Chapter 21:
"You cannot send my child away!" she screamed.
Her entire body shook with anger and despair as she grab the small golden cup and hurled it at the direction of her husband. It landed nowhere near the older man, but instead a few feet in front of his feet. Jon Arryn remained perfectly still, his hand folded behind his back and waited patiently for his wife to calm down.
"It is expected of all young lords to be sent away to be foster, Lysa. You knew this day was coming," he reasoned.
"He is my only son!" she yelled, "My child, my baby…you cannot tear him away from me!"
"It is done," he said with finality.
He knew better than to fight with his wife, and over the years, their cold and loveless marriage and left him bitter towards Lysa Arryn. He has once hoped that her youth would have brought back some form of happiness back into his life since Rowena died, but his entire marriage had left him frustrated, tired and wary.
"It's her, isn't it?" she spat, "she put you up to this?"
Jon Arryn's jaw clenched at the tone in his wife's voice. He was no stranger at the animosity between Lysa and Isabel, and though he tried to mend the bond between step-mother and daughter, he now accepted that Lysa Arryn could never replace Rowena in Isabel's heart.
"You know that's not true, my dear."
Lysa Arryn's eyes widened in anger and picked up another small golden cup and hurled it at her husband. He dared not flinch at the sudden burst of anger, but merely stood in the same position with hands folded behind his back and remained silent.
"Have you ever considered my Robert as your son? Have you seemed to have forgotten that you have more than one child?! Robert is your only son and heir and yet you treat her as if she's the only child you have! You dote on her as if she was a queen while you treat your son like a commoner! I had hoped...that when I married you and bore you a baby boy that you'd one day love me. But instead of love, there's nothing but coldness…towards me and towards Robert! Can't you see? He's the only good thing that's come out of this marriage and now you want to take that away from me too! Have you no decency? Have you no heart? It should be Isabel that you should send away! She should be married to some lord and be shipped away from here. She should be-"
Before he knew it, Jon Arryn felt his hand cut through the air and strike his wife's pale hollow cheeks. His force was so strong that her entire body flung sideways towards the great bed of the Hand of the King. The motioned shocked even him and he struggled to maintain his composure at his sudden outbreak. He wanted to go apologize, but could not bring himself to move from his spot.
Her eyes menacingly glared back, as he hand went to go nurse the red hand mark that now appeared.
"You will never take him away from me, even it's the last thing I do! I will do everything in my power to keep him with me...and away from you. Let the Seven be my witness Jon Arryn," she cried out.
Jon Arryn sighed out of exhaustion and slowly walked past his wife and out into the hallway, not giving a second reaction to the cries and sobs from Lysa Arryn. When he closed the door of the room, he let his shoulders relaxed, closed his eyes and let himself ponder in own thoughts.
Too much had happened in the last week, and it was almost too much to bear. King's Landing was becoming a more dangerous place, and he needed to protect his family before the truth about the Baratheon children came out.
His son, Robert Arryn was his weakest link. They would go after him first; threaten the life of his only living son to maintain his silence.
Then there was Isabel, his eldest living daughter. They would manipulate her, whisper poison in her ears and force her into a political marriage to tie him to the Lannisters. But unlike his son, he believed that Isabel could hold her own fight.
His entire family was in danger, and now he had the awful choice of choosing between the daughter who had his spirit and strength, or the son he always wanted.
He put his hands in his face, careful to hide the tears that threatened to fall from his eyes. It had been a very long time since he let himself cry, and it was a surprise that he had let his emotions surface.
Jon Arryn made his choice. In times of war, the warrior struck down its weakest link.
The horses crashed into each other, sending the wooden figurines into the air and landing on the stone floor. Robert laughed at this, and proceeded to repeat it over and over again, pretending the floor was the battlefield, and he was the careful mastermind of the entire war.
He did not understand why he had to stay in his rooms most days, and he grew upset when the guards would not let him to the courtyard to play. He also did not understand why his mother cried each night, and cried each time Master Coleman took him away for his daily tutor lessons.
Lysa Arryn was barred from any outside contact since her confinement. Her ladies were taken away, and replaced by strangers who she had no doubt were spies placed by Lord Nestor Royce. Some Valemen were able to seek her audience, and though they were careful at their choice of spoken words, she was given the understanding that they were already plotting to overthrow Jon Arryn's daughter.
Yet, all seemed hopeless to Lysa Arryn. She hated her step-daughter, and blamed her for her misfortune and unhappiness. To Lysa, Isabel Arryn was everything that her son could have been, yet fate had been cruel and robbed him of his life.
