Chapter Nine: Captives
Winterfell was quiet as they rode through the familiar castle gate. Without the loud, jovial voices of knights, freeriders and royals to ring out across the yard, Freya found the cold stone walls less inviting. Upon greeting the acting lord of the castle, they found him to be less friendly still.
"I must say I found our last welcome here to be slightly warmer," Tyrion said to Robb, who sat at the head of the hall looking down on them. Freya stood to the left of Tyrion, and Yoren to his right.
"Any man from the Night's Watch is welcome here," Robb replied, drawing a smirk from Theon Greyjoy, who stood beside him. Maester Luwin, who stood on the steps below the high table, had the good grace to drop his gaze at this, ashamed at the lad's inability to remember his courtesies. Since he had been the one to teach the boys their proper manners, he had hoped for better from them both.
Freya and Tyrion exchanged looks, taking both the 'man' and 'Night's Watch' as jabs at themselves.
"A man of the Night's Watch, but not I, aye boy? And what of Lady Freya here? Is she too not welcome? And here I was hoping you had not taken your defeat at her hands to heart."
Freya stared at the young Stark lord and caught the flicker of humiliation cross his face. It quickly turned to bitterness, as so often happened when it came to her defeated adversaries.
"I'm not your 'boy', Lannister," Robb spat, "And it was widely agreed that the Ladyknight's chosen style of fighting was not honorable."
"Widely agreed? By whom? Those she conquered, I bet."
In an attempt to diffuse the situation, Freya stepped forward, giving a brief nod of respect to the boy. "We received word whilst at Castle Black, of your brother's wakening."
The Stark boy stared at her and nodded slowly, as if trying to deduce her thinking.
"It was good news to hear. For Jon, especially. He sends his regards to all of you. Do you–"
The creak of the door behind them brought the conversation to a halt.
"So it's true," Tyrion spoke to himself.
They watched as the second youngest of the Stark clan was brought in toward the table by the enormous stable boy they knew only as 'Hodor'.
"Hello, Bran," Tyrion greeted, with a smile tainted with curiosity. Continuing to speak, his voice took on a hint of urgency, as if the boy's answer would be of great importance. "Do you remember anything from the day you fell?"
"He remembers nothing," the maester assured him.
Meeting the eldest son's gaze, Freya felt he knew more than they were letting on. She exchanged a look with Tyrion and he glanced up at the older boy, quickly catching on.
"How do you feel, Bran?" Freya asked with a gentle smile.
Theon scoffed at that, and Robb merely maintained his burning gaze.
"How does he feel?" Theon spat, "Are you stupid? How do you think he feels?"
The maester threw Theon a dark look for his rude words, but the boy merely shook it off, as he was wont to do. Bran, however, looked back at her with curiosity. He hadn't been able to watch the king's staged swordplay, having been forced instead to keep the young prince Tommen entertained, but he had heard many stories about it. In particular his brothers' defeat. He glanced at the dwarf. Such an odd pair they made. He wondered why she was traveling with him. Perhaps she was one of the many households sworn to the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. He would have to ask his maester.
"Do you like to ride, Bran?" Tyrion asked him.
Freya looked back as she heard Robb's chair drag back across the ground.
"What is the meaning of this?" he said, taking up a defensive stance, eyes glowing protectively while he watched over his broken brother.
One glance at Theon and Freya was appalled to see that, even after everything – after his humiliating defeat at her hands and the teasing he had received from local and visiting men alike – he still looked at her in the same lecherous way as when she had first made her appearance in Winterfell. The thought made her skin crawl. She turned back to the young boy and her companion.
Brann looked downcast. "Yes. Well, I used to."
"The boy has lost the use of his legs," Maester Luwin informed them, as if they hadn't already realized that themselves.
"What of it?" Tyrion asked, "With the right horse and saddle, even a cripple might ride."
Upon hearing the term, tears sprang in to the young boy's eyes, but he made an effort to maintain his lordly composure and replied, "I'm not a cripple."
Tyrion smiled, a small, gentle smile of understanding. "Ah, then I am not a dwarf. My father will be most pleased. Here, I have a gift for you. Freya, if you would be so kind."
Freya took the rolled up parchment from him and handed it to the boy. Bran opened it out and glanced over the diagrams and scribbled notes, but it all meant very little to him. All the same, his eyes seemed to have brightened.
"Will I really be able to ride again?" he asked excitedly, as the maester took the paper from him to look it over. He seemed impressed by the dwarf's design.
