Honor on the Moon, Chapter 9
Again Jon set his blunt training sword down, and again he saw Mychel Redfort thrown at his feet, scowling up at him. He offered a hand to pull the other man up, but Mychel spurned the help and rose without it, throwing a weary glance at his own training sword on the ground, the rattle of its fall still ringing.
"Good fight," Jon said.
"Doesn't feel like it," Mychael sighed, bending down to take his blade. He was older than Jon by a few years, though not much taller, and his small ears made his head look a bit like a pumpkin. Still, his jaw set itself solidly in its frustration, and Jon supposed he could see why Mya would think his features pleasing. "What trick did you use?"
Jon had practiced the disarming maneuver countless times, enough that doing it now came from pure instinct rather than any real effort. "It's nothing complicated. I could show you the move if you'd like."
"You're no master-at-arms." Mychel rubbed his wrist, then his hip. "Save your lessons, Snow. I'll worry about my own improvement."
Harrold Hardyng stepped forward, a handsome blonde youth with a straight nose and a dashing smile. "Let me at the bastard, Mychel. We'll yet show him how we do things in the Vale."
He said it so lightly Jon found it hard to take offense. Still, he spun the blade in his grip as Harrold came to stand before him, conscious of the others who now watched their bout some feet away.
They were on a flat platform of stone that grew out from the Eyrie like the foundation for some forgotten tower, a half-circle that reached out into a sheer drop off the side of the Giant's Lance. Most there were men-at-arms, but a few were squires like Mychel or Harrold, and a couple were even knights, all there to exercise before supper. It was, Ser Rodrik had told Jon, the usual place to go for martial practice, equipped with dulled weapons and old armor stacked up by the exit. Even this far from the rest of the world it seemed men always made sure to stay ready for battle, and the sound of their training rang across the open sky like a chorus of bells.
Ultimately Jon made short work of Harrold. He parried a swipe, a thrust, a wide swing, then got close and pushed the squire at the same time he locked their ankles. When he looked down, Jon saw Harrold scowling like Mychel had, though with a bit more sardonic charm.
"Why won't you hit back?" Harrold asked, rejecting Jon's offered hand to rise on his own. "The ground's hurt me more than you have."
The truth was Jon didn't need to attack to win, but saying so would just sound haughty. "I'm not trying to kill you," he said instead.
It didn't help. Harrold just looked more annoyed, and the look he shared with Mychel then was one of shared, unfriendly agreement.
Things hadn't even been this bad at the Wall. Night's Watch recruits were all farmboys or tanner's sons, men who'd forgive getting bested at highborn swordplay so long as it wasn't lorded over them, but Mychel and Harrold both were raised as actual lords. Jon didn't think himself a good enough actor to let them defeat him on purpose, and to take a more proactive approach as Harrold wanted would have only embarrassed them further. Better to not spar with them at all, but Mychel had asked and Jon thought it might've been impolite to deny him. Had Mya told her paramour they might get along? Clearly that had been rather too optimistic.
"You lads are making a racket." Jon, Mychel, and Harrold all turned to see Bronn drawing near. "Here, let a man with some hair on his chest put the wolf boy in his place."
Everyone glared at that, but Bronn only grinned back and readied his training sword. In some ways the sellsword was much changed from when they'd journeyed through the mountains, beard trimmed and his once gaunt face filled in with a week's worth of regular meals. But this was still Bronn, dark eyes always sly and appraising as if everyone hid some fortune from him, and so Jon still found plenty to dislike.
"Whenever you're ready, bastard," Bronn said.
Case in point. Jon let himself get riled up to start things, stabbing at the man's neck. Bronn parried the thrust almost lazily, as if smacking a fly, then in one fluid movement stepped forward to slide his dull sword across Jon's belly.
"That's one for me, little wolf." Bronn smiled at the dark look Jon sent him then, swiping his sword like a broom at his feet. "It's all for your own good, you know. Dangerous to be overconfident."
"Again," Jon huffed, bringing his sword up.
When Bronn raised his own Jon leapt at him again, this time with a hammer blow at his head. The man held his sword up to meet it, but the move was a feint; just before their blades made contact, Jon pulled back and spun on his heel, crouching low to strike at Bronn's knees.
Bronn stumbled back, and Jon made sure to keep him on the retreat with a flurry of swipes, stomping forward all the while. They went on like that across the whole platform, Bronn running backwards and defending against Jon's assault, swords clashing again and again as they nearly bowled over more than a few of the others training there.
Then the two reached the edge, and the back of Bronn's legs hit the raised block of stone that lined the platform. He looked back, eyes trailing down to the clouds far below, then turned to face forward as Jon sent another thrust. Bronn parried it just as he had all the others, but this time Jon let himself be carried with the shift in momentum and slammed his shoulder against the man's unexpecting chest. Just as Bronn began to fall back Jon grabbed his wrist and wrestled the blade out of his hand, spinning around to toss it aside.
