Moon Two

No Going Back

Catelyn Stark could not sleep this night despite being exhausted. Perhaps, it would have been more accurate to say restless sleep, if not outright inability to sleep, had been plaguing her for several nights now — ever since she had done this foolish thing. In a fit of frustration, Catelyn kicked the furs off and wrapped a robe around herself before going to sit in the window and look out at the night.

She should never have brought Tyrion Lannister to the Eyrie. At this point, she wondered what she had even been thinking — or not thinking.

What had she expected? That she would run to the Eyrie with Tyrion where Lysa would, what, help her put Tyrion on trial for what he had (or hadn't?) done to Bran and then they would execute him if the trial found him guilty? That Lysa would be the same sweet younger sister she had always been even though Catelyn had been told that the years in King's Landing had changed Lysa Tully? That while everyone searched for them along the road to Winterfell because she had said that was where they would be going, and it was the expected course, they would be safely in the Vale where she and Lysa would decide together what to do like two sisters relying on one another as they'd been raised: Family, Duty, Honor? If any of those things were what she had expected to happen, she had been sorely mistaken.

Instead, the whole affair had turned into the epitome of a mummer's farce. Her 'prisoner' had spent a decent part of the trip armed and had her doubting whether he had even done the thing she had accused him of to begin with — which came with even more frightening and crushing consequences she didn't even want to think about if he was, indeed, being honest. Meanwhile, Catelyn had found her sister as changed as her Uncle Brynden had warned her of when she had encountered him at the Bloody Gate many days before; she had lost track of how many days it had been at this point, truthfully.

Catelyn's heart ached to witness what her sister had become: she looked ten years older with pinched features and had become absolutely paranoid with terror that whomever had harmed Jon Arryn intended to do the same to sickly little Robin. The boy did not even know his letters and was still nursing at Lysa's breast like an infant. He had no comprehension of the serious nature of anything. 'I want to see the little man fly, mother! Can I make him fly?' The words spoken in Robert Arryn's high pitched little voice made Catelyn shudder even beneath the warmth of the robe she wore.

She was not sure whether the room was actually cold or if it was only her own blood that ran cold in her veins. She stood and went to put another log on the fire, not summoning someone to do it for her in the middle of the night. The fire blazed up for a moment and Catelyn went back to the window, padding restlessly back and forth between the hearth and the window now.

Nothing had gone as planned. Right now, she should be back at Winterfell with Robb, Bran, and Rickon making the preparations Ned had told her to make in case. In case of war. She could remember his soft kiss and his reassurance 'It won't come to that.' But Catelyn was too practical to believe such empty reassurances; both she and Ned knew that, but he'd told her anyway. Her Ned was such a good man, always trying to keep those he loved safe. She already missed him terribly. They had been apart for nearly a year during Robert's Rebellion, but they had barely known each other at the time. How far they had come since then…

But that was what she should have been doing. Instead, she was in the Eyrie having dragged Tyrion along with her while she watched in horror as Lysa decided that rather than focus on the crime Catelyn had brought him here for ostensibly committing, that she would put him on trial for the murder of Jon Arryn. Never mind that she had absolutely no proof beyond Tyrion's surname that he was the Lannister who had murdered Jon. Despite Catelyn's continued reminders that Tyrion was her prisoner, not Lysa's, the whole situation had spiraled out of control more quickly than Catelyn could have ever predicted.

Moreover, she had also learnt that Lysa had been keeping Tyrion in the Eyrie's infamous Sky Cells. Catelyn had, herself, never seen the Eyrie's 'dungeons,' but she had heard about them: mere three-sided shelves cut high into the cliff walls and left completely open to the sky, wind, and elements with floors that sloped down. The cells were barely five feet between back wall and open sky with the Waycastle Sky six hundred feet below. It was said to be the only dungeon in Westeros where prisoners were said to be welcome to escape at will — simply by jumping to their deaths. Catelyn's jaw clenched when she thought about it.

