2. Honor on the Moon, Chapter 8

There were three waycastles they had to stop by on the way up the steps to the Eyrie. The first had been called Stone and the the second had been called Snow, each one little more than a gate made of unadorned stone and manned by only a handful of men-at-arms. Paradisal as the valley under the castle had been, it seemed that had been but a brief reprieve from the wild mountain highlands, their chilly wind returning now in earnest.

It all made for an ingenious and rather terrifying form of defense, Jon thought. If rebuffed at the eastern shore, an attacking army would first have to pass through the mountains—something which already seemed impossible enough—then somehow take the Bloody Gate, then take the Gates of the Moon, then take each waycastle on the way up the Giant's Lance. Altogether the Vale might very well be the most secure of all the Seven Kingdoms, but it also made it the most isolated. Hard as it was to get to this place it must be just as hard to leave it, and already Jon felt strangely cramped.

He spoke with Mya as she guided their group through the mountain path, all of them riding astride their mules. They talked about the forts and the journey ahead, then about horses, then about how she'd started her work up and down the steps.

"My mama and I were destitute," she told him. "Then one day the king came by and took notice. I suppose he must have remembered her by chance. He said no child of his would starve on his watch, and he ordered Lord Royce to take me into his household. I started as a serving girl, then I got to helping around the stables, and eventually I began to climb the steps to help deliver grain and the like. I gave the money to mama since she needed it more than me, living in a castle and getting fed from the kitchens like I was. Then mama died." Mya shrugged at the pity that crossed Jon's face. "Better that she died, truth be told. I don't think mama was very happy. She was poor and dishonored, mother to a bastard even if it was the king's. He abandoned her first, and though I came to visit her from the castle I abandoned her too in a way… I'm just glad not to see her so sad anymore." Her eyes hardened then, something of the stone grit around them entering her features. "I'll not end like she did, a lonely pauper. When I die, my burial gown will be made of golden threads, and I'll be carried all through the Vale for all to see."

Mya then asked what Jon's life had been like, and though at first he gave broad summaries of the years in Winterfell he eventually found himself sharing his stint with the Night's Watch. He told her of training under the spiteful gaze of Ser Alliser Thorne, of cleaning latrines and chipping ice with Grenn and Sam, of the lazy mummer Pyp and the jolly gatekeeper Kale. He told her of his uncle Benjen, whom Jon respected more than anyone in the world beside his own father, and of Lord Mormont with his strange raven familiar, and of the kindly Maester Aemon who'd given up so much to enjoy so little.

Then when he ran out of everything else he told her about Edwen. Jon didn't share his part in the man's first escape—it made him nervous to try when they were within earshot of Lady Catelyn and Ser Brynden riding at the back—but he did share his part in the man's end. Jon told of Edwen's crimes, but also of the man's desperation, his sorrow, his helplessness. It was only fair, though it tightened Jon's throat to tell of it all.

Mya listened attentively as they rode side by side, and even Marillion heard the whole tale from his own mule trailing close behind them. "I like it very well!" the singer said once it was over. "It's a bit too dour for my tastes, and far too sexless. Not many women at the Wall, I suppose. But yes… An exotic setting, a great betrayal, and a grizzly justice to cap it all off! It wouldn't be a bad song, should you put it in meter."

"Do it yourself if you want," Jon said, unsure if the man was joking. "I've no taste for poetry."

Marillion grew silent, a hand on his chin and lips muttering without sound as he spoke softly to himself. Jon felt a compulsive desire to take back his permission, but before he could Mya spoke up.

"How was it built, do you think? The Wall, I mean."

She had no questions about the actual events he'd shared, it seemed. Just as well—Jon could only talk about himself so much before he started feeling undeserving of the attention. "The stories say a man named Brandon the Builder did it with the help of giants thousands of years ago. The Starks are his descendants, and my half-brother Bran's named after him."

Mya looked ahead, eyes focused on the steps as her body swayed to her mule's march, watching for spots of danger along the cliff's edge. "Those old stories can't be true," she said eventually.

