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come as well?"

He sounded so full of hope and yearning that it was hard to tell the truth. "No. I'm sorry . . ."

"Oh." His face fell, and some light went out of his eyes. "I'd hoped I would have liked to see her, before

"She's with her son, in the Eyrie."

Lord Hoster gave a weary nod. "Lord Robert now, poor Arryn's gone . . . I remember . . . why did she

not come with you?"

"She is frightened, my lord. In the Eyrie she feels safe." She kissed his wrinkled brow. "Robb will be

waiting. Will you see him? And Brynden?"

"Your son," he whispered. "Yes. Cat's child . . . he had my eyes, I remember. When he was born. Bring

him . . . yes."

"And your brother?"

Her father glanced out over the rivers. "Blackfish," he said. "Has he wed yet? Taken some . . . girl to

wife?"

Even on his deathbed, Catelyn thought sadly. "He has not wed. You know that, Father. Nor will he

ever."

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"I told him . . . commanded him. Marry! I was his lord. He knows. My right, to make his match. A good

match. A Redwyne. Old House. Sweet girl, pretty . . . freckles . . . Bethany, yes. Poor child. Still waiting.

Yes. Still . . ."

"Bethany Redwyne wed Lord Rowan years ago," Catelyn reminded him. "She has three children by

him."

"Even so," Lord Hoster muttered. "Even so. Spit on the girl. The Redwynes. Spit on me. His lord, his

brother . . . that Blackfish. I had other offers. Lord Bracken's girl. Walder Frey . . . any of three, he said .

. . Has he wed? Anyone? Anyone?"

"No one," Catelyn said, "yet he has come many leagues to see you, fighting his way back to Riverrun. I

would not be here now, if Ser Brynden had not helped us."

"He was ever a warrior," her father husked. "That he could do. Knight of the Gate, yes." He leaned back

and closed his eyes, inutterably weary. "Send him. Later. I'll sleep now. Too sick to fight. Send him up

later, the Blackfish . . ."

Catelyn kissed him gently, smoothed his hair, and left him there in the shade of his keep, with his rivers

flowing beneath. He was asleep before she left the solar.

When she returned to the lower bailey, Ser Brynden Tully stood on the water stairs with wet boots,

talking with the captain of Riverrun's guards. He came to her at once. "Is he-T'

"Dying," she said. "As we feared."

Her uncle's craggy face showed his pain plain. He ran his fingers through his thick grey hair. "Will he see

me?"

She nodded. "He says he is too sick to fight."

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Brynden Blackfish chuckled. "I am too old a soldier to believe that. Hoster will be chiding me about the

Redwyne girl even as we light his funeral pyre, damn his bones."

Catelyn smiled, knowing it was true. "I do not see Robb."

"He went with Greyjoy to the hall, I believe."

Theon Greyjoy was seated on a bench in Riverrun's Great Hall, enjoying a horn of ale and regaling her

father's garrison with an account of the slaughter in the Whispering Wood. "Some tried to flee, but we'd

pinched the valley shut at both ends, and we rode out of the darkness with sword and lance. The

Lannisters must have thought the

Others themselves were on them when that wolf of Robb's got in among them. I saw him tear one man's

arm from his shoulder, and their horses went mad at the scent of him. I couldn't tell you how many men

were thrown-"

"Theon," she interrupted, "where might I find my son?"

"Lord Robb went to visit the godswood, MY lady.,,

It was what Ned would have done. He is his father's son as much as mine, I must remember. Oh, gods,

Ned . . .

She found Robb beneath the green canopy of leaves, surrounded by tall redwoods and great old elms,

kneeling before the heart tree, a slender weirwood with a face more sad than fierce. His longsword was

before him, the point thrust in the earth, his gloved hands clasped around the hilt. Around him others

knelt: Greatjon Umber, Rickard Karstark, Maege Mormont, Galbart Glover, and more. Even Tytos

Blackwood was among them, the great raven cloak fanned out behind him. These are the ones who keep

the old gods, she realized. She asked herself what gods she kept these days, and could not find an

answer.

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It would not do to disturb them at their prayers. The gods must have their due . . . even cruel gods who

would take Ned from her, and her lord father as well. So Catelyn waited. The river wind moved through

the high branches, and she could see the Wheel Tower to her right, ivy crawling up its side. As she stood

there, all the memories came flooding back to her. Her father had taught her to ride amongst these trees,

and that was the elm that Edmure had fallen from when he broke his arm, and over there, beneath that

bower, she and Lysa had played at kissing with Petyr.

She had not thought of that in years. How young they all had been-she no older than Sansa, Lysa

younger than Arya, and Petyr younger still, yet eager. The girls had traded him between them, serious

and giggling by turns. It came back to her so vividly she could almost feel his sweaty fingers on her

shoulders and taste the mint on his breath. There was always mint growing in the godswood, and Petyr

had liked to chew it. He had been such a bold little boy, always in trouble. "He tried to put his tongue in

my mouth," Catelyn had confessed to her sister afterward, when they were alone. "He did with me too,"

Lysa had whispered, shy and breathless. "I liked it."

Robb got to his feet slowly and sheathed his sword, and Catelyn found herself wondering whether her

son had ever kissed a girl in the godswood. Surely he must have. She had seen Jeyne Poole giving him

moist-eyed glances, and some of the serving girls, even ones as old as eighteen . . . he had ridden in

battle and killed men with a sword,

surely he had been kissed. There were tears in her eyes. She wiped them away angrily.

"Mother," Robb said when he saw her standing there. "We must call a council. There are things to be

decided."

"Your grandfather would like to see you," she said. "Robb, he's very sick."

"Ser Edmure told me. I am sorry, Mother . . . for Lord Hoster and for you. Yet first we must meet.

We've had word from the south. Renly Baratheon has claimed his brother's crown."

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"Renly?" she said, shocked. "I had thought, surely it would be Lord Stannis . . ."

"So did we all, my lady," Galbart Glover said.

The war council convened in the Great Hall, at four long trestle tables arranged in a broken square. Lord

Hoster was too weak to attend, asleep on his balcony, dreaming of the sun on the rivers of his youth.

Edmure sat in the high seat of the Tullys, with Brynden Blackfish at his side, and his father's bannermen

arrayed to right and left and along the side tables. Word of the victory at Riverrun had spread to the

fugitive lords of the Trident, drawing them back. Karyl Vance came in, a lord now, his father dead

beneath the Golden Tooth. Ser Marq Piper was with him, and they brought a Darry, Ser Raymun's son,

a lad no older than Bran. Lord Jonos Bracken arrived from the ruins of Stone Hedge, glowering and

blustering, and took a seat as far from Tytos Blackwood as the tables would permit.

The northern lords sat opposite, with Catelyn and Robb facing her brother across the tables. They were