Chapter Text
Prologue
Catelyn
Catelyn stepped through the cobblestone path through the gardens to the sandstone sept, holding her black lambswool skirts in her hand to keep them out of the damp. It was autumn, and drizzly, but Minisa Tully’s garden still bloomed pink, purple and white with asters and autumn crocuses. How Sansa would love them, Catelyn thought. Her heart twisted. Her sons, at least, were alive, Bran and Rickon at Winterfell and Robb here at Riverrun; but Sansa and Arya were hostages of the Lannisters and Catelyn could only hope and pray that they were well-treated. Gods, please bring my daughters back to me.
She felt a soft hand on her arm. “My lady, I can only imagine the pain that must be in a mother’s heart – but the Mother Above understands. Let us go in and say our prayers before we get soaked.”
Catelyn wondered what Septa Juliane thought of the torrential autumn rains that soaked the Riverlands, if this drizzle was a “soaking.” The septa had swathed herself in a hooded cloak of tightly woven, water-repellent wool over her white robes and headdress, while Catelyn herself walked bareheaded, her still-vivid auburn hair flowing to below her waist. On impulse, she stopped to pluck two of the autumn asters – a blue one for Sansa and a white one for Arya.
The small sept was bathed in rainbow light from the crystal on the high altar. Pools of wax clotted the niches below the painted figures of the Seven. With the war, the small and the great alike had more reason to pray than ever, and candle flames danced before the Mother, the Maiden and the Warrior.
All septs kept candles near the High Altar for those who wished to make offerings to the gods. Wealthy septs such as Riverrun’s had wax candles, white and scented; poor ones made do with plain tallow.
Septa Juliane, entering behind Catelyn, took a candle and went to where the Maiden with her golden hair and white dress smiled down upon her worshippers. Catelyn sighed. She had prayed every day to the Mother and the Maiden to watch over her girls. Perhaps it was time for new prayers.
Catelyn lit three candles. The first was to the Smith, who repaired broken things. She asked the Smith to repair her broken family and make it whole again. The next candle was for the Crone, that She might raise Her lamp and light the way home for Sansa and Arya. Then, finally, the Stranger. Very few people ever lit candles at the altar of the Stranger. But Catelyn felt that it was her duty to give every one of the Seven a prayer. I was born dutiful, she thought. I’ve done my duty to my family, my husband, my son, and, yes, the Seven, too.
She unfolded herself from before the altar. Getting up from her knees didn’t come as easily as it had before. When had the stiffness crept up on her? She was only six-and-thirty – that was not old; she was still young enough to have borne more children if Ned had lived. Both she and Ned had always hoped that there would be another son or daughter after Rickon. But, fertile or not, Catelyn was old enough to be a grandmother, and might be one soon. Robb had promised to marry a Frey girl, and Sansa too was to be married once she was rescued. Arya was betrothed to one of the Frey boys, but Catelyn was hoping that this betrothal could be broken before Arya was old enough to wed. Arya was still not quite thirteen, almost certainly not yet flowered.
Leaving Septa Juliane to her prayers, Catelyn left the sept and on a sudden impulse went to the godswood. She had never followed or even really understood the Old Gods that Ned had loved so well, and the Riverrun godswood was intended for a pleasure garden and not a place of worship. But her girls were Starks of Winterfell, and the Old Gods looked after them. Catelyn put the crumpled and wilted asters she had picked from the garden beneath a redwood and prayed to whoever, or whatever, whispered through the branches, to bring her daughters safely home to her.
A large drop of water falling on her head startled Catelyn, and she knew she had to go back inside – it was getting on for late afternoon, it was damp and chilly, and she was bareheaded and uncloaked. She went inside and up to her chamber, which was warm from the fire in the hearth. Sinking into a chair, she sent a maidservant for a cup of hot spiced wine. Soon the room was filled with the fragrance of spices mingling with the smell of steaming wool and rosewater from Catelyn’s dress.
There was a knock on the door. “Cat?”
“Come in!” Uncle Brynden Blackfish was one of the few people Catelyn wanted to face right now. Soon it would be suppertime, and a hall full of men, and shouting, and talk of war, and Theon smirking at her when Robb wasn’t looking.