The charge had made Bronn fall fully on the parapet, knees bending in a heavy sit, and no sooner did he see his blade clattering to the ground than he found the tip of Jon's close between his eyes. His dark eyes trailed up the sword, up Jon's arm, and landed on the boy's hard-set face. They both heaved from the furious exchange, but one stood over the other, victorious and prideful.
Even then, Bronn's sly look never left. "What's this, then? Am I not good enough for you to give me your hand like you did with your prim new friends?"
Jon kept glaring down at him, but after a long pause he drew his sword back and offered his hand. Bronn reached over to take it, smiling.
Then, still smiling, he pulled Jon into a headbutt that thudded hard against the boy's nose. As he did he reached with his other hand to rip Jon's sword out of a grip loosened from shock, and in a moment he was the one standing with a sword pointing down. Eyes blurred with tears, Jon could only look up helplessly from the ground as the blade's dull tip nudged at his neck. He reached up to dab his nose and saw blood coming from it, a red smear bright on his hand.
Harrold and Mychel had followed in the wake of their spar along with some others, and now they stood looking down at Jon with a kind of pitying amusement, brows drawn together but lips pursed to keep from laughing.
"That's no way to win, sellsword!" Harrold said, sounding like he didn't much mind it.
"Neither of them know how to win properly, if you ask me," Mychel said. "Come, Harry. We've spent enough time with their sort."
Jon watched them go to practice elsewhere on the platform, hot with anger and embarrassment. He sat up and pointed all that heat at Bronn, who'd taken to sit back down on the parapet with Jon's training sword resting on his lap and a smug smirk on his lips.
"You cheated," Jon seethed.
"Cheated?" Bronn asked, amused. "What rule did I break, wolf boy?"
"The rule of fair play. I had you beaten."
"I never yielded, and you never dealt the finishing blow." Bron shrugged. "Either way, you should be thanking me."
"For what? Tempering my overconfidence?"
"Forget about that. In truth, someone with your talent should be confident." Bronn's face changed then, the appraisal so ingrained in him taking on a knowing glint. "No, lad. You should thank me for lowering you in their eyes. It does men like us no good to draw too much attention so early into our ascent."
"Men like us?" Jon spat and wiped at the blood on his nose again. "There's no such thing. I'm nothing like you."
"You think?" Bronn cocked his head. "I thought so too at first. Then I noticed what a strange thing it is for a bastard like you to be so well trained and so well trusted with the business of these noble folk. With Lady Stark and the dwarf lord before her, you've managed to ingratiate yourself quite well, haven't you? I'm sure some worthwhile prospect will come of it sooner or later if it hasn't already."
The more Bronn spoke the more disgusted Jon grew with him. "I do what I do for the honor of my family. You're the one obsessed with… with prospects."
Bronn barked a laugh. "Again with all this about honor… Peh! That's the thing holding you back, wolf boy. Just look at those highborn heirs." He waved a hand at Harrold and Mychel, who'd started up a spar of their own some ways away. "Goodly squires they are, under the virtuous guidance of goodly knights. But the way I hear it, the blonde brat there's already fathered a bastard of his own, and the lordling Redfort sounds on his way to do the same with the mule girl."
Jon frowned. "You mean Mya? Who told you that?"
"It's an open secret, Snow. Castles like this are filled with their like." Bronn's grin darkened. "You say I don't play fair, do you? Well, these people are the same. They all swear on their honor with the same hand they use to fondle their whores, and they get away with it because they're born to fancy titles." When he looked back at Jon, his face was so unnervingly calculating that for a moment the boy forgot about the pain in his nose. "Men like you and I are the exception, Snow. Lowborn folk who've found the ability to rise in this world. But ability alone isn't enough. If we're to make it to their noble stage we also need to learn how to do things their way. We need to learn winning's all that matters, and honor is just a word lords use to make everyone forget about the dirt under their nails. There's no real meaning in it."
By now Jon was standing and readying to leave. He didn't need to play audience to someone like this. "Honor's only meaningless to those who do not have it."
"Then it should be meaningless to all of us. Unlike you, I'm sharp enough to see that." Bronn retained his dark grin even as he held the sword out to Jon handle-first. "You'll see it too, one day. Until then just keep your head down, for your own good if nothing else."
Jon grimaced as he took back the blunted blade, feeling befouled by even this brief contact with the man. He didn't want to let Bronn have the last word, but before he could form a response they both heard a commotion.
Most of the training had ceased by the time Jon turned to see. Excited whispers traveled through the mulling crowd, and then those whispers turned to loud rabble. Incomprehensible as it was, Jon still managed to make out one important string of words: Lord Ned Stark.
"It sounds like there's been news," Bronn said lightly.
Ignoring him, Jon scanned the crowd until he eventually found a recognizable face. Ser Rodrik Cassel stood there at the entryway, his wrinkled face grim, speaking sternly with the men around him. The knight seemed to sense Jon's prying look, for he soon looked up to meet it, and when he did the grimness only deepened.