Where had this gone so horribly wrong? More importantly, what must she do to rectify it? If there was one thing she knew, it was that Tyrion would not get a fair trial at the Eyrie. Any hope she had had of that had been quashed like water thrown over a fire once she had gotten a good measure of Lysa over the last few days. 'Lysa, you are a Tully too. Have you forgotten the last of our house words? Honor. Is this thing you are doing honorable?' Catelyn thought, sitting again on the window and drawing her knees up to her chin as if she were some little girl. 'Are you so blinded by your fear, Sister?' It was one thing to believe Tyrion might have had something to do with Bran's attempted murder when she had been told by Petyr that the dagger used by the assassin had been Tyrion's own blade. It was a whole other matter to blindly assume that Tyrion had killed Jon Arryn purely because he was one of an entire family of people who bore the surname Lannister. Catelyn wondered if Lysa even cared. Would she settle to avenge Jon's death with any Lannister death, guilty or not? Catelyn bit her lip knowing the answer even though she wished she didn't.

Of one thing, Catelyn was certain. She had caused this disaster and she needed to do something to fix it before it spun any more out of control than it already had. And it had spun out of control — spectacularly so. She just wasn't sure how to fix it. There was no point in sitting here doing nothing. Catelyn picked up her sewing which she had left sitting on the trunk at the end of her bed, but her attention wasn't on it. Within a few minutes, she tugged too quickly and her silk snarled into such a bad knot she was forced to cut it out. Further examination revealed stitches messier than Arya's could have ever hoped to be. Irritated, Catelyn stuck the needle into the cloth and childishly flung it on the bed — as if that would somehow help her mood. She knew it wouldn't but did it anyway.

Growing increasingly pent up, Catelyn left the bed chamber and went into the little solar beside it. The few books and papers of importance she'd brought with her sat neatly stacked on the writing desk. Also, there was the letter she had received from Robb days before — just after arriving at the Eyrie (how had it already been days?) She smoothed the paper beneath her fingers. She'd done it so many times that it barely curled anymore. It wasn't news she wanted. If anything, it would only serve to complicate the situation further.

To an unfamiliar eye, the letter looked like casual sundries. It was, however, a carefully worded response to the instructions Ned had set her — the things she was supposed to do 'in case of war.' She had passed the instructions on to Robb and Maester Luwin in her own carefully concealed pleasantries after realizing her course was to be delayed. Robb had replied in kind with his own 'sundries.'

Various others among the Northern lords send their regards to you and to Father.

It was that line which worried her. It had taken her a few times reading it before she figured out what it meant. He's going to call the banners! Catelyn had realized, heart pounding in her throat.

Catelyn had returned another letter to Robb advising him (carefully) to be patient, prudent and not rash, but Catelyn knew her words would be ignored completely if further trouble occurred — particularly with her a world away at the Eyrie. She had reminded Robb to be wise and seek counsel from Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik, but she still did not feel easy about the situation.

She stood again and went back to the window in her bedchamber. The moon had barely moved in its trajectory across the starry sky above. Night clung like a cloak that refused to be flung off. She recognized that she was just putting off doing what needs be done: she must go and talk to Tyrion Lannister and get some direct answers. She had thought of doing it for days, but he would only insist, had already insisted, that he had not attempted to have Bran murdered. But could she believe that? Could she trust the Imp? Indecision had held her in its vise-like grip for days, but she would go mad if she didn't start to seek some answers soon.

Further, with every day that passed, it seemed more likely that, to Catelyn's utter horror, Lysa really was going to honor Robert Arryn's request to 'see the bad little man fly.' And Catelyn had at least enough doubt about Tyrion's guilt to recognize that that was a very poor idea. In fact, even if Tyrion had been completely guilty, killing him in the Vale would enrage the Lannisters to the point that war would be inevitable. And she had created this entire mess — Gods be good. Were it only that she had simply left Tyrion be at that inn and gone home to Winterfell like Ned had told her to do.

Perhaps praying for guidance in this matter would help. Catelyn had always found much solace in prayer to The Seven. If nothing else, it would be a better use of her time than sitting here watching the moon refuse to move.

Without a maid to help her dress, Catelyn simply wrapped herself tighter in her robes and left her hair in its sleeping plait. She moved through the dark halls of the Eyrie passing from pool of light to pit of shadow between each of the sconces in the walls until she reached the sept. It appeared no one had recently been there, for the candles had been gathered away from the feet of the statues and put back in the box that usually held them for neat keeping between uses. Catelyn stood for a moment in the doorway, simply preparing her mind for prayer and trying to still her worldly thoughts. The Seven around her helped as she stood in the center of the room and simply bowed her head for a time, reminding herself of her place in the world, humble before the Seven. She wondered if this was what Ned felt when he went into the Godswood to pray to his wild, Northern Gods and thought it must be at least similar. She hoped it was.