Jon shrugged. For all that it was important northern history, Bran the Builder's tale had never been a favorite. "I suppose there's no such thing as giants…"

"No, I mean that the Wall couldn't have been built by your Brandon the Builder." She caught his eye and gave a wry smile. "At least, it couldn't have been completed by him. Even with the help of a thousand giants, something so big can't be made in one lifetime. Just look at the Eyrie."

She glanced up and Jon followed her gaze, both of them squinting against the morning light. The castle stood high up, its seven towers glimmering white and yellow like sun-kissed mirrors, a crown of ivory and gold.

"It's a small thing compared to the Wall, but still it took many generations to build," Mya went on. "Over a hundred years. If that's true here, it must be all the truer for something tall as a mountain and wide as a continent."

It made sense when she put it like that. "You're a shrewd one."

"I know. It's something you'll get used to, I'm sure."

Jon blushed returning the smile she shot him. It was a new feeling, to be delighted and embarrassed all at once, and it made him reflect that he rather liked Mya. She was open with her thoughts and simple with her actions, and she made everything sound so obvious Jon kept wondering how he hadn't come to her conclusions already.

Then a voice called from behind them. "How adorable, two bastards in the muck together!"

Jon turned to see Tyrion riding between Bronn and Ser Rodrick at the rear, the dwarf meeting his gaze with a twisted smirk. He sent back a glare, feeling for once the kind of disgust everyone else always seemed filled with when looking at the Lannister, and somehow that made Tyrion's grin widen, as if feeding on his spite.

Shaking his head, Jon looked at Mya and found her grinning wryly back. "Sorry about him."

"I don't mind it. I am what I am, and I've heard worse before."

Despite her own words, she sounded more subdued now. Jon nodded to the shawl she caressed, looking for a distraction. "What is that? It looks…"

"Too gaudy to be worn by a peasant mule girl like me?" Jon flushed as red as the thing in question, and Mya tittered. "It was the king's, from the last time I saw him. Something silk and pretty to remember him by." Her smile softened, eyes facing forward and wistful. "Mayhap I should have given him something to remember me instead. He hasn't come back to visit since."

It looked well-kept, weathered by age but surprisingly free of stains or torn holes despite how often and under what strenuous conditions Mya seemed to wear it. The king might have plucked it from his own wife's closet, or at least Jon now hoped he had when considering the man's reputation for whoring.

Again Tyrion's voice called out. "Be careful, girl. Drop your guard and you'll find his claws at your back. Or is it that you want your claws on his?"

This time Jon turned back with a glare far more tired than enraged. Catelyn turned back too, saying something harsh before urging her mule to trot faster so she could pull up beside them at the front of the group. "Ignore the Imp," she said to Mya. "He's made it his mission to sow what trouble he can on account of his impotence."

Mya smiled brightly at Catelyn, face shifting so impressively Jon wouldn't have been able to tell it for the mask it was had he not been speaking with her already. "Please don't trouble yourself with me, my lady. I already have a love strong enough to shield me from such dirty talk."

At this Jon frowned. "You do?"

"His name is Mychel Redfort." Mya turned her smile on him. "A fighting man like you, Jon, squire to Ser Lyn Corbray. We're to wed as soon as he becomes a knight next year or the year after."

Still frowning, Jon looked past Mya to Catelyn, who he saw also looked distinctly suspicious. Their eyes met, and for the first time it was as if they shared the same thought—that there was something familiar about Mya's tone. It was naive enough to sound like Sansa whenever she'd spoken of marrying brave knights and princes, except Sansa was a highborn lady and was almost certain to meet her own loft expectations. As for Mya…

The girl caught Jon's look, and her smile dropped only a little. "You look like you don't believe me. I assure you, Mychel isn't the kind to go back on a promise. He's a man of honor."

"So… He's given you his sworn oath?" Jon asked, still uncertain.

"Not in words…"

Jon raised a brow, not understanding, but then when her smile turned shy he discerned how such an oath could be made wordlessly. He blushed again, and Mya laughed at him through her own red hue. "If you're sure…"

"I am," Mya said. The slyness returned to her look, and suddenly Jon saw the girl return to what he'd known, confident and playful. "Let me give you some advice Jon. When a woman tells you something, she is right. Even when she's wrong, she's right."

