At the sound of that still-familiar voice, Catelyn Tully felt ti slip back twenty years to her girlhood.
Road-worn as she was, she smiled from the heart. "Uncle—you're far from ho yourself."
Brynden Tully pointed toward the fortress of the Bloody Gate. "Cat, my ho is here."
For as long as Catelyn could rember, Uncle Brynden and her father had quarreled. When she was eight they had a great row; her father called Brynden the black sheep of House Tully. Brynden only laughed and said their sigil was a leaping trout—so he must be the Blackfish, not a black sheep… and from that day he bore a black trout as his personal badge.
Their dispute had not ended even by the day she and her sister were wed. At the feast, Uncle Brynden announced to Lord Hoster that he would leave Riverrun with his niece Lysa to serve her new husband, Jon Arryn, at the Eyrie.
"Your ho is in my heart," Catelyn said softly.
Her hands tightened; her eyes did not leave him. "Uncle—take off your helm. Let look at you properly."
In the Tully household, when Father was too busy and Mother laid low by illness, it was Uncle Brynden who shared the children's joys and sorrows.
Catelyn and Lysa, Edmure and their father's fosterling Petyr Baelish—to them all, Uncle Brynden lent a patient ear, laughing at their triumphs, pitying the scrapes their childish folly brought.
"I fear I won't look the better for the years," he said—yet when he lifted the helm, she thought him a liar. Weathered he was, and ti had stolen the red-brown from his hair and left a winter's frost… but the smile was the sa, the caterpillar brows the sa, and the blue eyes still held their mirth.
"Child, this is no place for you just now."
"I am no child, Uncle."
"Little Cat—you only look grown," Ser Brynden rasped, turning toward the Gate. "What you need is a hearth and hot tea."
Catelyn sprang to saddle and followed.
The ramparts ran like white spines along either cliff; the road narrowed to scarcely four abreast. Two watchtowers clung to rock, joined by a weathered grey stone archway.
She felt unseen faces upon them from arrow slits, battlents, and bridge.
Before the thick gate, Ser Brynden reined in and called out, "In the na of Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, true Warden of the East, I grant you passage through the Bloody Gate, and bid you keep the peace in his na."
Catelyn answered, voice clear, "I, Catelyn Tully, wife to Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, pass the Bloody Gate and pledge peace in the Lady of Winterfell's na."
When she finished, a ghost of a smile touched Brynden's face. "Co."
She rode beside him; her Winterfell n fell in behind.
The Vale bathed in morning light.
Beyond the Gate's shadow, the land opened like a book. Peaks sprang sudden to every side; green field, blue sky, whitefanged summits dazzled her breath away.
A long vale stretched eastward into mist—gentle rivers through black, fat earth; lakes by the hundred gleaming like mirrors; barley, wheat, and corn heavy upon the stalk.
They rode on.
Later, in a stone house at the western mouth of the pass, Catelyn stood at a window; to the north the mountains seed near enough to touch.
Fire leapt in the hearth, warming the room.
Ser Brynden turned from the flas, smiling with his eyes. "Little Cat—you only look grown."
Her cheeks flushed at the teasing. She left the window and sat by the fire.
"The Vale is beautiful, Uncle."
"Beauty is only the skin," he rasped. "I've seen too much ugliness beneath of late."
Catelyn cupped the hot tea, blue eyes puzzled.
"You should have sent a raven first," he said. "The Vale is not at peace."
Sorrow dimd her face. "I have learned that lesson in pain. The hill tribes of the Mountains of the Moon harried us day and night. We lost six souls. I thought we were done for."
"Clansn, aye. They have grown bold since Lord Jon died."
"Did Lysa send no n?"
Ser Brynden studied her. "Cat, it seems you have not had your husband's letter."
Anger and unease warred in her eyes. "Uncle, I ca for my husband and my children. Queen Cersei is mad—she accused Ned of treason… and forced Sansa to write a confession…"
Her eyes grew wet. "To save Ned, Robb has called the banners of House Stark. The North marches south. I ca to Lysa for the Vale's horse."
She t his gaze, hardening. "Uncle, I will take my husband and daughter back from Cersei."
Brynden nodded. "Be easy. The swords of Tully and Stark will see them safe."
"I must see Lysa at once."
"Not long ago," he said slowly, "the great lords of the Vale all had letters in your husband's hand. He nad the murderer of Lord Jon Arryn…"
Catelyn's eyes flicked. "A Lannister?"
Brynden shook his head. "Your husband nad Lysa Tully as the one who poisoned Lord Jon."
Shock washed her white. She stared at him as if at a stranger.
"The letters were sent while King Robert yet lived, and Ned still dwelt in the Tower of the Hand."
