KATE DICKIE SAVES WESTEROS

Part 1 - SER RODRIK

"Riders!" the lookout he had posted on the ridge above them cried out.

The conversation with the Imp stopped immediately.

"Ser Rodrik, to horse!" his lady cried and he leapt into action.

"To horse! To horse!" Ser Rodrik bellowed with his yard voice, echoing his lady's command as he scrambled.

Behind him, he heard the vile little Lannister beg, "Arm us. Every sword will be needed."

Hoofbeats. Many hoofbeats.

"I hear them," he called out from the saddle and drew his long sword. Any of their party not already moving now surely were.

"A score or more clansman," Lharys gasped breathlessly having slide down the rocky slope to rejoin them. "They must'a had spies out. Hidden. Watchin' us."

Ser Rodrik began directing the men-at-arms and sellswords where to take up position to best take advantage of the narrow, rocky terrain. As he pivoted about in the saddle, Lady Catelyn caught his eye. He looked over where she directed. And gave a short, unhappy nod.

"Swear me your oath you will put down your blades once this is over," she demanded.

The hoofbeats grew louder.

"My word as a Lannister," the Imp said with that ever amused, cocky tone of his.

Too soon, ugly, large men wearing mismatched and old armor came round the bend on smaller, shaggier horses. Unfortunately the weapons they bore, though equally mismatched, gleamed spotless and sharp and deadly.

The two bows availed him twanged.

"Winterfell!" he roared his challenge and his promise; digging spurs into his horses side. Ser Willis and the better skilled riders burst out with him, making a tight wedge with which to break apart the oncoming avalanche.

The narrowness of the path through the rugged hills left no room for his countercharge to properly disperse the smelly barbarians and the attack too quickly ground to a halt. Ser Rodrik found himself exchanging strokes with the largest of the lot.

Not unskilled, but for having to ware off other foe men by blade or turning of his horse, the knight already should have taken the chieftain.

He heard men scream. And he heard men issue their death screams.

He prayed to the Seven that the later were more from the wildlings' mountain cousins.

HAAAAROOOOOOOOOOOO!

HAAAAROOOOOOOOOOOO!

The press suddenly began to lessen.

The clansmen were turning about back the way they'd come; and Ser Rodrik's blade bit deep into the Milk Snake or Moon Brother or whatever tribe in SevenHells the strong bastard belonged to … until he bled out.

Then he wrestled with the reins to move his horse as far to the side as he could, for coming from the opposite direction five knights with lances out led a company of riders wearing the sky blue coats of House Arryn at the charge.

One knight peeled off from the column to pull up in front of an overhanging cliff where his lady stood with that knife bloody over a fallen body. He lifted up his visor and announced loud enough for Ser Rodrik to catch, "Well met, Cat."

Relief and joy leapt into his lady's handsome face. "Uncle," she cried and then rushed forward to clutch at the leg nearest her.

"Lysa thought you might come this way. So she sent me to search for you."

"You heard?"

"Heard? The whole bloody Seven Kingdoms have heard, lass." And with that, the renowned Ser Brynden the Blackfish Tully started turning his head about. "He … uh … hasn't …?"

"Died?" That infuriating voice finished the question. "Luckily, for the moment, no." And the dwarfish assassin toting an axe crawled out from behind the rock he had been hiding.

Part 2 - LORD TYRION

At least the last short bit of the miserable, frightening journey up the Giant's Lance was enjoyable. The view from the basket was so much less strenuous than the one from a top the mule or his own two stunted legs. Though the empty basket that had been lowered from the Eyrie was now more than a tad crowded with himself, Lady Catelyn, the Blackfish, and Ser Rodrik in it for the ascent back up. This afforded Tyrion a rare opportunity to find being a dwarf not such a burdensome chore.

And far below them, the field about the Gate of the Moon appeared to be growing even more crowded as well. The distance was too far to make out the sigils on the surcoats of the many of the men-at-arms, five or six hundreds worth, marching into the Vale of Arryn from some pass to the north east. But that's what banners were for on the battlefield, eh? And the giant one at their head proclaimed the raven and heart trios of House Corbrary come to join the hundred or so mounted warriors already arrived by his impish eye's calculations earlier in the morn.