Uncle Brynden seated himself in the chair across from Catelyn’s by the fire and said, “I’m glad Robb took your advice, child, and sent Tytos Blackwood to treat with Balon Greyjoy.”
Catelyn gave a wan smile. “I don’t trust Theon.” And especially with my daughter. “And he’s of more value of a hostage than an envoy. And do you realize that when you praised my sage counsel you still called me ‘child’?” Catelyn’s smile was wider now; her uncle had said the first thing that amused her all day.
“Tytos Blackwood is sharp, and he brings an offer that would tempt even a crazy fool like Balon Greyjoy. Robb offers Balon a crown, his sister for a good-daughter, and all the Lannister loot they can raid, in exchange for the Iron Islands alliance. And,” he continued, “the ‘child’ just slips out sometimes. The privilege of age.” Brynden winked and took another swallow of his wine.
“At least Theon’s no Joffrey Baratheon.” Catelyn, solemn again, swirled the dregs of the wine in her cup. “Although he’s not the husband Ned or I ever envisioned for Sansa…”
There was another knock on the door. “My lady?” Catelyn heard Septa Juliane’s soft, sweet voice.
Catelyn got up and went to the door, resolving to find some way to send Septa Juliane on her way somehow. She liked the woman and normally enjoyed her company, but now was not the time. There were so few opportunities these days to sit and chat with her beloved uncle with no-one else around. Brynden Tully was one of Robb’s most trusted and capable commanders along with the Greatjon and Roose Bolton. Catelyn herself had her hands full with managing Riverrun, trying to help manage Winterfell at a distance, and advise Robb.
“Yes?” Catelyn opened the door partway.
Juliane curtseyed. “My lady, I am so sorry to interrupt, but I just want to get my sewing basket. I left it here.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. Come on in.” Juliane smiled her sweet, bland smile that seemed carved into her face – Catelyn sometimes wondered if she was born with it – swept in, found her basket, curtseyed again to Catelyn and Brynden, and retreated silently on slippered feet.
Returning to her chair, Catelyn sighed, “I just want my daughters to be happy. For a woman, everything depends upon the man who is chosen for her. I was lucky. I had a good man who was easy to love. Lysa didn’t.”
“Jon Arryn was a good man, but he was old enough to be Lysa’s grandfather, and what young woman wants to be married off to an old man? And Lysa is not you, child. You are easy to love, and Lysa is not. From what you tell me of Sansa, she is very much your daughter. Theon is young and good-looking, he and Sansa have grown up together, and he loves her.”
“He – what?” said Catelyn, startled.
“He told me that he had always dreamed of being able to marry Sansa, and when Robb had announced their betrothal, it was a dream come true for him. As much for the fact that she’s a Stark as for her beauty, I will wager,” said Brynden. “No matter, the lad will treat Sansa well for Robb’s sake as much as her own, I’m sure.”
“I had no idea,” Catelyn said, “and I am very sure that Ned didn’t. And even if he did, Ned would have said ‘no.’ If Theon loves Sansa like he says, I hope he can treat her well and be a good and faithful husband to her.” Catelyn emphasized the word, “faithful.” Ned loved me well, yet still he brought a bastard home and insisted on raising him with our own trueborn children. Theon’s quite like to have left more than one baseborn babe in his wake already. Will he prove another Robert Baratheon?
“Sansa is your daughter, Cat. I only met her once, many years ago, but I always thought she was very like you. And if she’s still her mother’s daughter, she will build a happy marriage. All women can’t have Ned Stark for a husband. Stop fretting over something that hasn’t even happened yet, Cat, first we must get your daughters back. Then we worry about Theon being a good husband to Sansa.”
“If only Robb would consent to trading Jaime Lannister for Sansa and Arya,” Catelyn sighed.
“I would have it too, child,” Brynden replied. “The girls are family, and I want them safe in Riverrun too. But so many of his bannermen feel differently…”
“Especially Rickard Karstark, Roose Bolton, and Jonos Bracken,” said Catelyn. “Maege Mormont understands how I feel, because she has daughters whom she loves, but Jonos Bracken can’t even remember all his daughter’s names, I’m sure. And Walder Frey’s another. ‘Heh. You can always make more daughters,’ he’d say.” Catelyn shuddered.