Jon glanced at Catelyn. He expected to see her disgust, for if there was anything more unbecoming to noble folk than a girl deflowered before marriage it was a girl deflowered before marriage by her own volition. But instead Jon found pity in Catelyn's strained smile. "It's a valuable lesson," the lady said. "Any man who listens will make his bride quite happy."

"And nothing's better than a happy bride," Mya said, chuckling.

"Nor anything worse than an unhappy one."

"Just so!"

How strange, Jon thought, to see such different women riding side by side. Mya was rough in her riding leathers and her short-cut hair, looking almost a man if not for her soft, wiry figure. Catelyn was the picture of grace, newly bathed and clothed so her pale skin and soft red mane stood almost unnaturally clean against such arid wilderness. They spoke politely enough with each other, but Jon never forgot one was a lowborn guide and the other a highborn lady. Perhaps Mya never forgot either, and that was what led her to jump so readily into a noble boy's sheets. There would be no shame in it if they did marry in the end, especially once she sat warmed by a stone fireplace and fed by her own servants.

Wait… That's Tyrion talking, Jon realized with a start. Mya had told him the engagement was one of love, so why not simply believe her? He didn't remember being so cynical before meeting the Lannister dwarf.

But was it cynicism to look underneath the surface? Nothing was as simple as it appeared, and there was always an explanation for everything. A material explanation, one which could be understood in practical terms, or so Tyrion had steadily taught him.

So what is the explanation for all of this? Jon suddenly thought, a dangerous whisper in his mind. Why would Tyrion want Bran dead? What is the practical reason for that?

He stopped himself. Such questions were beyond him, should be beyond him. That was all Lady Catelyn's responsibility. Jon's job was to help his family and his house, to do his duty and uphold his honor. He'd given Robb his oath. The details didn't matter.

And this was all a detour regardless. Once it was all said and done Jon would continue to King's Landing and see his father again, and there he would tell the man everything. Ned would be proud, he knew. Surely, Ned would have to be proud.

When they reached the third waycastle, Jon could see why it had been called Sky. The gate itself was the barest of the three, a simple wall carved out of the cliff and containing nothing more than a small stables, a smaller barracks, and a pile of boulders Jon supposed would be used for defense in case of siege. But looking out from the edge Jon found the whole mountain range below, a veritable ocean of brown stone and gnarly peaks, with the fog of clouds hugging them like white seaweeds clinging to rocks against the current. Here snow had finally made its appearance, coating all in thin frost and white ice.

From Sky they had to discard their mules and go on foot. "It's too steep for them after this," Mya said, handing the beasts over to the groom waiting by the gate. "More a ladder than proper steps, but at least it's all indoors from here. No more wind beating at us."

"How much longer?" Catelyn asked, looking up the mountainside. The Eyrie sat directly above them, still a glittering dream against the late afternoon light and seeming no closer now than it had when they started the climb.

"An hour at most, my lady."

Jon watched Catelyn's face scrunch in minute consternation. Even riding on mules had been tiring enough, and the thought of another hour on foot seemed to sap at whatever strength remained of her.

"There are baskets pulled up by winches," Ser Brynden put in. "To send any produce, pumpkins and turnips and the like. But men and women both often ride them to reach the castle directly from here."

Tyrion barked a laugh. "Would that I were a pumpkin! Alas, my lord father would no doubt be most chagrined if his son of Lannister went to his fate like a load of turnips. You may not be strong enough for this last stretch, Lady Catelyn, but we Lannisters do have a certain pride."

"Pride?" Catelyn snapped. "Arrogance, some might call it."

"One is easily mistaken for the other. You've more than proven that already."

"Quiet, dwarf," Ser Rodrik growled. "Soon enough such disrespect will be repaid."

"In that case I may as well carry on with it to my grave."

Catelyn shook her head and looked back to Mya. "The Lannisters may have their pride, but the Tullys are born with better sense. Tell them to lower a basket. I shall ride with the turnips." She glanced at Rodrik. "Ser, I trust you will join me."

Ser Rodrik frowned, stricken. "My lady—"

"I'd have you by my side when I meet my sister," Catelyn said, her eyes softening. "We began this journey together, and I'll have us finish it together."

