Light rain pattered softly against the shutters of Riverrun, a steady, mournful rhythm that had become familiar to Catelyn as part of her routine now. Catelyn sat beside her father's bed, her fingers absently smoothing the linen blanket that covered his withering frame. Hoster Tully had once filled rooms merely by standing in them, now his breath rattled beneath the furs with his facial features sunken.
Beside her, Arya sat cross-legged on the floor, oiling a thin sword of all things inside her father's room of all places, that she guarded like a snarling dog over a bone. Her hair now hacked short above her neck and stuck up at uneven angles with tufts sticking out from behind her ears. She as always looked nothing like a lady of Winterfell but for the first time in years, she had no strength to scold her for that. She was more worried about her looking like a half-starved boy and that sword in her hand.
It was a ugly little sword that was the true wedge between them. That weapon had no place in her daughter's hands… and yet without it, Arya would likely have been dead before she crossed the city gates. That little sword had brought her out safely from the jaws of lions. Rage warred with reluctant gratitude in Catelyn's chest.
"And then Jon told me, 'Stick them with the pointy end,'" Arya recited airily, as if remembering a pleasant memory instead of speaking of stabbing men.
Catelyn's mouth tightened. Jon Snow. Even in absence, the boy managed to press between her and her children.
"Of course I already knew which end to stab," Arya went on, rolling her eyes. "But then Syrio Forel—"
"The master of the water dance," Catelyn muttered. "Seven save us."
"And he said—"
"She isn't a normal one, is she?" came a rasp from the bed.
Catelyn stiffened, then leaned forward quickly. "Father, we did not wake you up, did we?"
Hoster's lips twitched faintly, something between a smirk and a grimace. "Better to listen to a brave girl's escape than lie here waiting for the Stranger."
Arya straightened proudly. "I am brave."
"So you are," Hoster said. Then, without a shame and plain curiosity Arya added "Are you going to die soon?"
Catelyn froze. "Arya!"
Hoster only chuckled, a dry, papery sound. "She isn't a normal one, is she" he repeated.
No. She isn't, Catelyn thought. She's half wolf and half Seven knows what.
Hoster gestured weakly to the servant by the door. "Fetch Maester Vyman with ink and parchment."
Catelyn tensed. That tone, the solemn one always meant politics.
"Arya," she said, rising, "go downstairs. See if the cook had made supper, I also asked them to make lemon cakes."
Arya clearly saw through the ploy, but shrugged and went thudding out the chamber, tucking her sword through her belt like a sellsword, with all the grace of a wild colt.
The room felt emptier without her, yet somehow colder.
"Is something wrong?" Catelyn asked quietly.
"It will be," he muttered, "if I let time slip further."
Maester Vyman arrived, ink and parchment in hand. Hoster did not bother softening his voice.
"Write to Prince Doran of Dorne," Hoster began.
Catelyn frowned. "Father…"
"You will write, House Tully asks," he said. "for the hand of Princess Arianne Martell in marriage for my son and heir, Edmure Tully… and the House Stark proposes hand of Arya Stark for Prince Trystane Martell."
Catelyn stared.
"No," her outrage came like a spark. "Absolutely not. Arya would never agree."
"She would," Hoster replied calmly, "if she wants her brother to win his war, she will wed where duty binds."
Catelyn felt the accusation like a slap. "Do not speak as if she is some coin to be spent."
"She is a lady of a noble house," Hoster snapped, thin as he was. "And like any other she does not get to choose about her marriage. Dorne's spears will be needed to crush lion's roar and alliances are bought with marriages."
Catelyn snapped back, her hands curled slowly into fists. "And what of Ned? Have you thought of his say in this?"
"This war is for him," Hoster said. "And he would accept whatever price brings him home alive."
Catelyn trembled not with fear, but fury. "He loves Arya the most, and he would never send his daughter that far from him!" she cried. "And you—"
Her words stopped, twisted in her throat. She stared at her father, and something cruel and unwanted rose in her chest.
"You're doing it again," she whispered.
Hoster's brow furrowed.
"You're consolidating power," she said bitterly. "joining North and Riverland with Dorne. Marriage by marriage, planting Tully roots across the realm. You want to rule Westeros from this bed."
She stepped back, breathing hard, her voice rising as years of quiet obedience finally cracked.
"You speak of duty as if it is some holy thing, but every duty you demanded was paid for by someone else's life." Her voice trembled like glass on the edge of breaking. "You married Lysa to a man older than her own father, a man who could barely stand without shaking. You sent her to the Eyrie to warm his bed while you congratulated yourself on securing the Vale."
Hoster's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
"She begged you," Catelyn hissed. "I heard her she begged not to go. She cried until she couldn't breathe, and you told her it was her duty."
"You called it honor," Catelyn spat. "You called it for family. But what you really wanted was Tully advantage."
She drew in a ragged breath.
"And Uncle Brynden?" she demanded. "Do you think I don't know why he never stayed here? Why the Blackfish the most loyal person any family can ever have, would rather roam in the Mountains of Vale and serve the Bloody Gate than stay at Riverrun? I know why now."
Hoster's silence was answer enough.
"It's because he refused to be one more piece on your board," Catelyn said. "Because he wouldn't marry, Bethany Redwyne, whom you commanded him to wed. He didn't want to be used."
Her voice broke completely.
"Just like you used me. Just like you used Lysa."
She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, furious with herself for crying and turned toward the door.
"Cat—" Hoster said weakly.
She did not stop.
"You say this war is for Ned," she choked. "But everything you do… somehow ends with you at the center."
She fled before he could answer and the door shut behind her. Hoster watched the doorway, his expression unreadable, body still and closed his eye, releasing a long breath.
Then, without turning and opening his eye, he said to Vyman,
"Send it," he told Maester Vyman.