Tyrion did not know whether to be reassured or pleased that at least in the Vale they believed that word of his abduction would spur his much unbeloved father into going to war for him over Lannister pride. And, as he had overheard the Blackfish whispering at times the past week with his niece, another smaller army was also gathering in Gulltown.

However, as the overhang of the castle finally began cutting of his view, the small decided to put away such fond ponderings as those in order to prepare himself for the coming interview with Lysa Arryn. A peculiar woman whom he knew only slightly despite her many years living in the Red Keep and his own frequent long stays there.

He had found her to usually be quiet and in the background as befitted a lady, though prone to the occasional odd outburst. Friendly with Littlefinger even though she must know what rumors he spread about herself and her sister. And very, very unfriendly towards Lannisters. To which blame surely lay with his bitch of a sister; for surely the Queen and the wife of the Hand were forced to socialize frequently; a helpless fish for the lioness to play with for her amusement.

As they came up through the floor into the winch house of the undercrofts, two blue cloak falcon sporting guards and nervous old Maester Colemon were they to greet them.

The bald headed, so chicken necked he should have been House Swyft born maester waited until the basket was secured, the trap door shut to avoid unpleasant accidents, and the wicker door unlatched before he opened his mouth to obsequiously gush. "Lady Stark, a great pleasure. Your lady sister rejoices at your safe arrival in the Vale."

"And my great pleasure to be here," She agreed, stepping out first. "I look forward to thanking Lysa for her foresight in sending our Uncle to secure my safe arrival."

A short bob of that shiny head. "Lady Arryn has become most judicious since returning to the Eyrie." Then the maester turned and looked down to address him. "Lord Lannister, welcome. May you enjoy your visit here."

"Visit?" he near stuttered.

"The Lannister is my prisoner," Catelyn Stark flared.

"Lady Arryn has much to discuss with you, Lady Stark," Colemon nervously answered. "She awaits you all in her solar."

And to her the maester led them as fast as Tyrion's legs could waddle up many a circular stair case.

First, they navigated through the honeycomb of storage rooms and crofts of the lower levels to a modest receiving hall, named the Crescent Chamber, where those who had arrived at the Eyrie in a full manly manner might receive refreshments after the arduous climb. None were offered them, though several members of House Hunter and House Hersy were partaking of such and paused in mid cups to gaze in curiosity at their passing.

Then up a fine, although particularly steep and treacherous, set of marble stairs that carried them beneath a portcullis and into a well lit, richly decorated passageway. At its end, stood a thick looking door of weirwood bound in iron.

A guard opened it for the four of them to enter; Tyrion third behind Stark and Tully. Maester Colemon and the escort remained without.

"Cat. Oh, Cat. How wonderful at last to see you again, sweet sister," that familiar enough voice expounded with, to Tyrion's surprise, actual cheer.

As the Blackfish stepped aside, the two siblings clasped each other in a frenzied swirl of auburn hair. One dressed in rough, smelly travel clothes and the other ready for court. They separated and extended away to arm's lengths.

"You look … well," Catelyn Stark announced somewhat uncertainly.

Getting his first clear look at Lysa Arryn, Tyrion vigorously blurted out in surprise and truthfulness, "You do, my lady."

Clear blue eyes shifted in search of the source of his voice. Upon finding Tyrion's modest stature, they studied him a long time; as if for the first time.

And he gazed back with equal wonder. This was not the dowdy, plump Lysa Arryn whom he had last seen seven months ago weeping copiously at the demise of her lord husband. No! She quite resembled the figure of the Lady Lysa whom he remembered first meeting right before Cersei's marriage to Robert.

A slight smile pierced her no longer youthful yet far from old face. Yes, time could not be removed from Lysa Arryn's features. And Tyrion suspected her dugs drooped when out of the confines of her bodice. He had heard rumor she still breastfed that simpering brat of hers. But the rest?

Thirty or forty pounds had slipped away the last seven months. She was no longer thick about the middle. And her skin practically sparkled with a healthy glow. Clearly the Eyrie and widowhood agreed with the Lady Lysa Arryn.

