Catelyn VII

War and rot were much on Catelyn Tully's mind of late.

News from the North was good, better than good. They had triumphed somehow and forced a peace, but each letter was more unbelievable than the last. They met one of the Children of the Forest? Truly? These wild tales had captured her children's imagination. Bran, quite a fine squire now, according to Uncle Brynden, desperately wanted to ride to war with his elder brother. If things had gone ill, Cat might not have been able to refuse him. Her steward, Utherydes Wayn, had even drawn up plans to call the banners and march up the Neck. The Long Night come again would demand it. Thank the Seven that would not be. Ned and Robb were well, and King Stannis had sortied the Royal Fleet for nothing.

Robb had children of his own, she remembered, a daughter and an infant son, babes she had never seen. Let it be a short winter, she prayed, and her family might come together again. She set aside the unneeded plans to raise an army and sighed, instead going over their stores of grain and salt beef. The unseasonably warm autumn had finally fled, and they must needs prepare for the winter to come.

"My lady, are you well?" asked cute Catelyn Bracken, her ward and lady-in-waiting.

"Yes, child," she answered kindly to her future good daughter. Young Cat, as the castle folk called her, was of an age with Arya and of sturdy build, broad in the shoulder and hip just like Alyx Bolton. The perfect wife for her son. She had brown hair with big brown doe eyes to match, and she seemed cheerful enough, but there was a sadness underneath.

Young Cat refilled Catelyn's goblet of watered wine with the last of a flagon she'd been carrying and set it down. "Might I have leave to go to the yard? Bran has tilting practice today and promised to wear my favor!"

"You have it."

Poor girl, Catelyn thought. Stone Hedge was a ghost of a castle now. The Red Rot had fallen hard in those lands, taking Young Cat's father and two older sisters. She was the ruling lady of House Bracken now, such as it was. Now they needed Tully men to help keep the peace.

The disease came up from the Reach, striking Stony Sept first, then climbing up the Red Fork of the Trident. Worst of all, it seemed to strike randomly. Bracken lands were devastated, while Blackwood was untouched. Riverrun and Harrenhal had been fortunate as well, thank goodness. For Catelyn Bracken's sake, she tried to organize relief, but it would likely not be enough.

Tytos Blackwood claimed it was the wrath of the old gods, who had waxed strong since Domeric Scalp-Taker had awakened the Raventree that gave his castle its name. Cat put no stock in such foolishness, but Lord Bolton seemed to have the devil's own luck. Their victory was largely his doing, according to her husband Ned. Even Robb admitted that he would have fallen at the battle of the Wolfswood if not for the Bolton men holding his right.

Well, Cat might be thankful for that much. Domeric Bolton was ambitious, but not too ambitious. After the peace at the Wall, he'd gone home. She supposed she must reconcile herself with the inevitable truth that a granddaughter of hers would likely wed his son. That was the way of things.

Some time ago, a Green Man from the Isle of Faces came to Riverrun, offering to plant a weirwood in her castle godswood. Cat might've refused him, but little Rickon begged. There was more of the North in that one, almost like Arya. Cat despaired of her younger daughter, who was one of Bolton's bannermen now. She would marry Lady Bolton's little brother and breed a cadet line of Starks. In defiance of all custom, her promised husband would be taking her name, but Catelyn couldn't forget that he had been born a Frey.

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As for her other children, Bran would make a knight, and Sansa was already a lady. They did their devotions in Riverrun's sept every seventh day, and grew more Tully-like all the time.

Cat knew Sansa needed to be wed, but who? She had no say with Robb and Arya. Bran's match was born of necessity, but mayhaps Sansa might find some happiness in her husband. Within the year, Cat promised herself. There'd been enough delay, but making a choice felt paralyzing. It didn't help that Sansa fell in love with every handsome young knight who spent a night beneath Riverrun's roof. If her daughter had a special favorite, it would be easier, but Sansa was changeable, favoring one lad and then another. That could not go on forever.

She pushed away from the desk in her solar, her father's solar, truly. It would never feel like hers, not in twenty years. "These accounts and ledgers will keep," Cat said to the empty room. Life would slow down in the winter, so it would be best to make the big decisions as soon as may be. Tonight, she resolved to have a good long talk with Sansa about what she really wanted in a husband. The girl was a surpassing beauty, a maid of sixteen in full flower of womanhood, with blood ties to many noble houses. There might not be a more eligible girl in all the realm, not even Princess Shireen.

Rather than make the climb down the tower stairs, Cat decided to walk the wall. There was a spot with a good view of the yard.

Below, Bran sat a chestnut courser. He'd finally grown beyond ponies. Her son rode hard at a quintain, struck the shield in the center with his lance, and set the dummy spinning wildly. Ser Desmond Grell, all her knights and men-at-arms, and Catelyn Bracken most of all cheered lustily. Uncle Brynden gave a small nod of approval, which Cat knew meant more than all the rest.

If my son ever rides in tourneys, he'll be ready, Catelyn vowed, not like foolish, drunken Edmure. A Tully soldier handed the boy a fresh lance, and he wheeled for another pass while another man straightened the quintain. Catelyn Bracken's eyes didn't look quite so sad when Bran was near, Cat noticed. That was good. The boy was as chivalrous as you could wish, with her favor tied around his arm.

"My lady," Maester Vyman said, making Cat start. She hadn't heard him approach over the noise of the yard.

"Is there news?" she asked.

"Aye, this is the seal of the King's Hand."

Lord Alester Florent? Cat wondered what it might be. It would not be like King Stannis to host a victory celebration.

She broke the seal, unrolled the parchment, and rapidly read its contents.

This...this could not be true.

The Hand claimed that Euron Greyjoy had returned from his long exile, landing with an army of slave soldiers and a dragon. A dragon! Others and children and now dragons! Cat did not want to believe it, but that was unmistakably the Florent seal. It was not impossible that some adventurer might take advantage of the king's absence. While His Grace was busy in the North, much mischief might be made in the south.

"I'll believe we'll call the banners after all," she told Maester Vyman.