"Let me rephrase," Bronn said, and now his utter carelessness clashed harshly with Jon's growing apprehension. "It sounds like there's been bad news."
Jon strode into the castle's sept, a long building of snow-white stone and walls lined with rows of tall, stained glass windows. Light seeped through them and cast the room in a kaleidoscope of colors so the figures of the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, and all the other faces of the Seven new gods themselves illuminated the men and women kneeling at their pews.
Lady Catelyn prayed under one such image. She knelt with hands clasped and a candle burning before her, its smoke swirling before the window where a beautiful girl in green and blue looked down with unblinking pity. The Maiden, Jon noticed, though the knowledge entered his mind like a stone falling into a raging river, unable to leave so much as a ripple.
"Is it true?" he asked, nearly shouting as he reached the woman.
The other penitents in the sept turned at the noise, confused or irritated, but when Catelyn glanced over her shoulder at him it was with a raised, imperious brow. She looked pale and frayed as if she'd had no sleep, but still her eyes pierced down proudly.
"Jon Snow. You forget yourself."
True enough, but Jon's mind was too frayed to properly register her words. Lips already open to make the same mistake, he was lucky that Ser Rodrik strode in behind him and put a tight hand on his arm.
"Calm!" Rodrik said. "Calm yourself, boy! There's no use in you losing all your wits!"
Jon turned his glare on the knight and was met with a hard and monochrome glare not unlike the Eyrie's white walls, aged wrinkles like the cracks along the stones that surrounded them. It was the same look Jon had seen so often on the training pitch, especially early on before he and Robb had learned not to play games as the man taught them. To practice the blade was a serious matter, one of life and death. It was no child's trifle. This face had been designed to impress that clearly upon them.
Regaining control, Jon held his breath, counted the seconds in his head, then let it out with deliberate purpose. When he next spoke, he did so in a quiet voice that seemed still too loud in the vastness of the room. "I… I'm sorry." He turned a shamed face to Catelyn and forced himself to bow. "Forgive me, my lady…"
She retained her reproving look a moment longer, then sighed. "I suppose the whole castle must have heard about it now."
"Then… the rumors are true?"
"I'm afraid so. The king is dead and Lord Stark has been jailed, charged with treason. A lie, of course," she added, seeing Jon bristle. "A lie, but a necessary one for the Lannisters. They seek to destroy us. Lord Tywin has called on his armies, and in the meantime he's sent a company of brutes to make trouble across the riverlands. It's come to war."
Just as Tyrion had predicted. Jon felt a buzzing in his ears, felt his chest constricting. War, and his father caught in the middle of it. Worse, Arya and Sansa caught in the middle of it. What of the household, the guards they'd sent along with the king's party? All dead, or so the rumors told it. Gods, how had everything crumbled so quickly?
"I… I can go to the capital at once," Jon mumbled, hand coming to rest on his belt, fidgeting with the handle of his bastard sword, then his ranger's sword, then his bastard sword again. All the while he glanced this way and that, glanced up at the windows and down at the septons in their pews, glanced at all the lit and unlit candles, so lost that he didn't even know what he was looking for. "Let me… Let me ride down… I can… I can…"
"Don't be daft. Prince Joffrey's taken the crown, and so he's taken the kingdoms. One boy can't do anything against the might of the Iron Throne." Catelyn shook her head, lips set in a thin line. "My husband serves the Lannisters better as a hostage than a corpse, as do my daughters. It won't… It won't be easy on them, but their lives should be secure for now. We can take comfort in that at least."
"Are we to do nothing, then?"
"You are to do nothing," Catelyn stressed. "Even I am to do nothing for now. We must wait for our own army to fight back."
"Our army…"
Rodrik nodded, grunting approvingly. "Lord Robb has called on his father's bannermen. We'll face the Lannisters with the full might of the north."
Robb, a boy Jon's own age, marching south at the head of an army? The same Robb he'd parred with wooden blades just a few months ago, who'd been anxious at the thought of sentencing a beaten criminal? The buzzing in Jon's ears grew louder, the sheer size of it all like air filling his skull. He had to sit on the nearest pew, settling on the wood with a heavy thud just before his knees failed him. "Will the Vale stand with us?"
Catelyn gauged him then, and Jon thought he might have overstepped. It was one thing to come to her in a passion and worry over his father, but it was quite another to ask for details about war plans he had no right to know. Still, to his surprise, she settled into the pew beside him, though at an arm's length. Rodrik followed suit, and soon the three were hunched in conspiring whispers.
"My sister will see the wisdom in bolstering our numbers," Catelyn said. "The Lannisters are her enemy as much as ours, and she'll want to avenge her late husband. If she orders her men ready quickly enough, we may meet Robb as he marches south along Moat Cailin."