The slight smile directed at him widened to vast words. Words spoken in a clear, strong voice; holding none of the petulance and grievance he could well recall. "Lord Tyrion, I believe a massive mistake, for which I own a large portion of blame, has been cast upon you."

He grinned. "I couldn't agree more."

"Lysa, how could you?" Catelyn Stark near snarled. "After what he did to my poor Bran and me. He's my prisoner."

Sister turned back to sister and the younger picked up the elder's hands, kissing them where that damned Valyrian blade had made those brutal red smiles across them. "Poor, beautiful Cat. My message said too little. And now I fear I've discovered more. Horribly more."

"More?" Catelyn Stark dully repeated.

The Lady Lysa nodded in a cascade of finely brushed auburn hair. "Why Jon died. Why Stannis Baratheon fled to Dragonstone. Why Petyr lied to you. Why he has always lied to me. And why Ned will die if we do not act quickly and strongly."

"Ned is in danger?"

"Yes." Then without looking at him, she asked, "Lord Tyrion, what will your brother do when he discovers my sister has taken you as prisoner?"

This prettier, cleverer Lysa Arryn intrigued him immensely. Never-the-less her question elicited a snort out of him, "Nothing good for Ned Stark. A severe wounding at best."

"But he is the Hand and your brother a Kingsguard."

"You might have heard some call Jaime the Kingslayer."

"Which is why Lord Tyrion will write letters for Maester Colemon to send to both King's Landing and Casterly Rock saying that he has come of his free will with Lady Stark to visit the wonders of the Eyrie."

"I will?" Tyrion asked with surprise.

"He will?" Catelyn Stark echoed.

"You will," Lysa Arryn confirmed with astounding confidence. "And right now you will tell us what Jon knew. What Stannis knows. What Varys the Eunuch and Petyr Baelish and the Grand Maester have known for years yet told no one. What my nephew Bran spied before he was pushed. And what my goodbrother Ned will learn soon enough if your brother does not kill him first."

'Oh-oh,' Tyrion thought; a horrible sensation lurched into his belly. "What might that be?" he asked with a display of utmost innocence.

"You love them," she said with painful understanding.

'Not Cersei.' Came unbidden to his mind.

"Lysa, what are you talking about?"

"I am talking about your Ned having the compassion and honor to not murder children. Nor their parents." 'No matter how much those two deserve it for their mad, selfish treason,' was the unspoken part of the claim made by Lady Lysa.

"Murder who? WHO!?" Catelyn Stark demanded.

Piercing blue Tully eyes peered kindly down into his. He found himself strangely falling into them.

"Tell them, Tyrion," she whispered beguilingly to his heart. "It's alright. We shall see them to safety. My pledge to you."

"Joffery, Tommen, and Myrcella," Tyrion softly announced with sad resignation; defeated by those blue eyes and that enchanting voice.

Part 3 - THE HAND OF THE KING

"Lord Eddard, what of me?" the scion of House Tyrell asked with evident confusion.

He looked down on him from the precarious height. So young. Near as young as Robb. "No one doubts your knightly valor or devotion, Ser Loras, but this is about justice and you and Clegane have a history that might impede judgement."

"Lord Eddard," the Knight of Flowers protested.

He ignored headstrong youth to address the wiser leaders of the band he had commanded to execute the King's law righteously. "Ride at dawn. Justice delayed is justice denied."

"Lord Eddard!" again, louder and more peevishly.

Ned held a tired hand aloft. "Court has ended," he proclaimed.

"Lord Stark!"

Another voice rose to challenge him. He ignored that too.

"Lord Stark! In the cherished name and memory of Jon Arryn, hear this petition from the Eyrie!"

That caused him to look out deep into the Great Hall. A man wearing a non-descript hooded cloak strode boldly forward. Lordlings and knights and men stepped aside for him. It was obvious from the bulges beneath it that the man wore plate and had a long sword belted to his waist.

Ser Arys at the foot of the Iron Throne drew himself to full attention.

At the base of the dais upon which the throne stood the would be petitioner stopped and threw back his hood.

"Ser Vardis!" the Grand Maester exclaimed in surprise.

Yes, it was him. Jon's long time captain of the guard. They had fought together at the Trident.