She hated to admit it, but Isabel was more powerful in strength and numbers. Even with the Vale now divided, Isabel still had the support of the more powerful houses.
The only hope that Lysa Arryn had left was Petyr Baelish.
He had promised her a chance at happiness. He had promised her a chance at love, and he had promised that they would be together if she dutifully followed his plans.
Now she could only sit and wait, until he would save the day and from her nightmares.
Completely isolated from the outside world, Lysa Arryn could only relish in her dreams, far away from the cruel reality that fate had placed her in. And in her dreams, she was happily married to Petyr Baelish, far away from her father, her family and all of King's Landing.
That's all she ever really wanted.
Exhaustion overcame her the minute she sat on the lone tree stump when the mysterious man had decided to stop and rest for the night. Isabel's feet were blistered as they had already been travelling for nearly four days since leaving King's Landing. Her shoulders were beginning to form a rash due to the rough and heavy fabric of her tunic and the weight of the heavy wool cloak she had to wear. Still, throughout their journey thus far, she dared not complain about her discomfort in fear that the stranger would abandon her – or worse, kill her.
Yet, just as Petyr Baelish promised, for the time being she was safe and out of harm's way.
Though she wondered how long he would uphold his promise for.
She took off the large helmet off her head, and welcomed the fresh air. Her hair flowed freely out of the helmet, which was now caked in dirt, grease and sweat. But her appearance was the least of her worries. With each passing moment, Isabel Arryn was afraid that they were being tracked, hunted and killed.
She was a fugitive now, having gone against the king and his family. She now would face the full wrath of the Lannister army and its allies and would bear the burden of bringing war to the Vale.
Let them come, she thought.
The stranger sat across from her, though maintain a large distance between them. There was small fire lit, but it was deliberately burnt out in order to avoid detection from any wandering travelers or hedge knights. It barely gave off any heat, but Isabel knew better to complain. She huddled into her clothes and closed her eyes, her body begging her mind to let rest.
But her mind was restless, thinking a thousand things and envisioning a hundred scenarios. She looked at her guide, who was sitting in an upright position. His eyes were closed, but he was holding his ax with his right hand, as if he was prepared to attack anybody that had threatened their surroundings.
"What happens now?" she quietly whispered out loud.
Her eyes remained fixed on the ground, but the stranger heard her nonetheless. He grunted and slighted shift his position, but made no effort in responding to her. Instead, he gave her a menacing sneer, completely showing his resentment towards her. Isabel took the time to study the strange man, but found it hidden amongst the cloak that covered his face. His eyes were dark and deep set beneath his brows with dark kohl around his eyes. The fabric of his cloak, however was of fine threaded silk that Isabel easily recognized from her trade merchants. The finely threaded silks of Volantis carried a hefty price, and only those with a gold coin or two could afford such a material.
"I've always wanted to go to Volantis," she said in an effort to please him.
The stranger gave another grunt of indifference, took his knife out and began slowly sharpening it. Isabel again, tried to study his face but the stranger had felt her stare. He shook his head and let the curls of his hair cover his eyes, obscuring his face completely from her view.
"Do you speak the common tongue?" she asked slowly, wondering if he understood her at all.
He finally looked up at her and stared at her intently for so long that Isabel was forced to look away. She felt that his eyes were burning into her soul, and began to feel exposed in front of the stranger.
"I deliver you to this Stark boy…I get paid, and I disappear," he simply stated.
"How much did Petyr Baelish pay you?" she asked cautiously with a growing uneasiness at this man.
"You came with a high price," he replied.
Silence followed and neither of them bothered to speak to one another. Every now and then, Isabel would steal a glance at the mysterious stranger in a vain effort to see his face. There were moments when she could have sworn that she saw dancing shadow figures on his face, but convinced herself that it was the flames from the fire casting shadows. The mysterious man now moved on to sharpening his curved steel blade, and Isabel became mesmerized at the meditative strokes against the cold steel.
Unconsciously she took out her own dagger that she kept hidden underneath her tunic and began twirling it within her fingers.
"Do you know how to use that?" he suddenly asked.
"No," she quietly said.
"Do you know how to kill a man?"
"I don't imagine it being very hard," she blankly said.
The stranger stopped what he was doing and sheathed his sword. He went to his boot and took out a dagger that was the same size as the one in Isabel's hand. He twirled it with one hand with ease, as if it a feather in his hand, dancing around his fingers.
"Have you ever killed a man?"
She took a huge gulp, and stared at the stranger until they held each other's gaze. Her eyes began to water from the forming tears, and her brow began to sweat from the heat of the fire. Again, she felt completely exposed under his gaze, feeling all her secrets that she spent so hard to bury surfacing in a matter of seconds.
