-
关注Ta
-
- 注册时间 2011-04-03
- 最后登录 2024-12-23
- 在线时间10605小时
-
- 发帖42312
- 搜Ta的帖子
- 精华1
- 派派币1435
- 威望7591
- 鲜花28006
- 鸡蛋0
- 在线时间10605 小时
-
访问空间加好友用道具
你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
|
34．CATELYN
My lady, you should have sent word of your coming,” Ser Donnel Waynwood told her as their horses climbed the pass. “We would have sent an escort. The high road is not as safe as it once was, for a party as small as yours.”
“We learned that to our sorrow, Ser Donnel,” Catelyn said. Sometimes she felt as though her heart had turned to stone; six brave men had died to bring her this far, and she could not even find it in her to weep for them. Even their names were fading. “The clansmen harried us day and night. We lost three men in the first attack, and two more in the second, and Lannister’s serving man died of a fever when his wounds festered. When we heard your men approaching, I thought us doomed for certain.” They had drawn up for a last desperate fight, blades in hand and backs to the rock. The dwarf had been whetting the edge of his axe and making some mordant jest when Bronn spotted the banner the riders carried before them, the moon-and-falcon of House Arryn, sky-blue and white. Catelyn had never seen a more welcome sight.
“The clans have grown bolder since Lord Jon died,” Ser Donnel said. He was a stocky youth of twenty years, earnest and homely, with a wide nose and a shock of thick brown hair. “If it were up to me, I would take a hundred men into the mountains, root them out of their fastnesses, and teach them some sharp lessons, but your sister has forbidden it. She would not even permit her knights to fight in the Hand’s tourney. She wants all our swords kept close to home, to defend the Vale?.?.?.?against what, no one is certain. Shadows, some say.” He looked at her anxiously, as if he had suddenly remembered who she was. “I hope I have not spoken out of turn, my lady. I meant no offense.”
“Frank talk does not offend me, Ser Donnel.” Catelyn knew what her sister feared. Not shadows, Lannisters, she thought to herself, glancing back to where the dwarf rode beside Bronn. The two of them had grown thick as thieves since Chiggen had died. The little man was more cunning than she liked. When they had entered the mountains, he had been her captive, bound and helpless. What was he now? Her captive still, yet he rode along with a dirk through his belt and an axe strapped to his saddle, wearing the shadowskin cloak he’d won dicing with the singer and the chainmail hauberk he’d taken off Chiggen’s corpse. Two score men flanked the dwarf and the rest of her ragged band, knights and men-at-arms in service to her sister Lysa and Jon Arryn’s young son, and yet Tyrion betrayed no hint of fear. Could I be wrong? Catelyn wondered, not for the first time. Could he be innocent after all, of Bran and Jon Arryn and all the rest? And if he was, what did that make her? Six men had died to bring him here.
Resolute, she pushed her doubts away. “When we reach your keep, I would take it kindly if you could send for Maester Colemon at once. Ser Rodrik is feverish from his wounds.” More than once she had feared the gallant old knight would not survive the journey. Toward the end he could scarcely sit his horse, and Bronn had urged her to leave him to his fate, but Catelyn would not hear of it. They had tied him in the saddle instead, and she had commanded Marillion the singer to watch over him.
Ser Donnel hesitated before he answered. “The Lady Lysa has commanded the maester to remain at the Eyrie at all times, to care for Lord Robert,” he said. “We have a septon at the gate who tends to our wounded. He can see to your man’s hurts.”
Catelyn had more faith in a maester’s learning than a septon’s prayers. She was about to say as much when she saw the battlements ahead, long parapets built into the very stone of the mountains on either side of them. Where the pass shrank to a narrow defile scarce wide enough for four men to ride abreast, twin watchtowers clung to the rocky slopes, joined by a covered bridge of weathered grey stone that arched above the road. Silent faces watched from arrow slits in tower, battlements, and bridge. When they had climbed almost to the top, a knight rode out to meet them. His horse and his armor were grey, but his cloak was the rippling blue-and-red of Riverrun, and a shiny black fish, wrought in gold and obsidian, pinned its folds against his shoulder. “Who would pass the Bloody Gate?” he called.