"You will," Tyrion assured him, "On horseback, you will be as tall as any of them."
Bran grinned, and the sight of new hope in the poor young boy gave Freya a rush of warmth. Robb watched the whole scene with a skeptical expression.
"Is this some sort of trick?" he asked. "Why do you want to help him?"
The Lannister's were known for many things, but kindness was not one of them.
"I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples, bastards and broken things," Tyrion replied, with an affectionate glance at his lady companion.
Robb seemed of two minds for a moment, then his expression grew considerably lighter. "You've done my brother a kindness," he said, "The hospitality of Winterfell is yours."
Tyrion looked to Freya once more and they shared a silent conversation. Had Jory remained in residence there, Freya would have gladly taken Robb up on his offer. But with the sharp, suspicious eyes of the wolf lord still boring into them, not to mention the look she was receiving from Theon – his gaze as slippery as his family sigil – she knew that doing so would be a mistake. They turned back to him.
"No need for false courtesies, Lord Stark," Tyrion assured him, "There's a brothel outside your walls. I'm sure we'll find room there. That way we can all sleep easier."
"You would take the lady in there with you?" Robb asked, a hint of mockery to his voice, glancing at Freya with amusement.
Theon chuckled to himself and said, "You know they provide the women for you?"
"I go where the road takes me," came Freya's simple reply, "A bed is a bed to me."
"So be it," Robb said, "Theon, see them out."
They turned to leave, Yoren back by their side, and Hodor carried Bran up beside his brother, where Maester Luwin was reviewing the sketched plans lain out before them.
Out in the courtyard, Theon watched them mount their horses, his near-constant smirk plastered on his face.
"Couldn't resist some northern ass? This one not enough for you?" the boy asked Tyrion as Yoren helped him into his saddle.
"She's from the south, you see," Tyrion replied, and the Greyjoy lad was surprised to see Freya chuckle unoffended.
Though Theon had also been joking, he wondered if perhaps these two were fucking, freaks as they both were. Yet the thought sparked a queer rage in him. So she would bed a twisted little monster like the Imp, but flirt with him, a man destined to rule the Iron Islands, only in jest? His jaw tensed and he found himself itching for his sword. He knew, were he to face her a second time, he would not allow himself to fall for her tricks again.
Catching the dark way the boy was eyeing his friend, Tyrion went on, "Might I enquire into the whereabouts of Lady Stark? Why did she not receive us?"
"She wasn't feeling well," Theon answered, tearing his eyes away from Freya. It was an obvious lie. He watched the pair exchange a glance, but Freya looked away, feigning disinterest.
"She's not in Winterfell, is she? Where did she go?"
"You wondering about you lover?" Theon said to Freya to draw her attention back, thus avoiding the Imp's question. He smirked again as she looked back at him, her expression unimpressed. "Jory Cassel. That's right, I heard all about it. The whole castle knew about that. I trust he paid you well?"
"Better they know the truth then think I'd taken to bed with someone embarrassing, like a Greyjoy," Freya replied, with an aloofness that reminded Tyrion greatly of his own brother. Jaime had always carried the ability to insult a man in such a way they were almost unlikely to notice. Unfortunately Freya had not managed to slip this one by Theon, and his face burned an angry red, nostrils flaring as his family pride was met with the verbal slap.
"You'll be wanting to be careful staying at that brothel. They might decide to keep you on."
Freya chuckled as she picked up her helm and lowered it down over her head, pulling open the jaws of the fox-head to speak. "Even if I did, boy, you could not pay me to fuck the likes of you. It's one thing to take a defeated man to bed. Another to take one of a defeated rebellion."
Thrown by the lady's crass language and the sting of her insult, Theon could only watch in silence as they rode off through the castle gates, catching the grin of Tyrion Lannister as they moved.
As they traveled upon the kingsroad some days later, the skies opened up and let fall heavy lashings of cold rain. They came to an inn just north of the Trident – one that Freya knew well. She had stayed there a number of times on the way to or from one tourney or another. Now, as they reached the establishment and found it overflowing with freeriders, bannermen, knights and mercenaries, she felt struck with a sense of déjà vu. The road on the way up had given them a good indication as to what they could expect at the inns ahead, but still Tyrion would not listen to their suggestions.
Freya raised her helm and watched as he pulled his horse to a halt. Though she preferred to ride without the helm when she could help it, it did prove very useful against the wet weather. "They'll be full up here," she said, "We'd best try the next one, or better yet find shelter in the forest, away from this lot."
