.


"trees have voices, beasts tell lies"

—c.f.


ARYA

Arya awakened with a start in the dead of night with heaving breaths, swiping the sweat at her brow. Her dreams had begun to darken. A glare of moonglow poured in through the stained glass, casting darkened shadows in every corner of her solar; a chair mistaken for a man; the howls of wind and roars of waves crashing heavily against the rocks below.

She crept from her sheets, staring into the horizon as she watched the darkness of the night sky meld into morning. Her throat and stomach felt tight, unbearably so. Arya wished for her pains to go away but her only remedy was lost in the wood of Westeros. Her direwolf never to be seen again. The capitol had a sick way of reminding her of what she lost to save her dearest friend. It didn't matter. He's dead now and Nymeria, gone still. She thought lamely.

Arya withdrew herself from the window, no longer dwelling on the unchangeable past as she dressed for her morning lessons. She twisted a quick plait, loose trousers and tunic, and her worn riding boots then off to an empty quarter. Pacing herself steadily through the halls, stomping past Sansa's chamber, Laisa's then her father's without as much as a word. She would break her fast with her sisters later, her fingers itched for a sword—steel or wood it did not matter.

She would make herself proud, she would make Jon proud; she would reunite with Nymeria. It was promised to the Old Gods and the New.

"Duncan," Arya addressed, "Is everything all right?"

"Of course, m'lady." It's what made him a bad liar, his movements staggered and tension riddled the air. Arya bit her lip, focusing on her guardship, thinking back to the dungeons.

He's found one bastard already. He has the book.

She swiftly dodged Syrio's lunge, throwing her sword arm up to wince at the crack of wood against wood. Syrio remained swift, balanced, a dance she had yet to understand. As quick as a snake, his Braavosi cadence crept in. The book that laid flat on her father's desk, the big ugly thing with a brown face, pages upon pages worn and old.

Arya had nearly missed the graceful counter that would have pronounced her dead, and at the mercy of Syrio's scolding too.

The wolf and the lion…the wolf and the lion…the wolf and the lion…

What did this mean, she thought. Lions, Lannister, gold, and crimson. Hear me Roar!

If one hand can die…why not a second?

Without a second thought, Arya had fallen flat on her back. Her sword clattered against the stones and she looked down the blunted wood, with a smirking Syrio above her.

"You are troubled."

She bit her lip.

The blunted edge tilted her chin up, Syrio's face suddenly relaxed and his hand was held out.

"You are with your trouble." Syrio tsked. "You are not here."

"I am here." Arya bit, swatting his hand away and stood, glancing to her sword that was under his boot. There was only one way she were to get that back. Swiftly kicking her leg out to knock Syrio off balance, hopping back on his toes a good distance from where she knelt and raised his sword at her sudden vigor. He beckoned her, almost teasingly.

Syrio's approach riled her. And like an angered wolf pup, Arya took the bait and charged.

That same afternoon, breaking bread over afternoon tea and cakes with Sansa and her flock felt like a sentence to death. Her knobby knees bruised from falls and smacks with the flat of wooden blades and strong taps. Her elbows bruised similarly, her cheeks smeared with dirt and a few scrapes. None of them spoke a word to her. They were turning up their pointed noses and casting such dirty looks, Arya was prepared to strike with blade or fist. Until it was Sansa's blue eyes that plead for something.

She never understood her sister. Arya couldn't fathom curtseying, stitching, and singing, seeking to marry a prince and welp babes time and time again. She couldn't understand why Sansa looked forward to such simple work, despising ever being put into a pretty gown and wed off to the first lord that was thought to be worthy, to be lady of a ruin and die never having done much at all.

Arya ripped at her loaf, gnashing her teeth, and gulping water from her chalice. "Your dancing lessons, child, what progress have you made." Septa Mordane queried, cutting into her eggs.

"I learned-"

"Looks as though she did nothing but fall. Always so clumsy."

The Sansa she once knew morphed into a ruder, unkind version of the sister she grew with in Winterfell. Here, Sansa turned her little nose to the sky, piled her copper hair onto her thick head and looked at herself, her family with a sneer set into her pretty, pale face. Arya pursed her lips, biting the bruises, and scowled her way. She set her bread down, smearing the crumbs with her sleeve and met the eyes of Septa Mordane, who in turn, looked so very tired—so disappointed.