"What does House Arryn desire?" the eunuch queried courteously from the Small Council's table at the foot , before continuing: "We have only days ago received the most agreeable news from the Lady Arryn and young Lord Tyrion."

That had been the bone of contention around whether or not to send an armed force into the Riverlands after the Mountain. If word of Tyrion Lannister's never having been Cat's prisoner were true, and Lord Tywin also believed it; many had argued that sending knights there would only worsen the situation. There was belief that Lord Tywin would withdrawl them of his own wisdom once the facts were fully known.

That did not bring the dead back to life or see justice done by Ned's honor. "Is the petition from Lady Arryn?"

"It is my Lord Hand," Ser Vardis acknowledged.

"Then pray let me hear it."

The knight held high a small scroll. "My Lady asks that you read this."

"Alyn," he commanded. And his own, sadly new, captain of the guard fetched the parchment and climbed past the twisted, ever sharp knifes of the throne to hand it to Ned. There were three blobs of wax on the fold; one bearing the image of a falcon, another a lion, and the last his own direwolf.

A finger nail quickly broke the seals.

Eddard Stark unrolled what turned out to be three tightly bound pages.

Scales fell from his eyes as anger rose in his heart.

"What to do next," he muttered to himself. He was tired, in pain, and the milk of the poppy that Pycelle gave him slowed his mind. But not his rage. Nor, luckily for some, his honor.

"Stark, is everything alright?" Littlefinger badgered from below.

"No. Much is evil and vile in the Seven Kingdoms," he stated loudly; causing a stir amongst those in court. "Ser Arys," he addressed the white cloak on duty in the keep.

"Yes, my Lord Hand?"

"Take a strong escort to find the King on his hunt. Tell him to return immediately for I have arrested Grand Maester Pycelle, Lord Baelish, and Lord Varys for treason against the Iron Throne."

Silence.

Then pandemonium.

"Porther!" he bellowed at his sergeant. "Take the Small Council under heavy guard to the Tower of the Hand!"

"Stark, this is madness!" Littlefinger protested.

"Lady Arryn must be mistaken in her accusation," Varys tittered loudly.

Pycelle looked old and scared.

"Ser Vardis is now Commander of the Watch!" Ned remorselessly continued. Ser Vardis how many men do you have?"

"Sixty already within the keep. And forty knights and another four hundred men-at-arms on the ships tied at the docks."

"Send a runner to bring them through the River Gate and up the hill as quickly as they can."

"Yes, my Lord Hand," the knight from the Vale readily agreed.

"Alyn."

"Milord."

"Find the Queen and the children. Bring them here immediately whatever she may protest. There is a rebellion in the making and we must secure them."

"Lord Eddard! Lord Eddard! Lord Eddard!"

Ned looked about in the tumult for who was screaming his name.

"Ser Loras!?" he roared back.

"What of me!?"

For a moment he thought of sending the Knight of Flowers with Ser Arys to find Robert and Loras' former master, Renly. But as his anger had cut through the milk of the poppy induced fog in his head, he remembered that Loras was the son of Mace Tyrell. Someone to make an ally. "Go with my man Alyn and find the Queen," he commanded.

Part 4 - CERSEI LANNISTER

She found Stark sitting alone with his wounded leg propped up on a chair in a changing chamber behind the Iron Throne. Entering, she purposefully turned her head just so to emphasize the fading bruise where Robert had struck her over a week ago. Her nerves were on edge for she sensed danger in every corner of the keep.

Arresting an entire Small Council was more the style of Maegor the Cruel than dull, honorable Eddard Stark. That, and word what was occurring had been precipitated by a message delivered from the Eyrie. She was ever amazed at the new ways she could find herself to be even more furious at that damned Imp than she ever had been before.

Clearly the mother killing dwarf was behind all this. Not that she cared a whit of what she left behind in the gardrobe for any of Baelish, the Eunuch, or Pycelle. But she must be on her best defense that would touched them might possibly touch her; and now without Jaime to shield her. Why had he not killed Stark when he had him merciless? Was she the only Lannister besides father with a brain?

"Your Grace," Stark acknowledged and moved to stand up.

She waved him back down. "Lord Hand, are we safe? I brought Tommen and Myrcella. Should they come in as well?"

