权力的游戏·2、凯特琳

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凯特琳素来不喜欢这片神木林。

她出生于遥远的南国，三叉戟河支流红岔河河畔，奔流城内塔利家族。那里的神木林是个阳光明媚、惠风和畅的花园。红杉树高高耸立，斑驳树影之下，一条条小溪叮咚流淌；鸟儿在隐秘的巢穴中歌唱，空气中弥漫着百花的芳香。

冬临城的那些神灵，却据守着别具一格的林木。这是个幽暗原始的地方，绵延三英亩的古老森林，上万年来保持着其固有的面貌；森林边缘，矗立着阴森黑暗的城堡。此地散发着潮湿的泥土气息，和万物悄然腐烂的味道。没有一棵红杉树。在这片树林里，有顽强倔强的哨兵树——披着灰绿色针形叶子的哨兵树，有高大的橡树，还有和这个王国本身一样历史悠久的铁树。粗壮的树干黑压压地挤作一团，枝杈相互缠绕，在树顶织出一张严实的华盖；泥层之下,树根虬曲盘结、彼此角力。这里适合静默、涤清烦思杂念，寄居其间的，均是些无名之神。

然而，凯特琳知道今晚可在这儿找到自己的丈夫。每当他取人性命，而后总会来神木林寻求内心的清静。

凯特琳曾领受七神恩赐的七种圣油，并在奔流河圣堂的七彩烛光中完成了她的命名仪式。她信仰七神，就像她父亲、她祖父，和她祖父的父亲一样。她皈依的神有所称谓，而且有着双亲般熟悉的面孔。信仰于她，是手捧香炉的神父，是焚香的味道，是在光焰下熠熠生辉的七面水晶，更是骤然升起的唱诵之声。塔利家和其他所有贵族之家一样，也有神木林，但那只是散步、阅读，或者沐浴日光的地方。参拜只限于圣堂。

为她起见，奈德修筑了一座小圣堂，让她可以在那里向七面之神唱诵祷词。然而，史塔克体内就依然流淌着先民的血脉，他们的神，是更古老的绿林之神，与消失了的丛林之子共同侍奉的神，他无名无姓，也没有具体的容颜。

树丛中央有一棵老鱼梁木，树荫下有个小湖，湖水乌黑冰凉。奈德称此树为“心树”。该鱼梁木树皮灰白，如同枯骨；暗红的叶子像是上千双沾满鲜血的手。巨树躯干上雕刻着一张人脸，脸型瘦长，愁容满面，眼神出奇地机警，深陷的眼窝，用深红色的树汁勾边，汁液业已风干。这双眼睛成型已久，甚至早于冬临城建成之日。如果传闻属实，它们曾亲眼看着“筑城者”布兰登砌下第一块砖，也曾目睹周边的一面面花岗岩城墙拔地而起。传说丛林之子是在先民尚未跨越狭海来到这里的黎明纪元雕刻了这些脸。

在南部，除绿人据守以望的叠面岛之外，残存的一批鱼梁木，也于千年前被砍伐、焚毁。这里可不一样。在此地，每座城堡均有其各自的神木林，每片神木林都有其从属的心树，每棵心树上都刻有脸孔。

凯特琳在那鱼梁木下找到丈夫时，他正坐在一块覆满青苔的石头边。巨剑寒冰倚在膝上。他正沾着如夜一般黑的湖水清洗剑刃。沉积千年的腐殖土，覆盖于神木林地面，吸走了她的足音。然而，鱼梁木的红眼睛，却似乎从她踏入树林伊始，就一直盯着她看。“奈德，”她轻声叫道。

他抬起脸看她。“凯特琳，”他语调淡漠、庄重。“孩子们在哪儿呢？”

这是他的例行问候。“在厨房里，讨论给小狼崽取什么名字。”她在靠近湖边的林地上铺开披风，背对鱼梁木，席地而坐。她能感到那双注视自己的眼睛，但她尽量不去想它。“阿雅已经爱上它们了，珊莎对小狼崽很是着迷，待它很亲切，但是瑞肯还不好说。”

“他害怕吗？”奈德问道。

“有点儿，”她承认，“他才三岁嘛。”

奈德皱起眉头，“他得学会应对自己的恐惧。他不可能永远都是三岁。要知道，寒冬正在逼近。”