“Ser Donnel Waynwood, with the Lady Catelyn Stark and her companions,” the young knight answered.
The Knight of the Gate lifted his visor. “I thought the lady looked familiar. You are far from home, little Cat.”
“And you, Uncle,” she said, smiling despite all she had been through. Hearing that hoarse, smoky voice again took her back twenty years, to the days of her childhood.
“My home is at my back,” he said gruffly.
“Your home is in my heart,” Catelyn told him. “Take off your helm. I would look on your face again.”
“The years have not improved it, I fear,” Brynden Tully said, but when he lifted off the helm, Catelyn saw that he lied. His features were lined and weathered, and time had stolen the auburn from his hair and left him only grey, but the smile was the same, and the bushy eyebrows fat as caterpillars, and the laughter in his deep blue eyes. “Did Lysa know you were coming?”
“There was no time to send word ahead,” Catelyn told him. The others were coming up behind her. “I fear we ride before the storm, Uncle.”
“May we enter the Vale?” Ser Donnel asked. The Waynwoods were ever ones for ceremony.
“In the name of Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale, True Warden of the East, I bid you enter freely, and charge you to keep his peace,” Ser Brynden replied. “Come.”
And so she rode behind him, beneath the shadow of the Bloody Gate where a dozen armies had dashed themselves to pieces in the Age of Heroes. On the far side of the stoneworks, the mountains opened up suddenly upon a vista of green fields, blue sky, and snowcapped mountains that took her breath away. The Vale of Arryn bathed in the morning light.
It stretched before them to the misty cast, a tranquil land of rich black soil, wide slow-moving rivers, and hundreds of small lakes that shone like mirrors in the sun, protected on all sides by its sheltering peaks. Wheat and corn and barley grew high in its fields, and even in Highgarden the pumpkins were no larger nor the fruit any sweeter than here. They stood at the western end of the valley, where the high road crested the last pass and began its winding descent to the bottomlands two miles below. The Vale was narrow here, no more than a half day’s ride across, and the northern mountains seemed so close that Catelyn could almost reach out and touch them. Looming over them all was the jagged peak called the Giant’s Lance, a mountain that even mountains looked up to, its head lost in icy mists three and a half miles above the valley floor. Over its massive western shoulder flowed the ghost torrent of Alyssa’s Tears. Even from this distance, Catelyn could make out the shining silver thread, bright against the dark stone.
When her uncle saw that she had stopped, he moved his horse closer and pointed. “It’s there, beside Alyssa’s Tears. All you can see from here is a flash of white every now and then, if you look hard and the sun hits the walls just right.”
Seven towers, Ned had told her, like white daggers thrust into the belly of the sky, so high you can stand on the parapets and look down on the clouds. “How long a ride?” she asked.
“We can be at the mountain by evenfall,” Uncle Brynden said, “but the climb will take another day.”
Ser Rodrik Cassel spoke up from behind. “My lady,” he said, “I fear I can go no farther today.” His face sagged beneath his ragged, newgrown whiskers, and he looked so weary Catelyn feared he might fall off his horse.
“Nor should you,” she said. “You have done all I could have asked of you, and a hundred times more. My uncle will see me the rest of the way to the Eyrie. Lannister must come with me, but there is no reason that you and the others should not rest here and recover your strength.”
“We should be honored to have them to guest,” Ser Donnel said with the grave courtesy of the young. Beside Ser Rodrik, only Bronn, Ser Willis Wode, and Marillion the singer remained of the party that had ridden with her from the inn by the crossroads.
“My lady,” Marillion said, riding forward. “I beg you allow me to accompany you to the Eyrie, to see the end of the tale as I saw its beginnings.” The boy sounded haggard, yet strangely determined; he had a fevered shine to his eyes.