"Some of us weren't born on the tips of our toes Sansa." Arya shot coldly, "Is that mess of hair on your fat head sinking in your skull."

"Arya!"

The little hot headed child shoved her chair back, making mean eyes with those chittering ladies and turned to her sister, daring to shove her out of her seat. She had meaner words on her tongue, waiting to lash out at the slightest jest that Sansa could spew in seconds.

As different as the moon and sun, still sisters all the same. Arya thought bleakly.

"Arya, apologize to your sister immediately."

"No," she bit back, "Once we travelled beyond the Twins, Sansa thinks she's better than us. Promised to the prince, to be queen like her little stupid stories. Acting like a girl with an empty head. Lying for herself, to protect her prince like he's the only thing she's ever known!"

That brought tears to Sansa's eyes and it fed into her pride.

"Should our father drop lifeless in the streets of King's Landing, she would be grateful. To wed that shit prince before dawn and seal her fate. Send me off to the farthest land, forget of mother and seat herself like a pretty little bauble at his side!" She shouted, her words slipped carelessly and it was too late to take back what was said.

Did she speak of her father's demise suiting her sister's wishes? Had Arya contributed to such an omen? Her lips pursed tighter, straightening her back to be hit with a wall of silence. Sansa's ladies had looked upon her with widened, glazed eyes; Sansa herself the same; and their Septa looked as though she had seen some ghosts.

Arya swallowed thick, "I…I'm sorry I didn't…that wasn't what I meant…"

Still, unmoving, and quiet, she begun to panic, "I didn't mean it, I…"

"Arya." Mordane's voice was less than a whisper.

Her face paled, coming to the realization that they weren't look at her; they looked beyond where she stood. She followed their eyes into the well-lit arcade to find two men, covered in blood, their eyes sealed to the stones underfoot. Her heart started to quicken, her blood thrumming in her ears. They were her father's men, his soldiers.

"I beg pardon, m'lady. Septa." Arya recognized Heward's voice, it was quivering.

Mordane stood, gliding behind Arya, and holding her shoulder's tight in her bony hands. "What is the meaning of this."

"Lord Stark," said Johan, "He's been attacked."


Her lord father's body lay in his bedchamber, unmoving and granting little certainty that his awakening would be soon. It had been four days and three nights, she counted down till the last seconds from the last Arya had seen her father's face, brooding as he always is. But still smiling, nonetheless.

Anger hardly described her, she was seething, rage pouring out of her little body. She sat beside a whimpering Sansa, hearing her muttering prayer after to the gods that were willing to listen. Lady and Viera laid at the foot of their father's bed. The shadows of direwolves cast in his chamber, sniveling and baring their teeth, seeking what awaits them beyond the tower of the hand. Arya trembled at the thought but refused to let those bastards see her in that way. a small pack of wolves, cowering in such a small room. She thought, aggressively gripping the wooden seat beneath her.

It was as though her next breath, her next demand, flurried and Laisa came barreling through the door. Her face had gone sullen, mimicking the tone of her dress to her face as all life shifted from her in an instant.

She shared this same look when she discovered that Bran had fallen from the heights of the tower. Arya felt her blood humming. It was her betrothed that did this and she felt a bit brash by coming up to Laisa and immediately shoving her back through the door. Luckily, Jory caught her in the nick of time, almost glad to see his face and see he still reigned terror among the living.

Some part of her was angry with him, too.

"Arya."

"Leave." She growled, "Leave us, and go back to your lord."

Laisa's face was ghostly pale now. "Arya…"

"Leave!" Arya shouted, startling Sansa and the wolves. "He was almost killed because of you! I told you! They were going to kill him and you didn't believe me!"

She watched her sister's face grow white, and her nimble fingers curling into a shaking fist. Arya wasn't afraid to be struck, standing before her like a shaking leaf awaiting her punishment for her vigor. It was all to protect father, Laisa knew, Sansa knew. His life was left in the balance and her sisters were blinded by the stupid songs and stories and their betrothals—Arya did what she could to protect him.

And they did nothing.

"Arya, you have no idea what is happening, pup," Laisa said carefully, "You're too young…"

"I'm not too young! I'm not a pup! Father was almost…"

Laisa met her eyes with a fierceness Arya merely heard of from Jory, and countless of times from Robb. Little Arya feared nothing but when the time came to revisit her elder sister's namesake, she recoiled at her coldness and was met with the woman that the men of the North feared more than her lady mother, her father.