Grunting, Rodrik crossed his arms. "Ser Brynden is duty-bound to come also if we're fighting in his homeland. A capable commander."
"What about the other great houses?" Jon asked. "The north can't win against them all, can it?"
Catelyn tutted. "No, but the realm might splinter further than even this. King Robert's brother Stannis may think himself more equipped to rule than his nephew, and neither the Tyrells nor the Dornish have any great love for the royal family. If our forces can secure Riverrun and meet Tywin with the combined strength of Stark, Tully, and Arryn, the others may think us a safer bet than the Lannisters. If nothing else they may think it more advantageous to simply stay out of the fight."
In other words, the war might not only be waged to rescue Ned and the girls; it may also depose the current rulers of the kingdom. This was Robert's Rebellion all over again, except now it wouldn't be mere stories Jon heard by the fireplace during supper time.
Again he felt overwhelmed by the magnitude of what he was hearing. Catelyn seemed ready for it, face tight as if preparing some reprimand, but Jon wouldn't let himself lose control again. He set his jaw and pushed away the implications, pushed away the feeling of the earth churning below him. Where would he be most useful?
"If Robb's leading an army, it'll be dangerous. He needs help." Jon looked intently up at Catelyn, meeting her waiting gaze as sternly as he could. "I'll watch his back in battle. I'll make sure your son comes safely out of the fighting, and we'll save our family together. I swear it."
She held his eyes for a long moment before offering a curt nod. "I am glad to hear it."
From the corner of his eye Jon could see Rodrik looking at him with a glint of pride, but he refused to acknowledge it. There was nothing praiseworthy here. This was the obvious decision, was it not? Catelyn was right that he could offer nothing to Ned and the girls in King's Landing, surrounded as they were by a whole city full of enemies. The best thing to do was make sure Robb stayed alive long enough for their forces to march in and rescue them together.
But soon as the day of war would come, Jon was still cognizant of one loose end. "What about Tyrion? Could we trade him as a hostage for one of the girls at least?"
Rodrik nodded with a grunt. "With enough pressure, yes." He glanced at Catelyn. "You were wise to capture him, my lady. It gives us a good amount of leverage before we clash with steel."
It was convenient, Jon thought. Suspiciously so.
"Tyrion… believes he's being framed," Jon found himself saying. "I know he might just want to hide his guilt, but… I think I believe him. I think we may have been manipulated by someone else."
Catelyn blinked at him, clearly surprised. Jon didn't blame her—he was just as surprised at himself for bringing it up. But it felt now like something he should say, if only because she now seemed to trust him to some degree, and when else might they be alone like this with only Rodrik to listen?
"Lord Baelish is the one who told me the Imp was responsible," Catelyn said lightly. "Are you implying that Lord Baelish, my friend since childhood, has betrayed me?"
"I'm saying… Well, don't you find it strange that Tyrion would go to the Wall, have an assassin sent to Winterfell, then come back to the scene of his crime when surely he'd be a suspect? What reason would he have had to want Bran murdered in the first place?" All his doubts and worries flooded out of his mind ant onto his lips like water from an unclogged gutter. "I don't mean to accuse anybody. It's just… There's something wrong with this. With all of this, Tyrion and what's happening with Lord Stark, and even Lord Arryn's death. Don't you think so too, my lady?"
Surprise turning into caution, Catelyn shared a glance with Rodrik. "I have thought it," she said, "as has my lord husband. He was already engaged in his own investigation when we reached the capital, and it's likely he's been imprisoned because he learned something he shouldn't have."
Something hit Jon then. He swallowed, tongue growing heavy and veins cooling to ice. Already he felt Catelyn straining to continue entertaining him, could almost see the thread of trust between them—so new and feeble as it was—on the point of snapping. But he had to know, and so with a shaky breath he pulled on it further. "My lady… Did you really believe in Tyrion's guilt when you took him, or was that just an excuse to gain a hostage for when Lord Stark got in trouble with the Lannisters?"
Ser Rodrik bristled, almost leaping from his place at the pew behind them. "Hold now, Jon—"
Catelyn held up a hand, stopping him. "It's alright, ser." She turned to Jon, and now her posture returned, whatever discomfort she felt hidden behind an air of cool indifference. It was the same look she had given him for years at Winterfell, put on as easily as an old, familiar glove. "Guilty or not, the Imp will serve the same purpose in the end. Do my intentions really matter now?"
She didn't seem angry at him, but Jon was still perturbed by her quizzical gaze. It was the look a gardener gave her flowers when she noticed their petals begin to wilt.
"If you truly thought him guilty then our cause here is just," Jon said, vexed himself. "But if he was always just a pawn, an innocent man taken against his will and thrown to rot in a jail cell… It's no different than what the Lannisters are doing now to Lord Stark. We should have more honor than that."
