow them.
“What sort of king’s men would we be to let a lady and her daughters ford this savage country alone?” Tom Sevenstrings asked, giving her a grin.
“How chivalrous,” Catelyn said flatly. “But my brother will see to our protection.”
“We’ve matters to discuss with Lord Tully,” said Lem Lemoncloak, nodding to a Tyroshi with a green beard gone to grey. “And he means to leave with you.”
That seemed, to her, a leap closer to the truth.
Unfortunately, though the damp ground froze solid at night, it was a churn of mud and dung again by the afternoon. The hedges along the road were all stripped bare as beggar’s bones, and the hovels they passed were long-abandoned.
The Brotherhood claimed to keep some hideout along the Fork, but only Edmure and a few of his picked knights were invited to glimpse it. As he rode off beside the Tyroshi, Sers Marq and Patrek were left behind to guard Catelyn and her daughters.
The singer and the soldier as well, she thought, glancing at the two outlaws. Tom was still strumming, whilst Lem squinted down the kingsroad, a hand on his sword’s hilt.
Not that there were many souls left to menace them on the journey south. A scattering of fields still clung to life, watched over by farmers with crossbows in place of plows, but they passed more dead men than living. Corpses hung from the trees by their dozens, some still fresh and bloated, others green and melting in the rain.
After so many hours of desolation, it was a shock to encounter a living man. A lone septon drew toward them in a robe that was patched and sodden, its hem brown with mud. The man’s features were homely, seamed by sun and wind, but his eyes were gentle and keen.
A septon without a sept, only one step up from a begging brother in the hierarchy of the Faith. There were hundreds like him, a ragged band whose humble task it was to trudge from one flyspeck village to the next, conducting holy services, performing marriages, and forgiving sins. Such men visited Riverrun from time to time when she was a girl, though they never ventured so far north as Winterfell, where the Faith ran thin.
Despite the ruin about them, the septon seemed strangely merry. A great dog padded beside him, brindled and scarred, and a donkey followed with its panniers slung low. Two children trailed on the septon’s heels, thin as reeds, with a third riding the donkey. All three children looked out at Catelyn with dull fear, too tired to flee.
“Lem!” the septon called out, startling her. “And Tom as well. I take the hunt was fruitful?”
“There’s always more of Lord Beric’s justice to be done,” Lem replied, frowning. “I warned you, Meribald. It isn’t safe out here for the likes of you.”
Septon Meribald only smiled. “It is not safe for any living creature, but what should I have to fear? I’ve little left worth stealing, and none worth killing for.”
“They’ll kill you just because they can,” Arya snapped, clutching at her horse’s reins. “If it can burn, they’ll burn it. If it can be killed, they’ll kill it. And they’ll kill you too.”
The septon’s face had grown sad. “Indeed, but I am sorry you should know it, child.”
“You’re speaking to Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell,” Ser Marq corrected mildly.
“And you’re speaking to Septon Meribald of here, wherever that might be,” the septon replied, his cheer returning.
Catelyn glanced to the children. They were hungry and hollow-eyed, doubtless orphaned. There were a thousand such poor souls in the riverlands, she did not doubt. “Where are you taking them?” she asked.
“Some place with bread and cheese to spare,” the septon answered. “Might you’ve some, m’lady?”
“Have you none left?” Lem’s brow furrowed. “You had a good load last I saw you. Barley bread, carrots, sausages.”
“Oranges and lemons, too,” Tom sighed wistfully. “Pity Anguy’s in the west. I’m no Dornish girl, but we could’ve cooked some duck with lemons.”
“We encountered some wild wolves in the hills,” the septon admitted. It was Robb’s men he meant, clearly. “They took most all of it, save for Dog’s salt mutton.” He gave the hound at his side a pat. “Such is the season when lords play their game of thrones.”
Catelyn bristled. Edmure loved his people better than any lord in the Seven Kingdoms; loved them to the point of folly. “Not all lords are the same.”
“No,” said Meribald, giving her a gentle smile. “But all wars are. When a mounted knight tramples the harvest beneath his hooves, the beast’s barding makes no matter. The Stranger knows neither the wicked nor the righteous, nor the color of any banner.”
Catelyn could only think of Robb, riding south from Winterfell with Grey Wind. He had been so young then, with steel in his hand instead of a practice sword. The riverlands had still been a lush, generous place, but with winter calling, it was riven and ruined. Babbling brooks and green rivergrasses had given way to drowned fields and broken black hovels. Wolves and crows were the only creatures to thrive, howling in the night or screaming down from the bowers.
“My son did not begin this war,” she felt compelled to say.