“我知道。”凯特琳赞同。一如往昔，史塔克家这条族语，让她感到一丝寒意。每个贵族之家均有其各自的族语，或是家训，或是为人处世的衡量标准，或是各种各样的祈祷词。它们要么以坦诚与荣誉自重，要么自诩于忠诚、以真理在握者自居，还有的以信念和勇气立誓。唯有史塔克家是个例外。寒冬正在逼近，史塔克族语如是所说。她不止一次暗暗在内心思忖：这些北方人是多么奇怪的一群人啊。

“那个男的死得倒干脆，这我得承认。”他拿着块沾油的皮革，一边说，一边轻轻擦拭剑身，直擦得那金属乌黑发亮。“我为布兰高兴，你要在场，一定也会为他自豪的。”

“我一直为布兰感到自豪，”凯特琳回答道，一边注视着那把正被擦拭的剑。她看得见钢刃深处的花纹，那是钢材经无数锻打后留下的印记。凯特琳对剑素来没有好感，但她不否认寒冰剑自有其独特的美。这把在瓦雷利亚锻造的宝剑，诞生于末日浩劫降临古自由城郭以前。当时的铁匠不单以钢锤修治此剑，更以法术复合其身。寒冰虽有四百多年的剑龄，其锋利却一如初制。其名称之由来，甚至还要久远，它乃是源自群雄时代的传说，彼时史塔克尚是北境之王。

“这已经是今年第四个逃兵了，”奈德神色严肃地说道。“可怜的家伙，已经快疯了。也不知道是什么东西把他吓成这样，连我的话都听不进去。”他叹了口气。“班写信说守夜人的兵力已不足一千。不但有人叛逃，而且，他们派出去的游骑兵也不停失踪。”

“是野人的原因吗？”她问。

“还能有谁？”奈德拿起寒冰，低头看着它那冷冰冰的钢材。“情况怕是会越来越糟，总有一天，到我忍无可忍的时候，定要召集家臣进军北方，一举拿下这个境外之王。”

“冰墙那边？”这念头让凯特琳想来战栗。

奈德看出她脸上的恐惧。“我们不用怕曼斯·雷德。”

“冰墙那边有更邪祟的东西。”她扫了一眼身后的心树，那灰白的树皮，红色的眼睛，永远在见证、倾听，永远在那深谋远虑。

他温和地一笑。“老奶妈的故事你听太多了。异鬼和丛林之子一样，八千年前就消失了。陆文学士会告诉你，他们根本是子虚乌有的东西。从来没有活人看到过异鬼。”

“今天早上以前，也没有活人曾看到过冰原狼。”凯特琳提醒他。

“我就知道，不该和一个塔利家的人争辩。”奈德带着懊恼的笑容道。他把寒冰剑收入鞘中，“你来这儿不是和我聊这些哄小孩子的故事的，我知道，你多不喜欢这地方。怎么了，我的夫人？”

凯特琳握住丈夫的手，说道：“今天接到一条让人悲伤的消息，我的大人。我本不想在你净思结束前打扰你。”她想不出什么法子来减轻这种打击，只好如实相告：“亲爱的，我很难过，琼恩·艾林去世了。”

两人目光相遇，正如凯特琳所预料到的，她看到丈夫受此打击着实不小。在奈德早年，他曾寄养于鹰巢城，膝下无子的艾林城主，成了他和另一个养子罗伯特·巴拉西昂的再生之父。当疯癫国王伊瑞斯·塔盖瑞恩二世指明要他们的脑袋时，鹰巢城主揭起他的新月猎鹰旗，宁可起兵造反，也不愿交出这两个他誓死保护的人。

十五年前的那天，他这位养父和他结为连襟。两人一同站在奔流河的圣堂里，娶了城主塔利·霍斯特的两个女儿。

“琼恩......”他问：“这消息可靠吗？”

“信封有国王的蜡封印章，信是罗伯特亲笔写的。信和信封我都给你留着。他说艾林城主走得很突然，连派赛尔学士也束手无策，只得取来罂粟花奶，让琼恩尽早解脱。”

“这也算是小小的怜悯吧，我想，”他说道。写在他脸上的哀伤，凯特琳看在眼里。但即便是那时，他首先想到的还是她。“你妹妹，和琼恩的孩子，有他们什么话没有？”

“信上只说他们很好，已经回鹰巢城去了。”凯特琳道。“要是他们回奔流城就好了。鹰巢山高路远，不但偏僻，还是她丈夫的故居，她初次入住，想来城里每块砖石都会让她想起琼恩大人。我了解我妹妹，她需要亲朋好友在身边宽慰她。”

“你叔叔就在艾林谷，他会宽慰她吧？我听说琼恩任命他做了铁门骑士。”

凯特琳点点头。“布林登是会尽他所能照顾他们母子，他们会得到一丝安慰，只是，那还......”