Catelyn had never asked the singer to ride with them; that choice he had made himself, and how he had come to survive the journey when so many braver men lay dead and unburied behind them, she could never say. Yet here he was, with a scruff of beard that made him look almost a man. Perhaps she owed him something for having come this far. “Very well,” she told him.
“I’ll come as well,” Bronn announced.
She liked that less well. Without Bronn she would never have reached the Vale, she knew; the sellsword was as fierce a fighter as she had ever seen, and his sword had helped cut them through to safety. Yet for all that, Catelyn misliked the man. Courage he had, and strength, but there was no kindness in him, and little loyalty. And she had seen him riding beside Lannister far too often, talking in low voices and laughing at some private joke. She would have preferred to separate him from the dwarf here and now, but having agreed that Marillion might continue to the Eyrie, she could see no gracious way to deny that same right to Bronn. “As you wish,” she said, although she noted that he had not actually asked her permission.
Ser Willis Wode remained with Ser Rodrik, a soft-spoken septon fussing over their wounds. Their horses were left behind as well, poor ragged things. Ser Donnel promised to send birds ahead to the Eyrie and the Gates of the Moon with the word of their coming. Fresh mounts were brought forth from the stables, surefooted mountain stock with shaggy coats, and within the hour they set forth once again. Catelyn rode beside her uncle as they began the descent to the valley floor. Behind came Bronn, Tyrion Lannister, Marillion, and six of Brynden’s men.
Not until they were a third of the way down the mountain path, well out of earshot of the others, did Brynden Tully turn to her and say, “So, child. Tell me about this storm of yours.”
“I have not been a child in many years, Uncle,” Catelyn said, but she told him nonetheless. It took longer than she would have believed to tell it all, Lysa’s letter and Bran’s fall, the assassin’s dagger and Littlefinger and her chance meeting with Tyrion Lannister in the crossroads inn.
Her uncle listened silently, heavy brows shadowing his eyes as his frown grew deeper. Brynden Tully had always known how to listen?.?.?.?to anyone but her father. He was Lord Hoster’s brother, younger by five years, but the two of them had been at war as far back as Catelyn could remember. During one of their louder quarrels, when Catelyn was eight, Lord Hoster had called Brynden “the black goat of the Tully flock.” Laughing, Brynden had pointed out that the sigil of their house was a leaping trout, so he ought to be a black fish rather than a black goat, and from that day forward he had taken it as his personal emblem.
The war had not ended until the day she and Lysa had been wed. It was at their wedding feast that Brynden told his brother he was leaving Riverrun to serve Lysa and her new husband, the Lord of the Eyrie. Lord Hoster had not spoken his brother’s name since, from what Edmure told her in his infrequent letters.
Nonetheless, during all those years of Catelyn’s girlhood, it had been Brynden the Blackfish to whom Lord Hoster’s children had run with their tears and their tales, when Father was too busy and Mother too ill. Catelyn, Lysa, Edmure?.?.?.?and yes, even Petyr Baelish, their father’s ward?.?.?.?he had listened to them all patiently, as he listened now, laughing at their triumphs and sympathizing with their childish misfortunes.
When she was done, her uncle remained silent for a long time, as his horse negotiated the steep, rocky trail. “Your father must be told,” he said at last. “If the Lannisters should march, Winterfell is remote and the Vale walled up behind its mountains, but Riverrun lies right in their path.”
“I’d had the same fear,” Catelyn admitted. “I shall ask Maester Colemon to send a bird when we reach the Eyrie.” She had other messages to send as well; the commands that Ned had given her for his bannermen, to ready the defenses of the north. “What is the mood in the Vale?” she asked.
“Angry,” Brynden Tully admitted. “Lord Jon was much loved, and the insult was keenly felt when the king named Jaime Lannister to an office the Arryns had held for near three hundred years. Lysa has commanded us to call her son the True Warden of the East, but no one is fooled. Nor is your sister alone in wondering at the manner of the Hand’s death. None dare say Jon was murdered, not openly, but suspicion casts a long shadow.” He gave Catelyn a look, his mouth tight. “And there is the boy.”