She took a candle and lit it, shading the tiny flame with her hand to keep it from being snuffed out. Kneeling, she carefully placed the candle at the feet of the Crone. The statue's wise eyes seemed to peer back at her even though the statue itself was mere stone and only a tool of the Faith — just like a prayer wheel or the Seven-Pointed Star. 'Please grant me the favor of Your wisdom in this as in all things. Please guide my feet that they may walk only in Your holy light and guide my words that they may be spoken in Your name alone and that Your influence will be upon me that I might make the decisions of Your will rather than mine own.' She stayed in silent prayer for a time longer before she finally rose with the conviction she needed and left the sept, her candle for the Crone still glowing at the foot of the statue.

The Eyrie's Gaoler, Mord, had looked at Catelyn in disbelief as she placed a silver stag into his palm in exchange for 'a word with your prisoner and your silence,' No doubt Tyrion had tried to offer him gold to buy his freedom, but if he had, based on Mord's expression, Catelyn was willing to bet that the gold had been in promissory form. If Mord found her middle of the night appearance in a shift and robe to be odd, he did not comment. It did feel very strange to be sneaking about the Eyrie in nightclothes to see Tyrion Lannister, but Catelyn had no desire for others to question her actions at the moment; she knew too few of the answers herself.

The impact of the icy night air took Catelyn's breath away when Mord pulled open the heavy door to the sky cell Tyrion was kept in. Despite the chill, he had only one thin blanket. Catelyn was cold even beneath the layers of her shift and her robe, and it was certainly thicker than the threadbare blanket Tyrion was huddled beneath.

"You got a visitor! Just pound on the door when you want out My Lady." Mord laughed — at least she took it for a laugh — as if there was some joke she'd missed. What could possibly be amusing about the situation, Catelyn did not know.

Tyrion stared at her with mismatched eyes while Catelyn took in the tiny cell with its missing fourth wall, sloping floor, and sickening height. Her instincts screamed at her to pound on the door with all of her might to let her leave this place, and she suddenly had no questions about why so many men were said to have jumped to their deaths from these cells.

"Ah, Lady Stark. Welcome! Have you come to see the fine quarters Lady Arryn has been so kind to provide?" His tone was expansive — as if he was telling a jape, but Catelyn thought it must surely be a front. He took advantage of her silence. "Or perhaps you've come to accuse me of further crimes."

Catelyn stopped him with a single upheld hand. She did not have it within her to make light of this situation. "Did you hire someone to kill my son?"

The glimmer of his jape left his eyes and his tone then. "No. I did not."

"Then why did the man who would have spilled his lifeblood carry your dagger?"

Tyrion looked at her for a long moment before he said, "Lady Stark, we have been through all this before, have we not?" He pulled himself to a sitting position where he could lean against the wall. "I already told you that the dagger was not mine. Little Finger lied to you, and he is playing you for a fool at my expense!"

Catelyn sighed and pressed her fingertips into her eyes until colors exploded behind her eyelids. When she opened them again, she gingerly lowered herself into a sitting position against the wall. Even the change of posture caused a fleeting feeling of panic due to the sloping floor and the tiny space. Gods. Yes, they had been through all of this days ago.

Perhaps he sensed her lack of resolution, for the Imp pressed his advantage then. "Little Finger lies. That is what he does. You cannot tell me that you never learned that about him along with all the other delightful things he insists the two of you learned together as—."

Heat flamed into Catelyn's cheeks. "I told you that isn't true! Gods be good!"

"And I told you it isn't true that I tried to have your son murdered." He saw the doubt in her eyes and pressed again. "I can see from your face Little Finger's tale about what he did with his undoubtedly similarly sized cock bothers you just as much as much as the assumption that I attempt to have little boys murdered in their beds does me. Though from your expression, it would seem that the price of a maidenhead is highly more embarrassing than murder, but then again you are Ned Stark's —"

"Stop!"

Catelyn's face was, Tyrion reflected, perfect Lannister crimson.

Catelyn was not sure whether it would be more embarrassing to say nothing or continue to argue for her virtue. And, though she was still flustered, something Tyrion had said began to churn in the back of her mind. Much as she didn't want to think about the words, she did. 'Things he insists the two of you learned together.' As children would have been the next part of that. The memory floated through her mind almost lazily — a beautiful summer day at Riverrun.