“去她那里吧，”奈德极力劝她。“带孩子去，用吵闹声和笑声填满她一屋子。再说，她那小孩也需要有别的孩子陪他。这样，莱莎就不会一个人在那儿悲伤了。”

“我真希望自己能去，”凯特琳道。“不过，信上还有其他消息，说是国王将要来冬临找你。”

奈德好一会儿才理解她这话是什么意思，等他明白过来，眼中的阴霾顷刻间烟消云散。“罗伯特要来这儿？”见妻子点头，他笑逐颜开。

凯特琳真心希望自己能分享他这份喜悦，可是，她已在庭院里听过传闻，说有一头冰原狼死在雪地里，喉咙上插着的是一根断鹿角。恐惧如蛇一般缠绕着她的内心。但她迫使自己在这个她深爱着的男人，这个不迷信任何预兆的男人面前笑脸以对。“我就知道这消息会让你高兴。”她道，“我们得带个话给你在冰墙的弟弟。”

“对，那是当然，”他同意。“班一定想来。我让陆文学士放最快的信鸽过去。”奈德站了起来，随后拉她起身。“该死！我有多久没见他了？他只说了这些？一共来多少人，信上有说吗？”

“我想至少总该有一百个骑士吧，加上所有这些人的随从，再加上多一倍半的自由骑士。瑟茜和她的孩子也一同前来。”

“考虑到这些孩子，罗伯特不会匆匆赶路的。”他说，“这样正好，我们也有足够的时间做好准备。”

“王后的弟弟也在队伍里。”她告诉丈夫。

奈德听后变了脸色。凯特琳知道，他和王后的家人不甚契合。凯岩城的兰尼斯特家当年迟迟不来增援，直等到罗伯特胜券在握时，方才姗姗来迟，奈德为此一直不能原谅他们。“好吧，如果非得看到这些兰尼斯特佬，才能和罗伯特见面，那就忍忍吧。听起来，好像罗伯特把他半个宫廷都带来了。”

“国王走到哪里，那里就是他的王国。”她说道。

“见见那些孩子也好。最小的那个，我上次见他的时候，还在那兰尼斯特女人怀里喝奶呢。他现在该有，嗯，五岁了吧？”

“托门王子七岁了，”她纠正他，“和布兰同龄。奈德，拜托你别乱说话。那个兰尼斯特女人是我们的王后，我听说她可是一年比一年傲慢了。”

奈德捏紧她的手，说：“我们得好好摆个宴席，当然啦，乐师是少不了的。还有，罗伯特一定惦记着去打猎。我得派乔里带仪仗队南下国王大道接他们，把他们护送回来。天哪，我们要怎么填饱他们这么多人？他已经在路上了，你刚才是说？该死，这家伙！该死的国王！”

Catelyn had never liked this godswood.

She had been born a Tully, at Riverrun far to the south, on the Red Fork of the Trident. The godswood there was a garden, bright and airy, where tall redwoods spread dappled shadows across tinkling streams, birds sang from hidden nests, and the air was spicy with the scent of flowers.

The gods of Winterfell kept a different sort of wood. It was a dark, primal place, three acres of old forest untouched for ten thousand years as the gloomy castle rose around it. It smelled of moist earth and decay. No redwoods grew here. This was a wood of stubborn sentinel trees armored in grey-green needles, of mighty oaks, of ironwoods as old as the realm itself. Here thick black trunks crowded close together while twisted branches wove a dense canopy overhead and misshappen roots wrestled beneath the soil. This was a place of deep silence and brooding shadows, and the gods who lived here had no names.

But she knew she would find her husband here tonight. Whenever he took a man’s life, afterward he would seek the quiet of the godswood.

