A Game of Thrones: The Story Continues Books 1-5. George R.r. Martin
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brothers, and all her children slain, and yet in life she had never shed a tear. So in death, the gods had decreed that she would know no rest until her weeping watered the black earth of the Vale, where the men she had loved were buried. Alyssa had been dead six thousand years now, and still no drop of the torrent had ever reached the valley floor far below. Catelyn wondered how large a waterfall her own tears would make when she died. “Tell me the rest of it,” she said.
“The Kingslayer is massing a host at Casterly Rock,” Ser Rodrik Cassel answered from the room behind her. “Your brother writes that he has sent riders to the Rock, demanding that Lord Tywin proclaim his intent, but he has had no answer. Edmure has commanded Lord Vance and Lord Piper to guard the pass below the Golden Tooth. He vows to you that he will yield no foot of Tully land without first watering it with Lannister blood.”
Catelyn turned away from the sunrise. Its beauty did little to lighten her mood; it seemed cruel for a day to dawn so fair and end so foul as this one promised to. “Edmure has sent riders and made vows,” she said, “but Edmure is not the Lord of Riverrun. What of my lord father?”
“The message made no mention of Lord Hoster, my lady.” Ser Rodrik tugged at his whiskers. They had grown in white as snow and bristly as a thornbush while he was recovering from his wounds; he looked almost himself again.
“My father would not have given the defense of Riverrun over to Edmure unless he was very sick,” she said, worried. “I should have been woken as soon as this bird arrived.”
“Your lady sister thought it better to let you sleep, Maester Colemon told me.”
“I should have been woken,” she insisted.
“The maester tells me your sister planned to speak with you after the combat,” Ser Rodrik said.
“Then she still plans to go through with this mummer’s farce?” Catelyn grimaced. “The dwarf has played her like a set of pipes, and she is too deaf to hear the tune. Whatever happens this morning, Ser Rodrik, it is past time we took our leave. My place is at Winterfell with my sons. If you are strong enough to travel, I shall ask Lysa for an escort to see us to Gulltown. We can take ship from there.”
“Another ship?” Ser Rodrik looked a shade green, yet he managed not to shudder. “As you say, my lady.”
The old knight waited outside her door as Catelyn summoned the servants Lysa had given her. If she spoke to her sister before the duel, perhaps she could change her mind, she thought as they dressed her. Lysa’s policies varied with her moods, and her moods changed hourly. The shy girl she had known at Riverrun had grown into a woman who was by turns proud, fearful, cruel, dreamy, reckless, timid, stubborn, vain, and, above all, inconstant.
When that vile turnkey of hers had come crawling to tell them that Tyrion Lannister wished to confess, Catelyn had urged Lysa to have the dwarf brought to them privately, but no, nothing would do but that her sister must make a show of him before half the Vale. And now this …
“Lannister is my prisoner,” she told Ser Rodrik as they descended the tower stairs and made their way through the Eyrie’s cold white halls. Catelyn wore plain grey wool with a silvered belt. “My sister must be reminded of that.”
At the doors to Lysa’s apartments, they met her uncle storming out. “Going to join the fool’s festival?” Ser Brynden snapped. “I’d tell you to slap some sense into your sister, if I thought it would do any good, but you’d only bruise your hand.”
“There was a bird from Riverrun,” Catelyn began, “a letter from Edmure …”
“I know, child.” The black fish that fastened his cloak was Brynden’s only concession to ornament. “I had to hear it from Maester Colemon. I asked your sister for leave to take a thousand seasoned men and ride for Riverrun with all haste. Do you know what she told me? The Vale cannot spare a thousand swords, nor even one, Uncle, she said. You are the Knight of the Gate. Your place is here.” A gust of childish laughter drifted through the open doors behind him, and her uncle glanced darkly over his shoulder. “Well, I told her she could bloody well find herself a new Knight of the Gate. Black fish or no, I am still a Tully. I shall leave for Riverrun by evenfall.”
Catelyn could not pretend to surprise. “Alone? You know as well as I that you will never survive the high road. Ser Rodrik and I are returning to Winterfell. Come with us, Uncle. I will give you your thousand men. Riverrun will not fight alone.”
Brynden thought a moment, then nodded a brusque agreement. “As you say. It’s the long way home, but I’m more like to get there. I’ll wait for you below.” He went striding off, his cloak swirling behind him.
Catelyn exchanged a look with Ser Rodrik. They went through the doors to the high, nervous sound of a child’s giggles.
Lysa’s apartments opened over a small garden, a circle of dirt and grass planted with blue flowers and ringed on all sides by tall white towers. The builders had intended it as a godswood, but the Eyrie rested on the hard stone of the mountain, and no matter how much soil was hauled up from the Vale, they could not get a weirwood to take root here. So the Lords of the Eyrie planted grass and scattered statuary amidst low, flowering shrubs. It was there the two champions would meet to place their lives, and that of Tyrion Lannister, into the hands of the gods.
Lysa, freshly scrubbed and garbed in cream velvet with a rope of sapphires and moonstones around her milk-white neck, was holding court on the terrace overlooking the scene of the combat, surrounded by her knights, retainers, and lords high and low. Most of them still hoped to wed her, bed her, and rule the Vale of Arryn by her side. From what Catelyn had seen during her stay at the Eyrie, it was a vain hope.
A wooden platform had been built to elevate Robert’s chair; there the Lord of the Eyrie sat, giggling and clapping his hands as a humpbacked puppeteer in blue-and-white motley made two wooden knights hack and slash at each other. Pitchers of thick cream and baskets of blackberries had been set out, and the guests were sipping a sweet orange-scented wine from engraved silver cups. A fool’s festival, Brynden had called it, and small wonder.
Across the terrace, Lysa laughed gaily at some jest of Lord Hunter’s, and nibbled a blackberry from the point of Ser Lyn Corbray’s dagger. They were the suitors who stood highest in Lysa’s favor … today, at least. Catelyn would have been hard-pressed to say which man was more unsuitable. Eon Hunter was even older than Jon Arryn had been, half crippled by gout, and cursed with three quarrelsome sons, each more grasping than the last. Ser Lyn was a different sort of folly; lean and handsome, heir to an ancient but impoverished house, but vain, reckless, hot-tempered … and, it was whispered, notoriously uninterested in the intimate charms of women.
When Lysa espied Catelyn, she welcomed her with a sisterly embrace and a moist kiss on the cheek. “Isn’t it a lovely morning? The gods are smiling on us. Do try a cup of the wine, sweet sister. Lord Hunter was kind enough to send for it, from his own cellars.”
“Thank you, no. Lysa, we must talk.”
“After,” her sister promised, already beginning to turn away from her.
“Now.” Catelyn spoke more loudly than she’d intended. Men were turning to look. “Lysa, you cannot mean to go ahead with this folly. Alive, the Imp has value. Dead, he is only food for crows. And if his champion should prevail here—”
“Small chance of that, my lady,” Lord Hunter assured her, patting her shoulder with a liver-spotted hand. “Ser Vardis is a doughty fighter. He will make short work of the sellsword.”
“Will he, my lord?” Catelyn said coolly. “I wonder.” She had seen Bronn fight on the high road; it was no accident that he had survived the journey while other men had died. He moved like a panther, and that ugly sword of his seemed a part of his arm.
Lysa’s suitors were gathering around them like bees round a blossom. “Women understand little of these things,” Ser Morton Waynwood said. “Ser Vardis is a knight, sweet lady. This other fellow, well, his sort are all cowards at heart. Useful enough in a battle, with