"Yes, you are safe," he said in that cold Northern voice of his. "Are they out in the Great Hall?"

"Yes, with several of my Red Cloaks and all those falcons. What is this about?" she asked, sitting down and adjusting her hair to present her best, most confident, yet concerned, look to him.

"I know the truth of Jon Arryn."

"Do you?" She wanted to both laugh and cry. She had not killed the old man, but knew what the accusation would be tied to. He must therefore believe that the arrested Small Council knew as well. Did they? They were cunning in their low ways, even Pycelle; but she did think it possible. Fucking Tyrion, babbling his guts to the two Tully bitches. That must have been it. Caving at the first threat to his twisted, disgusting body. "Or do you wish to pretend not to seize me the same way your wife and goodsister have now pretended not to have seized my brother?"

"I know why you and Jaime pushed Bran from the tower."

"Then why am I alive if you 'know'?" she challenged him. "Or do you intend to merely run your sword through me like Jaime did you?" she taunted.

"No, I am more merciful than your brother and your lover."

"Yes …" she admitted. And a rapturous smile spread across her beautiful face. Memories of him completing her soul, filling the emptiness within her, making their children swirled through her as the dam behind which they had hidden themselves their whole lives opened for the first time to an outsider. The relief at being able to step out of that dungeon was almost … she shivered … sexual. "… we are."

But she did not bother to explain. He would not understand. Perhaps only another twin or a Targaryen could. She stared right into his dead grey eyes, refusing to yield an inch. "And what of it?"

"All three are Jaime's?" he asked, meaning the children.

"Thank the Gods," she near laughed; drawing a reproving sneer from him. A Stark. The House that sat at the source of her pain. On walking here she had thought of the possible need to seduce this icy Northerner. A velvet purse most often a woman's only defense in a land dominated by men. But Robert had only truly ever wanted one particular purse. "I would have gladly had Robert and only Robert. He was … magnificent then," she painfully recognized. "Until the wedding night, when drunk, he brutally took me while whispering 'Lyanna,' in my ear. I think you remember that name, don't you?"

At least that drew some color to those frozen cheeks. "I pity you. But you know what I must do?"

"Must? No, I know no such thing," she said with a rising voice, fear at last tinging it a bit.

"I do not kill children."

A snort of contempt. "Robert will. Once you tell him. He will move SevenHeavens and every speck of earth for his revenge."

"Not if you and the children are already at sea bound for Essos."

She concealed her disbelief at how soft and weak this hard Northerner truly was. "What of Joffery?"

"He will undoubtedly return from the Hunt with Robert. It will not be difficult to divert him while crossing the Blackwater to one of the ships Lady Arryn has sent. He can join you in Volantis. That should be far enough to start. I've arranged gold. And you can take your red cloaks along as guards."

Damn Tyrion. Damn Lysa fucking Arryn. If all these falcons had not come along, she might have waited to see if her plans to kill Robert before he could return would be bear fruit. Then the pieces on the Cyvasse board might have been rearranged with Casterly gold into a more advantageous position. No more.

She sighed. "Very well, I accept your honorable offer Lord Stark." 'And pray that the Rains of Castamere that Jaime and Father will beat down upon you come all the sooner. I shall return.' "When do we leave?"

"At Dusk, high tide. Never to return to the Seven Kingdoms under pain of death."

"That is how the Game of Thrones is played," she lied amiably; knowing to the depths of her soul you only ever won or died.

Part 5 – A NEW BLACK BROTHER

The Great Ranging was still going on somewhere out there beyond this thicket of scraggily, crappy forest and the nine weirwood trees at its center. The last raven sent back had stated they were at some dung heap pretentiously named the Fist of the First Men.

The ranging was the reason there were so few accompanying them as day begin to settle into dusk.

That and that only two others had chosen along with him to take the choice north of the Wall.

"This is a sacred place, we shall not defile it," some milk filled tit proclaimed; the clue to dismount and enter within the tree defined circle.

"Kneel."

They complied.

"Speak."

"Hear my words and bear witness to my vow," the trio chanted a bit discordantly. "Night gathers, and now my Watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch , for this night and all the nights to come."

That wasn't so bad as oaths went. He had said more than his share over the years.

"You knelt as boys."