The knight nodded hesitantly, and Jon sighed with relief when he saw it. Clever of the lady Stark to play on Rodrik's honor and avoid slighting his pride. This way the old knight could save himself the strain of the climb without losing face.

"Mya and I will take this lot the rest of the way up, then," Ser Brynden said. He glanced from Tyrion to Bronn to Jon. "Let's not make my nieces wait too long, you three."

They went through a tunnel into the mountain, and soon Jon saw it open up to a tall, circular room that stretched for what felt like leagues up. Steps spiraled up along the sides, and it was obvious why Mya called them ladders—the climb was steep enough they may need to use their hands to reach the roof lit vaguely by faraway torches.

Piles of foodstuff sat against the wall, greens and yellows spilling out of barrels and crates. Men loitered with them by a long string of chains that went all the way up, strange round mechanisms embedded into the wall beside them. The winches, Jon figured, and these men would be the ones who pulled them. Ser Brynden went over to order a basket lowered, taking Catelyn and Rodrik with him, and soon he returned alone. A nod to Mya was all it took for her to lead the remains of their group up the spiraling steps, and soon Jon could look down and see the people on the ground floor shrinking from the distance of their ascent, the winches and chains rattling with an ear-piercing ring that reached into the abyss overhead.

There was just enough space at the stairs for them to go up two abreast. Jon thought to climb beside Mya, but Ser Brynden soon pulled him back to go at his side. They stomped up the steep steps together, Bronn and Mya in front and Tyrion trailing behind.

After some silence, Ser Brynden spoke in a voice booming even louder than the flurry of chains. "My niece tells me you were to join the Night's Watch. Why have you left them?"

Jon almost slid off the edge, but when he looked up the knight climbing beside him kept his face forward, a hard look in his eyes, waiting. Jon had expected Ser Brynden to take his measure at some point, but here? Now?

Wetting his throat, Jon tried not to sound too foolish. "I didn't belong at the Wall."

"You think yourself too good for such men?"

Jon deliberately slowed his breath, holding each gulp long and letting it out smoothly, forcing his heart back into a steady rhythm. "The brothers at the Night's Watch are admirable in their own way," he said honestly, thinking through each word. How to explain everything in a way that made sense? "I almost stayed, but I left because… because I'd like to live life on my own terms rather than the ones given to me."

Brynden seemed to consider that. "Your swords," he eventually said. "Why two?"

"One's a gift from my father, and the other's from my uncle. I couldn't part with either."

"Carrying them both must be heavy."

"The ranger's sword is light." Jon paused, then thought it might do him good to say something practical. "It could also prove more useful in a closed space than my other one. Doesn't hurt to be prepared."

Brynden hummed noncommittally. "Do you practice every day?"

Here Jon drew himself up. "Aye."

"How?"

"Two hundred overhead swings each morning. Then ten sets of repetitions for my forms. If there's a pell I'll use it, but if not I'll do it in the open air." Jon paused again, thinking. "Sometimes I'll spar if I can find someone willing."

At this, Brynden turned his head to look at the boy for the first time. "Not everyone can lay claim to such dedication," he said, some grudging respect in his voice. "I suppose you like it?"

Did he? Jon remembered being excited to start his sword training, but soon it had become a skill he felt duty-bound to perfect. Waking up early to learn under Ser Rodrik's strong arm, the countless hours sweating under the morning sun, all the years of sore muscles and blistered hands... There was no fun in that. Still, despite all the struggle there was something almost meditative in practicing his swing and his forms. The repetition let him fall into his mind and body, time passing without his noticing as he focused solely on the speed, the strength, the aim of his blade...

"It helps me think," Jon eventually said.

"And what do you think about?" Brynden asked.

Jon frowned, confused. "What I do right, and what I do wrong. What else is there?"

Brynden stared at him, eyes intense. Then the man cracked a smile. "Good answer, Snow."

He didn't know what about it was so good, but Jon was nonetheless relieved to have pleased the man. Perhaps he'd passed this test.

Something caught Brynden's eye, and Jon turned to see a wide basket of thickly woven straw rising up from the darkness at the room's center. Atop it sat Lady Catelyn and Ser Rodrik, who waved as they passed, then were lost to the clamor of chains as they continued to rise at a much faster rate than the climbers did. It made Jon think back to the lift the Night's Watch had at Castle Black. Much larger, and much easier to use. Such an invention would've done the Eyrie well.