She knelt to meet her, holding a hand over her cheek and softened her eyes. "Too many things have happened, sweet girl, some…some very foolish things."

"What has happened, tell me!" Arya shouted being shushed by Sansa immediately.

There was some reminisce of their mother in her, her kindness prevailing to prevent some terrible thing from becoming what it was. Dark wings, Dark words their mother oft said. This was no different. Laisa had done her duty, raised her siblings alongside their lady mother and cared for them just as much…if not more. Arya understood that there was nothing keeping her from the truth but was she readily enough to take it and stand among the court, the actors of the red keep with a mask that didn't betray her. Was she able to perform as beautifully as Laisa, or as ungracefully as Sansa?

No, Arya thought, no I would not be.

With some sense of finality, Arya relaxed some and took in Laisa's sad smile tugging at her lips. Those lips soon met her forehead, and a gentle hand brushed down her stray hairs, the side of her face to comfort her. Her throat felt as though it was being crushed under the weight of this exception. What else had happened under their noses that awaited them sooner than they thought?

Arya felt her tears build hot and fat in her eyes, rolling down her cheeks, soon throwing herself into Laisa's arms and sobbed. It wasn't out of fear, or panic, she wasn't frightened—she was lost. What could her father have done to warrant such treatment? Wasn't he brought here to keep the peace, the ensure the king was soundly advised and guided by his oldest friend. Wasn't he that still, the king's oldest friend. His brother.

Her shaking shoulders relaxed some, still latched onto Laisa with her bruised and cut fingers digging into the thin fabrics of her gown. They weren't sure how long they remained in father's bedchamber, watching his chest rise and fall, the fever overtaking him some with the break of sweat at his brow.

Laisa pulled Arya's small self into her lap, allowing her to curl up and rest. She hummed as her sister gently pet her hair down, holding Sansa's hand in her free on as they prayed over and over.

Perhaps their old gods can bring them some certainty that their father would one day wake.

And when he did, winter would come for the rest.


LAISA

Sansa and Arya long left their father's chambers, escorted by a small infantry to their rooms and told to bar the doors overnight. She sat in the darkness of his solar, curled up into the seat across from her father's bed, wrapped in a quilt with Viera at her feet. The hearth burned lowly, the candles melted down to wisps of smoke and the moonglow poured in like liquid silver. She watched his chest rise and fall, rise and fall, for a good hour with hope that in a moment he would rise. Their shields meant nothing if her father was not around to command and protect.

Laisa bundled herself up, resting her chin on her knees. The hallows beneath her eyes grew deeper, and darker each passing day. Her waterskin sat untouched on the floor. The hearth crackled loudly. Her thoughts were muffled by the sounds of the pops of firewood, and the gentle knocking at the solar's door.

Viera rose first, her threatening growl rumbling low in her chest, her hackles raised high.

"My lady." the pitiful voice called out.

She recognized it, as did her wolf. Either wolf-maid could pose no threat, exhaustion extinguished their anger and fear to nothing. Laisa pushed herself to her feet, padding to the door and to her unpleasant surprise Jaime stood in its arch, readily clothed in blacks and crimson. His lionhead armor.

Her appearance must have struck him, his eyes widened and his gaze softened. "My lady, I apologize for the disturbance. Your maid said you would be here."

"Aye." she answered rather coldly. "Might I ask the reason for your visit."

Jaime could hardly meet her eye. "Could we…perhaps take a walk together, if it please."

Laisa blamed her exhaust. She nodded, stepping back into the solar to step into her slippers, exchanging her quilt for a lighter shawl and retreated from her father's bedside. Her father's men manned his door at her behest, what was left, and lowered their heads to not meet her betrothed. She understood how well that would have ended for them.

"Don't mind her, my lord," she said softly, "She's tepid. And I wouldn't want to be responsible for another missing Lannister."

Jaime chuckled, "I understand. Should I go missing, whether in the mountains of the moon or the belly of your beast, it would bring much more chaos. I am my father's son, after all."

"Yes. It would be rather unfortunate."

His mouth opened; she anticipated a sharp response but he lowered his chin. "Did you want an apology, my lady."