Clearly, the horse's arse needed his eyes checked.

"Rise now as Men of the Night's Watch."

And as he stood back up, a crow or raven unfurled from a branch on one of the weirwood trees and took flight.

The odd thing wasn't that he seemed to hear it caw out "Jaime, Jaime, Jaime" as it flew off; but that with the last flicker of the sun, he swore that the bird had three eyes.

Part 6 - THE BRIDE

(… Two years later.)

Casterly Rock was amazing.

And the Lannisters richer than Croesus.

With the Golden Gallery the most brilliant of the two combined. Well, either that or the view of the Sunset Sea at dusk from the penthouse apartment, Kate wasn't sure which.

The Eyrie was a castle straight out of fairy tales. But she could do without the isolation of living a day's scary ass travel straight down a mountain to visit anything or anyone. And it wasn't as if the Gate of the Moon was surround by anything better labelled than a trio of modest sized villages.

Here, Lannisport was only an hour's hard ride away. And it qualified as an honest to gods city regardless it ranked only as medieval neo-modernity. Here, civilized, interesting things actually happened. Crafts. Arts. Music. Theater. Also, it was far away from the memory of Robin. She had tried not to become too attached to him; the poor little thing had clearly not been meant for a long life. And it wasn't as if young Lord Harrold Hard-On wanted her lingering about as a shadow of House Arryn's shade, no matter his false protestations otherwise – it wasn't as if he had come, had he?

Speaking of music. Trumpets and strings and flutes began playing something in the semblance of a song. With it, the gathered nobility of the Westerlands, that which had survived 'The War' and had been able to make it through the still haunting Winter, shuffled quietly into a state of attention.

To her side, Edmure, in place of the never met and year dead Hoster, coughed politely; as if she did not recognize a cue. She twisted ever so slightly so that he could more easily reach around and unclasp her 'maiden's' cloak with hands missing near half their fingers from frostbite and the Other's merciless swords of ice.

Then, as the groom accepted the bejeweled crimson and yellow bride's cloak made from goldclothe from his noseless cousin, she gracefully knelt down so that he could easily slip it over her shoulders. His touch lingered on her daringly bare shoulders a moment.

Another cough, this most like from the easily disturbed prude of a Septon.

So Kate arose, smoothing out her skirt in doing so. They now stood together, their fingertips lightly touching.

"Plight your troths," the pompous bore commanded.

She turned towards her … not beloved … not yet at least. But it promised to be an exciting ride, one way of the other. He had certainly give her a vigorous one last night; no concerns over her chastity. Nothing small about him there. She bent over so that their noses near touched. He grinned at her happily and she grinned right back.

"With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband," she vowed.

"With this kiss I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife," Tyrion declared.

They leaned even closer and touched lips. Harder and harder. Then a bit of tongue that thrilled her down to her moistening, happy bits.

Another irritated cough from somewhere.

Reluctantly, they released their holds on each other.

The fool raised his prism so the light of a thousand torches could spray a rainbow across them. "I do solemnly proclaim Tyrion, Lord of House Lannister, and Lysa of Houses Tully and Arryn to be man and wife, one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever, and cursed be the one who comes between them."

"Here, here!" roared the few Riverlands banners that had accompanied Edmure to give her honor.

The smattering of applause from the Westerlanders revealed their mute enthusiasm for the match or just their overlord. Fuck 'em. They couldn't ask for a better lord.

Tyrion grinned joyously up at him. The bargain secretly made thousands of deaths and untold horrors ago in a solar high, high up a mountain was now complete. "You did it, sweetling," he whispered.

"We all did it," she said sadly; then couldn't stop herself from listing those no longer able to rejoice in the painful victory against the Others: "Cat, Ned, Robb, Robert, Barristan, Addam, …"

Her husband cut her off, "A raven carrying best wishes on our nuptials arrived this morning from the new Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

"Is Jaime at last speaking to you?" she asked hopefully.

Now Tyrion took a turn with a sad expression. "Perhaps."

It was a start. Like this marriage. So as a promise to the future, Kate Dickie bent down to accept her reward for saving Westeros and gladly kissed her husband for the second, but far from the last, time. She hoped she could not ask for a better lord husband.