"A long time ago," she found herself saying in a quiet whisper, "I tried to take a life."
"Did you kill him?"
"No," she whispered.
"Out of fear?" he inquired.
"Out of desperation. The worst kind...I didn't know what I was doing."
The stranger abruptly stood up and walked across the fire, with his towering figure casting dark shadows across the ground and trees around them. He sat down beside her, with his gaze still focused on her eyes. Slowly, he unwrapped the finely threaded cloak until his newly uncovered face. Isabel's jaw slightly dropped at the sight of the intricate markings that covered his face. Against the dancing flames of the fire, it looked like the markings were dancing on his face, as if they had come to life under the blanket of darkness.
"The next time you kill man," he began slowly, "It will not be out of fear, or out of despearation."
"I don't plan to kill a man anytime soon," she objected.
"You will," he replied, "You are in a middle of a war. The land will be littered with blood, and you will kill to survive. The next time you kill a man, it will be out of necessity."
She bitterly laughed at his response. "You mistake me for a common solder. I fight with words, not steel."
"You still fight," he stated, "All men fight to survive. All men kill to survive."
"And what do you kill for? Gold? Women? Surely you kill to make a living, not surviving," she retorted.
He raised his dagger slowly up to her chin and firmly pressed the steel against her skin. He was careful not to cut her, and he held his dagger there for a long moment before releasing her from his grasp.
"There is no fear in your eyes," he carefully remarked as his eyes flickered to the scar on her neck, "You've seen death before."
A strange sense of relief came over her and for a very brief moment she let herself relax at the comfort she felt with the marked man from Volantis. It was as if she feared death no longer, but instead thought of death as an old friend.
"The next time you kill a man," he said, "There will be no fear."
A glint in his eyes made Isabel uneasy once again, and she was quick to note the smirk he hid as he turned his head away.
"And what would be the price offered to a sellsword to kill a highborn lady?" she said suddenly, and she gripped her dagger even tighter.
The man's back was now turned away from her, and he did not move from his spot.
"How much did Petyr Baelish pay you?" she asked again.
"Sometimes gold is not the only thing worth killing for."
She didn't bother waiting for the marked man to turn around. Before the blink of an eye, she felt her two legs running into the forest, away from the sellsword from Volantis who had had his sword and dagger in his eye. His figure became smaller and smaller and she ran into the darker depths of the forest, unsure of where she was headed or if the man was chasing after her.
She glanced sideways, thinking there was an intruder hidden within the shadows and the darkness of the woods. Isabel suddenly found herself crashing to the ground when her foot collided with an unforeseen rock in the ground. She felt her ankle twist in an angle that instantly shot a jolt of pain up her leg, making her cry out in pain. She tried to pick herself up from the ground, but the moment she put weight onto her left foot, the ensuing pain sent her right back to the floor.
All men kill to survive.
Isabel crawled across the mudded path and wedged herself behind a fallen tree. She touched her ankle and winced in pain, already feeling it swell up and making any effort to move it even more difficult. Her heart raced a mile a minute and her hands were shaking her felt the fabric of her tunic slice open, and a harsh stinging sensation crawling up her arm. The sellsword had shot an arrow at her, though narrowly missing his target. Still, the smell of death was near and it made Isabel even more determined to stay alive.
You are in middle of a war, little bird. The cries of death are around you, with enemies hiding in the shadows, a menacing voice whispered.
She ran deeper and deeper into the forest, unsure of where she was headed until she found herself near a river of water. Isabel slid down at the rocks, well out of plain sight and remained there for some time. The voices in her head became louder and louder, and everywhere she turned, it felt as if the trees had come alive. The branches whipped against her skin, and the stings that followed made her hiss. The shadows behind began to look like they had come alive and its dark figures were now chasing her.
A wave of tiredness and exhaustion overcame her once again, and what little energy she had left was now lost. The blood which now flowed freely down her arm made her feel cold and numb. Her lids became heavy, and the sudden loss of consciousness overcame her as she began to struggle to stay awake.
But a voice in her head willed her to stay awake – and it willed her to keep fighting.
She pictured his face in front hers, picture his dark red curls and the hidden smile that he always held in his eyes. He reached up and touched her face and used his thumb to caress her skin.
"You are stronger than you think my little bird." he told her.
Her mind began playing games on her, and her vision began to blur her dreams with her reality. She looked up at his form again and deliriously smiled at him and reached her hand out into the cold open air, thinking that she was touching his face.
"Is this a dream?" she hazily whispered up at him.