“Robb and the Lannister Imp are negotiating sending Tion Frey and Willem Lannister in exchange for the girls,” Brynden reassured her. “Even if that doesn’t work, there will be other Lannister hostages, and if Robb can invade the Westerlands, Lannister gold as well. We’ll get those girls back.”
Catelyn smiled and wiped her eyes. Her uncle always had good advice and knew what to say to make her feel better. All things considered, Theon Greyjoy might not be too bad – he wasn’t Joffrey Baratheon, nor Walder Frey. And somehow her daughters would be returned to her and her broken family made almost whole again. Almost.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tytos Blackwood
The Ironborn longship was waiting for Tytos Blackwood, Lord of Raventree, at Seagard. Beneath the Greyjoy kraken flew a standard of a drowned man, with pink flesh and streaming blond hair, fish nibbling at his stomach and chest. House Sunderly, Tytos recalled. Balon Greyjoy’s mother had been a Sunderly. Tytos had spent the last few days at Seagard brushing up on his Iron Islands heraldry and talking with King Robb, Catelyn Tully, Jason Mallister and the Blackfish. Jason Mallister had, in fact, been the King’s first pick for his envoy, but Lord Jason himself had declined.
“Your Grace, I am honored that you want me to treat with Greyjoy, but I am the one who killed his eldest son beneath the walls of Seagard, and I am sure to be about as welcome as greyscale at Pyke. Send Lord Tytos. No bad blood there.”
So Tytos Blackwood found himself aboard an Ironborn longship, sipping from a bottle of a syrupy ginger-smelling concoction that Seagard’s maester had sworn to him would prevent seasickness – it did, somewhat – with an offer from Robb, King in the North, to Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands, in hand. An alliance with the North, a splendid marriage for Balon’s son and heir – much better than any Greyjoy could have expected under other circumstances – all in exchange for sacking Lannisport and sailing away with as much loot as they could carry. These islands are poor, and Greyjoy has but the one son and a maiden daughter. He’d do well to accept Robb’s offer of an alliance and his sister. With his heir married to Princess Sansa, and his ships full of Westerlands plunder, he can spend the rest of his life sitting pretty on his little island, knee-deep in gold and grandchildren. Not a bad way to spend one’s old age.
And I want this alliance to work as much as the Young Wolf does, for my own reasons, Tytos mused. Thank you, Lannisters, for your bountiful gift of a desert in place of mine own lush estates. Some of Tywin Lannister’s golden shit is the only fertilizer I want.
The captain of the longship mostly ignored Tytos, and the crew were brusque and unfriendly, commenting disparagingly on “Greenlanders.” They laughed at his fine clothing and, to his dismay, his raven-feather cloak, wondering if he had “paid the iron price” for it. Tytos held his tongue. He knew what “the iron price” meant – he was not such a fool as to go on a diplomatic mission completely uninformed as to the customs of the land he was visiting – but he didn’t want to waste his energy picking fights with crewmen; he wanted to save both energy and patience for treating with Lord Balon, and from everything he had heard about the old kraken, he’d need plenty of both. So Lord Tytos spent most of his time belowdecks, where the howling wind and drenching rain did not penetrate – much – and he was mostly left alone. Tytos thanked the gods he was not born an Iron Islander, for he could not imagine being stuck on one of these miserable floating prisons for months or years on end. The Old Gods, like the trees whose whispering leaves were their voices, were firmly rooted in the earth.
After a dismal few days, which seemed like an eternity to Tytos, he saw Pyke looming through the driving rain. What he saw in the fading afternoon light as the longship pulled up along the cliffs was not a cheering sight. The seat of the Greyjoys consisted of seven dreary towers, which appeared to be part of the surf-battered, lichen-covered cliffs themselves. Each tower stood on its own rocky island. They were linked one to another by bridges and walkways. Tytos wondered if he was going to have to cross one of the flimsy rope bridges that swayed and shuddered in the wind.
