[Truyện TA] George R. R. Martin - A Song of Ice and Fire 1 - A Games of Thrones

Chapter 34
Catelyn​

?oMy lady, you should have sent word of your coming,? Ser Donnel Waynwood told her as their horses climbed the pass. ?oWe would have sent an escort. The high road is not as safe as it once was, for a party as small as yours.?
?oWe learned that to our sorrow, Ser Donnel,? Catelyn said. Sometimes she felt as though her heart had turned to stone; six brave men had died to bring her this far, and she could not even find it in her to weep for them. Even their names were fading. ?oThe clansmen harried us day and night. We lost three men in the first attack, and two more in the second, and Lannister?Ts serving man died of a fever when his wounds festered. When we heard your men approaching, I thought us doomed for certain.? They had drawn up for a last desperate fight, blades in hand and backs to the rock. The dwarf had been whetting the edge of his axe and making some mordant jest when Bronn spotted the banner the riders carried before them, the moon-and-falcon of House Arryn, sky-blue and white. Catelyn had never seen a more welcome sight.
?oThe clans have grown bolder since Lord Jon died,? Ser Donnel said. He was a stocky youth of twenty years, earnest and homely, with a wide nose and a shock of thick brown hair. ?oIf it were up to me, I would take a hundred men into the mountains, root them out of their fastnesses, and teach them some sharp lessons, but your sister has forbidden it. She would not even permit her knights to fight in the Hand?Ts tourney. She wants all our swords kept close to home, to defend the Vale... against what, no one is certain. Shadows, some say.? He looked at her anxiously, as if he had suddenly remembered who she was. ?oI hope I have not spoken out of turn, my lady. I meant no offense.?
?oFrank talk does not offend me, Ser Donnel.? Catelyn knew what her sister feared. Not shadows, Lannisters, she thought to herself, glancing back to where the dwarf rode beside Bronn. The two of them had grown thick as thieves since Chiggen had died. The little man was more cunning than she liked. When they had entered the mountains, he had been her captive, bound and helpless. What was he now? Her captive still, yet he rode along with a dirk through his belt and an axe strapped to his saddle, wearing the shadowskin cloak hê?Td won dicing with the singer and the chainmail hauberk hê?Td taken off Chiggen?Ts corpse. Two score men flanked the dwarf and the rest of her ragged band, knights and men-at-arms in service to her sister Lysa and Jon Arryn?Ts young son, and yet Tyrion betrayed no hint of fear. Could I be wrong? Catelyn wondered, not for the first time. Could he be innocent after all, of Bran and Jon Arryn and all the rest? And if he was, what did that make her? Six men had died to bring him here.
Resolute, she pushed her doubts away. ?oWhen we reach your keep, I would take it kindly if you could send for Maester Colemon at once. Ser Rodrik is feverish from his wounds.? More than once she had feared the gallant old knight would not survive the journey. Toward the end he could scarcely sit his horse, and Bronn had urged her to leave him to his fate, but Catelyn would not hear of it. They had tied him in the saddle instead, and she had commanded Marillion the singer to watch over him.
Ser Donnel hesitated before he answered. ?oThe Lady Lysa has commanded the maester to remain at the Eyrie at all times, to care for Lord Robert,? he said. ?oWe have a septon at the gate who tends to our wounded. He can see to your man?Ts hurts.?
Catelyn had more faith in a maester?Ts learning than a septon?Ts prayers. She was about to say as much when she saw the battlements ahead, long parapets built into the very stone of the mountains on either side of them. Where the pass shrank to a narrow defile scarce wide enough for four men to ride abreast, twin watchtowers clung to the rocky slopes, joined by a covered bridge of weathered grey stone that arched above the road. Silent faces watched from arrow slits in tower, battlements, and bridge. When they had climbed almost to the top, a knight rode out to meet them. His horse and his armor were grey, but his cloak was the rippling blue-and-red of Riverrun, and a shiny black fish, wrought in gold and obsidian, pinned its folds against his shoulder.
?oWho would pass the Bloody Gate?? he called.
?oSer Donnel Waynwood, with the Lady Catelyn Stark and her companions,? the young knight answered.
The Knight of the Gate lifted his visor. ?oI thought the lady looked familiar. You are far from home, little Cat.?
?oAnd you, Uncle,? she said, smiling despite all she had been through. Hearing that hoarse, smoky voice again took her back twenty years, to the days of her childhood.
?oMy home is at my back,? he said gruffly.
?oYour home is in my heart,? Catelyn told him. ?oTake off your helm. I would look on your face again.?
?oThe years have not improved it, I fear,? Brynden Tully said, but when he lifted off the helm, Catelyn saw that he lied. His features were lined and weathered, and time had stolen the auburn from his hair and left him only grey, but the smile was the same, and the bushy eyebrows fat as caterpillars, and the laughter in his deep blue eyes. ?oDid Lysa know you were coming??
?oThere was no time to send word ahead,? Catelyn told him. The others were coming up behind her. ?oI fear we ride before the storm, Uncle.?
?oMay we enter the Vale?? Ser Donnel asked. The Waynwoods were ever ones for ceremony.
?oIn the name of Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, True Warden of the East, I bid you enter freely, and charge you to keep his peace,? Ser Brynden replied. ?oCome.?
And so she rode behind him, beneath the shadow of the Bloody Gate where a dozen armies had dashed themselves to pieces in the Age of Heroes. On the far side of the stoneworks, the mountains opened up suddenly upon a vista of green fields, blue sky, and snowcapped mountains that took her breath away. The Vale of Arryn bathed in the morning light.
It stretched before them to the misty cast, a tranquil land of rich black soil, wide slow-moving rivers, and hundreds of small lakes that shone like mirrors in the sun, protected on all sides by its sheltering peaks. Wheat and corn and barley grew high in its fields, and even in Highgarden the pumpkins were no larger nor the fruit any sweeter than here. They stood at the western end of the valley, where the high road crested the last pass and began its winding descent to the bottomlands two miles below. The Vale was narrow here, no more than a half day?Ts ride across, and the northern mountains seemed so close that
Catelyn could almost reach out and touch them. Looming over them all was the jagged peak called the Giant?Ts Lance, a mountain that even mountains looked up to, its head lost in icy mists three and a half miles above the valley floor. Over its massive western shoulder flowed the ghost torrent of Alyssâ?Ts Tears. Even from this distance, Catelyn could make out the shining silver thread, bright against the dark stone.
When her uncle saw that she had stopped, he moved his horse closer and pointed. ?oIt?Ts there, beside Alyssâ?Ts Tears. All you can see from here is a flash of white every now and then, if you look hard and the sun hits the walls just right.?
Seven towers, Ned had told her, like white daggers thrust into the belly of the sky, so high you can stand on the parapets and look down on the clouds. ?oHow long a ride?? she asked.
?oWe can be at the mountain by evenfall,? Uncle Brynden said, ?obut the climb will take another day.?
Ser Rodrik Cassel spoke up from behind. ?oMy lady,? he said, ?oI fear I can go no farther today.? His face sagged beneath his ragged, new grown whiskers, and he looked so weary Catelyn feared he might fall off his horse.
?oNor should you,? she said. ?oYou have done all I could have asked of you, and a hundred times more. My uncle will see me the rest of the way to the Eyrie. Lannister must come with me, but there is no reason that you and the others should not rest here and recover your strength.?
?oWe should be honored to have them to guest,? Ser Donnel said with the grave courtesy of the young. Beside Ser Rodrik, only Bronn, Ser Willis Wode, and Marillion the singer remained of the party that had ridden with her from the inn by the crossroads.
?oMy lady,? Marillion said, riding forward. ?oI beg you allow me to accompany you to the Eyrie, to see the end of the tale as I saw its beginnings.? The boy sounded haggard, yet strangely determined; he had a fevered shine to his eyes.
Catelyn had never asked the singer to ride with them; that choice he had made himself, and how he had come *****rvive the journey when so many braver men lay dead and unburied behind them, she could never say. Yet here he was, with a scruff of beard that made him look almost a man. Perhaps she owed him something for having come this far. ?oVery well,? she told him.
?oI?Tll come as well,? Bronn announced.
She liked that less well. Without Bronn she would never have reached the Vale, she knew; the sellsword was as fierce a fighter as she had ever seen, and his sword had helped cut them through to safety.
Yet for all that, Catelyn misliked the man. Courage he had, and strength, but there was no kindness in him, and little loyalty. And she had seen him riding beside Lannister far too often, talking in low voices and laughing at some private joke. She would have preferred to separate him from the dwarf here and now, but having agreed that Marillion might continue to the Eyrie, she could see no gracious way to deny that same right to Bronn. ?oAs you wish,? she said, although she noted that he had not actually asked her permission.
Ser Willis Wode remained with Ser Rodrik, a soft-spoken septon fussing over their wounds. Their horses were left behind as well, poor ragged things. Ser Donnel promised to send birds ahead to the Eyrie and the Gates of the Moon with the word of their coming. Fresh mounts were brought forth from the stables, surefooted mountain stock with shaggy coats, and within the hour they set forth once again. Catelyn rode beside her uncle as they began the descent to the valley floor. Behind came Bronn, Tyrion Lannister, Marillion, and six of Brynden?Ts men.
Not until they were a third of the way down the mountain path, well out of earshot of the others, did Brynden Tully turn to her and say, ?oSo, child. Tell me about this storm of yours.?
?oI have not been a child in many years, Uncle,? Catelyn said, but she told him nonetheless. It took longer than she would have believed to tell it all, Lysâ?Ts letter and Bran?Ts fall, the assassin?Ts dagger and Littlefinger and her chance meeting with Tyrion Lannister in the crossroadsinn.
Her uncle listened silently, heavy brows shadowing his eyes as his frown grew deeper. Brynden Tully had always known how to listen... to anyone but her father. He was Lord Hoster?Ts brother, younger by five years, but the two of them had been at war as far back as Catelyn could remember. During one of their louder quarrels, when Catelyn was eight, Lord Hoster had called Brynden ?othe black goat of the Tully flock.? Laughing, Brynden had pointed out that the sigil of their house was a leaping trout, so he ought to be a black fish rather than a black goat, and from that day forward he had taken it as his personal emblem.
The war had not ended until the day she and Lysa had been wed. It was at their wedding feast that Brynden told his brother he was leaving Riverrun to serve Lysa and her new husband, the Lord of the Eyrie. Lord Hoster had not spoken his brother?Ts name since, from what Edmure told her in his infrequent letters.
Nonetheless, during all those years of Catelyn?Ts girlhood, it had been Brynden the Blackfish to whom Lord Hoster?Ts children had run with their tears and their tales, when Father was too busy and Mother too ill. Catelyn, Lysa, Edmure... and yes, even Petyr Baelish, their father?Ts ward... he had listened to them all patiently, as he listened now, laughing at their triumphs and sympathizing with their childish misfortunes.

