Chapter 24. Moving faster.
The great hall of the Eyrie was pale, high, and cold enough to make Winterfell seem welcoming. The floor shone like ice, the walls were too clean, and the open sky beyond the Moon Door gave the room a cruelty no decoration could soften. Arthur sat low in the hall, listening to Catelyn and Lysa Arryn speak with the strained affection of sisters who shared blood, history, and far too many buried grievances.
Lysa complained. About Vale lords, about dangers, about her son's frailty, about the late Jon Arryn, about how unsafe the world had become. It was the sort of conversation that made a man miss mountain clansmen. At least they tried to kill you honestly.
Arthur's gaze drifted to Robert Arryn in his mother's arms.
The boy was far too old to be nursing and far too weak-looking to inspire confidence in the future of the Vale. Arthur glanced once, then again, mostly because the sight was strange enough to drag the eye against one's will.
A sharp gaze struck him from the side.
Ena was watching him with a half-smile that carried a clear warning.
Arthur looked away at once and sat straighter.
Unfair. He had not been staring for pleasure. He had been observing political weakness. Perfectly different. Obviously. No one would believe him, least of all Ena.
At last, Lysa tired of circling the point and ordered Ser Vardis to take Tyrion to the sky cells. Mord the jailer would keep him there. Tyrion looked back once as he was led away. His eyes met Arthur's, and there was something unreadable there, perhaps amusement, perhaps calculation, perhaps the recognition that both of them had been dragged into a game where the board belonged to other people.
He said nothing.
That night, Catelyn met her uncle Brynden Tully outside her chambers. The Blackfish was leaving in anger, his face hard and his voice low enough that not every word carried, but enough did. Westerlands men moving. Troops gathering. Villages threatened. War no longer approaching quietly, but walking in through the front gate with muddy boots.
Catelyn went after him without hesitation.
"Uncle," she said, "Ser Arthur is sworn to Lord Jason Mallister. He can be trusted. Take him back to the Riverlands with you. Riverrun will need every sword, and Winterfell will not abandon House Tully."
Brynden Tully looked Arthur over. He was past fifty, but age had not softened him. His eyes were sharp, his posture straight, and his patience clearly limited. Arthur had seen old men who survived by luck. The Blackfish did not look like one of them.
"I heard of you," Brynden said. "Tournament melee champion. Strange tactics. Effective ones."
Arthur bowed with one hand to his chest. "My lord."
"The Riverlands need men who can hold steel and keep their heads. Pack what you need. We leave at dawn."
"Yes, my lord."
When Arthur left the hall, Ena followed him.
"War again?" she asked.
Arthur looked west, though stone and mountain stood between him and the Riverlands. "Yes. And this time, it will not be as simple as killing bandits."
Ena was silent for a moment. Then she said, "Wherever you go, I go."
Arthur turned to her.
She did not look away.
"Good," he said.
At dawn, Brynden Tully led a small cavalry group out of the Eyrie. Arthur rode with what remained of the Rangers he had brought: Beland, Noli, Tevet, Horgos, and two Volunteers who had survived the fighting after the Crossroads. Ena rode beside him, bow never far from her hand. The road down from the Eyrie was as miserable as the road up, which seemed fair. A castle that dramatic should punish visitors both ways.
Three days after leaving the Eyrie, the party followed the eastern edge of the Mountains of the Moon. They numbered around twenty in all: Brynden's Tully men, Arthur's remaining Rangers, and Ena. The terrain was broken, full of jagged stone and narrow trails. Arthur kept scanning the rocks, already tired of places where enemies could appear from above. Westeros had many problems, and vertical murder was becoming one of the more annoying ones.
Arthur rode up beside Brynden. "Where do we camp tonight, my lord?"
"There is a hunter's village five miles ahead," Brynden replied. His voice was rough as gravel. "We can stop there, if the gods are not feeling clever. We must move faster. Lannister scouts may already have crossed farther than they should."
Before he finished, hoofbeats sounded around the bend ahead.
Everyone reached for weapons.
Brynden raised a hand. Two Tully riders went forward to inspect the road. A moment later, they returned with three exhausted riders in ragged clothes, farmers by the look of them. Dust covered their faces, and terror had done the rest.
"My lord!" the first man cried, nearly falling from his horse. "Lannister men. They burned the village by the Green Fork."
Brynden's expression darkened.
The message was short, but it was enough. Lannister raiders were already deep enough to burn villages along the river. That meant the war was no longer a rumor carried by ravens and angry old men. It had found smallfolk first, as war always did. Great houses argued. Villages burned. A balanced arrangement, if one was born high enough not to care.
Brynden thought quickly, then turned to Arthur. "The news must reach our lords. We split here. Take your men and ride for Seagard. Tell Lord Jason to strengthen his defenses against attack from land or sea. I will ride for Riverrun and report to Lord Hoster."
Arthur felt the weight of the order settle at once. "Understood, my lord. Take care on the road."
"You as well, Ser Arthur."
The Blackfish turned to his riders. "We take the hunting trail. Full speed."
The party divided at the fork. Arthur watched Brynden's group disappear into the trees, then turned to his own men.
"We ride for Seagard. Beland, take Tevet and scout one mile ahead. Everyone else, keep tight. We avoid Lannister banners if we can. If we cannot, we kill quickly and move."
"Yes, Captain."
Hooves struck the road again, urgent and hard. Arthur looked toward the western sky. Clouds gathered over the Riverlands, dark and heavy. The war had begun moving faster than any of them.