A gasp broke from behind them. Jon and Brynden both turned to see Tyrion several steps below, face glaring and red with effort, chest pumping with a wheezing, laborious breath as he failed to pull himself up. Short as he was, the dwarf had to practically leap his way forward with each step, and after doing it so much it seemed he had reached his limit.

"So much for Lannister pride," Brynden chuckled.

It was impressive that Tyrion had made it as far as he had, Jon thought. Sighing, he turned back and made his way down to the dwarf. "Need help?" he asked, stopping at Tyrion's side. "I can carry you the rest of the way, if you like."

Tyrion looked at him, glaring still but blushing also with just as much embarrassment as physical strain. "You... You make for a bigger ass than the mules we rode to get here, but I think not," he said, sucking air between words. "I'd rather be sore for a week than have you throw me down these damnable stairs."

"I wouldn't do that."

"I can't put it past you at this point."

Jon shook his head, exasperated. "Tyrion, look at yourself, and look at how much we have left to go. Be sensible."

A sharp remark seemed ready on Tyrion's tongue, but then he did look up and see the end of the steps still far overhead. It was a dizzying span, the sound of chains still bouncing off the walls all up and down the cylindrical space only serving to stress the depth of their height.

"… Very well," Tyrion said, lips drawn into a tight grimace. "Here, give me your back."

Jon turned to let the dwarf climb on, stumpy arms coming up over his shoulders to clasp around his neck like a cape. He bounced once to make sure Tyrion's grip was true, then with a grunt began to make his way up, the dwarf's weight a small enough thing he could climb without much loss in speed.

Brynden met him curiously. "Why help the Imp?"

"Why not?" Jon returned. "There's no reason to be cruel."

Brynden stayed silent after that. Jon saw Mya and Bronn had also stopped just ahead, both turned to see him coming up behind them with Tyrion in tow. The sellsword seemed amused, saying "Not much of a mount for a great lord," but Mya just smiled with a knowing look in her eyes.

So they continued to climb, Mya and Bronn still at the front while Jon carried Tyrion behind them and Brynden remained alone at the rear. Step after step, at times reached with one steep push of the legs and at others with the help of dust-covered hands, the chains ringing all the while.

"No reason to be cruel," Tyrion eventually said, his voice barely audible over the crashing metal. "Yet I've been put through all this, and for what? Your lady Stark's ungrounded suspicions? Can you not see the cruelty in this, Jon?"

So this was the play, then. Jon supposed the dwarf must be truly desperate to call on his goodwill after all this time. "You can't blame Lady Stark for wanting justice after her own son was almost killed."

"I don't, but what have I got to do with that? If she wishes to accuse me it should be founded on solid evidence, and what evidence does she have that I've done anything wrong?"

"The dragonbone dagger."

"Ah, the killing blade so conveniently left at the scene of the crime. What evidence does Lady Catelyn have that it belongs to me?"

Jon frowned. Catelyn and Tyrion had argued over the whole affair on their way through the mountain passes before the latter gave up on trying to reason with his captors, but it had been many days since then. "She was told so in King's Landing by… by…"

"Allow me to help you." Tyrion sounded tired and smug in equal measure. "She was told by 'Lord' Petyr Baelish. Littlefinger they call him, as untrustworthy a man as has ever sucked from the teat of our royal court. And of course, there's been no effort to validate his claims. Lady Catelyn bases her accusation on pure trust in a man who does not deserve it."

Jon grunted. "And I'm supposed to believe you're any more deserving of mine?"

Tyrion fell silent for a long moment. "If you won't trust our time together, then you can at least trust the logic of my case," he said icily. "What reason could I have to want your brother dead? I've nothing against the boy personally, and if my motivations were political then consider I must have known we Lannisters were always going to be the most conspicuous suspects. We just visited Winterfell with the king, and the Starks dislike us enough that having some tangible crime done against them only serves to justify their enmity." He sighed, the full weight of their long journey settling on each word. "Think, Jon. Even if the plot hadn't been foiled, even if I were guilty and had succeeded in causing your brother's death, I must have known such an act could only ever result in war."