Tyrion was soaked through most of his layers now, and his legs were cramping horribly from the long ride. The thought of continuing onwards without rest made his entire body ache. He looked to the black brother beside him, but Yoren seemed to be of the same mind as the lady. Tyrion shook his head at them.
"Yoren, if you would be so kind," the dwarf said, waiting to be helped down from his mount.
Freya dismounted gracefully and looked around at the men scattered outside the inn's walls. A few of the less savory looking types were eyeing the glittering jewels on Tyrion's fingers and her hand went to rest on the hilt of her sword. Though some of the men had the look of honorable knights, others had the crafty, untrustworthy look of sellswords.
"If by chance they do happen to have no rooms to spare, it might be that a Lannister can change their mind," Tyrion said, taking a coin from his pocket and tossing it in the air. He caught it and grinned, but noticed his companions exchanged a concerned glance.
"Best be keepin' that in your pocket. I've seen men kill for less," Yoren advised.
Catching the way Freya surveyed the surrounding men, Tyrion promptly tucked it away. He felt the hot breath of Freya's mount as it nibbled at his golden locks, and he shooed it off.
"I'll tell you what," Freya said, taking Ferox by the reins, "One gold dragon says we'll be back on the road shortly."
Tyrion grinned at that. "You have a bet, my lady."
She turned to Yoren and took his reins too. "I'll see to the horses. The stableboy seems a tad run off his feet. Yoren can go with you and watch me win my money."
"Are you sure, m'lady?" the black brother asked, looking first to their animals then to the ones leering around the inn.
"I am. Ferox is very particular about how he's housed, and who by."
"Ah, so he and I have that in common, then," Tyrion smiled.
Though he felt unsure about leaving her on her own, Tyrion knew that she had lived that way for much of her life. Yet her uncle's words rang on in his head, to protect her any way he could. He supposed procuring them a warm room out of the wet was a start, and so started towards the inn with Yoren close behind.
Freya led the horses first to a trough where they could drink their fill after the long ride, her helm still ajar for a clearer view of her surroundings. She watched a man walk by, avoiding eye contact until he stopped and turned back to approach her. He seemed perplexed as he looked at her, then a smile broke out on his face.
"Ladyknight!" he grinned. She felt herself tense and her hand came up to rest on her sword. Whenever a man addressed her by that name, it was either to mock her, or to threaten her into a duel.
"What brings you out this way?" he continued, "Come to join the Hand's tourney, no doubt?"
She narrowed her eyes as she looked at him, feeling a vague sense of recognition.
"Walder Frey," he smiled, as if the name meant something to her. She knew of course the Walder Frey that held the Twins, and his many sons who carried the same name, but she was not particularly familiar with any of them. His smile fell away some as he saw she was unable to recall him.
"We fought in the last tourney," he prompted, "I was one of the last to face you before Ser Gregor Clegane."
At the sound of that name she felt her old wound threaten to cramp. She had little memory of that day, likely a side effect of the milk of the poppy the maester had administered. Still it pained her to be reminded of it.
"You fought exceedingly well for a woman," he went on, offering a smile once more, as though he thought he had just given her a compliment, "If you're heading for King's Landing, I should hope to face you again. I've been training, you see and –"
He glanced behind her and his expression changed. He began busying himself with the tourney invitation that he clutched in his hand and hurried away from her. Confused by his odd behavior, Freya turned her head, but her helm was forced closed by unseen hands, and her vision obstructed as a burlap sack was tugged down over her head. She moved to draw her weapon, but her hands were quickly seized and bound in front of her. She thought of all the men she had seen watching her as they'd come to a halt, and a fear came over her as to what they might do when they found out the expensive-looking armor held a woman inside. With a ferocious growl she pulled out of the grip of her captors and managed to head-butt the one closest in the face. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed.
"Cease this behavior now, so that I may speak with you," came a sharp voice from in front of her. It sounded so familiar. A woman's voice. She tried to place it, but the owner spoke the answer for her.
"You are being addressed by Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell," she began, in the stern tone Freya had grown so acquainted with, "We have taken the Imp as prisoner, charged with conspiring to murder my son. As his near constant companion during your stay in Winterfell, and since you travel with him even now, I can only assume you played a part in this crime."
