A Storm of Swords by George R.R. Martin Read Free Book Online Page B

condemn me too, and call it mother’s madness?
    There was a smell of death about that room; a heavy smell, sweet and foul, clinging. It reminded her of the sons that she had lost, her sweet Bran and her little Rickon, slain at the hand of Theon Greyjoy, who had been Ned’s ward. She still grieved for Ned, she would always grieve for Ned, but to have her babies taken as well . . . “It is a monstrous cruel thing to lose a child,” she whispered softly, more to herself than to her father.
    Lord Hoster’s eyes opened. “
Tansy
,” he husked in a voice thick with pain.
    He does not know me
. Catelyn had grown accustomed to him taking her for her mother or her sister Lysa, but Tansy was a name strange to her. “It’s Catelyn,” she said. “It’s Cat, Father.”
    “Forgive me . . . the blood . . . oh, please . . . Tansy . . .”
    Could there have been another woman in her father’s life? Some village maiden he had wronged when he was young, perhaps?
Could he have found comfort in some serving wench’s arms after Mother died?
It was a queer thought, unsettling. Suddenly she felt as though she had not known her father at all. “Who is Tansy, my lord? Do you want me to send for her, Father? Where would I find the woman? Does she still live?”
    Lord Hoster groaned. “
Dead
.” His hand groped for hers. “You’ll have others . . . sweet babes, and trueborn.”
    Others?
Catelyn thought.
Has he forgotten that Ned is gone? Is he still talking to Tansy, or is it me now, or Lysa, or Mother?
    When he coughed, the sputum came up bloody. He clutched her fingers. “. . . be a good wife and the gods will bless you . . . sons . . . trueborn sons . . .
aaahhh
.” The sudden spasm of pain made Lord Hoster’s hand tighten. His nails dug into her hand, and he gave a muffled scream.
    Maester Vyman came quickly, to mix another dose of milk of the poppy and help his lord swallow it down. Soon enough, Lord Hoster Tully had fallen back into a heavy sleep.
    “He was asking after a woman,” said Cat. “Tansy.”
    “Tansy?” The maester looked at her blankly.
    “You know no one by that name? A serving girl, a woman from some nearby village? Perhaps someone from years past?” Catelyn had been gone from Riverrun for a very long time.
    “No, my lady. I can make inquiries, if you like. Utherydes Wayn would surely know if any such person ever served at Riverrun. Tansy, did you say? The smallfolk often name their daughters after flowers and herbs.” The maester looked thoughtful. “There was a widow, I recall, she used to come to the castle looking for old shoes in need of new soles. Her name was Tansy, now that I think on it. Or was it Pansy? Some such. But she has not come for many years . . .”
    “Her name was Violet,” said Catelyn, who remembered the old woman very well.
    “Was it?” The maester looked apologetic. “My pardons, Lady Catelyn, but I may not stay. Ser Desmond has decreed that we are to speak to you only so far as our duties require.”
    “Then you must do as he commands.” Catelyn could not blame Ser Desmond; she had given him small reason to trust her, and no doubt he feared that she might use the loyalty that many of the folk of Riverrun would still feel toward their lord’s daughter to work some further mischief.
I am free of the war, at least
, she told herself,
if only for a little while
.
    After the maester had gone, she donned a woolen cloak and stepped out onto the balcony once more. Sunlight shimmered on the rivers, gilding the surface of the waters as they rolled past the castle. Catelyn shaded her eyes against the glare, searching for a distant sail, dreading the sight of one. But there was nothing, and nothing meant that her hopes were still alive.
    All that day she watched, and well into the night, until her legs ached from the standing. A raven came to the castle in late afternoon, flapping down on great black wings to the rookery.
Dark wings, dark words
, she thought, remembering the last