“No,” Meribald agreed readily. “Nor did he mean to starve these people, I’m sure. All children are born innocent, from the highest prince to the lowliest beggar’s whelp.”
“My mother’d have me believe I was born a demon from the Seven Hells,” said Tom Sevenstrings.
“There are no demons here,” said the septon. “Only men.”
“And our swords,” Tom added. “I dare say these Sparrows have the right of it.”
That made the septon frown. “The Warrior is but one aspect of the Seven Who Are One. I have never known a boy who did not love the Warrior. I am old, though, and being old, I love the Smith.”
“Gendry’s a smith,” Arya put in. “And a warrior too. He’s my friend.”
“What better friend than a smith?” said Septon Meribald with a wink. “Without his labor, what would the Warrior defend? Every town has a smith, and every castle. They make the plows we need to plant our crops, the nails we use to build our ships, iron shoes to save the hooves of our faithful horses, the bright swords of our lords.”
“Gendry wields his own sword,” Arya asserted, but then her face dropped. She had bid goodbye to him that morning, as she had Brienne. “He fights for the Brotherhood,” Arya finished, biting at her lip. “He had to stay at the inn to protect the children.”
“May the gods bless the smith Gendry and all the children of the inn.” Meribald pressed a large, leathery hand to his heart. “Mayhaps your paths will cross again. Men oft forget each other over the long years, but the gods seldom do.”
“Might I have a prayer, septon?” Catelyn asked, fumbling at her horse’s reins. “There is a woman, a warrior-maid, Brienne of Tarth. I have sent her into great danger to rescue another. A girl, Jeyne.”
“A noble quest.” Meribald turned his palms to the heavens, where clouds had gathered grey and heavy. “Maiden, take to your bosom the girl, Jeyne, who is lost. Warrior, lend Brienne your shield as well as your sword. Crone, grant them wisdom to find the right path, even when all seems dark. Mother, protect them. Father, grant them justice. Smith, mend what has been wounded. And Stranger, soothe those wounds which are beyond mending.”
Even after the septon was done, Catelyn could have asked for a hundred more prayers. For Robb and Edmure, for Sansa and Arya, for Bran and Rickon. For Late Lord Hoster and Lady Minisa, and even Lysa, when the rage was not so hot. For Maester Luwin, who had delivered all her children, for Gage the cook, who cooked their every meal, for Farlen the kennelmaster, who let Bran name the last litter of puppies. For the orphaned children and weeping widows and the cold, hard days to come.
When at last Septon Meribald ambled away, the sun had slipped behind the iron curtain of clouds. The sudden chill made her shiver, and she drew her cloak tighter.
“What will happen to them?” Sansa asked softly, peering back at the septon and the children. Arya did not ask. She stared down at the rut of road before them.
“According to the good septon, he would have them taken to the inn,” said the Blackfish. “The inn girl there-”
“Willow,” Arya muttered.
“Willow,” Ser Brynden continued, “will help look after them, as she does the others.”
Neither of her daughters seemed satisfied with that. “Could Lord Edmure make sure they’re fed?” Sansa asked.
“Of course,” the Blackfish promised gently. “These are Edmure’s lands, and his people. He speaks often to Lord Beric through his men, and they would both see the riverlands made whole again. A peaceful place, a place of plenty.”
That mollified them for the nonce, for which Catelyn was grateful. There was much riding left in the day. Whilst her daughters drifted off to whisper, she could only despair.
“What troubles you, niece?” Ser Brynden asked.
Just the sound of her uncle’s voice was a relief. “My troubles are beyond accounting,” she replied with a droll smile. “Some days, there is nothing I would like so much as to fall on the ground, weeping.”
“I would not begrudge you it,” her uncle said dryly.
That made her laugh. “I should like a nap as well. I slept ill at the inn.” Catelyn sobered suddenly, the smile falling from her lips. “Arya sleeps like a hare. One sound and she startles awake. And Sansa… her smiles are so careful now.” Just the thought made her heart ache. “I do not know how to help them,” she admitted. “I tell myself that they are safe now. That they will never want for anything. That I can protect them-” She swallowed painfully. “That I can protect them this time. But I fear… they are not children anymore. And never shall be again.”
Her uncle remained silent for a long moment as his horse negotiated the muddy, rutted road. “They will be,” he said at last. “With time. A broken bone cannot be mended by willing it straight. You must set it, and splint it, and wait. Let them be what they are, and love them.”
She had to look away, her eyes burning. “You have always been too kind to me, Uncle. I fear I do not have a scrap of kindness left. Least of all for Edmure, though of those many who are deserving of my wrath, he is not one.”