"Honor?" Catelyn tested the word, as if she hadn't heard it in some time and needed practice in its use. Then she smiled wanly. "Oh, you foolish boy. My husband's taught you what you're now saying to me, I'd bet. You certainly repeat it with equal conviction."
"Shouldn't I?"
Catelyn's smile turned pitying. "You should not. Eddard Stark is the Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and now Hand of the King even behind bars. A man like him can afford to hold such fanciful ideals because he has the power to realize them." She shook her head at him, and her eyes locked briefly on his. "Things aren't so simple for the rest of us. This world… It is far too cruel, and the loss it can inflict is far too great. Survival matters above all else." Looking up, Catelyn stared at the Maiden's visage, eyes trailing its glassy details, face flushed with the green and brown of reflected light. "Honor should be nothing more than your responsibility to others. To your kin, your house, your lord. What use is honor if it can't help you do your duty to those you love?"
Jon looked down at his hands. What Catelyn said made sense. It was pragmatic. Realistic. What honor could he have shown in the face of the mountain clansmen they'd battled, the men and women he'd killed in self-defense? What good would honor have done that poor boy from all those weeks ago, who'd lost everything to wildling raiders? Kale, an honorable brother of the Night's Watch, had benefited nothing from it when Edwen's arrow found its way through his heart. Again and again Jon saw honorless killers get their way, and again and again he saw the only way to stop them was to do to them what they hoped to do to others. Was that not a kind of honor, the kind that actually worked? Was it not better to be victorious and safe than righteous and dead?
It is, Jon knew. But it also sounded far too close to the things Bronn had said. Merely thinking of that revolting man in the same breath he considered Catelyn's words unsettled him more than anything either had actually said.
The sound of rapid footsteps distracted him, and his eyes went to the entrance to the sept. There a servant girl came in and, after bowing to the septon, strode briskly towards them, shoes clapping loudly over the reverent silence. She stopped by their pew, hands clasped before her, and cast her eyes down to the floor as she spoke.
"My lady, Lord Arryn has called for you. He and Lady Lysa await you at the great hall."
Jaw set, Catelyn stared blandly up at her, and Jon thought he could understand her annoyance. It wasn't every day a lady of her stature was summoned like some washerwoman. "I see. Of course, I'll see Lady Lysa as soon as I finish my prayers."
The servant girl fidgeted. "Lady Arryn insists you come at once, to hear the Lannister confess for his crimes."
"Confess?" Jon muttered.
"Lady Arryn wishes all in the castle to see the Lannister punished." The girl glanced up at Catelyn. "And she wishes to have you by her side, my lady."
Jon stared at Catelyn along with Rodrik and the servant. Surely she realized Tyrion must have some hidden plot, but surely she also realized whatever it was didn't matter because even this feint had been enough to collapse all her plans for him. If he confessed now it was all but accepting his own death, and with his death Catelyn would lose her hostage, thereby losing all her reason for being here and struggling through all these weeks. The blow was as directed as any that could be dealt with a sword.
"It seems I've no choice but to go," Catelyn finally said, glancing sideways at them. "Ser Rodrik… Jon… Let us hear what the Imp has to say."
They rose and left the tranquil stillness of the sept, passing other servants who now stepped in to give the same news to their own masters. As they went the whole castle thudded and clattered, men and women striding through the halls toward the same destination, their chatter filling the stone and chill air with new life.
Jon felt their energy, anxious, curious, but excited most of all. It came off them in waves. But walking behind Lady Catelyn, he saw by the terseness of her shoulders and the stiff way her heels clapped on the floor that she only dreaded what was to come. Jon realized then that the gods did not grant her any more assurances than anyone else, and though she hid it well this fact was not lost on her. Why else would he have found her here, kneeling before these divine images, praying for their help?
When they got there, Jon saw the high hall filled with practically every important person in the castle. Every important person in the Vale, really, all circling the room and giving the Moon Door at the center a wide berth despite its being closed. Lord Nestor Royce and his heir idled at the front with impatient faces, Ser Lyn Corbray and his squire Mychel stood with arms crossed over their leather tunics, Lady Waynwood took up a whole bulk of room with a circle of sons, even Ser Willis Wode leaned against a pillar and nodded at him when he caught his eye. Sigils abounded; a broken lance, a green viper, a burning tower, a winged chalice, enough that Jon couldn't recognize most. Even Bronn was there, though just the sight of him threatened to worsen Jon's mood even further, so the boy made sure to look away before his wandering eyes were noticed.
Lady Lysa and her son sat at their thrones the same as when Jon had first seen them. There was something impish about both of them, the young Robin practically bouncing off his seat and the lady smirking down at all of them like a kennelmaster about to feed her hounds. When she saw her sister marching closer she beaconed, brow pulling up with smug pleasure.
"She looks far too happy about this," Catelyn sighed. She then looked back at Jon and Rodrik, making them stop, the order not needing to be voiced.
