A Storm of Swords by George R.R. Martin

bird that had come and the horror it had brought.
    Maester Vyman returned at evenfall to minister to Lord Tully and bring Catelyn a modest supper of bread, cheese, and boiled beef with horseradish. “I spoke to Utherydes Wayn, my lady. He is quite certain that no woman by the name of Tansy has ever been at Riverrun during his service.”
    “There was a raven today, I saw. Has Jaime been taken again?”
Or slain, gods forbid?
    “No, my lady, we’ve had no word of the Kingslayer.”
    “Is it another battle, then? Is Edmure in difficulty? Or Robb? Please, be kind, put my fears at rest.”
    “My lady, I should not . . .” Vyman glanced about, as if to make certain no one else was in the room. “Lord Tywin has left the riverlands. All’s quiet on the fords.”
    “Whence came the raven, then?”
    “From the west,” he answered, busying himself with Lord Hoster’s bedclothes and avoiding her eyes.
    “Was it news of Robb?”
    He hesitated. “Yes, my lady.”
    “Something is wrong.” She knew it from his manner. He was hiding something from her. “Tell me. Is it Robb? Is he hurt?”
Not dead, gods be good, please do not tell me that he is dead
.
    “His Grace took a wound storming the Crag,” Maester Vyman said, still evasive, “but writes that it is no cause for concern, and that he hopes to return soon.”
    “A wound? What sort of wound? How serious?”
    “No cause for concern, he writes.”
    “All wounds concern me. Is he being cared for?”
    “I am certain of it. The maester at the Crag will tend to him, I have no doubt.”
    “Where was he wounded?”
    “My lady, I am commanded not to speak with you. I am sorry.” Gathering up his potions, Vyman made a hurried exit, and once again Catelyn was left alone with her father. The milk of the poppy had done its work, and Lord Hoster was sunk in heavy sleep. A thin line of spittle ran down from one corner of his open mouth to dampen his pillow. Catelyn took a square of linen and wiped it away gently. When she touched him, Lord Hoster moaned. “Forgive me,” he said, so softly she could scarcely hear the words. “Tansy . . . blood . . . the blood . . . gods be kind . . .”
    His words disturbed her more than she could say, though she could make no sense of them.
Blood
, she thought.
Must it all come back to blood? Father, who was this woman, and what did you do to her that needs so much forgiveness?
    That night Catelyn slept fitfully, haunted by formless dreams of her children, the lost and the dead. Well before the break of day, she woke with her father’s words echoing in her ears.
Sweet babes, and trueborn . . . why would he say that, unless . . . could he have fathered a bastard on this woman Tansy?
She could not believe it. Her brother Edmure, yes; it would not have surprised her to learn that Edmure had a dozen natural children. But not her father, not Lord Hoster Tully, never.
    Could Tansy be some pet name he called Lysa, the way he called me Cat?
Lord Hoster had mistaken her for her sister before.
You’ll have others, he said. Sweet babes, and trueborn
. Lysa had miscarried five times, twice in the Eyrie, thrice at King’s Landing . . . but never at Riverrun, where Lord Hoster would have been at hand to comfort her.
Never, unless . . . unless she was with child, that first time . . .
    She and her sister had been married on the same day, and left in their father’s care when their new husbands had ridden off to rejoin Robert’s rebellion. Afterward, when their moon blood did not come at the accustomed time, Lysa had gushed happily of the sons she was certain they carried. “Your son will be heir to Winterfell and mine to the Eyrie. Oh, they’ll be the best of friends, like your Ned and Lord Robert. They’ll be more brothers than cousins, truly, I just know it.”
She was so happy
.
    But Lysa’s blood had come not long after, and all the joy had gone out of her. Catelyn had always thought that Lysa had simply been a little late, but if