The ringing clash of steel on steel jarred Catelyn back to the present.
Ser Vardis was coming hard at Bronn, driving into him with shield and sword.
The sellsword scrambled backward, checking each blow, stepping lithely over rock and root, his eyes never leaving his foe.
He was quicker, Catelyn saw; the knight's silvered sword never came near to touching him, but his own ugly grey blade hacked a notch from Ser Vardis's shoulder plate.
The brief flurry of fighting ended as swiftly as it had begun when Bronn sidestepped and slid behind the statue of the weeping woman.
Ser Vardis lunged at where he had been, striking a spark off the pale marble of Alyssa's thigh.
They're not fighting good, Mother, the Lord of the Eyrie complained. I want them to fight.
They will, sweet baby, his mother soothed him.
The sellsword can't run all day.
Some of the lords on Lysa's terrace were making wry jests as they refilled their wine cups, but across the garden, Tyrion Lannister's mismatched eyes watched the champions dance as if there were nothing else in the world.
Bronn came out from behind the statue hard and fast, still moving left, aiming a two-handed cut at the knight's unshielded right side.
Ser Vardis blocked, but clumsily, and the sellsword's blade flashed upward at his head.
Metal rang, and a falcon's wing collapsed with a crunch.
Ser Vardis took a half step back to brace himself, raised his shield.
Oak chips flew as Bronn's sword hacked at the wooden wall.
The sellsword stepped left again, away from the shield, and caught Ser Vardis across the stomach, the razor edge of his blade leaving a bright gash when it bit into the knight's plate.