Laisa shook her head silently, leaning in a step closer to his arm to brace the sudden chill of the halls. "I want answers, Jaime. Is it so wrong of me to side with my family, to protect my family from…from…"

"From the crimes your mother committed, no it isn't. I'm protecting my family, I'm protecting my blood, why is it any different when it is I rather than you."

"Because my father is lying in his bedchamber, asleep with no telling when he shall arise and your father is plotting his revenge as we sit here, pretending and encouraging this farce. All lions are pretenders, unfortunately for wolves we do not do what is bid of us by others."

"And yet, you do it so beautifully when the time comes."

Laisa narrowed her sights, halting at the foot of the tower of the hand. "Do you know fear, Jaime. True, unadulterated fear. Because I do. I knew it every winter, I knew it during our travels. I knew it the moment I set foot within King's Landing."

"I knew fear when my brother was to arrive in King's Landing unharmed and your mother disrupted his course, sending him to the Vale to be thrown from the Eyrie on account of unproven accusation." His voice was lower, a growl, his piercing beryl eyes caused her to shudder. "I understand fear, my lady, I may…"

"This is the first you have ever experienced such a thing, isn't that right, my lord."

"Yes, it is," He said loudly "And it would be the last."

Laisa had a silly query on the tip of her tongue, one that would determine the fate of their relationship—should they have one at all considering the current climate—with her breath held. A bittersweet feeling, a maiden's tall tale, filling with such wonderment if he would have such a vigor for her. It's a jest, she knows better. Though, she could not help but think…would he be this afraid for me in the coming years. She relaxed her face, now gliding at his pace as they cleared the lower bailey toward the white sword tower. Viera was attached to her hip, keeping mind of her surroundings when faced with the many men pausing and staying far from their path.

Laisa rested a gentle hand atop the head of her beast and kept close to Jaime's side. Viera incited fear, but in truth Jaime was her last protector.

"Is it not uncouth to invite an unwed maid into your chambers."

Jaime rolled his eyes. "Fear not, my lady, it is almost as though the population of Westeros has been informed of our adjoining. Surely, my men will not think less of you."

they already are. She thought carefully, I can see it in their eyes.

She followed him up the serpentine stairs, intaking the surroundings of the tower—the round room welcomed them warmly with candles lit from the old chandelier, the walls intricately detailed with gold paints and woolen hangings. A shield carved table supported by white mounts, an ancient looking seat at its head. And a book, bright white and gold sitting there gloriously. Off the top of her head she rounded the names of once great knights written in that white book. Ser Duncan, Ser Arthur, Ser Barristan, Ser Balon. She wondered what was in there, written of their glories and their victories.

Laisa wondered what was written in there about Jaime, too.

He led them to his sleeping cell. It was more cramped than she could imagine, however, it didn't seem to bother him much. She sat Viera just outside the door like a lovely shadow, whilst she entered the room and closed the door behind. A simple featherbed, a trunk and desk. It looked cleaned, as though it was never lived in. Surely he used it for rest, and no other activities readily available to the men of the keep. An oath bound him from procuring children, having a wife, and holding any lands.

"What silly excuse did your father come up with ask for release from your vows, ser."

Jaime arched a golden brow and smiled brilliantly, "The love we share is greater than the gods could ever understand. It would be wrong in the eyes of gods and men to keep such allured lovers apart."

Her cheeks had begun to turn a lovely shade of pink, "The Septon truly believed it?"

"My father tends to be a bit passionate when it suits him."

"I see." she hummed lightly, taking a seat on his bed, "Why have you dragged me here, ser. It isn't because you enjoy my company."

Watching as his eyes lowered and his shoulders slightly slumped from their usual posture, his attitude turn a turn for what she believed to be the worst. "After our adjoining, I am riding for Casterly Rock."

"Am I allowed to ask why that is."

His beryl eyes narrowed and she surrendered. It wasn't in the best interest for the traitor's daughter to be privy to declarations of war. Jaime had no faith nor trust to her, she understood. Her loyalties remained with her family, and it will continue to do so long after their marriage is seen before the eyes of gods and men. It was often that her lord father reminded her that it was a wife's duty to do as her husband pleases. That she must agree with him even if he is wrong; do as she is bid; and put up no fight.

"It is expected of you to accompany me, to settle you in to the castle and…consummate before I join my father."

Laisa felt her cheeks become inflamed at the mere thought. "Will you return."

It seemed to startle him, and she hadn't the slightest idea why.

