Lady Catelyn Tully sat on the cold, unfamiliar chair, staring straight ahead yet seeing nothing.
She did not see the red-and-gold pavilion, did not see the triumphant victor inside it, did not see the line of disarmed, bloodied captives being dragged before the Warden of the West.
She did not see the conqueror himself, seated above them all with a long sword across his knees.
She did not see the red-and-gold lion banners now flying from the walls of her childhood home, Riverrun.
Most of all, she did not find her son among the prisoners.
No matter how her mother's eyes searched, no matter how carefully she studied every face, the one face she knew best never appeared.
In her heart there was only Robb.
Her eldest son. Her Robb. The boy who had made a terrible, terrible mistake, believing he could command an army.
He had styled himself the new Young Dragon, Daeron, certain he could lift the siege of his mother's ancestral castle.
At the foot of Riverrun they had paid the price for that arrogant dream.
The knight who had taken her captive—Ser Adam Marbrand—had been courteous enough.
The Westerlands knight had told her the truth without deliberate cruelty, showing respect for the dead and sparing her the bloodiest details.
It was small comfort, yet it was all she had.
It was Marbrand who had described how the brave men led by her uncle Brynden had at first gained the upper hand.
How he himself had organized a stubborn defense in the northern camp.
How Lord Tywin had sent Lord Brax across another shallow ford to bring the lions decisive reinforcements.
Her father's men had done everything possible, but Lannister boats and rafts had stayed far beyond the castle's towers and walls.
A trickle of reinforcements had never ceased; no matter how fiercely the Tully warriors fought, they had dragged her son's army into an endless, grinding battle.
Ser Adam admitted freely that the northerners and her father's bannermen had fought with honor and courage.
The northern camp at Riverrun had been turned into a blood-soaked wasteland of ash and mud beneath their onslaught.
Even when Lord Brax arrived, he had not immediately turned the tide.
Her son, her uncle, and her father's vassals had all fought to the death, swearing they would seize victory.
Yet Lord Tytos Blackwood's desperate sally had failed in the end.
The Mountain had been waiting at the gates for the garrison that rode out.
The death of the Lord of Raventree had shattered the castle's defenders instantly. Clegane and his dogs had poured in behind him.
The walls and towers were left empty. Ser Desmond Grell had been forced to pull his men back into a last stand.
That had given Lord Tywin the opening he needed to send yet another wave of reinforcements straight into the fight.
Marbrand said the Freys had broken first.
Ser Stevron had been struck by a crossbow bolt; several of his sons had fallen beside him. When the soldiers of the Twins saw it, they had simply dissolved.
Lord Brax had seized the gap and driven his fresh troops straight through.
Under the hammer blow of new strength, the exhausted, bloodied northerners had finally collapsed.
Ser Brynden had tried to organize an orderly retreat, but he had vanished into the red-and-gold tide.
When her son's wolf banner crashed to the ground, retreat had become total rout.
The rest she knew herself. The moment the first fleeing Freys appeared, Lady Catelyn had leapt onto a horse and ridden straight into the chaos.
Was it foolish?
Beyond foolish.
But she could not help herself. She had to find Robb.
He had not appeared before her. No one had given his mother the smallest scrap of news.
Then the party Ser Adam had sent to round up prisoners had intercepted her.
She had been powerless against a hundred fully armed soldiers and had obeyed Marbrand's command.
They had brought her to this victor's pavilion. No chains, yet two strong, grim knights stood guard at her side.
She had come to bring aid to her father.
Now she sat here, a helpless captive, on this soiled ground, staring at the towers of Riverrun in the distance.
At this moment Catelyn no longer cared what became of her own life.
She knew better than anyone that the word "mercy" did not exist in the Lannister lexicon. House Reyne of Castamere was the bloodiest proof.
She only prayed that Tywin would find Robb and bring him before her. She would kneel at the Lannister lord's feet and trade anything for her son's life.
Let the Lannisters take whatever they wanted. Let her and Robb bend the knee to Joffrey. Only let him return safely to the North, marry, have children, and let this nightmare fade away.
She watched young Blackwood being led forward, battered and chained. She watched knight after knight become prisoners.
Her own brother Edmure, it was said, had been rescued by Tytos's men but had not gone far; his body had been found beside the tent where he had been held.
Her father Hoster Tully, refusing to beg the Mountain for mercy, had ordered his maester to give him poison.
This accursed day had taken her brother, taken her father—would the gods be so cruel as to take her Robb as well?
Near collapse, Catelyn could only pray again and again in utter despair.
Suddenly a messenger burst into the pavilion, covered in blood, gasping for breath, helmet long gone.
His sword had not been taken; clearly he was one of their own.
"My lord, congratulations on your glorious victory! Even the Warrior himself could not have done better!" The messenger's words were clear, yet his tone was heavy. "But… I bring ill news from the east."
"What news?" Tywin asked coldly.
"At the Golden Tooth, your cousin's army has been broken by the northerners. Lord Bolton led them. On the field we saw Frey, Karstark, and other northern banners."
"Is Stafford still alive?" The first question from the Lord of Casterly Rock. The concern for his kin stirred the faintest spark of hope in Catelyn's heart—perhaps he could understand a mother's willingness to trade everything for her son.
"He lives, my lord, but has been taken captive. Lord Lewys Lydden and a dozen other notable knights were captured with him."