Something fung up his stomach and glued itself to Jon's throat. "War…"

A chuckle rumbled through Tyrion's whole body, and Jon heard its utter lack of humor rattle his ear. "Yes, Jon. War. What do you think my family is doing now that Lady Catelyn has captured me? My father's probably begun to call his armies. I'd not be surprised if your own father's fallen into some trouble at the capital to make up for all the trouble you've given me."

"But you've not been executed!" Jon said in a rushed whisper. "How could war begin over so small a thing?"

"Forgive me if I don't see my capture as so small a thing," Tyrion said drily. "But regardless, my life isn't what's at stake here. This is about reputation. Respect. Honor. My father hates me, but I am still a Lannister, and as the head of our house he'll not allow our name to be sullied through me. War's been forced on him, you see. Any of the great houses would pay back such an insult, so how could he not?" Now Tyrion spoke harshly, stressing each sentence. "But what do we Lannisters have to gain from war? My family's already married to the royal line. My nephew Joffrey is set to take the throne! Instability holds no draw for those who already hold power, and all a war against you northerners does is whittle away at our armies and our coffers. Had I plotted this murder then war would have been inevitable, but the Lannisters and the Starks both lose if we fight, so why would I want us to? There's nothing to gain in it from me or mine!"

Damn him. Try as he might, Jon couldn't deny the logic in Tyrion's argument. And if he were honest he couldn't feel any anger or disgust for the dwarf no matter how much of both he'd seen come from Catelyn and the others. Why?

Because I like him, Jon had to admit. And from the start I couldn't see him as an evil man.

So rather than challenge Tyrion's deductions, Jon thought them through to their natural conclusion. "You think you were framed, then? By this… Petyr Baelish?"

He felt Tyrion nod against his shoulder. "I don't know for certain who is framing me or why. Maybe it was that snake Littlefinger, or maybe he's only a guileless tool for the true culprit. All I know is there's no sense in me being the guilty party here, something you should now see quite clearly. Whatever is happening, it has nothing to do with me."

"Then lay all this out to Lady Stark. If you truly are innocent, you can exonerate yourself."

Tyrion groaned. "Gods, you really have lost all your wits, haven't you? Lady Catelyn is committed to this course now. She cannot simply let me go after all but starting a war in my name." His voice lowered, becoming conspiratorial. "That woman's in over her head, Jon. Either that or there's something else going on here, something she hasn't told you or me."

At this, Jon's mind locked like one of the great stone gates they'd ridden through, and when he again spoke it was with as mild a voice as he could manage. "I'm sure she has good reasons, whatever they are."

Tyrion seemed taken aback. Then anger found its way back to him, and he gripped tighter around Jon's neck. "Are you listening to yourself? Think, man!"

Jon reached up and pulled Tyrion's hands gingerly apart without much effort. "I am thinking, Tyrion. The Starks are my family, and the best thing I can do now is honor them and trust them to do what's right."

"You of all people should know family can't be trusted to act properly by mere virtue of being family!" Tyrion said, nearly shouting. The sound of chains filling the space around them had thankfully muffled most of their conversation, though now Bronn turned back with a raised brow. Seeing it, Tyrion lowered his voice again, though the anger did not leave it. "What is it then? Has she promised you some reward?" When Jon didn't respond, the dwarf clicked his tongue. "Oh, I see it now. How droll. It's no wonder your wolf left you, boy, when you're already a hound begging for treats yourself."

It was meant to hurt him. Jon knew that, yet still it cut his heart. "I've begged for nothing."

"Then you debase yourself for nothing as if that's any better." Tyrion shook his head. "Have you forgotten what you told me when we left the Wall? That you'd make your life your own?"

"That's what I'm doing."

"No, you're just following along after someone else, a mindless puppet too cowardly to think for himself!" Tyrion sighed again, and this time a soft sadness eked out from him. "You're still the same scared child ready to give up everything for someone else's peace of mind, and all for people who will never see you as you wish they did. When will the lesson break through that thick skull of yours? Useful as you may be now, you can never be a true Stark!"