When she was done, her uncle remained silent for a long time, as his horse negotiated the steep, rocky trail. ?oYour father must be told,? he said at last. ?oIf the Lannisters should march, Winterfell is remote and the Vale walled up behind its mountains, but Riverrun lies right in their path.?
?oI?Td had the same fear,? Catelyn admitted. ?oI shall ask Maester Colemon to send a bird when we reach the Eyrie.? She had other messages to send as well; the commands that Ned had given her for his bannermen, to ready the defenses of the north. ?oWhat is the mood in the Vale?? she asked.
?oAngry,? Brynden Tully admitted. ?oLord Jon was much loved, and the insult was keenly felt when the king named Jaime Lannister to an office the Arryns had held for near three hundred years. Lysa has commanded us to call her son the True Warden of the East, but no one is fooled. Nor is your sister alone in wondering at the manner of the Hand?Ts death. None dare say Jon was murdered, not openly, but suspicion casts a long shadow.? He gave Catelyn a look, his mouth tight. ?oAnd there is the boy.?
?oThe boy? What of him?? She ducked her head as they passed under a low overhang of rock, and around a sharp turn.
Her unclê?Ts voice was troubled. ?oLord Robert,? he sighed. ?oSix years old, sickly, and prone to weep if you take his dolls away. Jon Arryn?Ts trueborn heir, by all the gods, yet there are some who say he is too weak to sit his father?Ts seat, Nestor Royce has been high steward these past fourteen years, while Lord Jon served in King?Ts Landing, and many whisper that he should rule until the boy comes of age. Others believe that Lysa must marry again, and soon. Already the suitors gather like crows on a battlefield. The Eyrie is full of them.?
?oI might have expected that,? Catelyn said. Small wonder there; Lysa was still young, and the kingdom of Mountain and Vale made a handsome wedding gift. ?oWill Lysa take another husband??
?oShe says yes, provided she finds a man who suits her,? Brynden Tully said, ?obut she has already rejected Lord Nestor and a dozen other suitable men. She swears that this time she will choose her lord husband.?
?oYou of all people can scarce fault her for that.?
Ser Brynden snorted. ?oNor do I, but... it seems to me Lysa is only playing at courtship. She enjoys the sport, but I believe your sister intends to rule herself until her boy is old enough to be Lord of the Eyrie in truth as well as name.?
?oA woman can rule as wisely as a man,? Catelyn said.
?oThe tight woman can,? her uncle said with a sideways glance. ?oMake no mistake, Cat. Lysa is not you.? He hesitated a moment. ?oIf truth be told, I fear you may not find your sister as helpful as you would like.?
She was puzzled. ?oWhat do you mean??
?oThe Lysa who came back from King?Ts Landing is not the same girl who went south when her husband was named Hand. Those years were hard for her. You must know. Lord Arryn was a dutiful husband, but their marriage was made from politics, not passion.?
?oAs was my own.?
?oThey began the same, but your ending has been happier than your sister?Ts. Two babes stillborn, twice as many miscarriages, Lord Arryn?Ts death... Catelyn, the gods gave Lysa only the one child, and he is all your sister lives for now, poor boy. Small wonder she fled rather than see him handed over to the Lannisters. Your sister is afraid, child, and the Lannisters are what she fears most. She ran to the Vale, stealing away from the Red Keep like a thief in the night, and all to snatch her son out of the lion?Ts mouth... and now you have brought the lion to her door.?
?oIn chains,? Catelyn said. A crevasse yawned on her right, falling away into darkness. She reined up her horse and picked her way along step by careful step.
?oOh?? Her uncle glanced back, to where Tyrion Lannister was making his slow descent behind them. ?oI see an axe on his saddle, a dirk at his belt, and a sellsword that trails after him like a hungry shadow. Where are the chains, sweet one??
Catelyn shifted uneasily in her seat. ?oThe dwarf is here, and not by choice. Chains or no, he is my prisoner. Lysa will want him to answer for his crimes no less than I. It was her own lord husband the Lannisters murdered, and her own letter that first warned us against them.?
Brynden Blackfish gave her a weary smile. ?oI hope you are right, child,? he sighed, in tones that said she was wrong.
The sun was well to the west by the time the slope began to flatten beneath the hooves of their horses. The road widened and grew straight, and for the first time Catelyn noticed wildflowers and grasses growing. Once they reached the valley floor, the going was faster and they made good time, cantering through verdant greenwoods and sleepy little hamlets, past orchards and golden wheat fields, splashing across a dozen sunlit streams. Her uncle sent a standard-bearer ahead of them, a double banner flying from his staff; the moon-and-falcon of House Arryn on high, and below it his own black fish. Farm wagons and merchants?T carts and riders from lesser houses moved aside to let them pass.
Even so, it was full dark before they reached the stout castle that stood at the foot of the Giant?Ts Lance. Torches flickered atop its ramparts, and the horned moon danced upon the dark waters of its moat. The drawbridge was up and the portcullis down, but Catelyn saw lights burning in the gatehouse and spilling from the windows of the square towers beyond.
?oThe Gates of the Moon,? her uncle said as the party drew rein. His standard-bearer rode to the edge of the moat to hail the men in the gatehouse. ?oLord Nestor?Ts seat. He should be expecting us. Look up.?
Catelyn raised her eyes, up and up and up. At first all she saw was stone and trees, the looming mass of the great mountain shrouded in night, as black as a starless sky. Then she noticed the glow of distant fires well above them; a tower keep, built upon the steep side of the mountain, its lights like orange eyes staring down from above. Above that was another, higher and more distant, and still higher a third, no more than a flickering spark in the sky. And finally, up where the falcons soared, a flash of white in the moonlight. Vertigo washed over her as she stared upward at the pale towers, so far above.
?oThe Eyrie,? she heard Marillion murmur, awed.
The sharp voice of Tyrion Lannister broke in. ?oThe Arryns must not be overfond of company. If you?Tre planning to make us climb that mountain in the dark, I?Td rather you kill me here.?
?oWê?Tll spend the night here and make the ascent on the morrow,? Brynden told him.
?oI can scarcely wait,? the dwarf replied. ?oHow do we get up there? I?Tve no experience at riding goats.?
?oMules,? Brynden said, smiling.
?oThere are steps carved into the mountain,? Catelyn said. Ned had told her about them when he talked of his youth here with Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn.
Her uncle nodded. ?oIt is too dark to see them, but the steps are there. Too steep and narrow for horses, but mules can manage them most of the way. The path is guarded by three waycastles, Stone and Snow and Sky. The mules will take us as far up as Sky.?
Tyrion Lannister glanced up doubtfully. ?oAnd beyond that??
Brynden smiled. ?oBeyond that, the path is too steep even for mules. We ascend on foot the rest of the way. Or perchance you?Td prefer to ride a basket. The Eyrie clings to the mountain directly above Sky, and in its cellars are six great winches with long iron chains to draw supplies up from below. If you prefer, my lord of Lannister, I can arrange for you to ride up with the bread and beer and apples.?
The dwarf gave a bark of laughter. ?oWould that I were a pumpkin,? he said. ?oAlas, my lord father would no doubt be most chagrined if his son of Lannister went to his fate like a load of turnips. If you ascend on foot, I fear I must do the same. We Lannisters do have a certain pride.?
?oPride?? Catelyn snapped. His mocking tone and easy manner made her angry. ?oArrogance, some might call it. Arrogance and avarice and lust for power.?
?oMy brother is undoubtedly arrogant,? Tyrion Lannister replied. ?oMy father is the soul of avarice, and my sweet sister Cersei lusts for power with every waking breath. I, however, am innocent as a little lamb. Shall I bleat for you?? He grinned.
The drawbridge came creaking down before she could reply, and they heard the sound of oiled chains as the portcullis was drawn up. Men-at-arms carried burning brands out to light their way, and her uncle led them across the moat. Lord Nestor Royce, High Steward of the Vale and Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, was waiting in the yard to greet them, surrounded by his knights. ?oLady Stark,? he said, bowing. He was a massive, barrel-chested man, and his bow was clumsy.
Catelyn dismounted to stand before him. ?oLord Nestor,? she said. She knew the man only by reputation; Bronze Yohn?Ts cousin, from a lesser branch of House Royce, yet still a formidable lord in his own right. ?oWe have had a long and tiring journey. I would beg the hospitality of your roof tonight, if I might.?
?oMy roof is yours, my lady,? Lord Nestor returned gruffly, ?obut your sister the Lady Lysa has sent down word from the Eyrie. She wishes to see you at once. The rest of your party will be housed here and sent up at first light.?
Her uncle swung off his horse. ?oWhat madness is this?? he said bluntly. Brynden Tully had never been a man to blunt the edge of his words. ?oA night ascent, with the moon not even full? Even Lysa should know that?Ts an invitation to a broken neck.?
?oThe mules know the way, Ser Brynden.? A wiry girl of seventeen or eighteen years stepped up beside Lord Nestor. Her dark hair was cropped short and straight around her head, and she wore riding leathers and a light shirt of silvered ringmail. She bowed to Catelyn, more gracefully than her lord. ?oI promise you, my lady, no harm will come to you. It would be my honor to take you up. I?Tve made the dark climb a hundred times. Mychel says my father must have been a goat.?
She sounded so ****y that Catelyn had to smile. ?oDo you have a name, child??
?oMya Stone, if it please you, my lady,? the girl said.
It did not please her; it was an effort for Catelyn to keep the smile on her face. Stone was a bastard?Ts name in the Vale, as Snow was in the north, and Flowers in Highgarden; in each of the Seven Kingdoms, custom had fashioned a surname for children born with no names of their own. Catelyn had nothing against this girl, but suddenly she could not help but think of Ned?Ts bastard on the Wall, and the thought made her angry and guilty, both at once. She struggled to find words for a reply.
Lord Nestor filled the silence. ?oMyâ?Ts a clever girl, and if she vows she will bring you safely to the Lady Lysa, I believe her. She has not failed me yet.?
?oThen I put myself in your hands, Mya Stone,? Catelyn said. ?oLord Nestor, I charge you to keep a close guard on my prisoner.?
?oAnd I charge you to bring the prisoner a cup of wine and a nicely crisped capon, before he dies of hunger,? Lannister said. ?oA girl would be pleasant as well, but I suppose that?Ts too much to ask of you.? The sellsword Bronn laughed aloud.
Lord Nestor ignored the banter. ?oAs you say, my lady, so it will be done.? Only then did he look at the dwarf. ?oSee our lord of Lannister to a tower cell, and bring him meat and mead.?

Catelyn took her leave of her uncle and the others as Tyrion Lannister was led off, then followed the bastard girl through the castle. Two mules were waiting in the upper bailey, saddled and ready. Mya helped her mount one while a guardsman in a sky-blue cloak opened the narrow postern gate. Beyond was dense forest of pine and spruce, and the mountain like a black wall, but the steps were there, chiseled deep into the rock, ascending into the sky. ?oSome people find it easier if they close their eyes,? Mya said as she led the mules through the gate into the dark wood. ?oWhen they get frightened or dizzy, sometimes they hold on to the mule too tight. They don?Tt like that.?
?oI was born a Tully and wed to a Stark,? Catelyn said. ?oI do not frighten easily. Do you plan to light a torch?? The steps were black as pitch.
The girl made a face. ?oTorches just blind you. On a clear night like this, the moon and the stars are enough. Mychel says I have the eyes of the owl.? She mounted and urged her mule up the first step. Catelyn?Ts animal followed of its own accord.
?oYou mentioned Mychel before,? Catelyn said. The mules set the pace, slow but steady. She was perfectly content with that.
?oMychel?Ts my love,? Mya explained. ?oMychel Redfort. Hê?Ts squire to Ser Lyn Corbray. Wê?Tre to wed as soon as he becomes a knight, next year or the year after.?
She sounded so like Sansa, so happy and innocent with her dreams. Catelyn smiled, but the smile was tinged with sadness. The Redforts were an old name in the Vale, she knew, with the blood of the First Men in their veins. His love she might be, but no Redfort would ever wed a bastard. His family would arrange a more suitable match for him, to a Corbray or a Waynwood or a Royce, or perhaps a daughter of some greater house outside the Vale. If Mychel Redfort laid with this girl at all, it would be on the wrong side of the sheet.
The ascent was easier than Catelyn had dared hope. The trees pressed close, leaning over the path to make a rustling green roof that shut out even the moon, so it seemed as though they were moving up a long black tunnel. But the mules were surefooted and tireless, and Mya Stone did indeed seem blessed with night-eyes. They plodded upward, winding their way back and forth across the face of the mountain as the steps twisted and turned. A thick layer of fallen needles carpeted the path, so the shoes of their mules made only the softest sound on the rock. The quiet soothed her, and the gentle rocking motion set Catelyn to swaying in her saddle. Before long she was fighting sleep.
Perhaps she did doze for a moment, for suddenly a massive ironbound gate was looming before them. ?oStone,? Mya announced cheerily, dismounting. Iron spikes were set along the tops of formidable stone walls, and two fat round towers overtopped the keep. The gate swung open at Myâ?Ts shout. Inside, the portly knight who commanded the waycastle greeted Mya by name and offered them skewers of charred meat and onions still hot from the spit. Catelyn had not realized how hungry she was. She ate standing in the yard, as stablehands moved their saddles to fresh mules. The hot juices ran down her chin and dripped onto her cloak, but she was too famished to care.
Then it was up onto a new mule and out again into the starlight. The second part of the ascent seemed more treacherous to Catelyn. The trail was steeper, the steps more worn, and here and there littered with pebbles and broken stone. Mya had to dismount a half-dozen times to move fallen rocks from their path. ?oYou don?Tt want your mule to break a leg up here,? she said. Catelyn was forced to agree. She could feel the altitude more now. The trees were sparser up here, and the wind blew more vigorously, sharp gusts that tugged at her clothing and pushed her hair into her eyes. From time to time the steps doubled back on themselves, and she could see Stone below them, and the Gates of the Moon farther down, its torches no brighter than candles.
Snow was smaller than Stone, a single fortified tower and a timber keep and stable hidden behind a low wall of unmortared rock. Yet it nestled against the Giant?Ts Lance in such a way as to command the entire stone stair above the lower waycastle. An enemy intent on the Eyrie would have to fight his way from Stone step by step, while rocks and arrows rained down from Snow above. The commander, an anxious young knight with a pockmarked face, offered bread and cheese and the chance to warm themselves before his fire, but Mya declined. ?oWe ought to keep going, my lady,? she said. ?oIf it please you.? Catelyn nodded.
Again they were given fresh mules. Hers was white. Mya smiled when she saw him. ?oWhitey?Ts a good one, my lady. Sure of foot, even on ice, but you need to be careful. Hê?Tll kick if he doesn?Tt like you.?
The white mule seemed to like Catelyn; there was no kicking, thank the gods. There was no ice either, and she was grateful for that as well. ?oMy mother says that hundreds of years ago, this was where the snow began,? Mya told her. ?oIt was always white above here, and the ice never melted.? She shrugged. ?oI can?Tt remember ever seeing snow this far down the mountain, but maybe it was that way once, in the olden times.?
So young, Catelyn thought, trying to remember if she had ever been like that. The girl had lived half her life in summer, and that was all she knew. Winter is coming, child, she wanted to tell her. The words were on her lips; she almost said them. Perhaps she was becoming a Stark at last.
Above Snow, the wind was a living thing, howling around them like a wolf in the waste, then falling off to nothing as if to lure them into complacency. The stars seemed brighter up here, so close that she could almost touch them, and the horned moon was huge in the clear black sky. As they climbed, Catelyn found it was better to look up than down. The steps were cracked and broken from centuries of freeze and thaw and the tread of countless mules, and even in the dark the heights put her heart in her throat. When they came to a high saddle between two spires of rock, Mya dismounted. ?oIt?Ts best to lead the mules over,? she said. ?oThe wind can be a little scary here, my lady.?
Catelyn climbed stiffly from the shadows and looked at the path ahead; twenty feet long and close to three feet wide, but with a precipitous drop to either side. She could hear the wind shrieking. Mya stepped lightly out, her mule following as calmly as if they were crossing a bailey. It was her turn. Yet no sooner had she taken her first step than fear caught Catelyn in its jaws. She could feel the emptiness, the vast black gulfs of air that yawned around her. She stopped, trembling, afraid to move. The wind screamed at her and wrenched at her cloak, trying to pull her over the edge. Catelyn edged her foot backward, the most timid of steps, but the mule was behind her, and she could not retreat. I am going to die here, she thought. She could feel cold sweat trickling down her back.
?oLady Stark,? Mya called across the gulf. The girl sounded a thousand leagues away. ?oAre you well??
Catelyn Tully Stark swallowed what remained of her pride. ?oI... I cannot do this, child,? she called out.
?oYes you can,? the bastard girl said. ?oI know you can. Look how wide the path is.?
?oI don?Tt want to look.? The world seemed to be spinning around her, mountain and sky and mules, whirling like a child?Ts top. Catelyn closed her eyes to steady her ragged breathing.
?oI?Tll come back for you,? Mya said. ?oDon?Tt move, my lady.?
Moving was about the last thing Catelyn was about to do. She listened to the skirling of the wind and the scuffling sound of leather on stone. Then Mya was there, taking her gently by the arm. ?oKeep your eyes closed if you like. Let go of the rope now, Whitey will take care of himself. Very good, my lady. I?Tll lead you over, it?Ts easy, you?Tll see. Give me a step now. That?Ts it, move your foot, just slide it forward. See. Now another. Easy. You could run across. Another one, go on. Yes.? And so, foot by foot, step by step, the bastard girl led Catelyn across, blind and trembling, while the white mule followed placidly behind them.
The waycastle called Sky was no more than a high, crescent-shaped wall of unmortared stone raised against the side of the mountain, but even the topless towers of Valyria could not have looked more beautiful to Catelyn Stark. Here at last the snow crown began; Sky?Ts weathered stones were rimed with frost, and long spears of ice hung from the slopes above.
Dawn was breaking in the east as Mya Stone hallooed for the guards, and the gates opened before them. Inside the walls there was only a series of ramps and a great tumble of boulders and stones of all sizes. No doubt it would be the easiest thing in the world to begin an avalanche from here. A mouth yawned in the rock face in front of them. ?oThe stables and barracks are in there,? Mya said. ?oThe last part is inside the mountain. It can be a little dark, but at least you?Tre out of the wind. This is as far as the mules can go. Past here, well, it?Ts a sort of chimney, more like a stone ladder than proper steps, but it?Ts not too bad. Another hour and wê?Tll be there.?
Catelyn looked up. Directly overhead, pale in the dawn light, she could see the foundations of the Eyrie. It could not be more than six hundred feet above them. From below it looked like a small white honeycomb. She remembered what her uncle had said of baskets and winches. ?oThe Lannisters may have their pride,? she told Mya, ?obut the Tullys are born with better sense. I have ridden all day and the best part of a night. Tell them to lower a basket. I shall ride with the turnips.?
The sun was well above the mountains by the time Catelyn Stark finally reached the Eyrie. A stocky, silver-haired man in a sky-blue cloak and hammered moon-and-falcon breastplate helped her from the basket; Ser Vardis Egen, captain of Jon Arryn?Ts household guard. Beside him stood Maester Colemon, thin and nervous, with too little hair and too much neck. ?oLady Stark,? Ser Vardis said, ?othe pleasure is as great as it is unanticipated.? Maester Colemon bobbed his head in agreement. ?oIndeed it is, my lady, indeed it is. I have sent word to your sister. She left orders to be awakened the instant you arrived.?
?oI hope she had a good night?Ts rest,? Catelyn said with a certain bite in her tone that seemed to go unnoticed.
The men escorted her from the winch room up a spiral stair. The Eyrie was a small castle by the standards of the great houses; seven slender white towers bunched as tightly as arrows in a quiver on a shoulder of the great mountain. It had no need of stables nor smithys nor kennels, but Ned said its granary was as large as Winterfell?Ts, and its towers could house five hundred men. Yet it seemed strangely deserted to Catelyn as she passed through it, its pale stone halls echoing and empty.
Lysa was waiting alone in her solar, still clad in her bed robes. Her long auburn hair tumbled unbound across bare white shoulders and down her back. A maid stood behind her, brushing out the night?Ts tangles, but when Catelyn entered, her sister rose to her feet, smiling. ?oCat,? she said. ?oOh, Cat, how good it is to see you. My sweet sister.? She ran across the chamber and wrapped her sister in her arms. ?oHow long it has been,? Lysa murmured against her. ?oOh, how very very long.?
It had been five years, in truth; five cruel years, for Lysa. They had taken their toll. Her sister was two years the younger, yet she looked older now. Shorter than Catelyn, Lysa had grown thick of body, pale and puffy of face. She had the blue eyes of the Tullys, but hers were pale and watery, never still. Her small mouth had turned petulant. As Catelyn held her, she remembered the slender, high-breasted girl whô?Td waited beside her that day in the sept at Riverrun. How lovely and full of hope she had been. All that remained of her sister?Ts beauty was the great fall of thick auburn hair that cascaded to her waist.
?oYou look well,? Catelyn lied, ?obut... tired.?
Her sister broke the embrace. ?oTired. Yes. Oh, yes.? She seemed to notice the others then; her maid, Maester Colemon, Ser Vardis. ?oLeave us,? she told them. ?oI wish to speak to my sister alone.? She held Catelyn?Ts hand as they withdrew... and dropped it the instant the door closed. Catelyn saw her face change. It was as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. ?oHave you taken leave of your senses?? Lysa snapped at her. ?oTo bring him here, without a word of permission, without so much as a warning, to drag us into your quarrels with the Lannisters...?
?oMy quarrels?? Catelyn could scarce believe what she was hearing. A great fire burned in the hearth, but there was no trace of warmth in Lysâ?Ts voice. ?oThey were your quarrels first, sister. It was you who sent me that cursed letter, you who wrote that the Lannisters had murdered your husband.?
?oTo warn you, so you could stay away from them! I never meant to fight them! Gods, Cat, do you know what you?Tve done??
?oMother?? a small voice said. Lysa whirled, her heavy robe swirling around her. Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, stood in the doorway, clutching a ragged cloth doll and looking at them with large eyes. He was a painfully thin child, small for his age and sickly all his days, and from time to time he trembled. The shaking sickness, the maesters called it. ?oI heard voices.?
Small wonder, Catelyn thought; Lysa had almost been shouting. Still, her sister looked daggers at her. ?oThis is your aunt Catelyn, baby. My sister, Lady Stark. Do you remember??
The boy glanced at her blankly. ?oI think so,? he said, blinking, though he had been less than a year old the last time Catelyn had seen him.
Lysa seated herself near the fire and said, ?oCome to Mother, my sweet one.? She straightened his bedclothes and fussed with his fine brown hair. ?oIsn?Tt he beautiful? And strong too, don?Tt you believe the things you hear. Jon knew. The seed is strong, he told me. His last words. He kept saying Robert?Ts name, and he grabbed my arm so hard he left marks. Tell them, the seed is strong. His seed. He wanted everyone to know what a good strong boy my baby was going to be.?
?oLysa,? Catelyn said, ?oif you?Tre right about the Lannisters, all the more reason we must act quickly. We-?
?oNot in front of the baby,? Lysa said. ?oHe has a delicate temper, don?Tt you, sweet one??
?oThe boy is Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale,? Catelyn reminded her, ?oand these are no times for delicacy. Ned thinks it may come to war.?
?oQuiet!? Lysa snapped at her. ?oYou?Tre scaring the boy.? Little Robert took a quick peek over his shoulder at Catelyn and began to tremble. His doll fell to the rushes, and he pressed himself against his mother. ?oDon?Tt be afraid, my sweet baby,? Lysa whispered. ?oMother?Ts here, nothing will hurt you.? She opened her robe and drew out a pale, heavy breast, tipped with red. The boy grabbed for it eagerly, buried his face against her chest, and began *****ck. Lysa stroked his hair.
Catelyn was at a loss for words. Jon Anyn?Ts son, she thought incredulously. She remembered her own baby, three-year-old Rickon, half the age of this boy and five times as fierce. Small wonder the lords of the Vale were restive. For the first time she understood why the king had tried to take the child away from his mother to foster with the Lannisters...
?oWê?Tre safe here,? Lysa was saying. Whether to her or to the boy, Catelyn was not sure.
?oDon?Tt be a fool,? Catelyn said, the anger rising in her. ?oNo one is safe. If you think hiding here will make the Lannisters forget you, you are sadly mistaken.?
Lysa covered her boy?Ts ear with her hand. ?oEven if they could bring an army through the mountains and past the Bloody Gate, the Eyrie is impregnable. You saw for yourself. No enemy could ever reach us up here.?
Catelyn wanted to slap her. Uncle Brynden had tried to warn her, she realized. ?oNo castle is impregnable.?
?oThis one is,? Lysa insisted. ?oEveryone says so. The only thing is, what am I to do with this Imp you have brought me??
?oIs he a bad man?? the Lord of the Eyrie asked, his mother?Ts breast popping from his mouth, the nipple wet and red.
?oA very bad man,? Lysa told him as she covered herself, ?obut Mother won?Tt let him harm my little baby.?
?oMake him fly,? Robert said eagerly.
Lysa stroked her son?Ts hair. ?oPerhaps we will,? she murmured. ?oPerhaps that is just what we will do.?