"Only if you want it to be," he responded. He knelt down and kissed her brow, making the discomfort and pain of her wounds disappear. Isabel felt relaxed, and she let herself sink into his arms without a care in the world.
"Sleep now, little bird. I will watch over you. Have patience Isabel…I am coming for you."
The sleep-deprived Isabel could no longer fight the exhaustion and her lids were now half-way closed. The last conscious memory that Isabel was left with before sleep overtook her was a large body mass that now hovered over her sleeping form.
The horse came storming into the camp, causing a minor disturbance to the war council. The ruckus outside Robb Stark's tent had momentarily distracted his lords and they all walked out to observe what was happening.
The horse was bloodied and the rider was seriously injured. Almost immediately the tension in the air had suddenly intensified. No one had seemed to move or breathe at that very moment, as if all were afraid to interpret the meaning of the sight that was unfolding in front of their eyes.
Ser Harrold Hardyng immediately recognized the sigil as one of his lower houses and motioned his men to help the rider off his horse. The knight was barely unconscious and the sudden movement was met with a long moan from this lips.
"What has happened?" Ser Harrold inquired.
The rider spoke barely above a whisper and Ser Harrold had to bend down and place his ear close to the rider's lips. His eyes widened and looked to Robb Stark whose solemn expression made him look fearsome.
"What is it?" Robb asked.
"Your father…." Ser Harrold began hesitantly.
"What about him? What's happened?" Robb asked again, but this time his voice sounded more urgent.
Ser Harrold remained silent, and her gulped heavily, unsure of how to deliver such dark news. "They executed him."
They were the only words Ser Harrold found himself saying, and he could not bring himself to look at the young wolf, in fear of his reaction. Instead, he kept his eyes to the floor and listened at the crowd fell silent out of shock and fear. Soon, the anger and the vows of vengeance echoed through the men.
"The Lannister's will pay for this!"
"No one insults the North!"
"Those damn lions will rot to the ground!"
Robb Stark suddenly rushed in front of Ser Harrold and grabbed him by the forearms with such strength that he had fumbled a few steps back. "That's a lie! It's not true!"
"I'm sorry, my Lord," Ser Harrold said quietly, "That's not everything. The rider told me more."
"Go on," he pressed on.
"She's been spotted…Lady Isabel. I've had scouts dispatched to all the houses in the Riverlands as well as a party towards King's Landing. None have come back, save for this knight here. He says he spotted a rather strange pair off of King's Road not three days ago. He followed them, but lost track of them. He swears to the Seven that it was our Lady….it was Isabel. She's escaped King's Landing!"
Within a blink of an eye, Robb disappeared and was calling for his horse to be saddled and readied. The other lords looked at one another, some in genuine confusion and others with concern.
"My Lord, you cannot leave the army!' Lord Jon Umber called out.
"She's the Vale's problem. Let the Arryn knight ride out after her!"
Robb turned around and looked at them with such fire than for a very brief moment, Robb Stark did not look like the green boy who was pretending to be his father. He had instantly silenced all his Northern Lords, and they all stopped protesting.
Before they could stop him, he mounted on his war horse and galloped away, leaving Ser Harrold and the rest of the lords in disarray.
"Hell, if he keeps this up, he'll lose the war. He cannot ride off like that!"
"Give him some space," Ser Bryden Tully said, "The boy just found out his father is dead. He needs to cling on to some hope that the woman he loves is still alive."
"This woman will cost him the war if he's going to remain this distracted! He's a warrior, not a lover!"
Ser Harrold stood amongst the older lords, but dared not to speak up. In their eyes, he was just as young as Robb Stark and just as inexperienced. They regarded Isabel Arryn with disdain and suspicion, and as a result, they disregarded his presence altogether.
It made him angry and frustrated that even though he entered this war with eight thousand men behind him, he still could not seek the glory and honour he was hoping for.
Wait, a voice whispered to him. Wait for your time.
Careful to conceal his true emotions, he took a deep breathe to clear his thoughts. He could see the Northern Lords were still not yet convinced of how well Robb Stark could lead their army. The alliance between House Frey and House Stark was still on uneven grounds, and they had not secured enough victories over the Lannisters that convince the lords that Robb Stark was capable yet.
They were living in uncertain times and uncertain circumstances and Ser Harrold could only but sit, wait and watch to make his move.
Perhaps the Northern Lords were right. Isabel Arryn could bring down the entire Northern Army, for she now proved to be more important to Robb Stark than anything else.
But Ser Harrold could not help but wonder: Would Robb Stark threaten all of Isabel's dreams of ruling the Vale?
Perhaps then, would be the perfect time for Ser Harrold to steal it from under her nose.
A/N: Enjoy!