The Sunderly longship pulled into a gap between the gatehouse and the largest of the stone towers. If Balon Greyjoy had not condescended to send a longship, Tytos would have had to find a merchant ship to take him to Lordsport, the only safe anchorage for ordinary ships, on the other side of the island.
“Here we are, the Great Keep, that’s where you’ll sleep tonight,” said the captain. “Here, you,” he snapped his fingers at a crewman, “show Lord, ah, Blacktree…”
“That’s Blackwood,” Tytos corrected him.
“Blackwood, then, to the keep. Then get your arse back here on board.”
Another man grabbed Tytos’ trunk and they were off down the gangplank and up winding stone steps to the Great Keep. Tytos had to watch his feet carefully; he found himself slipping more than once on the algae that coated the worn stone.
An old woman, with stringy gray hair in a messy braid down her back and wearing a shapeless brown wool dress, greeted them. “M’lord, I’m Helya, Lord Greyjoy’s steward. I’ll show you to your chambers.”
“Helya. I am Tytos Blackwood, Lord of Raventree Hall, the King in the North’s envoy to Balon Greyjoy.” He wondered at a peasant woman serving as household steward. Everywhere else in Westeros that he knew about, high lords’ stewards were younger sons of landed knights or petty lordlings, or at least well born enough to bear a surname and coat of arms. And noble girls were trained in household management, for when they married. Some, like the latest Lady Frey, left their stewards entirely in charge, but most were more like Catelyn Stark or Layla Mallister or Tytos’ own late lady wife, and worked closely with their stewards. Many widowers had a grown daughter or widowed sister or impoverished aunt or cousin live with them and help run their household. Lord Balon supposedly had a wife. Tytos wondered where she was, or if she was a poor manager. And why did a great lord leave a peasant woman to run his castle? But he was a guest, and guests were polite to stewards, unless they never wanted to be invited back. To be rude to servants was a mark of ill-breeding.
They climbed up another flight of stone stairs to a small and gloomy chamber. “Here you are, m’lord. You!” Helya pointed at the man with Tytos’ trunk, “put that down here, “and you!” she grabbed a serving woman seemingly from thin air, “supper for m’lord.”
“And water so I can wash, please,” Tytos requested.
Helya lit a candle. The room was still cheerless, but at least now Tytos could see to walk. The crewman dumped Tytos’ trunk unceremoniously in one corner, where it banged open, strewing clothing over what looked to be a very dusty Myrish carpet. Before Tytos could grab the man’s arm, the trunk-dumper left the room, took the stairs two at a time and was gone.
“When the girl comes back, please have her pick up my clothes off the floor, fold them and put them away,” Tytos said to Helya. “Where is the lady of the castle? I would speak to her.”
“Gone to her brother’s, and not coming back,” snapped the steward.
That explains a lot. Well, Catelyn Stark’s daughter ought to be able to set things to rights, if she’s at all like her mother.
Helya soon left, and two serving women came in, one with a tray of food and another with a basin of water and a sliver of soap. They set both down on the table and the water-bearer left with a bang of the door. The woman who had served Tytos’ food wiped her nose on her sleeve and turned to fold his clothes. Tytos prodded his stew with his spoon. The meal was meager fare for a high lord’s castle – unseasoned goat stew, black bread, and warm beer, more like what Tytos would expect to eat in camp rather than as a lord’s guest. He looked around the room. The single candle illuminated a worn and dusty Myrish carpet and moth-eaten, decrepit Lyseni tapestries; one depicted the Doom of Valyria, and another was garishly rendered with a leering black-haired pirate with a red-haired woman slung over his shoulder. Tytos were sure these had once been costly, if tawdry – although the Ironborn must have paid what they called the “iron price” and stolen them – and could have been passed down for generations had they been properly cared for. Raventree Hall had tapestries that were hundreds of years old, and still beautiful and in good repair, gracing its walls. The room exuded an aura of neglect; it was as if no children had played or squires practiced at arms or women danced or sewed here in many years.