The Blackfish reached up to give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “No, he is not. Nor do you deserve half the cruelty you inflict upon yourself.”
She huffed a bitter laugh, her hands tightening such that her scabbed knuckles split open and bled anew. You have the right of it, Uncle, she thought. I would save my cruelty for Cersei Lannister.
Castle Darry was a small, square keep, only a day’s ride south of the Trident. The poles that had once flown Lord Raymun Darry’s proud plowman stood bare and broken, with unmanned arrowslits whistling in the wind. The moat below was sluggish and foul, its bank studded here and there with refuse and brown bones.
The portcullis had been hacked apart and dragged aside, its iron teeth bent and rusting in the rain. Part of the gatehouse had collapsed, and the drawbridge yawned open, its iron chains trailing in the water below. Lem Lemoncloak and a few of Edmure’s men rode ahead to clear out any stragglers, but found none. Even so, Catelyn crossed the drawbridge warily.
No guards hailed them, no dogs barked. Inside the bailey, grass had begun to grow between the untrod cobblestones. The place had the hollow feel of a skull, robbed of its young lord and his people. Lord Lyman had been little older than Bran, Catelyn remembered, but he had sworn his sword to Robb with all the fierce sincerity of youth.
“Where are the people?” Sansa asked softly.
Dead, Catelyn thought, but it was Tom who answered. “They’re just shy, m’lady.” He waved a hand at the fallen gatehouse. “They’re not used to gentle visitors.”
It was a dark jape, and not one that her daughters needs hear. Catelyn gave the outlaw a severe look, but Tom only smiled and beckoned. “Come and see.”
The town beyond was scarce better. Doorframes hung empty, roofs sagged, and the streets were littered with broken carts and ash. No living thing stirred, save for a few skittish curs.
Then Tom Sevenstrings began to play his woodharp. The bright, wandering notes carried through the empty lanes, and to Catelyn’s shock, the sound drew a few sooty-faced children from their hiding places.
As Tom plucked the first verse of “Widow’s Ford,” other shapes began to stir. A few at first, then more, as the town came to life around them. Flinty-eyed women appeared in the empty doorways, clutching babes and crossbows. Beside them, striplings in soiled leather jerkins, naked children, toothless old crones, and a few men such as Lem and Tom with notched swords and patchwork mail.
“There’s so many of them,” Sansa murmured, wide-eyed.
“It’s like Stoney Sept,” Arya replied with a shrug. “They hid there, too. In case the Mountain came back. They knew Lem, though.”
Tom winked. “These ones know me.”
“Why not take shelter in the castle?” Catelyn found herself asking. “The gatehouse could be repaired, and it would provide some measure of protection.”
“They could,” Lem grunted. “Then when the lords came back, they’d be hung for squatters.”
“Hanged,” Tom corrected in a cheerful sing-song, still strumming his woodharp.
Catelyn said nothing.
They returned to the castle by midday. Edmure was avoiding her, that much was clear, so the rekindling of Castle Darry fell to her. Rooms were aired, and townsfolk brought in to warm the kitchens and tend to the horses. The matter of repairing the gatehouse and drawbridge would be left to the castle’s next lord.
Or lady. Late Lord Raymun had a sister, but some older bastard kin as well. Catelyn pressed a thumb between her eyebrows. That will be for Edmure to decide.
By the time the work was done, the sun was low and golden. Her feet were aching, but Catelyn found herself wandering down to the moat, drawn by the soothing susurrus. The moat was fed by a vassal stream of the Trident, swollen with the season. She followed it until the water ran slow and clear.
She found Edmure and her daughters at the river’s edge, in a breezy valley to the north of Castle Darry. Their voices were loud and bright with the day’s frolics. Sansa stepped neatly around the mud and rotten leaves as they marched back up to the castle, whilst Arya leapt from puddle to puddle. They swung a heavy wicker basket between them, with water still draining between the weave.
The sight stirred memories of Riverrun, worn soft with age. Memories of long afternoons sitting on the grassy bank, tending to her fishing pole. Ser Brynden had been their teacher, helping thread worms and bits of cheese on the sharp iron hook. Lysa had never cared much for it, but Catelyn had gone down the Fork with Edmure to fish half a hundred times. And Petyr-
She batted that memory away. That boy is gone, she reminded herself. And the man he became I never knew at all.
Edmure crested the rise last, the sleeves of his tunic rolled to his elbows and his boots soaked through. Their poles and net were slung over one broad shoulder, and another basket of fish over the other, but there was a lightness to his step that Catelyn had not seen since summer’s end.