Freya began to protest, outraged by the absurd allegations, but the guard she had assaulted, none too happy with his moment of humiliation, gave her a solid whack to the back of her helm. Her head bounced off the back of the thick metal, and for a moment she felt disoriented as the metal rang around her ears.
"We will be taking you back to Winterfell," Catelyn continued, "Where you will be tried for these crimes."
Tyrion's muffled voice joined the fray, "Leave her, she has nothing to do with this."
"Must we gag you, too?" Lady Stark asked with exasperation.
"Help her onto her horse," a new voice ordered, this one male, "It's the white one. Make it quick."
"Ser Rodrick, best take her weapons," Lady Catelyn suggested.
Ser Rodrick Cassel. Jory's uncle. Freya wondered if he knew of their brief relationship. That thought at least gave her some hope. Yet should she somehow find herself freed, she would not think to abandon her friend.
They made slow progress on their way to Winterfell, but grew thankful at least when the rain stopped. They had been riding for hours when they came to a halt and the captives were helped down from their steeds. Tyrion was most glad for this, as by now his legs were paining him so that he might rather have them cut off. He only hoped Freya was faring better. Just before they had pulled a sack down over his head, he had seen her body tense with rage as she too was taken prisoner. He wondered what might have happened had she been able to draw her blade in time.
The rush of air as his cover was removed was most refreshing. His face was red and wet with a mixture of rain and sweat, despite the cold. He watched them struggle to remove the sack they had forced down over Freya's helm and made to approach them.
"Stay where you are," came Lady Stark's stern command, her eyes piercing as she looked to him.
"Whatever this is about," he attempted to reason with her, "I can assure you Lady Freya has no part in it. She is innocent."
"I saw the two of you consorting often in Winterfell. How am I to know that she did not play some part in this?"
"Is it a crime to befriend a Lannister?" he asked, "I suppose some might think it so." His words only proved to make her expression more severe. He glanced around and suddenly became aware that they were no longer on the kingsroad, as he had thought. The area around them was hilly and covered in rocks, with sparse growth to be seen. This was certainly not the way to Stark's castle, but he knew it all the same. "You said we were riding for Winterfell."
A sly smile came upon Lady Stark. "I did, often and loudly."
"Clever," he noted. "They'll be out in droves, looking for me in the wrong place. Word's probably gotten to my father by now. He'll be offering a handsome reward. Everyone knows a Lannister always pays his debts." He looked pointedly at the men who had joined them from the inn. One in particular, the man who had unknowingly lost Freya her bet, glanced over at him with interest. Tyrion tested the strength of his binds, but they did not budge.
"Would you be so good as to untie me?" he asked his captors.
"And why would I do that?" Lady Catelyn asked.
"Why not? Am I going to run? The hill tribes would kill me for my boots. Assuming a shadowcat didn't eat me first."
"Shadowcats and hill tribes are the least of your concern."
Tyrion looked around once more. He had traveled on the Eastern Road only once before, when he had joined the party sent to escort Jon Arryn, his wife, Lysa, back to King's Landing. It was a thankless route, and not one he had cared to travel again – at least not by choice.
"Ah. So we're going to The Vale. You're taking me to your sister's to answer for my imagined crimes. Tell me, Lady Stark. When was the last time you saw your sister?"
Her eyes narrowed, but she replied, "Five years ago."
"She's changed," Tyrion informed her, remembering the woman he had often seen in court. As Robert Baratheon's former Hand, her husband Jon Arryn had taken her to live with him in the Red Keep. It was only after his untimely death that she had fled back to their stronghold in the Vale.
"She's always been a bit touched," Tyrion went on, "But now…you might as well kill me here."
He watched Freya lay a comforting hand on the her horse's muzzle. Ferox sniffed at her binds and snorted.
"She has not been harmed," Lady Stark assured Tyrion, catching his concerned gaze.
Unsure if he should trust her words anymore than she trusted his, Tyrion's gaze drifted back across to the men that had followed them from the inn. Yoren had not been touched by the Stark followers, and had ridden of shortly after their capture, continuing on to their intended destination to get word back to Ned Stark and, Tyrion hoped, his brother Jaime. Among the ones who had chosen to join them, apart from the perceptive sellsword, were a couple of Stark bannermen, and much to everyone's dismay, a travelling bard, who had not shut up since they began their journey. What Tyrion wouldn't pay for someone to put an end to the man's awful singing; but then he supposed paying someone to commit murder was what had allegedly gotten him into this mess.
As the man took up singing again, this time an improvised song about Tyrion's current misfortune, Freya looked towards him.