"How can it be… how can it be…" she whispered, bloodless.
"It is hard to credit," he said, "but all know Ned's honor. None better than you."
"Oh, gods, why?" Her pupils widened; her lips trembled. The room reeled.
"Little Cat? Easy."
"My sister—has she gone mad? How could she do such a cruel thing? Gods… what will beco of her?"
Brynden reached out his big hand as once he had in childhood. She seized it, buried her face against his palm, and he felt the burn of her tears.
Family, Duty, Honor, he thought, and sighed.
Catelyn wore a brave face, but fear for husband and children gnawed her. Nightly terrors woke her, and now this news had broken what remained of her calm.
At length she loosed his hand and wept like a girl at his side until the weight upon her heart grew lighter.
"Lysa is safe for the mont," he said.
Catelyn sipped, abashed. "I am only tired, Uncle."
"n are iron, they need wine; won are water, and need tears," he said.
"I am no child."
"Little Cat—Ned is a good husband."
She dabbed her eyes and looked at him, puzzled.
"A good husband lets his wife keep a little of the girl in her."
Catelyn laughed despite herself. "I am mother to five."
He smiled gently. "Cat, I an to leave with you—to help take your family back from the Lannisters."
"Uncle—that is joyous news. Robb needs you…" Her voice faltered into worry. "But my sister… is the Vale so ill?"
"Most are wroth beyond words. Lord Jon was dearly loved. Lysa has done what many deem unforgivable."
Catelyn had already grasped the enormity of it—fear for Lysa only grew.
"And Lysa?"
"For now she is unhard. She claims Ned's letters were slander, a northern plot to seize the Vale. Many believe her and stand with her."
He went on, "She has driven every 'suspect' from the Eyrie and sealed its ways. She thinks the Eyrie impregnable."
"And you, Uncle?"
Worry lined his face. "I spend my days loading the winch-cage with stores. It is all an uncle can do. Not long ago the Eyrie sward with Lysa's suitors, thick as crows on a battlefield. Now… most have joined the Justiciar Alliance."
"The Justiciar Alliance?" Catelyn breathed.
"Vale lords in common cause. They vow to use whatever ans prove needful to bring Lysa to judgnt."
"You an… to raise their banners?"
"Sooner or later. The Vale's civil war can hardly be avoided now."
He added, "The Alliance does not trust —and Lysa trusts only her household knights."
"Household knights?"
"Mostly sworn swords from lesser Vale houses," he said with a helpless shrug. "They have sworn themselves to Lysa alone. Gods keep her."
Catelyn leaned back, eyes on the rafters a long while. "Uncle, my heart is uneasy. I must see Lysa quickly."
"For Ned's sake, she may not welco you."
Catelyn's voice was iron. "Ned would not slander Lysa. But I must hear her face to face. Even if there is no hope, let it be a misunderstanding."
By the asure of great keeps, the Eyrie was not large—seven slender white towers crowded together like arrows in a quiver upon a mountain's crown.
There were no stables, smithy, or kennels, yet its granaries rivaled Winterfell's, and the towers could hold five hundred n-at-arms.
Petyr Baelish ca up from the winch-cage, clothes travel-worn and askew, helped by a young page. He looked about; compared to his mories, the castle seed strangely bare.
Tap-tap-tap—his steps rang in the white stone hall.
"Petyr!"
A breathless cry—and Lysa lood, plump and flushed, hitching her skirts as she half-ran.
Petyr smiled, elegant and weary, opening his arms.
She fell into him, clinging hard. "Petyr—my Littlefinger, it is you, it isn't a dream?"
He patted her back and murmured, "It is I, my Lysa. I have you at last."
Sobbing, she said, "Your n told by raven you'd been taken to the black cells. I was so afraid—I have nightmares—I cannot bear to lose you—"
"Do not fear," he soothed. "I'm here."
His husky whisper cald her soon enough.
He pinched her plump cheek with fondness, lips quirking. "My Lysa—still such a crybaby. You never did grow up."
She colored like a maid. "I'll not cry."
She looked at him—blue eyes dim and wet, lips pale. "How did you escape?"
Petyr's eyes flickered. "My Lysa, I thought to bear the guilt alone for Jon Arryn's death, so I yielded. But even so, Eddard Stark would not spare the woman I love…"
He stroked her hair, tender. "If I chose to leave, no man could hold . When I learned rebels had risen against you in the Vale, I returned. I'll guard you always, my Lysa."
"Petyr…" She wept anew, overco.
"Forgive ," she whispered, abject. "You loved so, yet I doubted you. I was afraid—of everyone. I live in fear day and night. Forgive —please…"
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