So Catelyn herself had told him. A burning sensation came up behind Jon's eyes, and he crushed it back down the moment he noticed. "That's enough," he said, words falling like lead.

"You can still—"

"That's enough, I said." Jon huffed air out his nose, and the next step upwards clapped hard against the stone beneath. "Leave it. I don't want to hear any more from you."

The finality in his tone was enough that Tyrion remained deathly silent for the rest of the climb. Once they reached the top, the group was met with a grey-haired knight and a thin maester, both of whom immediately narrowed on the dwarf clinging to Jon's back.

"Lady Arryn wants to see the Lannister," the knight said, after exchanging pleasantries with Brynden. Ser Varis Egden was his name, captain of the household guard. "Already the court sits in wait. Come, all of you."

"So I'm to be the evening's entertainment," Tyrion said. Jon let him back down on his own feet, and now he walked along in a dour mood. "It's a sorry state this court must be in to consider me someone worth waiting for."

The castle was strangely empty. It reminded Jon a bit of Greywater Watch, its narrow corridors made of stone rather than wood but still just as claustrophobic. Thankfully there was some respite, the halls broken up routinely by long half-circle windows. Jon looked out at them and saw the view stretched past the mountains to the river Trident far in the west, its narrow blue shine deepening with the dwindling daylight.

They'd ridden so much, had climbed so much, and now here they walked at the height of the world. Yet all Jon could think of was what Tyrion had said, and he thought again of where Ghost must be, far below. He'd not felt the direwolf all day, not one inkling. It was the first time since he'd first plucked the beast from its mother, the runt of the litter. Even then he'd sensed something, but no longer. The absence was far too apparent.

When they reached the Eyrie's great hall, Jon saw it was taller than it was wide, rising some fifty feet at least into a round, sloping ceiling. Slender pillars spanned the walls, tall windows placed in between bathing the whole space with a plentiful light that reflected off the polished stone, casting everything in an ephemeral whiteness that seemed altogether unnatural so close to nighttime.

At the room's center sat what looked like a big well, its carved stone frame surrounding a metal lid that split down the middle. Jon didn't know what to make of it, but at least it seemed to give the place structure—Men stood around it in a wide circle, all in leathers and colorful tunics that showed off an assortment of Valean sigils, and Jon saw then the castle felt empty because all its residents had been summoned here.

At the head of the hall was a raised platform, and atop it were two thrones made of pale weirwood. On one sat a woman all in blue, face caked with powder and auburn hair spun about in frail loops. Jon could see Lady Lysa Arryn's likeness to Lady Catelyn, particularly as the latter stood proudly beside her sister's seat. But where Catelyn's beauty shone bright and healthy, Lysa seemed to have somehow lived through twice as many years so that whatever was left of her looks seemed a mere echo of the same lasting youth.

But most striking was the boy who sat on the second, taller throne. He seemed not to quite fit his expensive clothes, both because they were sized too large for his small frame and also because their deep-hewn color contrasted badly with his dangerously pale skin, as if a ghost had found its way into a lord's closet.

The Lord of the Eyrie, Robin Arryn. A sickly child charged with stewarding one of the Seven Kingdoms even as he now clutched tightly at a doll while sitting on his house's throne. When Tyrion stifled what sounded like a laugh at the sight, Jon couldn't blame him.

"My lord, my lady," Ser Varis said, stepping forward. He bowed, then sidled away so his liege could see Tyrion clearly. "Here's the Lannister, awaiting your judgement."

Lady Lysa narrowed her eyes at the dwarf, hardly giving any mind to Jon or the others who'd come in with him. She looked disgruntled, as if she'd stepped on something and was getting ready to wipe her shoe, but there was also something else to her look. A tension in her jaw.

Fear, Jon thought. That was fair enough. Helpless as Tyrion was, a great lord's son made for a dangerous hostage to keep.

For his own part, the lordling Robin graced Tyrion with the briefest of glances before turning to his mother. He clutched his doll to his chest, eyes alit with an almost frenzied excitement. "Is he the bad man?"

Jon raised a brow. Cut an impressive figure Robin did not, but surely he should've at least been taught to speak with some dignity even at this age.

Still, Lysa hardly blinked at the comment. "He is," she said, almost cooing at the child.