"With you, your father gone, and I stationed at an unfamiliar place with nothing to protect me but my wolf and my wits, it doesn't seem the safest place for me," she said slowly, "I, the daughter of Ned Stark, being dropped in the western lands…the western lords will not respect me, they will not treat me as the wife of their liege lord. I know this."

"You won't be the safer in King's Landing."

Laisa was overcome with a familiar feeling of solemn. "No matter where I go, I will not be safe. My sisters will not be safe."

It was becoming of her to understand that safety was something told to children to ease their woes, to shield them from the reality of their existence. She told her own orphaned children that she would go to the ends of the world to bring them peace and safety. It was pitiful that she, too, fell under the guise of falseness.

She tightened her shawl around her shoulders, looking about Jaime's sleeping cell, hopeless. "What should I do."

"Think for yourself," Jaime said almost immediately. "You are to be my wife; your sisters are promised to others. Once you set foot in the West, they will no longer be of your concern."

Perhaps, he could have been gentler. It was his sudden bluntness that made her blood run cold. "My lord I…" she murmured, "I cannot…I cannot just leave them here…"

"You can, and you must." His voice was gentler now, approaching and sitting near her with a large hand covering her own, "It's duty, remember. We all must do our duty."

Laisa held him for a moment, her heart rumbling in her chest loudly, drowning out the wildness consuming her mind. She felt as though she committed acts of betrayal. She saw it in Arya's face. She saw it in Jory's too, when he had to pull her from her chambers and sputter out the events that took the kingdom by storm. Blood sprayed on his face, gripping the pommel of his longsword, searching his eyes for some sense of familiarity but was met with emptiness. His callousness frightened her. Did he blame her, too; was there any ill-will bared?

She felt wrong to ask. Jory watched his friends, fellow soldiers, cut down at the hands of Jaime.

"I ask for your accompaniment to Casterly Rock, my lady, I vow that your safety is paramount and not a soul will lay a hand to you during my leave."

To that, she laughed hollowly. "You once told me that love and devotion could be bought at the right price, and my heart will be put on a pike. What do you think my heart is worth to the men willing to wage war for the son of Tywin Lannister."

Jaime had no answer and she expected such an illicit response.

"I wish you good fortune and victory on the field, my lord. I pray to the mother that she deliver you a son upon your return."

Laisa left him wordless in the white sword tower, desperate to search for peace beyond these bleeding walls and praying for home.


CATELYN

The Eyrie felt a bit of a ruin. Lysa's mind was fairly touched, and she believed any words written of her husband were not meant for her lowly sister's eyes. Catelyn held the raven's scroll in her shaking fist, reading those dark words over and over until her stomach turned sour. Her beloved was hurt. This news befalling her eyes days after being received, her heart sullen and aching, akin to a fire sparking in her chest and a rage, unfamiliar, yet engulfing. Until a sudden sadness overcame her, smothering her fury. Catelyn sat on the nearest bench in her guest chamber, holding that crumpled parchment in a fist as her tears let the ink bleed. Her maliciousness, her need to seek vengeance for her son blinded her from what she knew would come shortly after.

Her time spent in the Vale did nothing to bring her clarity, it only stifled and stoked the flames that burned endlessly since her boy was shoved from the tower. Now, though, as the raven's come and go, her sense returned and her guilt flooded through her. It happened to be another unfamiliar rush that plagued her, leaving her questions unanswered and her emotions, defenseless.

"Where is Ser Rodrik." she questioned the closest steward, "I must speak with him."

"The…the practice yard, my lady."

Catelyn nodded, then took on afoot with a heartbeat pounding louder than normal in her ears. She moved through the great halls as though the hounds of the seven hells were nipping at her heels, unnerved by the panic that flooded her so greatly she thought she would faint at any moment. The lordling's and lady's decorating the halls, knights stationed at their posts, hues of people turned to blurs as she rushed to find Ser Rodrik. Surely the practice yard of the Eyrie was closer than suspected, passing through two bridges in connection with the stark white towers, encountering the final bridge connected to their marvelous Sept carved into the mountains below.

