When the last echo had died away, the septon lowered his crystal and made a hasty departure. Tyrion leaned over and whispered something in Bronn's ear before the guardsmen led him away.
The sellsword rose laughing and brushed a blade of grass from his knee.
Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale, was fidgeting impatiently in his elevated chair.
When are they going to fight? he asked plaintively.
Ser Vardis was helped back to his feet by one of his squires.
The other brought him a triangular shield almost four feet tall, heavy oak dotted with iron studs.
They strapped it to his left forearm.
When Lysa's master-at-arms offered Bronn a similar shield, the sellsword spat and waved it away.
Three days growth of coarse black beard covered his jaw and cheeks, but if he did not shave it was not for want of a razor;
the edge of his sword had the dangerous glimmer of steel that had been honed every day for hours, until it was too sharp to touch.
Ser Vardis held out a gauntleted hand, and his squire placed a handsome double-edged longsword in his grasp.
The blade was engraved with a delicate silver tracery of a mountain sky;
its pommel was a falcon's head, its crossguard fashioned into the shape of wings.
I had that sword crafted for Jon in King's Landing, Lysa told her guests proudly as they watched Ser Vardis try a practice cut.
He wore it whenever he sat the Iron Throne in King Robert's place.
Isn't it a lovely thing?
I thought it only fitting that our champion avenge Jon with his own blade.