"Will someone shut that man up before I choke him with my binds?"
Tyrion chuckled, expression quickly turning to shock as the bard's instrument exploded into splinters. It took him a moment to register what was happening. War cries sounded from the hills around them, and men appeared carrying crude weapons, dressed in mismatched armor. The hill tribes he had heard so much about. He looked to Lady Stark and saw she was now without her previous confidence. It had been a mistake to come this way.
Swords were drawn all around, the ringing rasp of steel sounding over the cries of the approaching ambush. Freya moved towards the closest man, the sellsword, and held out her bound wrists. "You!" she called to him.
He looked first to her helm, eyes gliding over the odd shape, then down at her hands and cut through the binds with a single, well-placed stroke of his sword. The tribesman had arrived now, and the fighting had begun. Lady Stark cowered beneath a rocky outcrop and Tyrion stood before her, watching the chaos unfold. Looking around, Freya spotted Ser Rodrick by a pile of his and Lady Stark's belongings. She caught the glint of her sword between some furs.
"Ser Rodrick!" she shouted, gesturing for her weapon. He glanced down at the sword, unsure, but as he looked back at the number of invading men, he seemed to change his mind. He reached down and plucked the Valyrian steel from the luggage, tossing it to the rightful owner. In one swift movement Freya caught it, drew it from it's sheath, and blocked the first attack to come at her. The man went high with the intention to bring his blade down on her head, but in turn left his body wide open. Freya shoved her sword up through his belly, spilling his guts to the muddy ground below, warm blood coating her arms. Moving on, she dodged the next two strikes of a man wielding a battleaxe, before cutting off his hand. He screamed as he looked down at the bleeding stump, and Freya silenced him with a quick slash of her blade, sending his head rolling into a ditch. With its exceptionally sharp edge, Valyrian steel cut through bone like butter.
From over by Lady Catelyn, Tyrion watched his friend with awe. It was the first time he had seen her fight in a real combat situation. She moved with such grace, it seemed almost like a dance, with the occasional spray of blood only adding to the beauty of her movements. She appeared such natural with the blade, it almost seemed a part of her own body. He had only ever seen one other person who fought like that; his dear brother, Jaime.
Continuing her onslaught, Freya took up a second sword from one of the dead men, and moved towards the last of the assailants. A particularly large man came at her and she jumped sideward to avoid his attack, slashing at the back of his knees. He came down with a heavy thud, kneeling before her, and she rested her crossed swords on either side of his neck. Catching sight of this, Lady Stark looked away. Tyrion wanted to do the same, knowing what came next, but he was so enraptured by this side of the lady that he could not bring himself to do so. With one quick motion, Freya cut off the tribesman's head and caught the ensuing fountain of blood across her helm and chestplate. The body tumbled forward and she stepped over it, looking for more foes to fell.
It appeared as though there were no more coming, when one suddenly approached from the side of the outcrop sheltering Lady Stark. She cried out for Ser Rodrik to come to her aid, but the old knight was still engaged with another. Freya looked over, catching Tyrion's sudden panic, and began moving towards them, only to be knocked into by a fleeing attacker. Quick as she could, she raised her borrowed sword and flung it at the man's back, catching him through the chest. He gave a gargled cry and fell forward. A heavy thud drew her attention back to Tyrion and Lady Stark. She watched impressed, as Tyrion beat their attacker's head in with a wooden shield. The improvised weapon fell from his hands as he stared down at the first man he'd ever killed, breathing heavily from the effort. The air stank of blood and sweat; the smell of a well-fought battle.
"That your first?" the sellsword asked him, sheathing his bloodied weapon. Tyrion nodded, still too stunned to speak. It had all happened so fast. "You need a woman," the man went on, "Nothing like a woman after a fight."
Tyrion looked over to his fox-helmed friend as she approached.
"What do you say, Freya?"
"Sod off," she replied, laughing at him before kicking aside a severed head.
The sellsword stared, momentarily confused. He had watched the Stark woman order the capture of who he had assumed to be a man – the armor giving nothing away. They were no knight, perhaps, but certainly one of the Lannister's own guards. He watched as they took off their helm, freeing long, golden locks. Tyrion caught the brief flicker of surprise that crossed the sellsword's face and he smiled to himself. He was really starting to enjoy the dumbfounded looks she drew from skeptical men.
"Tell me someone killed that bloody bard," she went on, grateful for the rush of air across her skin, "If not, I'll try my best to pin it on a tribesman."