Petyr practically giggled with delight as he lifted the cloth out of the basket he'd brought once the three of them had all clustered into the spot he had shown them between a shrub and a wall in the garden. The basket was full of a jam-and-nut-based confection molded into little squares — firm on the outside but soft inside and rolled in sugar to hold it all together. "Ooh! They look delightful!" Lysa exclaimed. They tasted delightful too. Like fruit and rosewater and sugar all in one perfect bite.

"Where did you get these? They're very good." Catelyn admitted, chewing one of the treats. They made her fingers sticky. Though, since Lysa was younger she was worse off and had gotten it on her dress and Petyr had it all over his mouth. All of them were more than a little sugar-dusted by that point as well.

"From Cook!"

"But… we were supposed to stay out of the kitchens. Septa said that Cook is busy preparing for the party tonight and we mustn't get underfoot." Catelyn said, slightly concerned now. If the adults found out they had disobeyed, they would get into terrible trouble from Septa.

"I didn't get underfoot. She wasn't even there. She was in the store-room. I saw these laying out and I took some. There were lots of them, so she won't even miss them!" Petyr pointed out gleefully. But, somehow, Catelyn thought that the treats did not taste as good as they had the first few bites. Older than the other two, she knew she should set a good example. But the treats were good and Petyr had said Cook had a lot of them.

"And she can count as well." Said Cook staring over the wall at the three children in their hiding place all covered in sugar. "Which one of you took these without asking?" Though, given what she had overheard, it was likely that she knew who the thief was. The three children squirmed under the woman's fierce gaze. "Well! Out with it! Or shall I be forced to fetch Septa Gregoria?"

Petyr finally said, "No! It was me. I took them." He paused and a look that was incredibly contrite came over Petyr's face. "Only I…" He averted his eyes and fumbled with his sugar-covered clothing.

"You? Out with it!"

"I… I'm very sorry and.. I .. I don't want to get him in trouble is all or I would have said something before. Please don't punish him or the girls!"

Cook looked at Petyr in confusion. "Who do you not want to get into trouble?" Her face was starting to look less angry now as she took in Petyr's humble expression. "Out with it!"

"The kitchen boy. He said I could take them." He muttered, lamely, casting his eyes to the ground.

"Jonah?" Her expression shifted into one of something more like curiosity than irritation. "He said that you might have some?"

"Yes. But I don't want him to be in trouble since he's your helper. So I didn't say anything."

"Oh Lad. Jonah won't be in trouble. He helped to make them, so I suppose he can give them away to you children as well."

"So, who's in trouble?" Lysa finally piped up.

"No one is in trouble. It was only a misunderstanding. I thought that you children might have taken these without asking, but I can see I was mistaken." She was quiet for a moment before she added, "But it's Septa you'll be in trouble with if you don't go and get all of the sugar off your clothes before she sees you. Off with you now. And give me that." She grabbed the now-empty basket.

They were all quiet until they were alone again and finally Lysa said, "But did Jonah tell you that you could take the treats?"

"Of course not. But he wouldn't get into any trouble whether he had or not." A small, sly smile crossed Petyr's features and settled in his grey-green eyes.

It was the same contrite look Catelyn had then seen displayed more than once throughout their childhood whenever they had caused some sort of mischief. Was it the same look he had worn when he told her about the dagger and how he had lost it to the Imp? But he wouldn't. He wouldn't! He was like a brother to me, and he didn't even know Bran. They never even met. We've not spoken in ten and five years — not since he and Brandon fought and he was sent away. This doesn't make any sense. Her head was throbbing.

Tyrion must have seen the doubt in her eyes even though she hadn't shared the memory. She didn't need to. Her face betrayed her easily — unlike Petyr's cool, crafted expression of innocence.

"You really did not do this thing, did you?" She asked, but a feeling deep in her gut told her she already had her answer, though the ramifications of it she couldn't even begin to process.

"No. Nor was the blade ever mine."

"But it did belong to Petyr." She said quietly.

Tyrion thought about it for a long moment before he said. "Little Finger tells just enough of the truth to make his lies believable, Lady Stark. No doubt he did lose the dagger at the tourney the way he describes. Just not to me. As I said, I don't bet against my family. I also became a good deal poorer that day thanks to my dear brother."

"But… if there were questions about the dagger and whom it belonged to…" Catelyn began, slowly putting the pieces together.

"Then whether the catspaw was his or not, Little Finger would have been very quick to choose someone with a better motive than himself to pawn the blame off on." Tyrion said. Catelyn realized then how tired he looked and how weary she felt.