Chapter 35
Eddard​

He found Littlefinger in the brothel?Ts common room, chatting amiably with a tall, elegant woman who wore a feathered gown over skin as black as ink. By the hearth, Heward and a buxom wench were playing at forfeits. From the look of it, hê?Td lost his belt, his cloak, his mail shirt, and his right boot so far, while the girl had been forced to unbutton her shift to the waist. Jory Cassel stood beside a rain-streaked window with a wry smile on his face, watching Heward turn over tiles and enjoying the view.
Ned paused at the foot of the stair and pulled on his gloves. ?oIt?Ts time we took our leave. My business here is done.?
Heward lurched to his feet, hurriedly gathering up his things. ?oAs you will, my lord,? Jory said. ?oI?Tll help Wyl bring round the horses.? He strode to the door.
Littlefinger took his time saying his farewells. He kissed the black woman?Ts hand, whispered some joke that made her laugh aloud, and sauntered over to Ned. ?oYour business,? he said lightly, ?oor Robert?Ts? They say the Hand dreams the king?Ts dreams, speaks with the king?Ts voice, and rules with the king?Ts sword. Does that also mean you **** with the king?Ts-?
?oLord Baelish,? Ned interrupted, ?oyou presume too much. I am not ungrateful for your help. It might have taken us years to find this brothel without you. That does not mean I intend to endure your mockery. And I am no longer the King?Ts Hand.?
?oThe direwolf must be a prickly beast,? said Littlefinger with a sharp twist of his mouth.
A warm rain was pelting down from a starless black sky as they walked to the stables. Ned drew up the hood of his cloak. Jory brought out his horse. Young Wyl came right behind him, leading Littlefinger?Ts mare with one hand while the other fumbled with his belt and the lacings of his trousers. A barefoot whore leaned out of the stable door, giggling at him.
?oWill we be going back to the castle now, my lord?? Jory asked. Ned nodded and swung into the saddle. Littlefinger mounted up beside him. Jory and the others followed.
?oChataya runs a choice establishment,? Littlefinger said as they rode. ?oI?Tve half a mind to buy it. Brothels are a much sounder investment than ships, I?Tve found. Whores seldom sink, and when they are boarded by pirates, why, the pirates pay good coin like everyone else.? Lord Petyr chuckled at his own wit.
Ned let him prattle on. After a time, he quieted and they rode in silence. The streets of King?Ts Landing were dark and deserted. The rain had driven everyone under their roofs. It beat down on Ned?Ts head, warm as blood and relentless as old guilts. Fat drops of water ran down his face.
?oRobert will never keep to one bed,? Lyanna had told him at Winterfell, on the night long ago when their father had promised her hand to the young Lord of Storm?Ts End. ?oI hear he has gotten a child on some girl in the Vale.? Ned had held the babe in his arms; he could scarcely deny her, nor would he lie to his sister, but he had assured her that what Robert did before their betrothal was of no matter, that he was a good man and true who would love her with all his heart. Lyanna had only smiled. ?oLove is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man?Ts nature.?
The girl had been so young Ned had not dared to ask her age. No doubt shê?Td been a virgin; the better brothels could always find a virgin, if the purse was fat enough. She had light red hair and a powdering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, and when she slipped free a breast to give her nipple to the babe, he saw that her bosom was freckled as well. ?oI named her Barra,? she said as the child nursed. ?oShe looks so like him, does she not, milord? She has his nose, and his hair...?
?oShe does.? Eddard Stark had touched the baby?Ts fine, dark hair. It flowed through his fingers like black silk. Robert?Ts firstborn had had the same fine hair, he seemed to recall.
?oTell him that when you see him, milord, as it... as it please you. Tell him how beautiful she is.?
?oI will,? Ned had promised her. That was his curse. Robert would swear undying love and forget them before evenfall, but Ned Stark kept his vows. He thought of the promises hê?Td made Lyanna as she lay dying, and the price hê?Td paid to keep them.
?oAnd tell him I?Tve not been with no one else. I swear it, milord, by the old gods and new. Chataya said I could have half a year, for the baby, and for hoping hê?Td come back. So you?Tll tell him I?Tm waiting, won?Tt you? I don?Tt want no jewels or nothing, just him. He was always good to me, truly.?
Good to you, Ned thought hollowly. ?oI will tell him, child, and I promise you, Barra shall not go wanting.?
She had smiled then, a smile so tremulous and sweet that it cut the heart out of him. Riding through the rainy night, Ned saw Jon Snow?Ts face in front of him, so like a younger version of his own. If the gods frowned so on bastards, he thought dully, why did they fill men with such lusts? ?oLord Baelish, what do you know of Robert?Ts bastards??
?oWell, he has more than you, for a start.?
?oHow many??
Littlefinger shrugged. Rivulets of moisture twisted down the back of his cloak. ?oDoes it matter? If you bed enough women, some will give you presents, and His Grace has never been shy on that count. I know hê?Ts acknowledged that boy at Storm?Ts End, the one he fathered the night Lord Stannis wed. He could hardly do otherwise. The mother was a Florent, niece to the Lady Selyse, one of her bedmaids. Renly says that Robert carried the girl upstairs during the feast, and broke in the wedding bed while Stannis and his bride were still dancing. Lord Stannis seemed to think that was a blot on the honor of his wifê?Ts House, so when the boy was born, he shipped him off to Renly.? He gave Ned a sideways glance. ?oI?Tve also heard whispers that Robert got a pair of twins on a serving wench at Casterly Rock, three years ago when he went west for Lord Tywin?Ts tourney. Cersei had the babes killed, and sold the mother to a passing slaver. Too much an affront to Lannister pride, that close to home.?
Ned Stark grimaced. Ugly tales like that were told of every great lord in the realm. He could believe it of Cersei Lannister readily enough... but would the king stand by and let it happen? The Robert he had known would not have, but the Robert he had known had never been so practiced at shutting his eyes to things he did not wish to see. ?oWhy would Jon Arryn take a sudden interest in the king?Ts baseborn children??
The short man gave a sodden shrug. ?oHe was the King?Ts Hand. Doubtless Robert asked him to see that they were provided for.?
Ned was soaked through to the bone, and his soul had grown cold. ?oIt had to be more than that, or why kill him??
Littlefinger shook the rain from his hair and laughed. ?oNow I see. Lord Arryn learned that His Grace had filled the bellies of some whores and fishwives, and for that he had to be silenced. Small wonder. Allow a man like that to live, and next hê?Ts like to blurt out that the sun rises in the east.?
There was no answer Ned Stark could give to that but a frown. For the first time in years, he found himself remembering Rhaegar Targaryen. He wondered if Rhaegar had frequented brothels; somehow he thought not.
The rain was falling harder now, stinging the eyes and drumming against the ground. Rivers of black water were running down the hill when Jory called out, ?oMy lord,? his voice hoarse with alarm. And in an instant, the street was full of soldiers.
Ned glimpsed ringmail over leather, gauntlets and greaves, steel helms with golden lions on the crests. Their cloaks clung to their backs, sodden with rain. He had no time to count, but there were ten at least, a line of them, on foot, blocking the street, with longswords and irontipped spears. ?oBehind!? he heard Wyl cry, and when he turned his horse, there were more in back of them, cutting off their retreat. Jory?Ts sword came singing from its scabbard. ?oMake way or die!?
?oThe wolves are howling,? their leader said. Ned could see rain running down his face. ?oSuch a small pack, though.?
Littlefinger walked his horse forward, step by careful step. ?oWhat is the meaning of this? This is the Hand of the King.?
?oHe was the Hand of the King.? The mud muffled the hooves of the blood bay stallion. The line parted before him. On a golden breastplate, the lion of Lannister roared its defiance. ?oNow, if truth be told, I?Tm not sure what he is.?
?oLannister, this is madness,? Littlefinger said. ?oLet us pass. We are expected back at the castle. What do you think you?Tre doing??
?oHe knows what hê?Ts doing,? Ned said calmly.
Jaime Lannister smiled. ?oQuite true. I?Tm looking for my brother. You remember my brother, don?Tt you, Lord Stark? He was with us at Winterfell. Fair-haired, mismatched eyes, sharp of tongue. A short man.?
?oI remember him well,? Ned replied.
?oIt would seem he has met some trouble on the road. My lord father is quite vexed. You would not perchance have any notion of who might have wished my brother ill, would you??
?oYour brother has been taken at my command, to answer for his crimes,? Ned Stark said.
Littlefinger groaned in dismay. ?oMy lords-?
Ser Jaime ripped his longsword from its sheath and urged his stallion forward. ?oShow me your steel, Lord Eddard. I?Tll butcher you like Aerys if I must, but I?Td sooner you died with a blade in your hand.? He gave Littlefinger a cool, contemptuous glance. ?oLord Baelish, I?Td leave here in some haste if I did not care to get bloodstains on my costly clothing.?
Littlefinger did not need to be urged. ?oI will bring the City Watch,? he promised Ned. The Lannister line parted to let him through, and closed behind him. Littlefinger put his heels to his mare and vanished around a corner.
Ned?Ts men had drawn their swords, but they were three against twenty. Eyes watched from nearby windows and doors, but no one was about to intervene. His party was mounted, the Lannisters on foot save for Jaime himself. A charge might win them free, but it seemed to Eddard Stark that they had a surer, safer tactic. ?oKill me,? he warned the Kingslayer, ?oand Catelyn will most certainly slay Tyrion.?
Jaime Lannister poked at Ned?Ts chest with the gilded sword that had sipped the blood of the last of the Dragonkings. ?oWould she? The noble Catelyn Tully of Riverrun murder a hostage? I think... not.? He sighed. ?oBut I am not willing to chance my brother?Ts life on a woman?Ts honor.? Jaime slid the golden sword into its sheath. ?oSo I suppose I?Tll let you run back to Robert to tell him how I frightened you. I wonder if hê?Tll care.? Jaime pushed his wet hair back with his fingers and wheeled his horse around. When he was beyond the line of swordsmen, he glanced back at his captain. ?oTregar, see that no harm comes to Lord Stark.?
?oAs you say, m?Tlord.?
?oStill... we wouldn?Tt want him to leave here entirely unchastened, sô?, through the night and the rain, he glimpsed the white of Jaimê?Ts smile, ?okill his men.?
?oNo!? Ned Stark screamed, clawing for his sword. Jaime was already cantering off down the street as he heard Wyl shout. Men closed from both sides. Ned rode one down, cutting at phantoms in red cloaks who gave way before him. Jory Cassel put his heels into his mount and charged. A steel-shod hoof caught a Lannister guardsman in the face with a sickening crunch. A second man reeled away and for an instant Jory was free. Wyl cursed as they pulled him off his dying horse, swords slashing in the rain. Ned galloped to him, bringing his longsword down on Tregar?Ts helm. The jolt of impact made him grit his teeth. Tregar stumbled to his knees, his lion crest sheared in half, blood running down his face. Heward was hacking at the hands that had seized his bridle when a spear caught him in the belly. Suddenly Jory was back among them, a red rain flying from his sword. ?oNo!? Ned shouted. ?oJory, away!? Ned?Ts horse slipped under him and came crashing down in the mud. There was a moment of blinding pain and the taste of blood in his mouth.
He saw them cut the legs from Jory?Ts mount and drag him to the earth, swords rising and failing as they closed in around him. When Ned?Ts horse lurched back to its feet, he tried to rise, only to fall again, choking on his scream. He could see the splintered bone poking through his calf. It was the last thing he saw for a time. The rain came down and down and down.
When he opened his eyes again, Lord Eddard Stark was alone with his dead. His horse moved closer, caught the rank scent of blood, and galloped away. Ned began to drag himself through the mud, gritting his teeth at the agony in his leg. It seemed to take years. Faces watched from candlelit windows, and people began to emerge from alleys and doors, but no one moved to help.
Littlefinger and the City Watch found him there in the street, cradling Jory Cassel?Ts body in his arms.
Somewhere the gold cloaks found a litter, but the trip back to the castle was a blur of agony, and Ned lost consciousness more than once. He remembered seeing the Red Keep looming ahead of him in the first grey light of dawn. The rain had darkened the pale pink stone of the massive walls to the color of blood.
Then Grand Maester Pycelle was looming over him, holding a cup, whispering, ?oDrink, my lord. Here. The milk of the poppy, for your pain.? He remembered swallowing, and Pycelle was telling someone to heat the wine to boiling and fetch him clean silk, and that was the last he knew.