The next morning, Tytos breakfasted on soft-boiled eggs – thankfully fresh – and more black bread, and donned a dark red velvet doublet, black breeches and black boots. Slinging his raven-feather cloak over his shoulders, he picked up the leather pouch containing the document from King Robb to Lord Balon Greyjoy, and followed the manservant who was to show him the way to Lord Balon’s solar in the Sea Tower.
Tytos listened to the hypnotic sound of the ocean waves breaking against the covered bridges. It was soothing, in a way. The swaying rope bridge, on the other hand…they were like trying to keep one’s balance on a giant writhing snake poised high above the crashing waves. Tytos held his head high as he strode across the bridge. Let them laugh at Greenlanders. It was us who conquered them, not the other way around. I have commanded battles. I am made of sterner stuff than these chest-beating, tough-talking ironborn. He was still glad when his feet touched solid ground again.
Here was the Sea Tower, where the Lord of Pyke and his family lived. Tytos climbed up another flight of damp stone steps to a door made of old wood, rotted in some places and moldy in others, bound by rusted iron. His escort knocked on the door and then left. The hinge creaked as the door opened wide enough to show the face of a guard. “M’lord Blackwood?”
“Yes. I’m the envoy sent by the King in the North to Lord Greyjoy.”
“Come in then,” said the guard and opened the door. The lord’s solar was dank and drafty, and almost as ill-kept as Tytos’ room was – the kraken-patterned hangings on the walls showed rot and mold, and nothing in the room looked very clean, not least its lordly occupant.
Balon Greyjoy, who once called himself King of the Islands, was a small gaunt man with a hard bony face, thin lips, and flat black eyes like pieces of jet. Tangled gray hair hung down past the small of his back. He was garbed in a long robe of dirty sealskin and worn leather boots. Theon had said that his father had told him, long ago when he was sent to Winterfell as a hostage, that the Iron Islands bred hard men for a hard life. Balon’s years of hard living showed on him so that he looked almost as old as Hoster Tully, although he couldn’t have been more than Tytos’ or Jason Mallister’s age.
“So. You’re here from Robb the Boy.”
“My lord.” Tytos bowed. He was determined not to meet rudeness with rudeness; being the father of seven children and fostering numerous pages and squires had taught him patience and to hold his temper. But Balon Greyjoy promised to be more exasperating than the mouthiest spoiled lordling Tytos had ever met. “I am the King in the North’s envoy. Here is the letter he sent.” Tytos handed it over to him.
“Here. You might as well sit,” Greyjoy growled as he broke open the direwolf seal on the letter and began reading. “The boy king writes to me as a brother king, asking me to join with him against the Lannisters…”
Tytos remembered how Catelyn Stark, Jason Mallister and the Greatjon Umber had wrangled with King Robb for hours writing that letter. At first, the Young Wolf wanted to offer the old kraken a crown in exchange for his allegiance. Catelyn Stark had been aghast. “Balon Greyjoy is a proud and stubborn old man, Catelyn had said. “He would never do the bidding of a boy young enough to be his son. Treat him as if he were a king already. Show respect for age and experience even if you don’t really mean it.” The Greatjon had finally settled things by saying “Unless you plan to send Grey Wind to bite off a few of Greyjoy’s tentacles, you better not forget that you are a lad of eighteen and he was proud and stupid enough to think the Old Way can be revived.”Wanting to put the discussion back on a footing more respectful to King Robb, Tytos said, “King Robb, the Young Wolf, is a warrior of reknown. The man you call ‘the boy’ captured none other than Jaime Lannister at the Battle of the Whispering Wood. Where your own son acquitted himself most bravely.”
Greyjoy shot Tytos a baleful glare. “So…my son…has he been turned into a soft Greenlander?”
“Your son is a brave warrior, your, er, Your Grace.” Not entirely a lie. “He is respected by all.” Somewhat of a lie. “As for being a soft Greenlander, I’m a very poor judge of that. But speaking of the Young Wolf and your son – Robb Stark has your son. Your only son – as his hostage. You’d do best to consider that very carefully. If you take up arms against King Robb, he could send you your son’s head. And then your family line will die out.”
“I have a daughter. A brave and beautiful daughter who is fit to sit the Seastone Chair after me.”