"Ser Rodrik—"

A shriek of metal singing, wielded shields colliding and the grunts of tired men echoed off the white stones, the balustrade overlooking the practice yard made of grey and silver stones, the Arryn sigil stamped into the material underfoot. Several spaces between each dueling pair, though closely confined in comparison to Winterfell, the knights maneuvered the expanse with an agility she was unfamiliar with. All knights knew a deadly dance but the knights of the Vale were suspended in Lysa's castle in the sky, surely they must adjust their footwork to reflect the elegance of the Eyrie. Other knights watched from the balustrade, commenting on the old knight's longsword, much too thick and broad for their liking. Thin, agile men in shiny new armor snickering and teasing about as though that surly man couldn't throw them from the cliffs with a single swing.

Catelyn's urgency was sated by the presence of her husband's trusted knight, however, it only urged her forward down the serpentine stairs to the pit where men turned on their heels and bowed at length before resuming their practice.

"M'lady, you needn't be—"

"Please," she whispered, "I've…I need…"

Catelyn's mind grew wild, unsettled. Her husband was hundreds of miles from her, their home, injured and lying unprotected in the den with their daughters.

And it was her doing.

The imp that remained in good health, having been fed and sheltered in the sky cells, a war was brewing because of her foolishness and there she stood, wading in it all. Brandon was her little boy, as was Robb and Rickon. She would serve her heart to the mother if it meant their lives would be spared. Laisa, Arya, Sansa…she would cut herself limb from limb to protect them from the wraths of lord husbands and what awaited them had she not done the smarter deed. Should she release Tyrion, bound him for King's Landing, what would stop Tywin Lannister from pursing a war for a kidnapping.

Perhaps, she could brave the old lion herself and allow for time to pass and pray for her crime to be pardoned. Could she return home, with or without the imp and leave him at the behest of her sister to be tried and found of his crimes?

Catelyn lowered her eyes to the scrawling, her fist shaking at what little choices she were left to make now that she had paved their path. For Winterfell, its bannermen and people alike, for Ned, for her sons and daughters—for herself.

Ser Rodrik lead her from the training yards further into the towers, away from the violence and to be satiated by the sweetness of silence.

"Ser, what have I done." she asked breathlessly.

"M'lady…"

Catelyn's bright blue eyes filled with furious tears, "The head of that little man is all I want in vengeance for my son, for Lord Arryn—is that not of my right, ser."

Rodrik's shoulders slumped, "Aye, m'lady, a right but not one that is free of consequence."

She ought to lash herself. It was the ill-advised words of her sister, her sweet sister lost to madness and grief, touching her own mind to rid herself of any sense that would bring some good. Had she only burned that raven's scroll before reading its own words the night in the safety of her own keep, she would not be here. Too, thousands of miles away from home, from her boys.

She sniffled, "My girls…my sons…upon my recklessness, war will soon follow."

"You mustn't speak such things."

"Should I not," Catelyn said loudly, "I have put my family in more danger than I had ever realized, to seek justice for my son."

Rodrik huffed a bit, encircling his large arm around her shoulders, "You have done nothing that any sane father or mother wouldn't, m'lady. Ned understood, your children will learn, they will once they grow a bit older and start having pups of their own. This is no place to question if your instinct to act upon a mother's rage, m'lady, there is no folly in protecting your family."

What will be left of my family should I see this trial through.

"How must I protect my family if they are scattered through the continent. What should a noble lady do, what can I do."

Perchance, Lysa will show the imp mercy and grant him freedom with a promise delivered to his father on a raven's wing. Perchance, Lysa will order Ser Vardis to push him through the moon doors and cleanse her hands of it. Seeking vengeance will not bring Lysa's lord husband back from the grave, it will not grace Brandon with new legs. It will not bring her daughters home, and it will not release her husband from his vows to lead the kingdoms. Catelyn couldn't simply return him to the inn, she couldn't convince Lysa to release him, neither could she plan his escape. Should she fall to her knees and beg her sister for mercy? Would Lysa laugh in her face, and question if it is her mind that has been lost to madness.

The death of Tyrion Lannister will bring a war that will never see its end.

"What's done is done, m'lady, should war come the north will do right by your family."

war, Catelyn thought scarcely, hiding the chill that ran down her spine. the first war will begin with her daughters and lord husband at the claws of the Lannisters. And soon, red and gold will march the length of the world to seek their own justice.

"There is no asking Tywin Lannister for his forgiveness, the man is as unforgiving and cold as they come. His response will not spare you, nor your sons and daughters, perhaps not even Ned."