Rodrik gave a short bow of his head, then went to join Ser Willis by the pillars. Jon watched him walk away, then turned to see Catelyn already climbing to take her place beside Lady Lysa, and in an awkward moment looked about for some familiar face.
Mya found him soon enough. She caught his eye from the back of the crowd, smiled, and tugged at him with her head insistently enough that he found his feet taking him to her almost without intention. "Fancy seeing you here," she said when he came near.
"Same to you." They had to lean close to hear each other without shouting over the mingling around them. "Where have you been all day?"
"Taking Lord Royce and little Albar up the mountain. Wouldn't do for them to miss such a momentous occasion."
Jon raised a brow, looking over at the grown man beside Lord Nestor with thick beard hair covering the sides of his face. "You call that little Albar?"
"Compared to his father? Aye. But don't tell him I said that."
The smile came naturally. Recently, Mya was the only one who ever managed to draw one out of him. Jon turned it on her, some whispered remark on his lips, but then he saw her eyes had found Mychel Redfort across the room. He saw too that her eyes had found the young lady who now giggled by the squire's side, whispering some sweet thing into his ear just as Jon had been about to do.
Mya's face remained good-humored, but judging by the tightness around her mouth it took some effort. When she glanced back at Jon her eyes crinkled, and she would have fooled him if not for how familiar he himself had become with the art of hiding hurt feelings. The pain in her pricked at him as if she had stabbed him with a nail.
"Why not go stand with him?" Jon asked softly. "Nothing is holding you here."
"Mychel's been clear that we shouldn't be seen together in public." Mya said, her grin sideways and valiant. "The rumors are bad enough already."
She sounded far too resigned. How long had it been like this between her and her supposed husband-to-be? Jon had met the man and not been greatly impressed as it was. He'd thought Mya deluded about the situation, maybe even conniving about it, but maybe she was just desperate. It wasn't like she could be returned to her maidenhood.
Mychel's an ass, Jon wanted to say. He took something he didn't deserve. But hearing that wouldn't make her feel any better, would it? Mychel had taken her and now had her honor in the palm of his hand. She'd been so confident during the climb, so sure of her future, but now she looked as lost and powerless as him. We are the same in that and more. Cast adrift by the same spoiled blood.
Mya read the resentment on his face. "It's alright," she said, moved enough by his pity for her voice to hitch. "Remember what I told you, Jon. I'll hold to my trust in him. In our love. In the gods…"
But even as she said it Jon could hear the tiredness in her voice. How long had she held to that trust, he wondered? How much energy had she expended hoping she hadn't made a mistake, that her life wasn't ruined, that her loyalty would be rewarded?
The chatter rose around them, and Jon looked with Mya over the heads of those in front of them to see Ser Vardis and a set of guards walking into the hall, hands resting lightly on the pommels of their swords. Between them, his gait at once limping from some injury and bounding from the effort of staying beside such larger men, walked Tyrion.
The dwarf was bound and bruised, face caked with blots of purple and an angry red Jon at once knew had only just stopped bleeding. He's been tortured, he thought, mind emptying at the sheer audacity of it, but then he saw the pride in Tyrion's stance as the coming party stopped at the center of the room. That wasn't the look of a man pressed out of his wits.
The hall quieted now, all eyes on the dwarf, expectant. As if he would play them all a song, Jon thought idly, and with a glance he even noticed Marillion the singer among the audience, staring just as intently as everyone else.
Lady Catelyn was the first to speak. "You wish to confess your crimes, we are told."
Tyrion offered a bow only barely bordering on respectful. "I do, my lady."
Lady Lysa's smile widened. "The sky cells always break them. The gods can see them there, and there is no darkness to hide in."
"He does not look broken to me," Catelyn said warily, and Jon noticed the smile pulling at Tyrion's damaged face.
If Lysa heard her sister she didn't show it. "Say what you will, Imp. We are all waiting to see justice done."
Tyrion straightened, shoulders back and eyes glancing carefully around the room. He eventually met Jon's gaze, pausing for only a moment, then returned to Lysa with a compliant smile. "Where to begin? I am a vile little man, I confess it. My crimes and sins are beyond counting, my lords and ladies."
His voice, rough and reedy from disuse in a week of confinement, steadily gained strength. It soon rang clear in the silence of the hall, reaching all there as well as from any mummer. And the more they stared the more confident Tyrion became.
"I have lain with whores, not once but hundreds of times," he said, and someone in the crowd chuckled. "I have not always treated my servants with kindness. I have gambled. I have cheated. I have pissed on the wall of every castle I've ever visited, including this one." That drew outright laughter. "Once I—"
"Silence!" Lady Lysa's pale round face had turned a burning pink. "What do you imagine you are doing, dwarf?"
Tyrion cocked his head to one side. "Why, confessing my crimes, my lady."
Lady Catelyn took a step forward. "You are accused of sending a hired knife to slay my son Bran in his bed, and of conspiring to murder Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King."