"Why you?" And would it be anyone else in your family?

"I promise you I wish I knew the answer to that more than you, Lady Stark. Provided I get out of this place, perhaps I'll pay Little Finger a visit and ask him why I was so fortunate. After all, a Lannister always pays his debts." He was quiet a moment. "However, right now it's rather looking more like I'll be taking up the hobby of trying to learn to fly." The way he japed about his probable death at Lysa's hands nearly knocked the air out of Catelyn. He must have noticed her stricken expression because he said, "Does it make it any better if I'm sad about it?"

Catelyn thinned her lips. "No. It doesn't. But you will get out of here. I brought you into this godsdamned mess, and it is my responsibility to get you back out of it."

Tyrion looked at her with an amused grin. "I am sure Lady Lysa will be happy to hear that. No, Lady Stark, the sentiment is very kind of you. Unfortunately, the number of deaths I'm rumored to be responsible for continues to rise. It's quite a staggering count for such a little Imp."

"Lysa has no proof of who killed Jon Arryn. And until she has rather a solid bit of proof, it will be too soon for me to allow someone I brought here to be thrown out the moon door for Robin Arryn's entertainment." This whole affair rankled Catelyn in more ways than she could count.

"You grow ever more honorable." Tyrion responded, drily. "I'm only curious what you intend to do. Lysa seems to respond ever so well when you remind her that I am 'your prisoner' as you put it."

There was an added throb against Catelyn's temples.

By the time she had reached her chambers, Catelyn felt weary to the bone. Unfortunately, it seemed that the long night was only just beginning. She jumped and nearly cried out when a shape — a man — came out of the shadows in her room. "Cat, it's all right! It's only me."

"Nuncle!" A breath that turned into a would-be laugh escaped her. Her heart was still pounding against her chest. Sure enough, standing in the candle light and now out of the shadow was only Brynden Blackfish. But his lack of belonging there caused a line of worry to appear between her brows. "You should be at the Gate. And it's the middle of the night." The second was almost an afterthought. Everything had become so chaotic and non-sensical at this point that why shouldn't her uncle be in her bedchamber in the middle of the night?

"I should and it is, but I've had word you needs know of." The way he said it gave Catelyn a feeling that she was not going to like whatever word he had brought. "First, you should see this." He handed her a letter. She realized it was addressed to her and bore the Stark direwolf seal, but the seal had been broken already. Catelyn looked toward Brynden questioningly.

"Apologies, Cat. I took the liberty of opening it. The raven who brought it had been badly injured. It's amazing the poor creature even survived. I found the poor bird at the Gate when we changed guard. I brought it up for Maester Colemon to tend to it."

"But this isn't the word you brought?"

"No."

"But it has to do with it?"

"Yes."

Catelyn's head was swimming as she turned her gaze to the letter. She recognized Robb's handwriting. This had to be the response to the letter she had sent him urging his caution regarding the banners. Her eyes scanned the parchment with increasing worry.

Dear Mother,

It was with great anxiety that we awaited word of you and of Ser Rodrik when you did not arrive back at Winterfell as was planned. The roads, as you well know, are often dangerous and we feared what might have befallen you along the way. As such, it is with considerable relief that we received word of your safety.

I would that my letter bore better tidings. Recent events well known to us both have forced my hand, and I am required to call upon the loyalty of our bannermen. On the morrow, I ride for Moat Cailin, as do they.

I understand the urgent cause of your delay, but I implore you to return to Winterfell as soon as practicable. Bran's health is stable, and Rickon is very much himself, but both desperately need a mother's love and care.

The word that has reached us here in Winterfell of the exact nature of the events in King's Landing has been quite confused. I do not wish to ask a full account by letter, but am most interested to hear of it upon your return.

Your loving son,

Robb

It was not lost on Catelyn that Robb had redacted his usual loving and obedient son.

No doubt that was because she had cautioned him regarding calling the banners and he had done it even so. But why, Robb? What recent events did her son mean? What was the nature of events in King's Landing? What did he believe she knew? Catelyn's mind churned out questions far faster than her weary mind could have hoped to fill the blanks. There was a growing dread in the pit of her stomach as she looked up at her Uncle.

His words seemed to come from very far away. Catelyn felt as if she were drowning, a ship taking on water.

"Catelyn, they tried to execute Ned."

(AN: Kudos to anyone who caught the low-key Narnia tribute.)