And it frightened her, it frightened her more than she could possibly describe. "Should I write to my son, ser, to warn him of what is to come."

His eyes softened some. "I assume he has already received word, m'lady. What is yet to come is now in the young lord's hands."

Catelyn sulked in her fury, her foolishness. Should she had never rode south or sent her family all the same, should she not have gone through the broken tower, searching for what possibly was never there. Her uselessness to warfare, to leading with knowledge rather than emotion, any mother would be similar. However, she isn't just any mother.

Lady Catelyn Stark of Winterfell kidnapped the son of another royal house on behest of an old friend, a dear one, and a Valyrian steel blade.

Her eyes closed, dreaming of home. The light snowfall fell to her lashes, as she stood upon the balcony overlooking the Mountains of the Moon, Ser Rodrik's hefty presence standing closely behind.

"My lady!" called an unknown maiden, "My lady, you presence is requested in the High Hall. Lady Arryn seeks your accompaniment."

"May I ask why." Catelyn asked gently.

"The Imp, my lady, he seeks to confess."


TYRION

He was freed and there were very few gods he would like to thank for his inevitable release; Tyrion did silently pray for Ser Vardis and his kin, he fought bravely and with honor—and he lost.

Bronn triumphantly blazed through the High Hall with his broadsword laid flat against his shoulder with the blood of a great knight trickling from his blackened blade. It trailed through the many towers of the Eyrie to remind the people of the Vale of his succession, that he may never be forgotten. It was quite the spectacle he could agree, however it did lean into the power his house held and once more the East was at a standstill. Their lives were in the crosshairs, perhaps they should have been more grateful considering their odds. War was on the horizon, but mayhap his release could soothe his father's strife.

He chuckled at the thought. Tywin Lannister brought the country to heel and he would terrorize the Riverlands to remind them of what it meant to cross him. There was a ballad written about it, who is to say he won't add a few more verses.

Tyrion whistled The Rains of Castamere, watching the eyes of the court widen as his voice carried through the white stoned halls. It was a warning, nothing more.

"Shivering cunts, the lot of them," Bronn drawled low.

The small infantry escorting them down to the Bloody Gate kept their beaded eyes on Bronn, reveling in their distaste for the sellsword that saved his life. It was humorous, he would agree. They grieved their commander, but fights were never fair nor forgiving. That little boy and his mad mother wanted to seek their vengeance, and they did. Perhaps if they gathered more evidence for their pitiful claims, that man would have returned to his post and he would be halfway to the Red Keep.

"Your horses and supplies, imp," Sneered a bitter squire, throwing a bag of their purses and weapons to the dirt underfoot. "The highroad awaits you."

Ah, yes. Tyrion couldn't shake the Lady Lysa's slyness, knowing the wood overtaking the miles of the high road were overtaken by mountain tribes and wild clansmen that ate the skin off a man's bones—dead or alive. Or perhaps a shadowcat would grace their travels and he would have a lovely story to tell little Tommen and Myrcella. The mountains of the moon were as mysterious and wild as he thought them to be, their travels would be troublesome.

And the knights of the vale awaited their departure like crows roaming for dead flesh.

"We have a long road ahead of us, my friend." chucked Tyrion as he was assisted to saddle his filly, "We better be on our way before dusk falls."

His stubbed fingers gripped the black leather reigns, kicking his filly forward with his saddle of belongings hanging off her side. Bronn was a trot behind but picked up pace, distancing themselves further from the men that looked as though they were to chase them through the high road, waiting patiently for the command. The Eyrie grew smaller and smaller, the mouth of the mountain swallowing them into the height and thickness below.

Soon he would be able to see Jaime and his sister before he rode off to their family home and meet his good-sister before she were to be cast aside the minute she entered the West. Tyrion felt for the girl, deeply at that. It was in bad taste to be treated as such for the inexcusable crimes

"We must be on our way." Tyrion shouted over the whipping winds coursing through the valley, he turned in his saddle to flash a handsome grin, "I have a wedding to attend."


And we are back at it again! I deeply apologize for the time between updates, my computer decided to die on me permanently and I lost all prewritten chapters, so this was written from scratch about 4 times. I hope you all enjoy this installment, the plot is finally getting somewhere.

Guest: And to answer your question...nope! Jory's not dead, at least not yet :)

Thanks for reading, I'll see you all next chapter!