“I have a daughter I cherish, so I know the love a father can bear his daughter. But your much-loved daughter is still a maid of three-and-twenty, unmarried, with no children. When are you planning to arrange a marriage for her? And your brothers – they have never had children, and at their ages, are like to die childless. Princess Sansa is young and beautiful, very like her mother, who has raised five healthy children. The Princess will give you grandchildren, heirs to sit your Seastone Chair after you and continue the Greyjoy dynasty. The Starks and Tullys have been Great Houses since the Age of Heroes. Robb Stark could not offer you a fairer or more noble maid for your son.”
Greyjoy looked sour. “So King Robb wants me to beard the old lion in his den? Casterly Rock? Tywin Lannister is too clever. No-one has ever been able to take Casterly Rock. The North, on the other hand…”
“…is still very well defended by at least five thousand men, not counting the mountain clans,” Tytos replied. “King Robb is not the fool you might think he is; he wouldn’t leave just old men and young boys behind to defend what is his home. You are about as likely to take Winterfell as you are Casterly Rock, and the Northern lords love the Starks in a way the southron lords do not love their Lannisters.” Tytos pressed on. “The wealth of the North lies in timber, in furs, in wool, in ivory. The wealth of the Westerlands lies in gold and gems. Which sounds better to you? Chasing sable through the Wolfswood, skinning them and hauling the furs all the way back to Sea Dragon Point? Or sailing into Lannisport, burning the Lannister fleet, packing your ships with all the gold and gems and silks you can carry, maybe seizing Fair Isle and a goldmine or two, and then sailing back to Pyke, where the lions can do nothing but stand on Casterly Rock and roar? King Robb is not asking you to take Casterly Rock – he’s not a fool. He wants you as an ally to pull the lions every which way until they are declawed.”
“Hm.” Greyjoy frowned down at the letter. “Gold and gems…”
“Isn’t that your Old Way that you want to revive?” Tytos asked. “Well there you are, Robb Stark wants to help you revive it!” He had no idea what Robb would say if he heard him saying that, and he had a very good idea of what Catelyn would say, and it would not be courteous or ladylike. But Tytos was a man with a mission.
“Ssst.” Balon gritted his teeth. He shot Tytos a look of pure loathing, then grabbed a pen and paper and scribbled. “I’m telling your Young Wolf Pup that he can have my Iron Fleet and my allegiance once my son and Princess Wolf are wedded and bedded. Then I’ll be happy to pull the lion’s tail. And until Theon and Wolf Girl are wedded and bedded, I take no sides and keep my ships docked. Here, if you don’t believe me, you can look at it.” Greyjoy shoved the paper under Tytos’ nose. It confirmed exactly what Greyjoy said. Greyjoy sealed the paper in black sealing wax stamped with a kraken and gave it to Tytos. Then he said:
“Get out! I want you out of my castle and to Lordsport by tonight.”
“It will make me a happy man to comply with Your Grace’s wish,” said Tytos. As he left the room, he wondered what kind of homecoming Theon was going to have. The boy had left his homeland at ten – seemingly taking all the smiles at Pyke with him – and had only the most misty, idealized child’s recollections of what life was like among the Ironborn. If only he knew the reality, Theon would shit his silken smallclothes. A soft Greenlander indeed. His father was bound to be equally disappointed with his son. Tytos was not confident that the Princess Sansa could be winkled out of King’s Landing anytime soon, but at least Greyjoy had promised to take no sides until then. Greyjoy might well have used the excuse of the wedding and bedding knowing that the Lannisters wanted to keep a tight hold on Sansa Stark and were not about to let her go for anyone less than the Kingslayer, if even him. Greyjoy might well be able to sit out most of the war. At least his mission was not a complete failure. The Iron Islands were not a threat. King Robb had one less headache. Tytos hoped that both the princesses, Sansa and Arya, could be ransomed and returned, not just for the sake of alliances, but for their mother. Tytos couldn’t bear to think of his own little Bethany far away, isolated among enemies, lost to her family. Tytos resolved that when he returned to Riverrun, he’d say a prayer in the godswood for the health and safety of Sansa and Arya.