A Storm of Swords by George R. R. Martin Page A

no lord while their father lived, but Catelyn did not correct him. “Set a guard on me if you must, but I give you my pledge that I shall attempt no escape.”
    Ser Desmond nodded, plainly glad to be done with his distasteful task, but sad-eyed Utherydes Wayn lingered a moment after the castellan took his leave. “It was a grave thing you did, my lady, but for naught. Ser Desmond has sent Ser Robin Ryger after them, to bring back the Kingslayer . . . or failing that, his head.”
    Catelyn had expected no less.
May the Warrior give strength to your sword arm, Brienne
, she prayed. She had done all she could; nothing remained but to hope.
    Her things were moved into her father’s bedchamber, dominated by the great canopied bed she had been born in, its pillars carved in the shapes of leaping trout. Her father himself had been moved half a turn down the stair, his sickbed placed to face the triangular balcony that opened off his solar, from whence he could see the rivers that he had always loved so well.
    Lord Hoster was sleeping when Catelyn entered. She went out to the balcony and stood with one hand on the rough stone balustrade. Beyond the point of the castle the swift Tumblestone joined the placid Red Fork, and she could see a long way downriver.
If a striped sail comes from the east, it will be Ser Robin returning
. For the moment the surface of the waters was empty. She thanked the gods for that, and went back inside to sit with her father.
    Catelyn could not say if Lord Hoster knew that she was there, or if her presence brought him any comfort, but it gave her solace to be with him.
What would you say if you knew my crime, Father?
she wondered.
Would you have done as I did, if it were Lysa and me in the hands of our enemies? Or would you 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.”
    â€œForgive 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.
    â€œHe was asking after a woman,” said Cat. “Tansy.”
    â€œTansy?” The maester looked at her blankly.
    â€œYou know no