“For Winterfell,” Robb said at once. “With Bran and Rickon dead, Sansa is my heir. If anything should happen to me...”
She clutched tight at his hand. “Nothing will happen to you. Nothing. I could not stand it. They took Ned, and your sweet brothers. Sansa is married, Arya is lost, my father’s dead... if anything befell you, I would go mad, Robb. You are al I have left. You are al the north has left.”
“I am not dead yet, Mother.”
Suddenly Catelyn was full of dread. “Wars need not be fought until the last drop of blood.” Even she could hear the desperation in her voice. “You would not be the first king to bend the knee, nor even the first Stark.”
His mouth tightened. “No. Never.”
“There is no shame in it. Balon Greyjoy bent the knee to Robert when his rebellion failed.
Torrhen Stark bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror rather than see his army face the fires.”
“Did Aegon kill King Torrhen’s father?” He pul ed his hand from hers. “Never, I said.” He is playing the boy now, not the king. “The Lannisters do not need the north. They will require homage and hostages, no more... and the Imp will keep Sansa no matter what we do, so they have their hostage. The ironmen will prove a more implacable enemy, I promise you. To have any hope of holding the north, the Greyjoys must leave no single sprig of House Stark alive to dispute their right. Theon’s murdered Bran and Rickon, so now al they need do is kill you...
and Jeyne, yes. Do you think Lord Balon can afford to let her live to bear you heirs?” Robb’s face was cold. “Is that why you freed the Kingslayer? To make a peace with the Lannisters?”
“I freed Jaime for Sansa’s sake... and Arya’s, if she still lives. You know that. But if I nurtured some hope of buying peace as well, was that so ill?”
“Yes,” he said. “The Lannisters killed my father.”
“Do you think I have forgotten that?”
“I don’t know. Have you?”
Catelyn had never struck her children in anger, but she almost struck Robb then. It was an effort to remind herself how frightened and alone he must feel. “You are King in the North, the choice is yours. I only ask that you think on what I’ve said. The singers make much of kings who die valiantly in battle, but your life is worth more than a song. To me at least, who gave it to you.” She lowered her head. “Do I have your leave to go?”
“Yes.” He turned away and drew his sword. What he meant to do with it, she could not say.
There was no enemy there, no one to fight. Only her and him, amongst tall trees and fallen leaves. There are fights no sword can win, Catelyn wanted to tell him, but she feared the king was deaf to such words.
Hours later, she was sewing in her bedchamber when young Rol am Westerling came running with the summons to supper. Good, Catelyn thought, relieved. She had not been certain that her son would want her there, after their quarrel. “A dutiful squire,” she said to Rol am gravely. Bran would have been the same.
If Robb seemed cool at table and Edmure surly, Lame Lothar made up for them both. He was the model of courtesy, reminiscing warmly about Lord Hoster, offering Catelyn gentle condolences on the loss of Bran and Rickon, praising Edmure for the victory at Stone Mill, and thanking Robb for the “swift sure justice” he had meted out to Rickard Karstark. Lothar’s bastard brother Walder Rivers was another matter; a harsh sour man with old Lord Walder’s suspicious face, he spoke but seldom and devoted most of his attention to the meat and mead that was set before him.
When all the empty words were said, the queen and the other Westerlings excused themselves, the remains of the meal were cleared away, and Lothar Frey cleared his throat. “Before we turn to the business that brings us here, there is another matter,” he said solemnly. “A grave matter, I fear. I had hoped it would not fall to me to bring you these tidings, but it seems I must. My lord father has had a letter from his grandsons.”
Catelyn had been so lost in grief for her own that she had almost forgotten the two Freys she had agreed to foster. No more, she thought. Mother have mercy, how many more blows can we bear? Somehow she knew the next words she heard would plunge yet another blade into her heart. “The grandsons at Winterfell?” she made herself ask. “My wards?”
“Walder and Walder, yes. But they are presently at the Dreadfort, my lady. I grieve to tell you this, but there has been a battle. Winterfell is burned.”
“Burned?” Robb’s voice was incredulous.
“Your northern lords tried to retake it from the ironmen. When Theon Greyjoy saw that his prize was lost, he put the castle to the torch.”
“We have heard naught of any battle,” said Ser Brynden.
“My nephews are young, I grant you, but they were there. Big Walder wrote the letter, though his cousin signed as wel . It was a bloody bit of business, by their account. Your castel an was slain. Ser Rodrik, was that his name?”
“Ser Rodrik Cassel,” said Catelyn numbly. That dear brave loyal old soul. She could almost see him, tugging on his fierce white whiskers. “What of our other people?”
“The ironmen put many of them to the sword, I fear.”
Wordless with rage, Robb slammed a fist down on the table and turned his face away, so the Freys would not see his tears.
But his mother saw them. The world grows a little darker every day. Catelyn’s thoughts went to Ser Rodrik’s little daughter Beth, to tireless Maester Luwin and cheerful Septon Chayle, Mikken at the forge, Farlen and Pal a in the kennels, Old Nan and simple Hodor. Her heart was sick.
“Please, not all.”
“No,” said Lame Lothar. “The women and children hid, my nephews Walder and Walder among them. With Winterfel in ruins, the survivors were carried back to the Dreadfort by this son of Lord Bolton’s.-”
“Bolton’s son?” Robb’s voice was strained.
Walder Rivers spoke up. “A bastard son, I believe.”
“Not Ramsay Snow? Does Lord Roose have another bastard?” Robb scowled. “This Ramsay was a monster and a murderer, and he died a coward. Or so I was told.”