Catelyn had been anointed with the seven oils and named in the rainbow of light that filled the sept of Riverrun. She was of the Faith, like her father and grandfather and his father before him. Her gods had names, and their faces were as familiar as the faces of her parents. Worship was a septon with a censer, the smell of incense, a seven-sided crystal alive with light, voices raised in song. The Tullys kept a godswood, as all the great houses did, but it was only a place to walk or read or lie in the sun. Worship was for the sept.

For her sake, Ned had built a small sept where she might sing to the seven faces of god, but the blood of the First Men still flowed in the veins of the Starks, and his own gods were the old ones, the nameless, faceless gods of the greenwood they shared with the vanished children of the forest.

At the center of the grove an ancient weirwood brooded over a small pool where the waters were black and cold. “The heart tree,” Ned called it. The weirwood’s bark was white as bone, its leaves dark red, like a thousand bloodstained hands. A face had been carved in the trunk of the great tree, its features long and melancholy, the deep-cut eyes red with dried sap and strangely watchful. They were old, those eyes; older than Winterfell itself. They had seen Brandon the Builder set the first stone, if the tales were true; they had watched the castle’s granite walls rise around them. It was said that the children of the forest had carved the faces in the trees during the dawn centuries before the coming of the First Men across the narrow sea.

In the south the last weirwoods had been cut down or burned out a thousand years ago, except on the Isle of Faces where the green men kept their silent watch. Up here it was different. Here every castle had its godswood, and every godswood had its heart tree, and every heart tree its face.

Catelyn found her husband beneath the weirwood, seated on a moss-covered stone. The greatsword Ice was across his lap, and he was cleaning the blade in those waters black as night. A thousand years of humus lay thick upon the godswood floor, swallowing the sound of her feet, but the red eyes of the weirwood seemed to follow her as she came. “Ned,” she called softly.

He lifted his head to look at her. “Catelyn,” he said. His voice was distant and formal. “Where are the children?”

He would always ask her that. “In the kitchen, arguing about names for the wolf pups.” She spread her cloak on the forest floor and sat beside the pool, her back to the weirwood. She could feel the eyes watching her, but she did her best to ignore them. “Arya is already in love, and Sansa is charmed and gracious, but Rickon is not quite sure.”

“Is he afraid?” Ned asked.

“A little,” she admitted. “He is only three.”

Ned frowned. “He must learn to face his fears. He will not be three forever. And winter is coming.”

“Yes,” Catelyn agreed. The words gave her a chill, as they always did. The Stark words. Every noble house had its words. Family mottoes, touchstones, prayers of sorts, they boasted of honor and glory, promised loyalty and truth, swore faith and courage. All but the Starks. Winter is coming, said the Stark words. Not for the first time, she reflected on what a strange people these northerners were.

“The man died well, I’ll give him that,” Ned said. He had a swatch of oiled leather in one hand. He ran it lightly up the greatsword as he spoke, polishing the metal to a dark glow. “I was glad for Bran’s sake. You would have been proud of Bran.”

“I am always proud of Bran,” Catelyn replied, watching the sword as he stroked it. She could see the rippling deep within the steel, where the metal had been folded back on itself a hundred times in the forging. Catelyn had no love for swords, but she could not deny that Ice had its own beauty. It had been forged in Valyria, before the Doom had come to the old Freehold, when the ironsmiths had worked their metal with spells as well as hammers. Four hundred years old it was, and as sharp as the day it was forged. The name it bore was older still, a legacy from the age of heroes, when the Starks were Kings in the North.

“He was the fourth this year,” Ned said grimly. “The poor man was half-mad. Something had put a fear in him so deep that my words could not reach him.” He sighed. “Ben writes that the strength of the Night’s Watch is down below a thousand. It’s not only desertions. They are losing men on rangings as well.”

“Is it the wildlings?” she asked.

“Who else?” Ned lifted Ice, looked down the cool steel length of it. “And it will only grow worse. The day may come when I will have no choice but to call the banners and ride north to deal with this King-beyond-the-Wall for good and all.”

“Beyond the Wall?” The thought made Catelyn shudder.

Ned saw the dread on her face. “Mance Rayder is nothing for us to fear.”

“There are darker things beyond the Wall.” She glanced behind her at the heart tree, the pale bark and red eyes, watching, listening, thinking its long slow thoughts.