Chapter 36
Daenerys​

The Horse Gate of Vaes Dothrak was made of two gigantic bronze stallions, rearing, their hooves meeting a hundred feet above the roadway to form a pointed arch.
Dany could not have said why the city needed a gate when it had no walls... and no buildings that she could see. Yet there it stood, immense and beautiful, the great horses framing the distant purple mountain beyond. The bronze stallions threw long shadows across the waving grasses as Khal Drogo led the khalasar under their hooves and down the godsway, his bloodriders beside him.
Dany followed on her silver, escorted by Ser Jorah Mormont and her brother Viserys, mounted once more. After the day in the grass when she had left him to walk back to the khalasar, the Dothraki had laughingly called him Khal Rhae Mhar, the Sorefoot King. Khal Drogo had offered him a place in a cart the next day, and Viserys had accepted. In his stubborn ignorance, he had not even known he was being mocked; the carts were for eunuchs, cripples, women giving birth, the very young and the very old. That won him yet another name: Khal Rhaggat, the Cart King. Her brother had thought it was the khal?Ts way of apologizing for the wrong Dany had done him. She had begged Ser Jorah not to tell him the truth, lest he be shamed. The knight had replied that the king could well do with a bit of shame... yet he had done as she bid. It had taken much pleading, and all the pillow tricks Doreah had taught her, before Dany had been able to make Drogo relent and allow Viserys to rejoin them at the head of the column.
?oWhere is the city?? she asked as they passed beneath the bronze arch. There were no buildings to be seen, no people, only the grass and the road, lined with ancient monuments from all the lands the Dothraki had sacked over the centuries.
?oAhead,? Ser Jorah answered. ?oUnder the mountain.?
Beyond the horse gate, plundered gods and stolen heroes loomed to either side of them. The forgotten deities of dead cities brandished their broken thunderbolts at the sky as Dany rode her silver past their feet. Stone kings looked down on her from their thrones, their faces chipped and stained, even their names lost in the mists of time. Lithe young maidens danced on marble plinths, draped only in flowers, or poured air from shattered jars. Monsters stood in the grass beside the road; black iron dragons with jewels for eyes, roaring griffins, manticores with their barbed tails poised to strike, and other beasts she could not name. Some of the statues were so lovely they took her breath away, others so misshapen and terrible that Dany could scarcely bear to look at them. Those, Ser Jorah said, had likely come from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai.
?oSo many,? she said as her silver stepped slowly onward, ?oand from so many lands.?
Viserys was less impressed. ?oThe trash of dead cities,? he sneered. He was careful to speak in the Common Tongue, which few Dothraki could understand, yet even so Dany found herself glancing back at the men of her khas, to make certain he had not been overheard. He went on blithely. ?oAll these savages know how to do is steal the things better men have built... and kill.? He laughed. ?oThey do know how to kill. Otherwise I?Td have no use for them at all.?
?oThey are my people now,? Dany said. ?oYou should not call them savages, brother.?
?oThe dragon speaks as he likes,? Viserys said... in the Common Tongue. He glanced over his shoulder at Aggo and Rakharo, riding behind them, and favored them with a mocking smile. ?oSee, the savages lack the wit to understand the speech of civilized men.? A mosseaten stone monolith loomed over the road, fifty feet tall. Viserys gazed at it with boredom in his eyes. ?oHow long must we linger amidst these ruins before Drogo gives me my army? I grow tired of waiting.?
?oThe princess must be presented to the dosh khaleen...?
?oThe crones, yes,? her brother interrupted, ?oand therê?Ts to be some mummer?Ts show of a prophecy for the whelp in her belly, you told me. What is that to me? I?Tm tired of eating horsemeat and I?Tm sick of the stink of these savages.? He sniffed at the wide, floppy sleeve of his tunic, where it was his custom to keep a sachet. It could not have helped much. The tunic was filthy. All the silk and heavy wools that Viserys had worn out of Pentos were stained by hard travel and rotted from sweat.
Ser Jorah Mormont said, ?oThe Western Market will have food more to your taste, Your Grace. The traders from the Free Cities come there to sell their wares. The khal will honor his promise in his own time.?
?oHe had better,? Viserys said grimly. ?oI was promised a crown, and I mean to have it. The dragon is not mocked.? Spying an obscene likeness of a woman with six breasts and a ferret?Ts head, he rode off to inspect it more closely.
Dany was relieved, yet no less anxious. ?oI pray that my sun-and-stars will not keep him waiting too long,? she told Ser Jorah when her brother was out of earshot.
The knight looked after Viserys doubtfully. ?oYour brother should have bided his time in Pentos. There is no place for him in a khalasar. Illyrio tried to warn him.?
?oHe will go as soon as he has his ten thousand. My lord husband promised a golden crown.?
Ser Jorah grunted. ?oYes, Khaleesi, but... the Dothraki look on these things differently than we do in the west. I have told him as much, as Illyrio told him, but your brother does not listen. The horselords are no traders. Viserys thinks he sold you, and now he wants his price. Yet Khal Drogo would say he had you as a gift. He will give Viserys a gift in return, yes... in his own time. You do not demand a gift, not of a khal. You do not demand anything of a khal.?
?oIt is not right to make him wait.? Dany did not know why she was defending her brother, yet she was. ?oViserys says he could sweep the Seven Kingdoms with ten thousand Dothraki screamers.?
Ser Jorah snorted. ?oViserys could not sweep a stable with ten thousand brooms.?
Dany could not pretend *****rprise at the disdain in his tone. ?oWhat... what if it were not Viserys?? she asked. ?oIf it were someone else who led them? Someone stronger? Could the Dothraki truly conquer the Seven Kingdoms??
Ser Jorah?Ts face grew thoughtful as their horses trod together down the godsway. ?oWhen I first went into exile, I looked at the Dothraki and saw half-naked barbarians, as wild as their horses. If you had asked me then, Princess, I should have told you that a thousand good knights would have no trouble putting to flight a hundred times as many Dothraki.?
?oBut if I asked you now??
?oNow,? the knight said, ?oI am less certain. They are better riders than any knight, utterly fearless, and their bows outrange ours. In the Seven Kingdoms, most archers fight on foot, from behind a shieldwall or a barricade of sharpened stakes. The Dothraki fire from horseback, charging or retreating, it makes no matter, they are full as deadly... and there are so many of them, my lady. Your lord husband alone counts forty thousand mounted warriors in his khalasar.?
?oIs that truly so many??
?oYour brother Rhaegar brought as many men to the Trident,? Ser Jorah admitted, ?obut of that number, no more than a tenth were knights. The rest were archers, freeriders, and foot soldiers armed with spears and pikes. When Rhaegar fell, many threw down their weapons and fled the field. How long do you imagine such a rabble would stand against the charge of forty thousand screamers howling for blood? How well would boiled leather jerkins and mailed shirts protect them when the arrows fall like rain??
?oNot long,? she said, ?onot well.?
He nodded. ?oMind you, Princess, if the lords of the Seven Kingdoms have the wit the gods gave a goose, it will never come to that. The riders have no taste for siegecraft. I doubt they could take even the weakest castle in the Seven Kingdoms, but if Robert Baratheon were fool enough to give them battle...?
?oIs he?? Dany asked. ?oA fool, I mean??
Ser Jorah considered that for a moment. ?oRobert should have been born Dothraki,? he said at last. ?oYour khal would tell you that only a coward hides behind stone walls instead of facing his enemy with a blade in hand. The Usurper would agree. He is a strong man, brave... and rash enough to meet a Dothraki horde in the open field. But the men around him, well, their pipers play a different tune. His brother Stannis, Lord Tywin Lannister, Eddard Stark...? He spat.
?oYou hate this Lord Stark,? Dany said.
?oHe took from me all I loved, for the sake of a few lice-ridden poachers and his precious honor,? Ser Jorah said bitterly. From his tone, she could tell the loss still pained him. He changed the subject quickly. ?oThere,? he announced, pointing. ?oVaes Dothrak. The city of the horselords.?
Khal Drogo and his bloodriders led them through the great bazaar of the Western Market, down the broad ways beyond. Dany followed close on her silver, staring at the strangeness about her. Vaes Dothrak was at once the largest city and the smallest that she had ever known. She thought it must be ten times as large as Pentos, a vastness without walls or limits, its broad windswept streets paved in grass and mud and carpeted with wildflowers. In the Free Cities of the west, towers and manses and hovels and bridges and shops and halls all crowded in on one another, but Vaes Dothrak sprawled languorously, baking in the warm sun, ancient, arrogant, and empty.
Even the buildings were so queer to her eyes. She saw carved stone pavilions, manses of woven grass as large as castles, rickety wooden towers, stepped pyramids faced with marble, log halls open to the sky. In place of walls, some palaces were surrounded by thorny hedges. ?oNone of them are alike,? she said.
?oYour brother had part of the truth,? Ser Jorah admitted. ?oThe Dothraki do not build. A thousand years ago, to make a house, they would dig a hole in the earth and cover it with a woven grass roof. The buildings you see were made by slaves brought here from lands they?Tve plundered, and they built each after the fashion of their own peoples.?