"Useless knight," the Mountain growled, leaning on his bloodied greatsword. "Let himself be taken alive."
Tywin raised a hand and the bloodthirsty hound fell silent at once.
"The army was not completely destroyed?"
"No, my lord. Ser Daven managed to rally the troops. The mountain clans your son brought bought us the time to withdraw."
"My son is still alive?" Tywin's voice was colder than the Wall itself.
"Yes, my lord. Lord Tyrion is unharmed." The messenger nodded quickly. "Ser Daven ordered me to ride at once and ask for your new instructions…"
"When did this happen?"
"One… one day ago, my lord."
The Warden of the West, Lord of Casterly Rock, sat in silence for a moment, then spoke.
His tone carried a will no one—Father or the Seven themselves—could dispute.
Inside Catelyn a silent scream tore through her soul: Why had Edmure tugged the lion's whiskers?
Why had she arrested that dwarf?
If Edmure had only waited for her son, if the North and the Riverlands had struck together, they could have won.
If the Mountain had stayed in camp, if Marbrand's men had wavered earlier, if Brax had been delayed at the ford, if Ser Desmond had had the heart to close the gates… those cruel choices could have saved countless lives, saved her father, saved Edmure, saved Riverrun.
But he had chosen the honorable path, let Clegane charge inside, let the Tully warriors leave the towers, let the Freys break in battle, let Robb withdraw with the remnants…
So many ifs. So many things that should have been. What use was it to count them now?
Catelyn only wished to wake from this nightmare, yet she could not.
"You, Ser Hugh, have done your duty," Tywin continued. "But you must ride for me once more. Rest five hours, choose the best horse from my stable, and carry two letters back. One to Ser Daven. One… to Lord Bolton."
"As you command, my lord."
Bolton had won. He had taken prisoners.
Yet what did that victory matter?
Yesterday's glory had already been erased by today's catastrophe.
Merciful Mother, have pity on your son…
Once the messenger was dismissed, Tywin turned to the row of defeated lords and knights below.
"I will wait one more hour, my lords. One hour for word of Robb Stark or Brynden Tully—alive or dead. After that, in the name of King Joffrey the First, I will accept the fealty of those who wish to kneel."
The Mountain's greatsword lifted a fraction, silently declaring the fate of those who refused.
"My lord!" A shrill, piercing voice suddenly cut through the pavilion. "I know where Robb Stark is!"
"Bring him forward," Tywin said coldly.
A young soldier stepped out of the crowd, soaked in blood, a demonic grin splitting his face from left ear to right.
His steps were confident, yet his hands were hidden behind his back.
One glance and Catelyn felt a wave of revulsion that chilled her to the bone.
"My lord! My lord!" the youth shouted to the entire pavilion. He was no older than Robb. "It is I! It is I! You… you remember me, my lord?"
"Speak, Will of Lannisport." Could the rumor be true?
Could Tywin Lannister truly remember every face he had ever seen?
Today's horrors had already numbed her; nothing could surprise her anymore.
"I have come to you," Will kept his hands behind his back, "because everyone says a Lannister always pays his debts."
"So they say."
The soldier took one step forward and suddenly thrust out his right hand.
"I present to you… the head of Robb Stark! Lord of Winterfell, leader of the rebellion!"
Catelyn's vision blurred; she could not make out the features of the head, but her heart stopped beating in that instant.
Could it be…
"Another head-hunter, you stinking leech-seller. How would a gutter rat like you know what a Stark of the North looks like?" The Mountain almost spat.
Catelyn had never imagined that one day she would hope the Mad Dog's judgment might bring even a shred of justice.
"I showed it to five northerners and to a minor lord whose shield bore two ugly towers," Will answered with near-arrogant certainty—either a madman or utterly sure of himself. "They all swore it was the Young Wolf. How dare I lie to you, my lord?"
Oh, gods…
"We have ways to confirm it," Tywin said, his voice ice-cold. The terrible implication froze Catelyn where she sat. "Will, step forward. Lady Tully will do us the small favor of verifying your claim. Afterward you will receive what you are owed."
"Lord Tywin, I beg you… have mercy." Catelyn's voice trembled; she had barely begun when he cut her off.
"That is mercy, my lady. Or would you rather never know your eldest son's fate?"
Those were the only words Tywin granted her.
The soldier named Will walked steadily toward the pavilion.
There could be no mistake.
What he carried in his hand was truly…
Catelyn rose from the chair like lightning and let out a scream that tore through the pavilion—a sound that held every pain, rage, denial, terror, and despair the world had ever known.
She lunged forward, but Lannister guards seized her arms and held her suspended in mid-air. Every struggle, every attempt to break free or turn away, was futile.
Tywin Lannister needed no further proof.
"Lady Tully is weary," he said in the same cold, even tone. "Ser Adam, escort her to a better tent to rest."
"You two, come with me." The courteous knight ordered the guards, then murmured to Catelyn, "My lady, do not resist. It will only make things worse for you."
But in a single day she had lost her brother, her father, her son—perhaps her uncle as well.
She had nothing left. She no longer had the strength to resist.
A vast black hole had been torn open in her chest. Endless darkness flooded in and swallowed her whole.
She was dragged away like an empty shell, arms held by enemies, while a distant voice seemed to travel across years, across centuries, before finally reaching her.
"Kneel, Will of Lannisport."
And then another sentence, from another world entirely.
"In the name of the Mother, I command you to show mercy."