Tyrion gave a helpless shrug. "Ah, that. I'm afraid there's been something of a misunderstanding, then. I know nothing of murders, and so cannot confess to them."
Lady Lysa rose from her weirwood throne. "I will not be mocked!" She glared around the room, eyes jumping from one spectator to the next until no laughter remained. When she looked back at Tyrion, her voice seethed. "You have had your little jape, Imp. I trust you enjoyed it. Ser Vardis, take him back to the dungeon, but this time find him a smaller cell with a floor more sharply sloped."
Ser Vardis stepped forward, but then Tyrion shouted, voice roaring like a lion. "Is this how justice is done in the Vale?! Does honor stop at the Bloody Gate?! You accuse me of crimes, I deny them, so you throw me into an open cell to freeze and starve?!" Now it was his turn to glare at them all, twisting on his heel and lifting his chin so they could all see the bruises on his face. Had those been no accident? "Where is the king's justice? Is the Eyrie not part of the Seven Kingdoms? I stand accused, you say. Very well. I demand a trial! Let me speak, and let my truth or falsehood be judged openly in the sight of gods and men!"
A low murmuring filled the hall. There it is, Jon thought, glancing around at all the people now grumbling and whispering to each other, more than a few looking chastened. First Tyrion had challenged their honor, then drawn their sympathy, then reminded them of his rights as a highborn lord of the realm. Catelyn herself looked the most chagrined of all, her own prisoner scolding her like some disapproving septa.
The lords and ladies in the hall could not deny Tyrion now that he'd put the injustice of his treatment out in the open. Being highborn themselves, it wasn't unimaginable they might one day be hostage to some enemy, and when that day came it wouldn't do for it to be known the noble houses of the Vale had so readily discarded the laws of the realm. Even the guardsmen flanking Tyrion sensed this, their sky-blue cloaks frozen with indecision as they looked first to Ser Vardis and then to Lady Lysa, waiting for orders.
The lady's small mouth twitched in a petulant smile. "If you are tried and found guilty of the crimes for which you stand accused, then by the king's own laws you must pay with your life. I do hope you've thought this through, Imp. Don't forget we keep no headsman at the Eyrie."
She glanced down at the Moon Door and everyone followed her gaze, all picturing it as it had been a week prior, an open portal to certain death. Jon saw some sweat slip down Tyrion's temple, but after a pause the dwarf nodded.
"He could grow little wings!" Robin said, laughing and clapping his hands.
Shaking her head, Catelyn leaned close to her sister. "Lysa, I think this unwise."
Again Lysa ignored her. "You want a trial, my lord of Lannister. Very well, a trial you shall have. My son will listen to whatever you care to say, and you shall hear his judgment. Then you may leave… by one door or the other."
Jon paled at that, and with some horror looked at the smiling Lord Robin. It was startling to think of how many men that boy of hers must have sentenced to die. He'd seen his share of executions, but beheadings were quick and relatively painless. What point was there in sentencing someone to the terror of falling such a height, of flailing desperately in the air, of landing and suffering all those breaking bones in their last instant of life?
"I thank you, my good lady, but I see no need to trouble Lord Robin," Tyrion said, his own face rather pale. "The gods know the truth of my innocence, so I will have their verdict rather than the judgment of men. I demand trial by combat."
A storm of sudden laughter filled the High Hall of the Arryns. Lord Nestor Royce snorted, Ser Willis chuckled, Ser Lyn Corbray guffawed, and others threw back their heads and howled until tears ran down their faces. Only Jon didn't laugh, because finally the totality of Tyrion's plan became plain to him, and in a second he saw its greatest flaw. Tyrion, you brilliant fool…
Lady Lysa also stopped short of laughing, looking wary for the first time. "You have that right, to be sure."
A young knight with the green viper embroidered on his surcoat stepped forward and went to one knee. "My lady, I beg the boon of championing your cause."
"The honor should be mine," said another. "For the love I bore your lord husband, let me avenge his death!"
"My father served Lord Jon faithfully as High Steward of the Vale!" Ser Albar Royce boomed. "Let me serve his son in this."
"The gods favor the man with the just cause," said Ser Lyn Corbray, "yet often that turns out to be the man with the surest sword. We all know who that is."
A dozen other men all spoke at once, clamoring to be heard, but Jon didn't pay much attention to them. Instead he looked at Catelyn, who frowned at them all with clear discontent, then at Tyrion who seemed on the edge of losing his nerve. Mya bumped him, and when Jon turned to her he saw her bemused smile. "Will you not offer your sword?"
She said it lightly, but Jon shook his head with a clenched jaw. "Not for this."
Lady Lysa raised a hand for silence. "I thank you, my lords. No men in the Seven Kingdoms are as bold and true as the knights of the Vale. Would that I could grant you all this honor, yet I can choose only one." She gestured. "Ser Vardis Egen, you were ever my lord husband's good right hand. You shall be our champion."