Most of the halls, even the largest, seemed deserted. ?oWhere are the people who live here?? Dany asked. The bazaar had been full of running children and men shouting, but elsewhere she had seen only a few eunuchs going about their business.
?oOnly the crones of the dosh khaleen dwell permanently in the sacred city, them and their slaves and servants,? Ser Jorah replied, ?oyet Vaes Dothrak is large enough to house every man of every khalasar, should all the khals return to the Mother at once. The crones have prophesied that one day that will come to pass, and so Vaes Dothrak must be ready to embrace all its children.?
Khal Drogo finally called a halt near the Eastern Market where the caravans from Yi Ti and Asshai and the Shadow Lands came to trade, with the Mother of Mountains looming overhead. Dany smiled as she recalled Magister Illyriô?Ts slave girl and her talk of a palace with two hundred rooms and doors of solid silver. The ?opalacê? was a ****rnous wooden feasting hall, its rough-hewn timbered walls rising forty feet, its roof sewn silk, a vast billowing tent that could be raised to keep out the rare rains, or lowered to admit the endless sky. Around the hall were broad grassy horse yards fenced with high hedges, firepits, and hundreds of round earthen houses that bulged from the ground like miniature hills, covered with grass.
A small army of slaves had gone ahead to prepare for Khal Drogô?Ts arrival. As each rider swung down from his saddle, he unbelted his arakh and handed it to a waiting slave, and any other weapons he carried as well. Even Khal Drogo himself was not exempt. Ser Jorah had explained that it was forbidden to carry a blade in Vaes Dothrak, or to shed a free man?Ts blood. Even warring khalasars put aside their feuds and shared meat and mead together when they were in sight of the Mother of Mountains. In this place, the crones of the dosh khaleen had decreed, all Dothraki were one blood, one khalasar, one herd.
Cohollo came to Dany as Irri and Jhiqui were helping her down off her silver. He was the oldest of Drogô?Ts three bloodriders, a squat bald man with a crooked nose and a mouth full of broken teeth, shattered by a mace twenty years before when he saved the young khalakka from sellswords who hoped to sell him to his father?Ts enemies. His life had been bound to Drogô?Ts the day her lord husband was born.
Every khal had his bloodriders. At first Dany had thought of them as a kind of Dothraki Kingsguard, sworn to protect their lord, but it went further than that. Jhiqui had taught her that a bloodrider was more than a guard; they were the khal?Ts brothers, his shadows, his fiercest friends. ?oBlood of my blood,? Drogo called them, and so it was; they shared a single life. The ancient tra***ions of the horselords demanded that when the khal died, his bloodriders died with him, to ride at his side in the night lands. If the khal died at the hands of some enemy, they lived only long enough to avenge him, and then followed him joyfully into the grave. In some khalasars, Jhiqui said, the bloodriders shared the khal?Ts wine, his tent, and even his wives, though never his horses. A man?Ts mount was his own.
Daenerys was glad that Khal Drogo did not hold to those ancient ways. She should not have liked being shared. And while old Cohollo treated her kindly enough, the others frightened her; Haggo, huge and silent, often glowered as if he had forgotten who she was, and Qotho had cruel eyes and quick hands that liked to hurt. He left bruises on Doreah?Ts soft white skin whenever he touched her, and sometimes made Irri sob in the night. Even his horses seemed to fear him.
Yet they were bound to Drogo for life and death, so Daenerys had no choice but to accept them. And sometimes she found herself wishing her father had been protected by such men. In the songs, the white knights of the Kingsguard were ever noble, valiant, and true, and yet King Aerys had been murdered by one of them, the handsome boy they now called the Kingslayer, and a second, Ser Barristan the Bold, had gone over to the Usurper. She wondered if all men were as false in the Seven Kingdoms. When her son sat the Iron Throne, she would see that he had bloodriders of his own to protect him against treachery in his Kingsguard.
?oKhaleesi,? Cohollo said to her, in Dothraki. ?oDrogo, who is blood of my blood, commands me to tell you that he must ascend the Mother of Mountains this night, to sacrifice to the gods for his safe return.?
Only men were allowed to set foot on the Mother, Dany knew. The khal?Ts bloodriders would go with him, and return at dawn. ?oTell my sun-and-stars that I dream of him, and wait anxious for his return,? she replied, thankful. Dany tired more easily as the child grew within her; in truth, a night of rest would be most welcome. Her pregnancy only seemed to have inflamed Drogô?Ts desire for her, and of late his embraces left her exhausted.
Doreah led her to the hollow hill that had been prepared for her and her khal. It was cool and dim within, like a tent made of earth. ?oJhiqui, a bath, please,? she commanded, to wash the dust of travel from her skin and soak her weary bones. It was pleasant to know that they would linger here for a while, that she would not need to climb back on her silver on the morrow.
The water was scalding hot, as she liked it. ?oI will give my brother his gifts tonight,? she decided as Jhiqui was washing her hair. ?oHe should look a king in the sacred city. Doreah, run and find him and invite him *****p with me.? Viserys was nicer to the Lysene girl than to her Dothraki handmaids, perhaps because Magister Illyrio had let him bed her back in Pentos. ?oIrri, go to the bazaar and buy fruit and meat. Anything but horseflesh.?
?oHorse is best,? Irri said. ?oHorse makes a man strong.?
?oViserys hates horsemeat.?
?oAs you say, Khaleesi.?
She brought back a haunch of goat and a basket of fruits and vegetables. Jhiqui roasted the meat with sweetgrass and firepods, basting it with honey as it cooked, and there were melons and pomegranates and plums and some queer eastern fruit Dany did not know. While her handmaids prepared the meal, Dany laid out the clothing shê?Td had made to her brother?Ts measure: a tunic and leggings of crisp white linen, leather sandals that laced up to the knee, a bronze medallion belt, a leather vest painted with fire-breathing dragons. The Dothraki would respect him more if he looked less a beggar, she hoped, and perhaps he would forgive her for shaming him that day in the grass. He was still her king, after all, and her brother. They were both blood of the dragon.
She was arranging the last of his gifts - a sandsilk cloak, green as grass, with a pale grey border that would bring out the silver in his hair - when Viserys arrived, dragging Doreah by the arm. Her eye was red where hê?Td hit her. ?oHow dare you send this whore to give me commands,? he said. He shoved the handmaid roughly to the carpet.
The anger took Dany utterly by surprise. ?oI only wanted... Doreah, what did you say??
?oKhaleesi, pardons, forgive me. I went to him, as you bid, and told him you commanded him to join you for supper.?
?oNo one commands the dragon,? Viserys snarled. ?oI am your king! I should have sent you back her head!?
The Lysene girl quailed, but Dany calmed her with a touch. ?oDon?Tt be afraid, he won?Tt hurt you. Sweet brother, please, forgive her, the girl misspoke herself, I told her to ask you *****p with me, if it pleases Your Grace.? She took him by the hand and drew him across the room. ?oLook. These are for you.?
Viserys frowned suspiciously. ?oWhat is all this??
?oNew raiment. I had it made for you.? Dany smiled shyly.
He looked at her and sneered. ?oDothraki rags. Do you presume to dress me now??
?oPlease... you?Tll be cooler and more comfortable, and I thought... maybe if you dressed like them, the Dothraki...? Dany did not know how to say it without waking his dragon.
?oNext you?Tll want to braid my hair.?
?oI?Td never...? Why was he always so cruel? She had only wanted to help. ?oYou have no right to a braid, you have won no victories yet.?
It was the wrong thing to say. Fury shone from his lilac eyes, yet he dared not strike her, not with her handmaids watching and the warriors of her khas outside. Viserys picked up the cloak and sniffed at it. ?oThis stinks of manure. Perhaps I shall use it as a horse blanket.?
?oI had Doreah sew it specially for you,? she told him, wounded. ?oThese are garments fit for a khal.?
?oI am the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, not some grass-stained savage with bells in his hair,? Viserys spat back at her. He grabbed her arm. ?oYou forget yourself, slut. Do you think that big belly will protect you if you wake the dragon??
His fingers dug into her arm painfully and for an instant Dany felt like a child again, quailing in the face of his rage. She reached out with her other hand and grabbed the first thing she touched, the belt shê?Td hoped to give him, a heavy chain of ornate bronze medallions. She swung it with all her strength.
It caught him full in the face. Viserys let go of her. Blood ran down his cheek where the edge of one of the medallions had sliced it open. ?oYou are the one who forgets himself,? Dany said to him. ?oDidn?Tt you learn anything that day in the grass? Leave me now, before I summon my khas to drag you out. And pray that Khal Drogo does not hear of this, or he will cut open your belly and feed you your own entrails.?
Viserys scrambled back to his feet. ?oWhen I come into my kingdom, you will rue this day, slut.? He walked off, holding his torn face, leaving her gifts behind him.
Drops of his blood had spattered the beautiful sandsilk cloak. Dany clutched the soft cloth to her cheek and sat cross-legged on her sleeping mats.
?oYour supper is ready, Khaleesi,? Jhiqui announced.
?oI?Tm not hungry,? Dany said sadly. She was suddenly very tired. ?oShare the food among yourselves, and send some to Ser Jorah, if you would.? After a moment she added, ?oPlease, bring me one of the dragon?Ts eggs.?
Irri fetched the egg with the deep green shell, bronze flecks shining amid its scales as she turned it in her small hands. Dany curled up on her side, pulling the sandsilk cloak across her and cradling the egg in the hollow between her swollen belly and small, tender breasts. She liked to hold them. They were so beautiful, and sometimes just being close to them made her feel stronger, braver, as if somehow she were drawing strength from the stone dragons locked inside.
She was lying there, holding the egg, when she felt the child move within her... as if he were reaching out, brother to brother, blood to blood. ?oYou are the dragon,? Dany whispered to him, ?othe true dragon. I know it. I know it.? And she smiled, and went to sleep dreaming of home.