“I cannot speak to that. There is much confusion in any war. Many false reports. Al I can tell you is that my nephews claim it was this bastard son of Bolton’s who saved the women of Winterfel , and the little ones. They are safe at the Dreadfort now, all those who remain.”
“Theon,” Robb said suddenly. “What happened to Theon Greyjoy? Was he slain?” Lame Lothar spread his hands. “That I cannot say, Your Grace. Walder and Walder made no mention of his fate. Perhaps Lord Bolton might know, if he has had word from this son of his.” Ser Brynden said, “We will be certain to ask him.”
“You are all distraught, I see. I am sorry to have brought you such fresh grief. Perhaps we should adjourn until the morrow. Our business can wait until you have composed yourselves. .”
“No,” said Robb, “I want the matter settled.”
Her brother Edmure nodded. “Me as well. Do you have an answer to our offer, my lord?”
“I do.” Lothar smiled. “My lord father bids me tell Your Grace that he wil agree to this new marriage al iance between our houses and renew his fealty to the King in the North, upon the condition that the King’s Grace apologize for the insult done to House Frey, in his royal person, face to face.”
An apology was a smal enough price to pay, but Catelyn misliked this petty condition of Lord Walder’s at once.
“I am pleased,” Robb said cautiously. “It was never my wish to cause this rift between us, Lothar. The Freys have fought valiantly for my cause. I would have them at my side once more.”
“You are too kind, Your Grace. As you accept these terms, I am then instructed to offer Lord Tully the hand of my sister, the Lady Roslin, a maid of sixteen years. Roslin is my lord father’s youngest daughter by Lady Bethany of House Rosby, his sixth wife. She has a gentle nature and a gift for music.”
Edmure shifted in his seat. “Might not it be better if I first met -”
“You’l meet when you’re wed,” said Walder Rivers curtly. “Unless Lord Tully feels a need to count her teeth first?”
Edmure kept his temper. “I will take your word so far as her teeth are concerned, but it would be pleasant if I might gaze upon her face before I espoused her.”
“You must accept her now, my lord,” said Walder Rivers. “Else my father’s offer is withdrawn.”
Lame Lothar spread his hands. “My brother has a soldier’s bluntness, but what he says is true. It is my lord father’s wish that this marriage take place at once.”
“At once?” Edmure sounded so unhappy that Catelyn had the unworthy thought that perhaps he had been entertaining notions of breaking the betrothal after the fighting was done.
“Has Lord Walder forgotten that we are fighting a war?” Brynden Blackfish asked sharply.
“Scarcely,” said Lothar. “That is why he insists that the marriage take place now, ser. Men die in war, even men who are young and strong. What would become of our al iance should Lord Edmure fal before he took Roslin to bride? And there is my father’s age to consider as wel . He is past ninety and not like to see the end of this struggle. It would put his noble heart at peace if he could see his dear Roslin safely wed before the gods take him, so he might die with the knowledge that the girl had a strong husband to cherish and protect her.” We al want Lord Walder to die happy. Catelyn was growing less and less comfortable with this arrangement. “My brother has just lost his own father. He needs time to mourn.”
“Roslin is a cheerful girl,” said Lothar. “She may be the very thing Lord Edmure needs to help him through his grief.”
“And my grandfather has come to mislike lengthy betrothals,” the bastard Walder Rivers added.
“I cannot imagine why.”
Robb gave him a chilly look. “I take your meaning, Rivers. Pray excuse us.”
“As Your Grace commands.” Lame Lothar rose, and his bastard brother helped him hobble from the room.
Edmure was seething. “They’re as much as saying that my promise is worthless. Why should I let that old weasel choose my bride? Lord Walder has other daughters besides this Roslin.
Granddaughters as wel . I should be offered the same choice you were. I’m his liege lord, he should be overjoyed that I’m willing to wed any of them.”
“He is a proud man, and we’ve wounded him,” said Catelyn.
“The Others take his pride! I will not be shamed in my own hal . My answer is no.” Robb gave him a weary look. “I will not command you. Not in this. But if you refuse, Lord Frey will take it for another slight, and any hope of putting this arights will be gone.”
“You cannot know that,” Edmure insisted. “Frey has wanted me for one of his daughters since the day I was born. He will not let a chance like this slip between those grasping fingers of his.
When Lothar brings him our answer, he’ll come wheedling back and accept a betrothal... and to a daughter of my choosing.”
“Perhaps, in time,” said Brynden Blackfish. “But can we wait, while Lothar rides back and forth with offers and counters?”
Robb’s hands curled into fists. “I must get back to the north. My brothers dead, Winterfell burned, my smallfolk put to the sword... the gods only know what this bastard of Bolton’s is about, or whether Theon is still alive and on the loose. I can’t sit here waiting for a wedding that might or might not happen.”
“It must happen,” said Catelyn, though not gladly. “I have no more wish to suffer Walder Frey’s insults and complaints than you do, Brother, but I see little choice here. Without this wedding, Robb’s cause is lost. Edmure, we must accept.”
“We must accept?” he echoed peevishly. “I don’t see you offering to become the ninth Lady Frey, Cat.”
“The eighth Lady Frey is still alive and well, so far as I know,” she replied. Thankfully.
Otherwise it might wel have come to that, knowing Lord Walder.
The Blackfish said, “I am the last man in the Seven Kingdoms to tel anyone who they must wed, Nephew. Nonetheless, you did say something of making amends for your Battle of the Fords.”
“I had in mind a different sort of amends. Single combat with the Kingslayer. Seven years of penace as a begging brother. Swimming the sunset sea with my legs tied.” When he saw that no one was smiling, Edmure threw up his hands. “The Others take you al ! Very well, I’ll wed the wench. As amends.”