Ser Vardis had been singularly silent. "My lady," he said gravely, sinking to one knee. "Pray, give this burden to another. I have no taste for it. The man is no warrior. Look at him, a dwarf half my size and lame in the legs. It would be shameful to slaughter such a man and call it justice."
Jon raised a brow, surprised to find among these men one with some good sense. Tyrion seemed just as happy. "I agree," he said, wry smile returning.
Lysa glared at the dwarf. "You demanded a trial by combat."
"And now I demand a champion, such as you have chosen for yourself. My brother Jaime can take my part."
"Your precious kingslayer is hundreds of leagues from here!" Lysa snapped.
"Send a bird for him. I will gladly await his arrival."
"You will face Ser Vardis on the morrow."
"Singer," Tyrion said, turning to Marillion, "when you make a ballad of this, be certain you tell them how Lady Arryn denied the dwarf his right to a champion, and sent him forth lame and bruised and hobbling to face her finest knight."
"I deny you nothing!" Lysa shouted. "Fine! Name your champion, Imp. If you think you can find a man to die for you."
Tyrion looked over the long hall. "Well? Is there anyone brave enough to fight for me? I'll make it worth your while."
No one moved, and Jon closed his eyes as the silence stretched on. This was the flaw. Tyrion was isolated, perhaps more isolated than he knew if his glances at Bronn meant anything. The sellsword remained still, leaning against a pillar with arms crossed and lips pulled into a smirk, staring back wordlessly until the point became clear. There'd be no help from him.
Tyrion stood alone at the room's center, and finally the stares made him shrink into himself as the seconds plodded on. He'd tried his best, Jon knew. This was probably the only way out for him, and the thought made Jon feel something of the despair the dwarf waded in now.
"Is there not anybody among you?" Tyrion said, wavering.
Jon remembered the first time he'd met the small man. So strong he'd seemed, and so sure of himself despite his height and ugly features. All dwarves are bastards in their father's eyes.
Yes… Now, at the man's lowest point, Tyrion reminded Jon most of himself. Withdrawn, scared, hopeless. And when their eyes finally met across the hall, Jon saw the same thing Tyrion surely must have seen in his own eyes all those months ago at Winterfell, out on that cold night away from a feast in which neither truly belonged, back when he was just a sad, lonely bastard drinking away the hurt of his exclusion. Someone in need of help. Someone in need of hope.
Someone in need of a friend.
"It's not right," Jon muttered.
Mya hummed beside him. "What's that?"
The choice was ruthlessly plain now, and Jon saw it like a doe tired from the hunt. On one side were the Starks. Winterfell. The home he'd always been kept from, but also the only one he'd ever known. Familiar. Easy. Simple.
But on the other side were truths far more simple. The truth that Tyrion was innocent and did not deserve to die. The truth that if Jon let it happen regardless then something inside him would die along with Tyrion, something far more important than any name or home or title. The truth that only a soulless man could betray his own reflection.
"It's not right to trust others before we've even learned to trust ourselves," Jon said, shaking as something bloomed in his chest, a feeling warm and expansive like sparking fire. "And there's no point trusting the world to be made right unless we act to make it so."
He stepped forward, and Mya grabbed his arm, concerned. "What are you doing?"
Jon shrugged her gently off. "Something I should have done weeks ago."
Already the people around him had taken note of him, but soon the whole room turned to see as Jon shoved his way through the crowd and stepped out into the empty space at the room's center. Tyrion blinked at him, face blank from surprise, and Jon gave only a brief nod before he looked up to Ser Rodrik's frowning face, heard Bronn's sardonic whistle, and at the dais met Lady Catelyn's searching eyes as all the while his heart beat hard enough to nearly crack his ribs. But all throughout, despite the stares and quiet mutters, despite the trembling of his own body, he felt for the first time in what felt like years that his mind was clear, and quiet, and sure.
"I'll fight for him," Jon called, and his voice did not falter. "I'll be his champion."
Thanks for reading. Don't forget to follow, favorite, review.
This is the first of three big swings I'm taking during this part of the story. The next two will come with the following two chapters, one per, so I'll look forward to seeing the reactions.
I do want this to be a story that can be read with little to no prior knowledge of ASOIAF or GoT, though naturally if I had it my way I'd have slapped the first few chapters of the first book right at the front since things sorta start from a few dozen pages in there. It's part of why I mix stuff up between the books and the show—ultimately this story should work as its own thing.
This is also part of why, as some have noticed, there hasn't been much divergence from canon. The fic is primarily about Jon's development, his transformation from a boy into a man had he made different personal choices within the chaos of the original story. Still, even now we're still pretty early into things, and already certain tidbits that seem extremely minor at the moment will eventually grow into major changes. I'm not done planting those kinds of seeds, and once we're far enough into this journey I hope everyone can appreciate the garden we've left behind, because by the end that's the ground we'll be playing on.