Chapter 37
Bran​

A light snow was falling. Bran could feel the flakes on his face, melting as they touched his skin like the gentlest of rains. He sat straight atop his horse, watching as the iron portcullis was winched upward. Try as he might to keep calm, his heart was fluttering in his chest.
?oAre you ready?? Robb asked.
Bran nodded, trying not to let his fear show. He had not been outside Winterfell since his fall, but he was determined to ride out as proud as any knight.
?oLet?Ts ride, then.? Robb put his heels into his big grey-and-white gelding, and the horse walked under the portcullis.
?oGo,? Bran whispered to his own horse. He touched her neck lightly, and the small chestnut filly started forward. Bran had named her Dancer. She was two years old, and Joseth said she was smarter than any horse had a right to be. They had trained her special, to respond to rein and voice and touch. Up to now, Bran had only ridden her around the yard. At first Joseth or Hodor would lead her, while Bran sat strapped to her back in the oversize saddle the Imp had drawn up for him, but for the past fortnight he had been riding her on his own, trotting her round and round, and growing bolder with every circuit.
They passed beneath the gatehouse, over the drawbridge, through the outer walls. Summer and Grey Wind came loping beside them, sniffing at the wind. Close behind came Theon Greyjoy, with his longbow and a quiver of broadheads; he had a mind to take a deer, he had told them. He was followed by four guardsmen in mailed shirts and coifs, and Joseth, a stick-thin stableman whom Robb had named master of horse while Hullen was away. Maester Luwin brought up the rear, riding on a donkey. Bran would have liked it better if he and Robb had gone off alone, just the two of them, but Hal Mollen would not hear of it, and Maester Luwin backed him. If Bran fell off his horse or injured himself, the maester was determined to be with him.
Beyond the castle lay the market square, its wooden stalls deserted now. They rode down the muddy streets of the village, past rows of small neat houses of log and undressed stone. Less than one in five were occupied, thin tendrils of woodsmoke curling up from their chimneys. The rest would fill up one by one as it grew colder. When the snow fell and the ice winds howled down out of the north, Old Nan said, farmers left their frozen fields and distant holdfasts, loaded up their wagons, and then the winter town came alive. Bran had never seen it happen, but Maester Luwin said the day was looming closer. The end of the long summer was near at hand. Winter is coming.
A few villagers eyed the direwolves anxiously as the riders went past, and one man dropped the wood he was carrying as he shrank away in fear, but most of the townfolk had grown used to the sight. They bent the knee when they saw the boys, and Robb greeted each of them with a lordly nod.
With his legs unable to grip, the swaying motion of the horse made Bran feel unsteady at first, but the huge saddle with its thick horn and high back cradled him comfortingly, and the straps around his chest and thighs would not allow him to fall. After a time the rhythm began to feel almost natural. His anxiety faded, and a tremulous smile crept across his face.
Two serving wenches stood beneath the sign of the Smoking Log, the local alehouse. When Theon Greyjoy called out to them, the younger girl turned red and covered her face. Theon spurred his mount to move up beside Robb. ?oSweet Kyra,? he said with a laugh. ?oShe squirms like a weasel in bed, but say a word to her on the street, and she blushes pink as a maid. Did I ever tell you about the night that she and Bessa-?
?oNot where my brother can hear, Theon,? Robb warned him with a glance at Bran.
Bran looked away and pretended not to have heard, but he could feel Greyjoy?Ts eyes on him. No doubt he was smiling. He smiled a lot, as if the world were a secret joke that only he was clever enough to understand. Robb seemed to admire Theon and enjoy his company, but Bran had never warmed to his father?Ts ward.
Robb rode closer. ?oYou are doing well, Bran.?
?oI want to go faster,? Bran replied.
Robb smiled. ?oAs you will.? He sent his gelding into a trot. The wolves raced after him. Bran snapped the reins sharply, and Dancer picked up her pace. He heard a shout from Theon Greyjoy, and the hoofbeats of the other horses behind him.
Bran?Ts cloak billowed out, rippling in the wind, and the snow seemed to rush at his face. Robb was well ahead, glancing back over his shoulder from time to time to make sure Bran and the others were following. He snapped the reins again. Smooth as silk, Dancer slid into a gallop. The distance closed. By the time he caught Robb on the edge of the wolfswood, two miles beyond the winter town, they had left the others well behind. ?oI can tide!? Bran shouted, grinning. It felt almost as good as flying.
?oI?Td race you, but I fear you?Td win.? Robb?Ts tone was light and joking, yet Bran could tell that something was troubling his brother underneath the smile.
?oI don?Tt want to race.? Bran looked around for the direwolves. Both had vanished into the wood. ?oDid you hear Summer howling last night??
?oGrey Wind was restless too,? Robb said. His auburn hair had grown shaggy and unkempt, and a reddish stubble covered his jaw, making him look older than his fifteen years. ?oSometimes I think they know things... sense things...? Robb sighed. ?oI never know how much to tell you, Bran. I wish you were older.?
?oI?Tm eight now!? Bran said. ?oEight isn?Tt so much younger than fifteen, and I?Tm the heir to Winterfell, after you.?
?oSo you are.? Robb sounded sad, and even a little scared. ?oBran, I need to tell you something. There was a bird last night. From King?Ts Landing. Maester Luwin woke me.?
Bran felt a sudden dread. Dark wings, dark words, Old Nan always said, and of late the messenger ravens had been proving the truth of the proverb. When Robb wrote to the Lord Commander of the Night?Ts Watch, the bird that came back brought word that Uncle Benjen was still missing. Then a message had arrived from the Eyrie, from Mother, but that had not been good news either. She did not say when she meant to return, only that she had taken the Imp as prisoner. Bran had sort of liked the little man, yet the name Lannister sent cold fingers creeping up his spine.
There was something about the Lannisters, something he ought to remember, but when he tried to think what, he felt dizzy and his stomach clenched hard as a stone. Robb spent most of that day locked behind closed doors with Maester Luwin, Theon Greyjoy, and Hallis Mollen.
Afterward, riders were sent out on fast horses, carrying Robb?Ts commands throughout the north. Bran heard talk of Moat Cailin, the ancient stronghold the First Men had built at the top of the Neck. No one ever told him what was happening, yet he knew it was not good.
And now another raven, another message. Bran clung to hope. ?oWas the bird from Mother? Is she coming home??
?oThe message was from Alyn in King?Ts Landing. Jory Cassel is dead. And Wyl and Heward as well. Murdered by the Kingslayer.? Robb lifted his face to the snow, and the flakes melted on his cheeks. ?oMay the gods give them rest.?
Bran did not know what to say. He felt as if hê?Td been punched. Jory had been captain of the household guard at Winterfell since before Bran was born. ?oThey killed Jory?? He remembered all the times Jory had chased him over the roofs. He could picture him striding across the yard in mail and plate, or sitting at his accustomed place on the bench in the Great Hall, joking as he ate. ?oWhy would anyone kill Jory??
Robb shook his head numbly, the pain plain in his eyes. ?oI don?Tt know, and... Bran, that?Ts not the worst of it. Father was caught beneath a falling horse in the fight. Alyn says his leg was shattered, and... Maester Pycelle has given him the milk of the poppy, but they aren?Tt sure when... when he...? The sound of hoofbeats made him glance down the road, to where Theon and the others were coming up. ?oWhen he will wake,? Robb finished. He laid his hand on the pommel of his sword then, and went on in the solemn voice of Robb the Lord. ?oBran, I promise you, whatever might happen, I will not let this be forgotten.?
Something in his tone made Bran even more fearful. ?oWhat will you do?? he asked as Theon Greyjoy reined in beside them.
?oTheon thinks I should call the banners,? Robb said.
?oBlood for blood.? For once Greyjoy did not smile. His lean, dark face had a hungry look to it, and black hair fell down across his eyes.
?oOnly the lord can call the banners,? Bran said as the snow drifted down around them.
?oIf your father dies,? Theon said, ?oRobb will be Lord of Winterfell.?
?oHe won?Tt die!? Bran screamed at him.
Robb took his hand. ?oHe won?Tt die, not Father,? he said calmly.
?oStill... the honor of the north is in my hands now. When our lord father took his leave of us, he told me to be strong for you and for Rickon. I?Tm almost a man grown, Bran.?
Bran shivered. ?oI wish Mother was back,? he said miserably. He looked around for Maester Luwin; his donkey was visible in the far distance, trotting over a rise. ?oDoes Maester Luwin say to call the banners too??
?oThe maester is timid as an old woman,? said Theon.
?oFather always listened to his counsel,? Bran reminded his brother. ?oMother too.?
?oI listen to him,? Robb insisted. ?oI listen to everyone.?
The joy Bran had felt at the ride was gone, melted away like the snowflakes on his face. Not so long ago, the thought of Robb calling the banners and riding off to war would have filled him with excitement, but now he felt only dread. ?oCan we go back now?? he asked. ?oI?Tm cold.?
Robb glanced around. ?oWe need to find the wolves. Can you stand to go a bit longer??
?oI can go as long as you can.? Maester Luwin had warned him to keep the ride short, for fear of saddle sores, but Bran would not admit to weakness in front of his brother. He was sick of the way everyone was always fussing over him and asking how he was.
?oLet?Ts hunt down the hunters, then,? Robb said. Side by side, they urged their mounts off the kingsroad and struck out into the wolfswood. Theon dropped back and followed well behind them, talking and joking with the guardsmen.
It was nice under the trees. Bran kept Dancer to a walk, holding the reins lightly and looking all around him as they went. He knew this wood, but he had been so long confined to Winterfell that he felt as though he were seeing it for the first time. The smells filled his nostrils; the sharp fresh tang of pine needles, the earthy odor of wet rotting leaves, the hints of animal musk and distant cooking fires. He caught a glimpse of a black squirrel moving through the snow-covered branches of an oak, and paused to study the silvery web of an empress spider.
Theon and the others fell farther and farther behind, until Bran could no longer hear their voices. From ahead came the faint sound of rushing waters. It grew louder until they reached the stream. Tears stung his eyes.
?oBran?? Robb asked. ?oWhat?Ts wrong??
Bran shook his head. ?oI was just remembering,? he said. ?oJory brought us here once, to fish for trout. You and me and Jon. Do you remember??
?oI remember,? Robb said, his voice quiet and sad.
?oI didn?Tt catch anything,? Bran said, ?obut Jon gave me his fish on the way back to Winterfell. Will we ever see Jon again??
?oWe saw Uncle Benjen when the king came to visit,? Robb pointed out. ?oJon will visit too, you?Tll see.?
The stream was running high and fast. Robb dismounted and led his gelding across the ford. In the deepest part of the crossing, the water came up to midthigh. He tied his horse to a tree on the far side, and waded back across for Bran and Dancer. The current foamed around rock and root, and Bran could feel the spray on his face as Robb led him over. It made him smile. For a moment he felt strong again, and whole. He looked up at the trees and dreamed of climbing them, right up to the very top, with the whole forest spread out beneath him.
They were on the far side when they heard the howl, a long rising wail that moved through the trees like a cold wind. Bran raised his head to listen. ?oSummer,? he said. No sooner had he spoken than a second voice joined the first.
?oThey?Tve made a kill,? Robb said as he remounted. ?oI?Td best go and bring them back. Wait here, Theon and the others should be along shortly.?
?oI want to go with you,? Bran said.
?oI?Tll find them faster by myself.? Robb spurred his gelding and vanished into the trees.
Once he was gone, the woods seemed to close in around Bran. The snow was falling more heavily now. Where it touched the ground it melted, but all about him rock and root and branch wore a thin blanket of white. As he waited, he was conscious of how uncomfortable he felt. He could not feel his legs, hanging useless in the stirrups, but the strap around his chest was tight and chafing, and the melting snow had soaked through his gloves to chill his hands. He wondered what was keeping Theon and Maester Luwin and Joseth and the rest.
When he heard the rustle of leaves, Bran used the reins to make Dancer turn, expecting to see his friends, but the ragged men who stepped out onto the bank of the stream were strangers.
?oGood day to you,? he said nervously. One look, and Bran knew they were neither foresters nor farmers. He was suddenly conscious of how richly he was dressed. His surcoat was new, dark grey wool with silver buttons, and a heavy silver pin fastened his fur-trimmed cloak at the shoulders. His boots and gloves were lined with fur as well.
?oAll alone, are you?? said the biggest of them, a bald man with a raw windburnt face. ?oLost in the wolfswood, poor lad.?
?oI?Tm not lost.? Bran did not like the way the strangers were looking at him. He counted four, but when he turned his head, he saw two others behind him. ?oMy brother rode off just a moment ago, and my guard will be here shortly.?
?oYour guard, is it?? a second man said. Grey stubble covered his gaunt face. ?oAnd what would they be guarding, my little lord? Is that a silver pin I see there on your cloak??
?oPretty,? said a woman?Ts voice. She scarcely looked like a woman; tall and lean, with the same hard face as the others, her hair hidden beneath a bowl-shaped halfhelm. The spear she held was eight feet of black oak, tipped in rusted steel.
?oLet?Ts have a look,? said the big bald man.
Bran watched him anxiously. The man?Ts clothes were filthy, fallen almost to pieces, patched here with brown and here with blue and there with a dark green, and faded everywhere to grey, but once that cloak might have been black. The grey stubbly man wore black rags too, he saw with a sudden start. Suddenly Bran remembered the oathbreaker his father had beheaded, the day they had found the wolf pups; that man had worn black as well, and Father said he had been a deserter from the Night?Ts Watch. No man is more dangerous, he remembered Lord Eddard saying. The deserter knows his life is forfeit if he is taken, so he will not flinch from any crime, no matter how vile or cruel.

?oThe pin, lad,? the big man said. He held out his hand.
?oWê?Tll take the horse too,? said another of them, a woman shorter than Robb, with a broad fiat face and lank yellow hair. ?oGet down, and be quick about it.? A knife slid from her sleeve into her hand, its edge jagged as a saw.
?oNo,? Bran blurted. ?oI can?Tt...?
The big man grabbed his reins before Bran could think to wheel Dancer around and gallop off. ?oYou can, lordling... and will, if you know what?Ts good for you.?
?oStiv, look how hê?Ts strapped on.? The tall woman pointed with her spear. ?oMight be it?Ts the truth hê?Ts telling.?
?oStraps, is it?? Stiv said. He drew a dagger from a sheath at his belt. ?oTherê?Ts ways to deal with straps.?
?oYou some kind of cripple?? asked the short woman.
Bran flared. ?oI?Tm Brandon Stark of Winterfell, and you better let go of my horse, or I?Tll see you all dead.?
The gaunt man with the grey stubbled face laughed. ?oThe boy?Ts a Stark, true enough. Only a Stark would be fool enough to threaten where smarter men would beg.?
?oCut his little **** off and stuff it in his mouth,? suggested the short woman. ?oThat should shut him up.?
?oYou?Tre as stupid as you are ugly, Hali,? said the tall woman. ?oThe boy?Ts worth nothing dead, but alive... gods be damned, think what Mance would give to have Benjen Stark?Ts own blood to hostage!?
?oMance be damned,? the big man cursed. ?oYou want to go back there, Osha? More fool you. Think the white walkers will care if you have a hostage?? He turned back to Bran and slashed at the strap around his thigh. The leather parted with a sigh.
The stroke had been quick and careless, biting deep. Looking down, Bran glimpsed pale flesh where the wool of his leggings had parted. Then the blood began to flow. He watched the red stain spread, feeling light-headed, curiously apart; there had been no pain, not even a hint of feeling. The big man grunted in surprise.
?oPut down your steel now, and I promise you shall have a quick and painless death,? Robb called out.
Bran looked up in desperate hope, and there he was. The strength of the words were undercut by the way his voice cracked with strain. He was mounted, the bloody carcass of an elk slung across the back of his horse, his sword in a gloved hand.
?oThe brother,? said the man with the grey stubbly face.
?oHê?Ts a fierce one, he is,? mocked the short woman. Hali, they called her. ?oYou mean to fight us, boy??
?oDon?Tt be a fool, lad. You?Tre one against six.? The tall woman, Osha, leveled her spear. ?oOff the horse, and throw down the sword. Wê?Tll thank you kindly for the mount and for the venison, and you and your brother can be on your way.?
Robb whistled. They heard the faint sound of soft feet on wet leaves. The undergrowth parted, low-hanging branches giving up their accumulation of snow, and Grey Wind and Summer emerged from the green. Summer sniffed the air and growled.
?oWolves,? gasped Hali.
?oDirewolves,? Bran said. Still half-grown, they were as large as any wolf he had ever seen, but the differences were easy to spot, if you knew what to look for. Maester Luwin and Farlen the kennelmaster had taught him. A direwolf had a bigger head and longer legs in proportion to its body, and its snout and jaw were markedly leaner and more pronounced. There was something gaunt and terrible about them as they stood there amid the gently falling snow. Fresh blood spotted Grey Wind?Ts muzzle.
?oDogs,? the big bald man said contemptuously. ?oYet I?Tm told therê?Ts nothing like a wolfskin cloak to warm a man by night.? He made a sharp gesture. ?oTake them.?
Robb shouted, ?oWinterfell!? and kicked his horse. The gelding plunged down the bank as the ragged men closed. A man with an axe rushed in, shouting and heedless. Robb?Ts sword caught him full in the face with a sickening crunch and a spray of bright blood. The man with the gaunt stubbly face made a grab for the reins, and for half a second he had them... and then Grey Wind was on him, bearing him down. He fell back into the stream with a splash and a shout, flailing wildly with his knife as his head went under. The direwolf plunged in after him, and the white water turned red where they had vanished.
Robb and Osha matched blows in midstream. Her long spear was a steel-headed serpent, flashing out at his chest, once, twice, three times, but Robb parried every thrust with his longsword, turning the point aside. On the fourth or fifth thrust, the tall woman overextended herself and lost her balance, just for a second. Robb charged, riding her down.
A few feet away, Summer darted in and snapped at Hali. The knife bit at his flank. Summer slid away, snarling, and came rushing in again. This time his jaws closed around her calf. Holding the knife with both hands, the small woman stabbed down, but the direwolf seemed to sense the blade coming. He pulled free for an instant, his mouth full of leather and cloth and bloody flesh. When Hali stumbled and fell, he came at her again, slamming her backward, teeth tearing at her belly.
The sixth man ran from the carnage... but not far. As he went scrambling up the far side of the bank, Grey Wind emerged from the stream, dripping wet. He shook the water off and bounded after the running man, hamstringing him with a single snap of his teeth, and going for the throat as the screaming man slid back down toward the water.
And then there was no one left but the big man, Stiv. He slashed at Bran?Ts chest strap, grabbed his arm, and yanked. Suddenly Bran was falling. He sprawled on the ground, his legs tangled under him, one foot in the stream. He could not feel the cold of the water, but he felt the steel when Stiv pressed his dagger to his throat. ?oBack away,? the man warned, ?oor I?Tll open the boy?Ts windpipe, I swear it.?
Robb reined his horse in, breathing hard. The fury went out of his eyes, and his sword arm dropped.
In that moment Bran saw everything. Summer was savaging Hali, pulling glistening blue snakes from her belly. Her eyes were wide and staring. Bran could not tell whether she was alive or dead. The grey stubbly man and the one with the axe lay unmoving, but Osha was on her knees, crawling toward her fallen spear. Grey Wind padded toward her, dripping wet. ?oCall him off!? the big man shouted. ?oCall them both off, or the cripple boy dies now!?
?oGrey Wind, Summer, to me,? Robb said.
The direwolves stopped, turned their heads. Grey Wind loped back to Robb. Summer stayed where he was, his eyes on Bran and the man beside him. He growled. His muzzle was wet and red, but his eyes burned.
Osha used the butt end of her spear to lever herself back to her feet. Blood leaked from a wound on the upper arm where Robb had cut her. Bran could see sweat trickling down the big man?Ts face. Stiv was as scared as he was, he realized. ?oStarks,? the man muttered, ?obloody Starks.? He raised his voice. ?oOsha, kill the wolves and get his sword.?
?oKill them yourself,? she replied. ?oI?Tll not be getting near those monsters.?
For a moment Stiv was at a loss. His hand trembled; Bran felt a trickle of blood where the knife pressed against his neck. The stench of the man filled his nose; he smelled of fear. ?oYou,? he called out to Robb. ?oYou have a name??
?oI am Robb Stark, the heir to Winterfell.?
?oThis is your brother??
?oYes.?
?oYou want him alive, you do what I say. Off the horse.?
Robb hesitated a moment. Then, slowly and deliberately, he dismounted and stood with his sword in hand.
?oNow kill the wolves.?
Robb did not move.
?oYou do it. The wolves or the boy.?
?oNo!? Bran screamed. If Robb did as they asked, Stiv would kill them both anyway, once the direwolves were dead.
The bald man took hold of his hair with his free hand and twisted it cruelly, till Bran sobbed in pain. ?oYou shut your mouth, cripple, you hear me?? He twisted harder. ?oYou hear me??
A low thrum came from the woods behind them. Stiv gave a choked gasp as a half foot of razor-tipped broadhead suddenly exploded out of his chest. The arrow was bright red, as if it had been painted in blood.
The dagger fell away from Bran?Ts throat. The big man swayed and collapsed, facedown in the stream. The arrow broke beneath him. Bran watched his life go swirling off in the water.
Osha glanced around as Father?Ts guardsmen appeared from beneath the trees, steel in hand. She threw down her spear. ?oMercy, m?Tlord,? she called to Robb.
The guardsmen had a strange, pale look to their faces as they took in the scene of slaughter. They eyed the wolves uncertainly, and when Summer returned to Hali?Ts corpse to feed, Joseth dropped his knife and scrambled for the bush, heaving. Even Maester Luwin seemed shocked as he stepped from behind a tree, but only for an instant. Then he shook his head and waded across the stream to Bran?Ts side. ?oAre you hurt??
?oHe cut my leg,? Bran said, ?obut I couldn?Tt feel it.?
As the maester knelt to examine the wound, Bran turned his head. Theon Greyjoy stood beside a sentinel tree, his bow in hand. He was smiling. Ever smiling. A half-dozen arrows were thrust into the soft ground at his feet, but it had taken only one. ?oA dead enemy is a thing of beauty,? he announced.
?oJon always said you were an ass, Greyjoy,? Robb said loudly. ?oI ought to chain you up in the yard and let Bran take a few practice shots at you.?
?oYou should be thanking me for saving your brother?Ts life.?
?oWhat if you had missed the shot?? Robb said. ?oWhat if you?Td only wounded him? What if you had made his hand jump, or hit Bran instead? For all you knew, the man might have been wearing a breastplate, all you could see was the back of his cloak. What would have happened to my brother then? Did you ever think of that, Greyjoy??
Theon?Ts smile was gone. He gave a sullen shrug and began to pull his arrows from the ground, one by one.
Robb glared at his guardsmen. ?oWhere were you?? he demanded of them. ?oI was sure you were close behind us.?
The men traded unhappy glances. ?oWe were following, m?Tlord,? said Quent, the youngest of them, his beard a soft brown fuzz. ?oOnly first we waited for Maester Luwin and his ass, begging your pardons, and then, well, as it were.? He glanced over at Theon and quickly looked away, abashed.
?oI spied a turkey,? Theon said, annoyed by the question. ?oHow was I to know that you?Td leave the boy alone??
Robb turned his head to look at Theon once more. Bran had never seen him so angry, yet he said nothing. Finally he knelt beside Maester Luwin. ?oHow badly is my brother wounded??
?oNo more than a scratch,? the maester said. He wet a cloth in the stream to clean the cut. ?oTwo of them wear the black,? he told Robb as he worked.
Robb glanced over at where Stiv lay sprawled in the stream, his ragged black cloak moving fitfully as the rushing waters tugged at it. ?oDeserters from the Night?Ts Watch,? he said grimly. ?oThey must have been fools, to come so close to Winterfell.?
?oFolly and desperation are ofttimes hard to tell apart,? said Maester Luwin.
?oShall we bury them, m?Tlord?? asked Quent.
?oThey would not have buried us,? Robb said. ?oHack off their heads, wê?Tll send them back to the Wall. Leave the rest for the carrion crows.?
?oAnd this one?? Quent jerked a thumb toward Osha.
Robb walked over to her. She was a head taller than he was, but she dropped to her knees at his approach. ?oGive me my life, m?Tlord of Stark, and I am yours.?
?oMine? What would I do with an oathbreaker??
?oI broke no oaths. Stiv and Wallen flew down off the Wall, not me. The black crows got no place for women.?
Theon Greyjoy sauntered closer. ?oGive her to the wolves,? he urged Robb. The woman?Ts eyes went to what was left of Hali, and just as quickly away. She shuddered. Even the guardsmen looked queasy.
?oShê?Ts a woman,? Robb said.
?oA wildling,? Bran told him. ?oShe said they should keep me alive so they could take me to Mance Rayder.?
?oDo you have a name?? Robb asked her.
?oOsha, as it please the lord,? she muttered sourly.
Maester Luwin stood. ?oWe might do well to question her.?
Bran could see the relief on his brother?Ts face. ?oAs you say, Maester. Wayn, bind her hands. Shê?Tll come back to Winterfell with us... and live or die by the truths she gives us.?