His smile was gentle. “You listen to too many of Old Nan’s stories. The Others are as dead as the children of the forest, gone eight thousand years. Maester Luwin will tell you they never lived at all. No living man has ever seen one.”

“Until this morning, no living man had ever seen a direwolf either,” Catelyn reminded him.

“I ought to know better than to argue with a Tully,” he said with a rueful smile. He slid Ice back into its sheath. “You did not come here to tell me crib tales. I know how little you like this place. What is it, my lady?”

Catelyn took her husband’s hand. “There was grievous news today, my lord. I did not wish to trouble you until you had cleansed yourself.” There was no way to soften the blow, so she told him straight. “I am so sorry, my love. Jon Arryn is dead.”

His eyes found hers, and she could see how hard it took him, as she had known it would. In his youth, Ned had fostered at the Eyrie, and the childless Lord Arryn had become a second father to him and his fellow ward, Robert Baratheon. When the Mad King Aerys II Targaryen had demanded their heads, the Lord of the Eyrie had raised his moon-and-falcon banners in revolt rather than give up those he had pledged to protect.

And one day fifteen years ago, this second father had become a brother as well, as he and Ned stood together in the sept at Riverrun to wed two sisters, the daughters of Lord Hoster Tully.

“Jon . . . ” he said. “Is this news certain?”

“It was the king’s seal, and the letter is in Robert’s own hand. I saved it for you. He said Lord Arryn was taken quickly. Even Maester Pycelle was helpless, but he brought the milk of the poppy, so Jon did not linger long in pain.”

“That is some small mercy, I suppose,” he said. She could see the grief on his face, but even then he thought first of her. “Your sister,” he said. “And Jon’s boy. What word of them?”

“The message said only that they were well, and had returned to the Eyrie,” Catelyn said. “I wish they had gone to Riverrun instead. The Eyrie is high and lonely, and it was ever her husband’s place, not hers. Lord Jon’s memory will haunt each stone. I know my sister. She needs the comfort of family and friends around her.”

“Your uncle waits in the Vale, does he not? Jon named him Knight of the Gate, I’d heard.”

Catelyn nodded. “Brynden will do what he can for her, and for the boy. That is some comfort, but still . . . ”

“Go to her,” Ned urged. “Take the children. Fill her halls with noise and shouts and laughter. That boy of hers needs other children about him, and Lysa should not be alone in her grief.”

“Would that I could,” Catelyn said. “The letter had other tidings. The king is riding to Winterfell to seek you out.”

It took Ned a moment to comprehend her words, but when the understanding came, the darkness left his eyes. “Robert is coming here?” When she nodded, a smile broke across his face.

Catelyn wished she could share his joy. But she had heard the talk in the yards; a direwolf dead in the snow, a broken antler in its throat. Dread coiled within her like a snake, but she forced herself to smile at this man she loved, this man who put no faith in signs. “I knew that would please you,” she said. “We should send word to your brother on the Wall.”

“Yes, of course,” he agreed. “Ben will want to be here. I shall tell Maester Luwin to send his swiftest bird.” Ned rose and pulled her to her feet. “Damnation, how many years has it been? And he gives us no more notice than this? How many in his party, did the message say?”

“I should think a hundred knights, at the least, with all their retainers, and half again as many freeriders. Cersei and the children travel with them.”

“Robert will keep an easy pace for their sakes,” he said. “It is just as well. That will give us more time to prepare.”

“The queen’s brothers are also in the party,” she told him.

Ned grimaced at that. There was small love between him and the queen’s family, Catelyn knew. The Lannisters of Casterly Rock had come late to Robert’s cause, when victory was all but certain, and he had never forgiven them. “Well, if the price for Robert’s company is an infestation of Lannisters, so be it. It sounds as though Robert is bringing half his court.”

“Where the king goes, the realm follows,” she said.

“It will be good to see the children. The youngest was still sucking at the Lannister woman’s teat the last time I saw him. He must be, what, five by now?”

“Prince Tommen is seven,” she told him. “The same age as Bran. Please, Ned, guard your tongue. The Lannister woman is our queen, and her pride is said to grow with every passing year.”

Ned squeezed her hand. “There must be a feast, of course, with singers, and Robert will want to hunt. I shall send Jory south with an honor guard to meet them on the kingsroad and escort them back. Gods, how are we going to feed them all? On his way already, you said? Damn the man. Damn his royal hide.”