Her daughters spotted her and ran at once, heedless of the mud and the precarious swinging of their basket.
“Look!” Arya cried, skidding to a stop in front of her. “Look at what we caught!”
Catelyn peered gamely into the basket. There were over a dozen fish, all of them fat and wriggling.
“Sansa caught the biggest one,” Arya admitted, sounding only a little bit glum.
“She did land a good one, Cat,” Edmure added as he met them, hooking the fish’s mouth with two fingers and raising it to show her. “Nearly pulled me in after it once I got it in the net.”
Sansa blushed. “Arya’s was the prettiest. A silver trout. It shimmered.”
Edmure fetched that one up, too, though he had to go pawing through the slippery mass. Some of the strain had left him, Catelyn saw, but when their eyes met, it returned all at once. The trout slipped out of his hand and plopped wetly back in the basket.
That was when Ser Patrek and Ser Marq came thundering down from the castle. They were leading another horse on a tether—a sweet sorrel with a white star between her eyes.
“Where’s the battle?” Edmure called out with a grin.
“Here, it seems,” grumbled Ser Marq, struggling valiantly through the muck.
Ser Patrek just winked. “We meant to be chivalrous, Ed. It’s been so long since we’ve had two fair maids to charm.” He dismounted gracefully and offered Arya a hand up into the saddle. “Back to the castle, my lady?”
Arya ignored Ser Patrek’s hand and clambered up into the saddle herself. As she did, Sansa took Ser Marq’s hand and mounted his midnight mare. All of them were smiling as Edmure tied the wicker baskets of fish to their saddles.
Ser Patrek beckoned Catelyn toward the sorrel mare, but she could not make herself go.
“I would have a word with my brother first, sers,” she said. “If I could.”
Mallister and Piper both shrugged, and Edmure gave her a wary look, but he did not argue.
As the knights turned to ride off with her daughters, Ser Patrek was already making wild promises. “We have the finest falcons in all of the Seven Kingdoms,” he declared, patting the Mallister eagle embroidered on his indigo surcoat. “My uncle breeds goshawks, and his lady wife keeps a magnificent vulture. It has a beak like a lion’s claw.” He made a hook with his finger and mimed pecking at Arya’s face.
“Do you have any eagles?” Arya asked, smacking his hand away.
“He doesn’t!” Ser Marq laughed loudly. “It’s all lies!”
“And House Piper has no naked, dancing maids!” Edmure called out, only to wince. “Sorry, Cat.”
“We have eagles!” said Ser Patrek, affronted, but by then, the knights were too far away to hear the rest.
Edmure shifted the fishing poles to his other shoulder, seeming strangely nervous. He never had much of Lord Hoster in him, Catelyn reflected. More of their lady mother, with her sweet smile and gentle heart.
Before she could say a word, Edmure straightened. “I am sorry for this morning’s folly,” he began. “It was unlordly of me, though I have always been a disappointment in that regard. To you, and to Lord Hoster.”
That took her aback. “How could you say such a thing? Our father loved you well.”
Her brother’s smile was small and droll. “I was his only son, Cat. What choice did he have?”
Oh, Edmure. “You misjudge yourself, ser.” Her heart was raw with guilt. “I have never spoken my gratitude aloud for all you have done this autumn, for your courage and your sacrifice. I know it has not been an easy thing, Edmure. For all that I despaired of it, I… I am glad you are still the boy I knew at Riverrun. A boy of smiles and laughter and heart.” She looked at him, her little brother, grown so tall and strong. A husband now, she thought, and a father soon.
Tears pricked in her eyes. Let Robb have the same. Let their children play together in the spring, with all the bodies buried and the fields flush and green. She found Edmure watching her, half-wary and half-hopeful. “I loved that boy well, and even now, I envy all the good left in you.” Her voice had grown tight. “Grief has made me a stranger to myself, but I hope… I hope I am still the sister you knew.”
“Oh, Cat,” Edmure said, pulling her into an embrace. His tunic smelled of the river, of mud and fish and life, and she could only melt into his arms. “An older sister is always an older sister,” he laughed, kissing the top of her head. “You’ll be haranguing me when we’re both white-haired wrecks, I’m sure.”
With our great-grandchildren growing tall about us, she thought with a watery laugh. The tears fell then, but Edmure only drew her closer.
They had trout for supper that night, fried in bacon grease with a salad of turnip greens and red fennel and sweetgrass. The first bread baked in Darry’s disused ovens had come out half-black and half-raw, but the loaf brought to table was golden brown and still steaming. Catelyn tore off hearty chunks—one for herself, one for each of her daughters, one for Edmure, and one for Ser Brynden.