Chapter 38
Tyrion​

?oYou want eat?? Mord asked, glowering. He had a plate of oiled beans in one thick, stub-fingered hand.
Tyrion Lannister was starved, but he refused to let this brute see him cringe. ?oA leg of lamb would be pleasant,? he said, from the heap of soiled straw in the corner of his cell. ?oPerhaps a dish of peas and onions, some fresh baked bread with butter, and a flagon of mulled wine to wash it down. Or beer, if that?Ts easier. I try not to be overly particular.?
?oIs beans,? Mord said. ?oHere.? He held out the plate.
Tyrion sighed. The turnkey was twenty stone of gross stupi***y, with brown rotting teeth and small dark eyes. The left side of his face was slick with scar where an axe had cut off his ear and part of his cheek. He was as predictable as he was ugly, but Tyrion was hungry. He reached up for the plate.
Mord jerked it away, grinning. ?oIs here,? he said, holding it out beyond Tyrion?Ts reach.
The dwarf climbed stiffly to his feet, every joint aching. ?oMust we play the same fool?Ts game with every meal?? He made another grab for the beans.
Mord shambled backward, grinning through his rotten teeth. ?oIs here, dwarf man.? He held the plate out at arm?Ts length, over the edge where the cell ended and the sky began. ?oYou not want eat? Here. Come take.?
Tyrion?Ts arms were too short to reach the plate, and he was not about to step that close to the edge. All it would take would be a quick shove of Mord?Ts heavy white belly, and he would end up a sickening red splotch on the stones of Sky, like so many other prisoners of the Eyrie over the centuries. ?oCome to think on it, I?Tm not hungry after all,? he declared, retreating to the corner of his cell.
Mord grunted and opened his thick fingers. The wind took the plate, flipping it over as it fell. A handful of beans sprayed back at them as the food tumbled out of sight. The turnkey laughed, his gut shaking like a bowl of pudding.
Tyrion felt a pang of rage. ?oYou ****ing son of a pox-ridden ass,? he spat. ?oI hope you die of a bloody flux.?
For that, Mord gave him a kick, driving a steel-toed boot hard into Tyrion?Ts ribs on the way out. ?oI take it back!? he gasped as he doubled over on the straw. ?oI?Tll kill you myself, I swear it!? The heavy ironbound door slammed shut. Tyrion heard the rattle of keys.
For a small man, he had been cursed with a dangerously big mouth, he reflected as he crawled back to his corner of what the Arryns laughably called their dungeon. He huddled beneath the thin blanket that was his only bedding, staring out at a blaze of empty blue sky and distant mountains that seemed to go on forever, wishing he still had the shadowskin cloak hê?Td won from Marillion at dice, after the singer had stolen it off the body of that brigand chief. The skin had smelled of blood and mold, but it was warm and thick. Mord had taken it the moment he laid eyes on it.
The wind tugged at his blanket with gusts sharp as talons. His cell was miserably small, even for a dwarf. Not five feet away, where a wall ought to have been, where a wall would be in a proper dungeon, the floor ended and the sky began. He had plenty of fresh air and sunshine, and the moon and stars by night, but Tyrion would have traded it all in an instant for the dankest, gloomiest pit in the bowels of the Casterly Rock.
?oYou fly,? Mord had promised him, when hê?Td shoved him into the cell. ?oTwenty day, thirty, fifty maybe. Then you fly.?
The Arryns kept the only dungeon in the realm where the prisoners were welcome to escape at will. That first day, after girding up his courage for hours, Tyrion had lain flat on his stomach and squirmed to the edge, to poke out his head and look down. Sky was six hundred feet below, with nothing between but empty air. If he craned his neck out as far as it could go, he could see other cells to his right and left and above him. He was a bee in a stone honeycomb, and someone had torn off his wings.
It was cold in the cell, the wind screamed night and day, and worst of all, the floor sloped. Ever so slightly, yet it was enough. He was afraid to close his eyes, afraid that he might roll over in his steep and wake in sudden terror as he went sliding off the edge. Small wonder the sky cells drove men mad.
Gods save me, some previous tenant had written on the wall in something that looked suspiciously like blood, the blue is calling. At first Tyrion wondered who hê?Td been, and what had become of him; later, he decided that he would rather not know.
If only he had shut his mouth...
The wretched boy had started it, looking down on him from a throne of carved weirwood beneath the moon-and-falcon banners of House Arryn. Tyrion Lannister had been looked down on all his life, but seldom by rheumy-eyed six-year-olds who needed to stuff fat cushions under their cheeks to lift them to the height of a man. ?oIs he the bad man?? the boy had asked, clutching his doll.
?oHe is,? the Lady Lysa had said from the lesser throne beside him. She was all in blue, powdered and perfumed for the suitors who filled her court.
?oHê?Ts so small,? the Lord of the Eyrie said, giggling.
?oThis is Tyrion the Imp, of House Lannister, who murdered your father.? She raised her voice so it carried down the length of High Hall of the Eyrie, ringing off the milk-white walls and the slender pillars, so every man could hear it. ?oHe slew the Hand of the King!?
?oOh, did I kill him too?? Tyrion had said, like a fool.
That would have been a very good time to have kept his mouth closed and his head bowed. He could see that now; seven hells, he had seen it then. The High Hall of the Arryns was long and austere, with a forbidding coldness to its walls of blue-veined white marble, but the faces around him had been colder by far. The power of Casterly Rock was far away, and there were no friends of the Lannisters in the Vale of Arryn. Submission and silence would have been his best defenses.
But Tyrion?Ts mood had been too foul for sense. To his shame, he had faltered during the last leg of their day-long climb up to the Eyrie, his stunted legs unable to take him any higher. Bronn had carried him the rest of the way, and the humiliation poured oil on the flames of his anger. ?oIt would seem I?Tve been a busy little fellow,? he said with bitter sarcasm. ?oI wonder when I found the time to do all this slaying and murdering.?
He ought to have remembered who he was dealing with. Lysa Arryn and her half-sane weakling son had not been known at court for their love of wit, especially when it was directed at them.
?oImp,? Lysa said coldly, ?oyou will guard that mocking tongue of yours and speak to my son politely, or I promise you will have cause to regret it. Remember where you are. This is the Eyrie, and these are knights of the Vale you see around you, true men who loved Jon Arryn well. Every one of them would die for me.?
?oLady Arryn, should any harm come to me, my brother Jaime will be pleased to see that they do.? Even as he spat out the words, Tyrion knew they were folly.
?oCan you fly, my lord of Lannister?? Lady Lysa asked. ?oDoes a dwarf have wings? If not, you would be wiser to swallow the next threat that comes to mind.?
?oI made no threats,? Tyrion said. ?oThat was a promise.?
Little Lord Robert hopped to his feet at that, so upset he dropped his doll. ?oYou can?Tt hurt us,? he screamed. ?oNo one can hurt us here. Tell him, Mother, tell him he can?Tt hurt us here.? The boy began to twitch.
?oThe Eyrie is impregnable,? Lysa Arryn declared calmly. She drew her son close, holding him safe in the circle of her plump white arms. ?oThe Imp is trying to frighten us, sweet baby. The Lannisters are all liars. No one will hurt my sweet boy.?
The hell of it was, she was no doubt right. Having seen what it took to get here, Tyrion could well imagine how it would be for a knight trying to fight his way up in armor, while stones and arrows poured down from above and enemies contested with him for every step. Nightmare did not begin to describe it. Small wonder the Eyrie had never been taken.
Still, Tyrion had been unable to silence himself. ?oNot impregnable,? he said, ?omerely inconvenient.?
Young Robert pointed down, his hand trembling. ?oYou?Tre a liar. Mother, I want to see him fly.? Two guardsmen in sky-blue cloaks seized Tyrion by the arms, lifting him off his floor.
The gods only know what might have happened then were it not for Catelyn Stark. ?oSister,? she called out from where she stood below the thrones, ?oI beg you to remember, this man is my prisoner. I will not have him harmed.?
Lysa Arryn glanced at her sister coolly for a moment, then rose and swept down on Tyrion, her long skirts trailing after her. For an instant he feared she would strike him, but instead she commanded them to release him. Her men shoved him to the floor, his legs went out from under him, and Tyrion fell. He must have made quite a sight as he struggled to his knees, only to feel his right leg spasm, sending him sprawling once more. Laughter boomed up and down the High Hall of the Arryns.
?oMy sister?Ts little guest is too weary to stand,? Lady Lysa announced. ?oSer Vardis, take him down to the dungeon. A rest in one of our sky cells will do him much good.?
The guardsmen jerked him upright. Tyrion Lannister dangled between them, kicking feebly, his face red with shame. ?oI will remember this,? he told them all as they carried him off.
And so he did, for all the good it did him.
At first he had consoled himself that this imprisonment could not last long. Lysa Arryn wanted to humble him, that was all. She would send for him again, and soon. If not her, then Catelyn Stark would want to question him. This time he would guard his tongue more closely. They dare not kill him out of hand; he was still a Lannister of Casterly Rock, and if they shed his blood, it would mean war. Or so he had told himself.
Now he was not so certain.
Perhaps his captors only meant to let him rot here, but he feared he did not have the strength to rot for long. He was growing weaker every day, and it was only a matter of time until Mord?Ts kicks and blows did him serious harm, provided the gaoler did not starve him to death first. A few more nights of cold and hunger, and the blue would start calling to him too.
He wondered what was happening beyond the walls (such as they were) of his cell. Lord Tywin would surely have sent out riders when the word reached him. Jaime might be leading a host through the Mountains of the Moon even now... unless he was riding north against Winterfell instead. Did anyone outside the Vale even suspect where Catelyn Stark had taken him? He wondered what Cersei would do when she heard. The king could order him freed, but would Robert listen to his queen or his Hand? Tyrion had no illusions about the king?Ts love for his sister.
If Cersei kept her wits about her, she would insist the king sit in judgment of Tyrion himself. Even Ned Stark could scarcely ob_ject to that, not without impugning the honor of the king. And Tyrion would be only too glad to take his chances in a trial. Whatever murders they might lay at his door, the Starks had no proof of anything so far as he could see. Let them make their case before the Iron Throne and the lords of the land. It would be the end of them. If only Cersei were clever enough to see that...
Tyrion Lannister sighed. His sister was not without a certain low cunning, but her pride blinded her. She would see the insult in this, not the opportunity. And Jaime was even worse, rash and headstrong and quick to anger. His brother never untied a knot when he could slash it in two with his sword.
He wondered which of them had sent the footpad to silence the Stark boy, and whether they had truly conspired at the death of Lord Arryn. If the old Hand had been murdered, it was deftly and subtly done. Men of his age died of sudden illness all the time. In contrast, sending some oaf with a stolen knife after Brandon Stark struck him as unbelievably clumsy. And wasn?Tt that peculiar, come to think on it...
Tyrion shivered. Now there was a nasty suspicion. Perhaps the direwolf and the lion were not the only beasts in the woods, and if that was true, someone was using him as a catspaw. Tyrion Lannister hated being used.
He would have to get out of here, and soon. His chances of overpowering Mord were small to none, and no one was about to smuggle him a six-hundred-foot-long rope, so he would have to talk himself free. His mouth had gotten him into this cell; it could damn well get him out.
Tyrion pushed himself to his feet, doing his best to ignore the slope of the floor beneath him, with its ever-so-subtle tug toward the edge. He hammered on the door with a fist. ?oMord!? he shouted. ?oTurnkey! Mord, I want you!? He had to keep it up a good ten minutes before he heard footsteps. Tyrion stepped back an instant before the door opened with a crash.
?oMaking noise,? Mord growled, with blood in his eyes. Dangling from one meaty hand was a leather strap, wide and thick, doubled over in his fist.
Never show them you?Tre afraid, Tyrion reminded himself. ?oHow would you like to be rich?? he asked.
Mord hit him. He swung the strap backhand, lazily, but the leather caught Tyrion high on the arm. The force of it staggered him, and the pain made him grit his teeth. ?oNo mouth, dwarf man,? Mord warned him.
?oGold,? Tyrion said, miming a smile. ?oCasterly Rock is full of gold... ahhhh...? This time the blow was a forehand, and Mord put more of his arm into the swing, making the leather crack and jump. It caught Tyrion in the ribs and dropped him to his knees, wimpering. He forced himself to look up at the gaoler. ?oAs rich as the Lannisters,? he wheezed. ?oThat?Ts what they say, Mord-?
Mord grunted. The strap whistled through the air and smashed Tyrion full in the face. The pain was so bad he did not remember falling, but when he opened his eyes again he was on the floor of his cell. His ear was ringing, and his mouth was full of blood. He groped for purchase, to push himself up, and his fingers brushed against... nothing. Tyrion snatched his hand back as fast as if it had been scalded, and tried his best to stop breathing. He had fallen right on the edge, inches from the blue.
?oMore to say?? Mord held the strap between his fists and gave it a sharp pull. The snap made Tyrion jump. The turnkey laughed.

