A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

behind.
    The septon entered with his censer and crystal while she was at her prayers, so
Catelyn lingered for the celebration. She did not know this septon, an earnest
young man close to Edmure’s age. He performed his office well enough, and his
voice was rich and pleasant when he sang the praises to the Seven, but Catelyn
found herself yearning for the thin quavering tones of Septon Osmynd, long
dead. Osmynd would have listened patiently to the tale of what she had seen and
felt in Renly’s pavilion, and he might have known what it meant as well, and
what she must do to lay to rest the shadows that stalked her dreams.
Osmynd, my father, Uncle Brynden, old Maester Kym, they always seemed to
know everything, but now there is only me, and it seems I know nothing, not
even my duty. How can I do my duty if I do not know where it
lies?
    Catelyn’s knees were stiff by the time she rose, though she felt no wiser.
Perhaps she would go to the godswood tonight, and pray to Ned’s gods as well.
They were older than the Seven.
    Outside, she found song of a very different sort. Rymund the Rhymer sat by the
brewhouse amidst a circle of listeners, his deep voice ringing as he sang of
Lord Deremond at the Bloody Meadow.
    And there he stood with sword in hand,
the last of Darry’s ten . . .
    Brienne paused to listen for a moment, broad shoulders hunched and thick
arms crossed against her chest. A mob of ragged boys raced by, screeching and
flailing at each other with sticks.
Why do boys so love to play at
war?
Catelyn wondered if Rymund

was the answer. The singer’s voice swelled as he neared the end of his
song.
    And red the grass beneath his feet,
and red his banners bright,
and red the glow of setting sun
that bathed him in its light.
“Come on, come on,” the great lord called,
“my sword is hungry still.”
And with a cry of savage rage,
They swarmed across the rill . . .
    â€œFighting is better than this waiting,” Brienne said. “You don’t feel
so helpless when you fight. You have a sword and a horse, sometimes an axe.
When you’re armored it’s hard for anyone to hurt you.”
    â€œKnights die in battle,” Catelyn reminded her.
    Brienne looked at her with those blue and beautiful eyes. “As ladies die in
childbed. No one sings songs about
them.
”
    â€œChildren are a battle of a different sort.” Catelyn started across the yard.
“A battle without banners or warhorns, but no less fierce. Carrying a child,
bringing it into the world . . . your mother will have told you
of the pain . . .”
    â€œI never knew my mother,” Brienne said. “My father had
ladies . . . a different lady every year,
but . . .”
    â€œThose were no ladies,” Catelyn said. “As hard as birth can be, Brienne,
what comes after is even harder. At times I feel as though I am being torn
apart. Would that there were five of me, one for each child, so I might keep
them all safe.”
    â€œAnd who would keep
you
safe, my lady?”
    Her smile was wan and tired. “Why, the men of my House. Or so my lady mother
taught me. My lord father, my brother, my

uncle, my husband, they will keep me safe . . . but while they
are away from me, I suppose you must fill their place, Brienne.”
    Brienne bowed her head. “I shall try, my lady.”
    Later that day, Maester Vyman brought a letter. She saw him at once, hoping for
some word from Robb, or from Ser Rodrik in Winterfell, but the message proved
to be from one Lord Meadows, who named himself castellan of Storm’s End. It was
addressed to her father, her brother, her son, “or whoever now holds
Riverrun.” Ser Cortnay Penrose was dead, the man wrote, and Storm’s End had
opened its gate to Stannis Baratheon, the trueborn and rightful heir. The
castle garrison had sworn their swords to his cause, one and all, and no man of
them had suffered harm.
    â€œSave Cortnay Penrose,” Catelyn murmured. She had never met the man, yet she
grieved to hear of his passing. “Robb should know of this at once,” she said.
“Do we know where he is?”
    â€œAt last word he was marching toward the Crag, the seat of House Westerling,”
said Maester Vyman. “If I dispatched a raven to Ashemark, it may be that they
could send a rider after him.”
    â€œDo