Arya and Sansa stole morsels from each other’s plates, bickering and laughing in equal measure. Edmure japed with Ser Patrek and Ser Marq, whilst the Blackfish dug in his stew with single-minded determination.
Her heart squeezed in her chest, imagining such a happy meal at Winterfell. Bran and Rickon would delight at their uncle and his trout-crested greathelm, she was sure, not to mention Ser Brynden’s black-scaled armor and valiant war stories.
Oh, Ned, she thought, with a stab of grief. If only you were here to see it.
The next morning, they rode up to the Trident to find the ferries already waiting. A dozen flat-bottomed barges bobbed along the bank, with ferrymen standing ready with poles in hand. There was a small escort of Frey knights, and with them a giggling girl in quartered Darry brown and Frey blue.
Her name was Amerei Frey, a Darry on her mother’s side, and doubtless, Lord Walder meant for her to inherit the castle and all its holdings.
Catelyn raised a brow at that, but it was a knot for Edmure to unravel. Her brother meant to stay in the riverlands, sowing order and justice and bushels of wheat. He had instructed Ser Patrek Mallister and Ser Marq Piper to accompany them on the voyage north, at least until the Fork ran dry.
That morn as they pushed off from shore, the river was a muddy brown soup, running high and swift. They would needs stop at the Twins, and already Catelyn dreaded it. Elmar Frey, Arya’s betrothed, did not seem to relish the prospect either. He sat on the edge of the ferry, staring gloomily out at the rushing water.
As the days passed, they made one stop near Seagard. A party of men rode out at Ser Patrek’s summons, bringing with them a flock of hunting birds: red-tailed hawks, banded-breast falcons, and even the promised golden eagle, so large it could barely balance on Arya’s gloved arm.
“Gifts for my lord’s beloved nieces,” Ser Patrek said with a flourish.
In the end, Arya chose a kestrel—a small, plain creature, but the most vicious of Lord Mallister’s lot. She named the she-falcon Aegon, if just to vex her sister, and loosed her at once.
Sansa’s gyrfalcon was large and elegant, its white wings speckled with dove grey. Courtesy, Sansa called her, with that earnest, shining look she carried for all fine things. Catelyn had feared it lost, and felt her own heart soar with joy.
The men of Seagard brought with them chairs and trestle tables, so they took their meal along the river. Ser Patrek played the gracious host, telling tales so tall they toppled over, though Catelyn could tell when he and Ser Marq kicked each other under the table.
Arya and Sansa ate in haste and were gone again at once. By the time she joined them, Arya had bounded off across the field, leaping over puddles and fallen logs with her eyes on her kestrel above. A wolf howled somewhere in the marshes, but it was a joyous sound.
Catelyn came to stand beside Sansa. Her face was flushed pink from the cold, and her gloved hands were clasped together. When her gyrfalcon returned, Sansa stroked the bird’s breast. “Isn’t she lovely?” she asked, smiling so wide her cheeks dimpled.
That was when Arya burst back out from the thicket. Her short hair was flying wildly in the wind, but her face was split in a matching grin.
Lovely, Catelyn thought, taking in the sight of them, whole and happy. The loveliest there ever was.
“Let’s go again!” Arya demanded. “On the count of three. One, two-” Before three, her kestrel leapt skyward in a blur of tawny feathers.
With a cry of indignation, Sansa sent Courtesy scrambling after her.
The Twins can wait, Catelyn thought, watching the birds soar together. They were two strokes of color against the pale blue sky, wheeling above the autumn treetops.
Catelyn watched her daughters track their birds, faces tipped upward and eyes bright with wonder. Arya bounced on the balls of her feet, whistling to urge her kestrel higher. Sansa stood mutely, her eyes sharp yet distant. Aegon banked early, hovering above some unseen prey, but Courtesy climbed higher and higher, wings spread. Finally, the gyrfalcon dived.
When at last the birds returned, Aegon bore a lizard in her beak, and Courtesy a small, brown bird. Mayhaps a sparrow, mayhaps a songbird, though the season was soon growing too cold for either.
“Did you see?” Arya shouted. “Did you see how they dived?”
“I did!” Catelyn promised, laughing. “I did.”
Sansa was quiet, letting Courtesy place the dead bird delicately in her palm. There was not a scratch on it, no blot of blood, but its small feet were curled limply in death. Sansa held it for a moment, then she raised her hand to her gyrfalcon. Courtesy took the morsel and tore into it happily.
“Again?” Arya asked, still grinning.
“Again,” Sansa replied, with her own small smile.
And so their birds soared together once more.