Tyrion chuckled and the corner of the sellsword's mouth turned up in an appreciative smirk. Tyrion watched Freya give the man a measuring glance before she sheathed her reclaimed weapon.
"You fight well," the sellsword told her, and for a moment she tensed, waiting for the usual 'for a woman', but when it did not come and a glance at his eyes told her he was being genuine, she smiled and gave a polite nod.
"You're not so bad yourself," she returned.
They looked back to Lady Catelyn, who was still shaking from her ordeal. Beside her, Ser Rodrik was asking questions to ascertain her current state, unconcerned by the blood dripping from the wound on his own shoulder.
"Are you certain you wish to continue?" Tyrion asked her, and they both looked over to him with steadfast expressions.
"Of course. Your actions here do not absolve you of your crimes!" Lady Stark replied.
"I am not a murderer!" Tyrion roared at her, before glancing down at the dead man by his feet. "Well, except for him. But I had nothing to do with the attempt on your son's life."
Freya furrowed her brow as she finally understood what it was they were being accused of. I have my reasons to believe it may not have been an accident, she remembered Tyrion saying. She tried to recall the day of Bran's fall, when she had watched the men carry his broken body away from the tower. She had left Tyrion to sleep in the godswood. He could not have pushed the boy. He would not have pushed the boy.
"I can vouch for his whereabouts," Freya began, and Lady Stark pursed her lips, glancing between the woman and the Imp as she reached her own assumption. Freya caught the expression and pressed on, "I saw him asleep in the godswood not long before the accident occurred."
"Accident?" Catelyn scoffed, "Have you not been listening? This was no accident. And the fall is not of what I speak. A man was sent in the night to open my son's throat as he lay unconscious in his bed. A man armed with this one's dagger." She thrust her finger towards Tyrion, eyes glowing with fury as she remembered the night all too clearly. Her fingers still bore the marks the attacker's blade had left as she had fought him off. She was still unable to fully bend them.
"What sort of imbecile would arm an assassin with his own blade?" Tyrion argued.
Lady Catelyn straightened and glanced to Ser Rodrik.
"Should I gag him?" the old master-at-arms asked.
Tyrion sighed. "Why? Am I starting to make sense?"
From the corner of his eye, Ser Rodrik saw Freya's hand go to the hilt of her sword. With most of their men dead, there was nothing to stop her from attacking him and Lady Stark, and escorting the Imp back to King's Landing. He knew he was no longer able to fight as he had in his youth. He had grown fat and slow and old. He had seen Lady Freya fight both the day she had dueled for the king's entertainment, and now as she cut through the seasoned tribesmen with ease, and though he would never admit it, he thought it possible for her to gain the upper hand if she tried. He had heard men around the castle speak rumors about her and his nephew. If it came to a fight, he could only hope that out of respect for Jory, she might leave them alive.
"Perhaps we best be taking back their weapons," he suggested, but Freya merely scoffed at the idea. There had been a rage brewing within her since she had been taken prisoner, and the short battle had only helped to feed it. The polite young woman they had met in Winterfell now spoke with a tongue as sharp as her blade.
"You could try," she said, with a dangerous glint in her eyes.
He glanced back at the man she had decapitated and suddenly thought better of it.
"Although I would like nothing more than to take my friend here and continue on our intended path," she went on, "There remains the matter of clearing our names. And since you do not believe either of us, we'll humor you and carry on to the Eyrie, and do whatever needs to be done. That is assuming that we are not intercepted by Lannister soldiers first. It shan't be long before word reaches King's Landing. And the queen."
Ser Rodrik glanced at his lady, but Catelyn appeared unmoved by Freya's words.
"And who, Lady Bainhart, will be coming for you?"
She watched the smile fall away from Freya's face as the young woman was reminded of her long-departed family members. For a moment, Freya felt very alone.
"Lady Freya is under my protection, as I am under hers," Tyrion informed Lady Stark, despite feeling absurd for suggesting he was capable of fulfilling such a role, "Therefore, should we be met by any of my family guard, I can assure you she will coming with me. I owe her a great many debts. And you know what they say about us Lannister's."
Freya smiled warmly at him then, and gave a whistle for her horse. Ferox's coat was splattered with blood from the battle – a spray of red against snow. Upon hearing his master's command, he trotted over and Freya swung up into the saddle. She looked out to the direction of the Eyrie.
"Alright. Let's get this over with, shall we?"
