Brynden thought a moment, then nodded a brusque agreement.
As you say. It's the long way home, but I'm more like to get there.
I'll wait for you below. He went striding off, his cloak swirling behind him.
Catelyn exchanged a look with Ser Rodrik.
They went through the doors to the high, nervous sound of a child's giggles.
Lysa's apartments opened over a small garden, a circle of dirt and grass planted with blue flowers and ringed on all sides by tall white towers.
The builders had intended it as a godswood, but the Eyrie rested on the hard stone of the mountain, and no matter how much soil was hauled up from the Vale, they could not get a weirwood to take root here.
So the Lords of the Eyrie planted grass and scattered statuary amidst low, flowering shrubs.
It was there the two champions would meet to place their lives, and that of Tyrion Lannister, into the hands of the gods.
Lysa, freshly scrubbed and garbed in cream velvet with a rope of sapphires and moonstones around her milk-white neck, was holding court on the terrace overlooking the scene of the combat, surrounded by her knights, retainers, and lords high and low.
Most of them still hoped to wed her, bed her, and rule the Vale of Arryn by her side.
From what Catelyn had seen during her stay at the Eyrie, it was a vain hope.