A Clash of Kings

“Yes, but once the castle falls, Lord Tywin will have no safe retreat. My own levies will defend the fords of Red Fork against his crossing. If he attacks across the river, he’ll end as Rhaegar did when he tried to cross the Trident. If he holds back, he’ll be caught between Riverrun and Harrenhal, and when Robb returns from the west we can finish him for good and all.”

Her brother’s voice was full of brusque confidence, but Catelyn found herself wishing that Robb had not taken her uncle Brynden west with him. The Blackfish was the veteran of half a hundred battles; Edmure was the veteran of one, and that one lost.

“The plan’s a good one,” he concluded. “Lord Tytos says so, and Lord Jonos as well. When did Blackwood and Bracken agree about anything that was not certain, I ask you?”

“Be that as it may.” She was suddenly weary. Perhaps she was wrong to oppose him. Perhaps it was a splendid plan, and her misgivings only a woman’s fears. She wished Ned were here, or her uncle Brynden, or . . . “Have you asked Father about this?”

“Father is in no state to weigh strategies. Two days ago he was making plans for your marriage to Brandon Stark! Go see him yourself if you do not believe me. This plan will work, Cat, you’ll see.”

“I hope so, Edmure. I truly do.” She kissed him on the cheek, to let him know she meant it, and went to find her father.

Lord Hoster Tully was much as she had left him—abed, haggard, flesh pale and clammy. The room smelled of sickness, a cloying odor made up in equal parts of stale sweat and medicine. When she pulled back the drapes, her father gave a low moan, and his eyes fluttered open. He stared at her as if he could not comprehend who she was or what she wanted.

“Father.” She kissed him. “I am returned.”

He seemed to know her then. “You’ve come,” he whispered faintly, lips barely moving.

“Yes,” she said. “Robb sent me south, but I hurried back.”

“South . . . where . . . is the Eyrie south, sweetling? I don’t recall . . . oh, dear heart, I was afraid . . . have you forgiven me, child?” Tears ran down his cheeks.

“You’ve done nothing that needs forgiveness, Father.” She stroked his limp white hair and felt his brow. The fever still burned him from within, despite all the maester’s potions.

“It was best,” her father whispered. “Jon’s a good man, good . . . strong, kind . . . take care of you . . . he will . . . and well-born, listen to me, you must, I’m your father . . . your father . . . you’ll wed when Cat does, yes you will . . .”

He thinks I’m Lysa , Catelyn realized. Gods be good, he talks as if we were not married yet.

Her father’s hands clutched at hers, fluttering like two frightened white birds. “That stripling . . . wretched boy . . . not speak that name to me, your duty . . . your mother, she would . . .” Lord Hoster cried as a spasm of pain washed over him. “Oh, gods forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. My medicine . . .”

And then Maester Vyman was there, holding a cup to his lips. Lord Hoster sucked at the thick white potion as eager as a babe at the breast, and Catelyn could see peace settle over him once more. “He’ll sleep now, my lady,” the maester said when the cup was empty. The milk of the poppy had left a thick white film around her father’s mouth. Maester Vyman wiped it away with a sleeve.

Catelyn could watch no more. Hoster Tully had been a strong man, and proud. It hurt her to see him reduced to this. She went out to the terrace. The yard below was crowded with refugees and chaotic with their noises, but beyond the walls the rivers flowed clean and pure and endless. Those are his rivers, and soon he will return to them for his last voyage.

Maester Vyman had followed her out. “My lady,” he said softly, “I cannot keep the end at bay much longer. We ought send a rider after his brother. Ser Brynden would wish to be here.”

“Yes,” Catelyn said, her voice thick with her grief.

“And the Lady Lysa as well, perhaps?”

“Lysa will not come.”

“If you wrote her yourself, perhaps . . .”

“I will put some words to paper, if that please you.” She wondered who Lysa’s “wretched stripling” had been. Some young squire or hedge knight, like as not . . . though by the vehemence with which Lord Hoster had opposed him, he might have been a tradesman’s son or baseborn apprentice, even a singer. Lysa had always been too fond of singers. I must not blame her. Jon Arryn was twenty years older than our father, however noble.

The tower her brother had set aside for her use was the very same that she and Lysa had shared as maids. It would feel good to sleep on a featherbed again, with a warm fire in the hearth; when she was rested the world would seem less bleak.