"He's so small," Robin said, giggling.

"This is Tyrion the Imp of House Lannister, who murdered your father." Lady Lysa raised her voice then, making it carry across the hall. "He slew the Hand of the King!"

Jon glanced at Catelyn and then at Rodrik beside her, but both kept a straight face. Had they known about this new charge, or were they learning of it now along with him and everyone else?

Tyrion was similarly surprised by it, but as always the dwarf didn't let it get in the way of his snark. "Oh, did I kill him too?" he said, voice deadpan. "It would seem I've been a busy little fellow. Wherever could I have found the time to do all this slaying and murdering?"

"Imp," Lysa said coldly, "you will guard that mocking tongue of yours and speak to my son politely, or I promise you will have cause to regret it. Remember where you are. This is the Eyrie, and these are knights of the Vale you see around you, true men who loved Jon Arryn well. Every one of them would die for me."

The threat only gave rise to Tyrion's anger. "Lady Arryn, should any harm come to me, my brother Ser Jaime will be pleased to see that they do."

Robin suddenly leaped to his feet, letting his doll tumble to the ground as his face twisted into a panicked, wide-eyed glare. "You can't hurt us! No one can hurt us here! Tell him, mother, tell him he can't hurt us here!"

"The Eyrie is impregnable," Lysa Arryn declared calmly. Amazingly she drew Robin close holding him in her lap like an overgrown babe. "The Imp is trying to frighten us, my sweet. The Lannisters are all liars. No one will hurt you."

Now Tyrion didn't bother to hide his laughter. He let it out freely, twisted face set in a wide grin. "If this is all the strength you have to show me, my rescue will be even easier than I thought."

Robin pointed down, his hand trembling. "You're a liar. Mother, I want to see him fly!"

Suddenly, two guardsmen in sky-blue cloaks came and seized Tyrion by the arms, lifting him off his floor. Jon blinked at the speed of their approach, and for a moment his hand came to his sword out of sheer instinct, but then a hand came down hard on his shoulder and he saw it was Ser Brynden stopping him. The man glanced back at him, gave a small shake of his head, then set his hard face up at Lady Catelyn.

She caught her uncle's eye and seemed to get his meaning. "Sister," she called out, "I beg you to remember, this man is my prisoner. I will not have him harmed. Not yet, at least."

Lady Lysa glanced at her sister coolly for a moment, then let Robin drop gently from her lap before getting to her feet. She glided down the steps to Tyrion, her long skirts trailing after her as she circled the central basin, and when she reached the dwarf commanded her men to release him. The guards did so at once, dropping Tyrion so that he landed off balance and sprawled unceremoniously forward on his hands and knees. At this, all the men in the room laughed.

"My sister's little guest is too weary to stand," Lady Lysa said, smiling down at the dwarf. "Very well. Ser Vardis, take him down to the dungeon. A rest in one of our sky cells will do him much good." Then the woman raised both brows, face drawn with pleasure as some idea came into her mind. "But first, let's show him a taste of the strength he's so curious to see. Open the Moon Door."

Jon saw some guards step out of the crowd and walk to a winch by the wall. They spun it, and a low vibration swept through the ground. Metal groaned and screeched, rubbing against stone, until soon they all saw the basin at the center of the room brighten, its circular gate sliding open.

On the other side was open air, and far, far below Jon could see Lord Royce's castle like a child's playhouse, its towers so small they barely registered. Clouds covered everything like a thin white film, dulling the greens and browns of the earth. This hole in the floor—for that was what it was, Jon realized—showed a view of the whole Vale of Arryn as if they were all soaring like eagles and looking down at the world mid-flight.

Lady Lysa smiled, the wind that now whipped up from the basin ruffling her hair and her dress, making her seem like a witch within a summoned storm. "This is where our enemies go, Imp. Here in the Eyrie, this Moon Door is justice itself." She bent down, coming closer to Tyrion. "And if you forget your place, little dwarf, you'll drop through it like a stone."

More laughter. This time Robin's rang shrilly over the rest, hands coming together in an applause without rhythm, and Jon saw Tyrion shrink back from the Moon Door with real fear in his mismatched eyes, the chill of winter filling the room with gale upon endless gale.

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