He won?Tt push me over, Tyrion told himself desperately as he crawled away from the edge. Catelyn Stark wants me alive, he doesn?Tt dare kill me. He wiped the blood off his lips with the back of his hand, grinned, and said, ?oThat was a stiff one, Mord.? The gaoler squinted at him, trying to decide if he was being mocked. ?oI could make good use of a strong man like you.? The strap flew at him, but this time Tyrion was able to cringe away from it. He took a glancing blow to the shoulder, nothing more. ?oGold,? he repeated, scrambling backward like a crab, ?omore gold than you?Tll see here in a lifetime. Enough to buy land, women, horses... you could be a lord. Lord Mord.? Tyrion hawked up a glob of blood and phlegm and spat it out into the sky.
?oIs no gold,? Mord said.
Hê?Ts listening! Tyrion thought. ?oThey relieved me of my purse when they captured me, but the gold is still mine. Catelyn Stark might take a man prisoner, but shê?Td never stoop to rob him. That wouldn?Tt be honorable. Help me, and all the gold is yours.? Mord?Ts strap licked out, but it was a halfhearted, desultory swing, slow and contemptuous. Tyrion caught the leather in his hand and held it prisoned. ?oThere will be no risk to you. All you need do is deliver a message.?
The gaoler yanked his leather strap free of Tyrion?Ts grasp. ?oMessage,? he said, as if he had never heard the word before. His frown made deep creases in his brow.
?oYou heard me, my lord. Only carry my word to your lady. Tell her...?, what would possibly make Lysa Anyn relent? The inspiration came to Tyrion Lannister suddenly. ?oTell her that I wish to confess my crimes.?
Mord raised his arm and Tyrion braced himself for another blow, but the turnkey hesitated. Suspicion and greed warred in his eyes. He wanted that gold, yet he feared a trick; he had the look of a man who had often been tricked. ?oIs lie,? he muttered darkly. ?oDwarf man cheat me."
?oI will put my promise in writing,? Tyrion vowed.
Some illiterates held writing in disdain; others seemed to have a superstitious reverence for the written word, as if it were some sort of magic. Fortunately, Mord was one of the latter. The turnkey lowered the strap. ?oWriting down gold. Much gold.?
?oOh, much gold,? Tyrion assured him. ?oThe purse is just a taste, my friend. My brother wears armor of solid gold plate.? In truth, Jaimê?Ts armor was gilded steel, but this oaf would never know the difference.
Mord fingered his strap thoughtfully, but in the end, he relented and went to fetch paper and ink. When the letter was written, the gaoler frowned at it suspiciously. ?oNow deliver my message,? Tyrion urged.
He was shivering in his sleep when they came for him, late that night. Mord opened the door but kept his silence. Ser Vardis Egen woke Tyrion with the point of his boot. ?oOn your feet, Imp. My lady wants to see you.?
Tyrion rubbed the sleep from his eyes and put on a grimace he scarcely felt. ?oNo doubt she does, but what makes you think I wish to see her??
Ser Vardis frowned. Tyrion remembered him well from the years he had spent at King?Ts Landing as the captain of the Hand?Ts household guard. A square, plain face, silver hair, a heavy build, and no humor whatsoever. ?oYour wishes are not my concern. On your feet, or I?Tll have you carried.?
Tyrion clambered awkwardly to his feet. ?oA cold night,? he said casually, ?oand the High Hall is so drafty. I don?Tt wish to catch a chill. Mord, if you would be so good, fetch my cloak.?
The gaoler squinted at him, face dull with suspicion.
?oMy cloak,? Tyrion repeated. ?oThe shadowskin you took from me for safekeeping. You recall.?
?oGet him the damnable cloak,? Ser Vardis said.
Mord did not dare grumble. He gave Tyrion a glare that promised future retribution, yet he went for the cloak. When he draped it around his prisoner?Ts neck, Tyrion smiled. ?oMy thanks. I shall think of you whenever I wear it.? He flung the trailing end of the long fur over his right shoulder, and felt warm for the first time in days. ?oLead on, Ser Vardis.?
The High Hall of the Arryns was aglow with the light of fifty torches, burning in the sconces along the walls. The Lady Lysa wore black silk, with the moon-and-falcon sewn on her breast in pearls. Since she did not look the sort to join the Night?Ts Watch, Tyrion could only imagine that she had decided mourning clothes were appropriate garb for a confession. Her long auburn hair, woven into an elaborate braid, fell across her left shoulder. The taller throne beside her was empty; no doubt the little Lord of the Eyrie was off shaking in his sleep. Tyrion was thankful for that much, at least.
He bowed deeply and took a moment to glance around the hall. Lady Arryn had summoned her knights and retainers to hear his confession, as he had hoped. He saw Ser Brynden Tully?Ts craggy face and Lord Nestor Roycê?Ts bluff one. Beside Nestor stood a younger man with fierce black side-whiskers who could only be his heir, Ser Albar. Most of the principal houses of the Vale were represented. Tyrion noted Ser Lyn Corbray, slender as a sword, Lord Hunter with his gouty legs, the widowed Lady Waynwood surrounded by her sons. Others sported sigils he did not know; broken lance, green viper, burning tower, winged chalice.
Among the lords of the Vale were several of his companions from the high road; Ser Rodrik Cassel, pale from half-healed wounds, stood with Ser Willis Wode beside him. Marillion the singer had found a new woodharp. Tyrion smiled; whatever happened here tonight, he did not wish it to happen in secret, and there was no one like a singer for spreading a story near and far.
In the rear of the hall, Bronn lounged beneath a pillar. The freerider?Ts black eyes were fixed on Tyrion, and his hand lay lightly on the pommel of his sword. Tyrion gave him a long look, wondering...
Catelyn Stark spoke first. ?oYou wish to confess your crimes, we are told.?
?oI do, my lady,? Tyrion answered.
Lysa Arryn smiled at her sister. ?oThe sky cells always break them. The gods can see them there, and there is no darkness to hide in.?
?oHe does not look broken to me,? Lady Catelyn said.
Lady Lysa paid her no mind. ?oSay what you will,? she commanded Tyrion.
And now to roll the dice, he thought with another quick glance back at Bronn. ?oWhere to begin? I am a vile little man, I confess it. My crimes and sins are beyond counting, my lords and ladies. I have lain with whores, not once but hundreds of times. I have wished my own lord father dead, and my sister, our gracious queen, as well.? Behind him, someone chuckled. ?oI have not always treated my servants with kindness. I have gambled. I have even cheated, I blush to admit. I have said many cruel and malicious things about the noble lords and ladies of the court.? That drew outright laughter. ?oOnce I-?
?oSilence!? Lysa Arryn?Ts pale round face had turned a burning pink. ?oWhat do you imagine you are doing, dwarf??
Tyrion ****ed his head to one side. ?oWhy, confessing my crimes, my lady-?
Catelyn Stark took a step forward. ?oYou are accused of sending a hired knife to slay my son Bran in his bed, and of conspiring to murder Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King.?
Tyrion gave a helpless shrug. ?oThose crimes I cannot confess, I fear. I know nothing of any murders.?
Lady Lysa rose from her weirwood throne. ?oI will not be made mock of. You have had your little jape, Imp. I trust you enjoyed it. Ser Vardis, take him back to the dungeon... but this time find him a smaller cell, with a floor more sharply sloped.?
?oIs this how justice is done in the Vale?? Tyrion roared, so loudly that Ser Vardis froze for an instant. ?oDoes honor stop at the Bloody Gate? You accuse me of crimes, I deny them, so you throw me into an open cell to freeze and starve.? He lifted his head, to give them all a good look at the bruises Mord had left on his face. ?oWhere is the king?Ts justice? Is the Eyrie not part of the Seven Kingdoms? I stand accused, you say. Very well. I demand a trial! Let me speak, and let my truth or falsehood be judged openly, in the sight of gods and men.?
A low murmuring filled the High Hall. He had her, Tyrion knew. He was highborn, the son of the most powerful lord in the realm, the brother of the queen. He could not be denied a trial. Guardsmen in sky-blue cloaks had started toward Tyrion, but Ser Vardis bid them halt and looked to Lady Lysa.
Her small mouth twitched in a petulant smile. ?oIf you are tried and found to be guilty of the crimes for which you stand accused, then by the king?Ts own laws, you must pay with your lifê?Ts blood. We keep no headsman in the Eyrie, my lord of Lannister. Open the Moon Door.?
The press of spectators parted. A narrow weirwood door stood between two slender marble pillars, a crescent moon carved in the white wood. Those standing closest edged backward as a pair of guardsmen marched through. One man removed the heavy bronze bars; the second pulled the door inward. Their blue cloaks rose snapping from their shoulders, caught in the sudden gust of wind that came howling through the open door. Beyond was the emptiness of the night sky, speckled with cold uncaring stars.
?oBehold the king?Ts justice,? Lysa Arryn said. Torch flames fluttered like permons along the walls, and here and there the odd torch guttered out.
?oLysa, I think this unwise,? Catelyn Stark said as the black wind swirled around the hall.
Her sister ignored her. ?oYou want a trial, my lord of Lannister. Very well, a trial you shall have. My son will listen to whatever you care to say, and you shall hear his judgment. Then you may leave... by one door or the other.?
She looked so pleased with herself, Tyrion thought, and small wonder. How could a trial threaten her, when her weakling son was the lord judge? Tyrion glanced at her Moon Door. Mother, I want to see him fly! The boy had said. How many men had the snot-nosed little wretch sent through that door already?
?oI thank you, my good lady, but I see no need to trouble Lord Robert,? Tyrion said politely. ?oThe gods know the truth of my innocence. I will have their verdict, not the judgment of men. I demand trial by combat.?
A storm of sudden laughter filled the High Hall of the Arryns. Lord Nestor Royce snorted, Ser Willis chuckled, Ser Lyn Corbray guffawed, and others threw back their heads and howled until tears ran down their faces. Marillion clumsily plucked a gay note on his new woodharp with the fingers of his broken hand. Even the wind seemed to whistle with derision as it came skirling through the Moon Door.
Lysa Arryn?Ts watery blue eyes looked uncertain. He had caught her off balance. ?oYou have that right, to be sure.?
The young knight with the green viper embroidered on his surcoat stepped forward and went to one knee. ?oMy lady, I beg the boon of championing your cause.?
?oThe honor should be mine,? old Lord Hunter said. ?oFor the love I bore your lord husband, let me avenge his death.?
?oMy father served Lord Jon faithfully as High Steward of the Vale,? Ser Albar Royce boomed. ?oLet me serve his son in this.?
?oThe gods favor the man with the just cause,? said Ser Lyn Corbray, ?oyet often that turns out to be the man with the surest sword. We all know who that is.? He smiled modestly.
A dozen other men all spoke at once, clamoring to be heard. Tyrion found it disheartening to realize so many strangers were eager to kill him. Perhaps this had not been such a clever plan after all.
Lady Lysa raised a hand for silence. ?oI thank you, my lords, as I know my son would thank you if he were among us. No men in the Seven Kingdoms are as bold and true as the knights of the Vale. Would that I could grant you all this honor. Yet I can choose only one.? She gestured. ?oSer Vardis Egen, you were ever my lord husband?Ts good right hand. You shall be our champion.?
Ser Vardis had been singularly silent. ?oMy lady,? he said gravely, sinking to one knee, ?opray give this burden to another, I have no taste for it. The man is no warrior. Look at him. A dwarf, half my size and lame in the legs. It would be shameful to slaughter such a man and call it justice.?
Oh, excellent, Tyrion thought. ?oI agree.?
Lysa glared at him. ?oYou demanded a trial by combat.?
?oAnd now I demand a champion, such as you have chosen for yourself. My brother Jaime will gladly take my part, I know.?
?oYour precious Kingslayer is hundreds of leagues from here,? snapped Lysa Arryn.
?oSend a bird for him. I will gladly await his arrival.?
?oYou will face Ser Vardis on the morrow.?
?oSinger,? Tyrion said, turning to Marillion, ?owhen you make a ballad of this, be certain you tell them how Lady Arryn denied the dwarf the right to a champion, and sent him forth lame and bruised and hobbling to face her finest knight.?
?oI deny you nothing!? Lysa Arryn said, her voice peeved and shrill with irritation. ?oName your champion, Imp... if you think you can find a man to die for you.?
?oIf it is all the same to you, I?Td sooner find one to kill for me.? Tyrion looked over the long hall. No one moved. For a long moment he wondered if it had all been a colossal blunder.
Then there was a stirring in the rear of the chamber. ?oI?Tll stand for the dwarf,? Bronn called out.