“The boy? What of him?” She ducked her head as they passed under a low overhang of rock, and around a sharp turn.
Her uncle’s voice was troubled. “Lord Robert,” he sighed. “Six years old, sickly, and prone to weep if you take his dolls away. Jon Arryn’s trueborn heir, by all the gods, yet there are some who say he is too weak to sit his father’s seat, Nestor Royce has been high steward these past fourteen years, while Lord Jon served in King’s Landing, and many whisper that he should rule until the boy comes of age. Others believe that Lysa must marry again, and soon. Already the suitors gather like crows on a battlefield. The Eyrie is full of them.”
“I might have expected that,” Catelyn said. Small wonder there; Lysa was still young, and the kingdom of Mountain and Vale made a handsome wedding gift. “Will Lysa take another husband?”
“She says yes, provided she finds a man who suits her,” Brynden Tully said, “but she has already rejected Lord Nestor and a dozen other suitable men. She swears that this time she will choose her lord husband.”
“You of all people can scarce fault her for that.”
Ser Brynden snorted. “Nor do I, but?.?.?.?it seems to me Lysa is only playing at courtship. She enjoys the sport, but I believe your sister intends to rule herself until her boy is old enough to be Lord of the Eyrie in truth as well as name.”
“A woman can rule as wisely as a man,” Catelyn said.
“The right woman can,” her uncle said with a sideways glance. “Make no mistake, Cat. Lysa is not you.” He hesitated a moment. “If truth be told, I fear you may not find your sister as helpful as you would like.”
She was puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“The Lysa who came back from King’s Landing is not the same girl who went south when her husband was named Hand. Those years were hard for her. You must know. Lord Arryn was a dutiful husband, but their marriage was made from politics, not passion.”
“As was my own.”
“They began the same, but your ending has been happier than your sister’s. Two babes stillborn, twice as many miscarriages, Lord Arryn’s death?.?.?.?Catelyn, the gods gave Lysa only the one child, and he is all your sister lives for now, poor boy. Small wonder she fled rather than see him handed over to the Lannisters. Your sister is afraid, child, and the Lannisters are what she fears most. She ran to the Vale, stealing away from the Red Keep like a thief in the night, and all to snatch her son out of the lion’s mouth?.?.?.?and now you have brought the lion to her door.”
“In chains,” Catelyn said. A crevasse yawned on her right, falling away into darkness. She reined up her horse and picked her way along step by careful step.
“Oh?” Her uncle glanced back, to where Tyrion Lannister was making his slow descent behind them. “I see an axe on his saddle, a dirk at his belt, and a sellsword that trails after him like a hungry shadow. Where are the chains, sweet one?”
Catelyn shifted uneasily in her seat. “The dwarf is here, and not by choice. Chains or no, he is my prisoner. Lysa will want him to answer for his crimes no less than I. It was her own lord husband the Lannisters murdered, and her own letter that first warned us against them.”
Brynden Blackfish gave her a weary smile. “I hope you are right, child,” he sighed, in tones that said she was wrong.
The sun was well to the west by the time the slope began to flatten beneath the hooves of their horses. The road widened and grew straight, and for the first time Catelyn noticed wildflowers and grasses growing. Once they reached the valley floor, the going was faster and they made good time, cantering through verdant greenwoods and sleepy little hamlets, past orchards and golden wheat fields, splashing across a dozen sunlit streams. Her uncle sent a standard-bearer ahead of them, a double banner flying from his staff; the moon-and-falcon of House Arryn on high, and below it his own black fish. Farm wagons and merchants’ carts and riders from lesser houses moved aside to let them pass.
Even so, it was full dark before they reached the stout castle that stood at the foot of the Giant’s Lance. Torches flickered atop its ramparts, and the horned moon danced upon the dark waters of its moat. The drawbridge was up and the portcullis down, but Catelyn saw lights burning in the gatehouse and spilling from the windows of the square towers beyond.
“The Gates of the Moon,” her uncle said as the party drew rein. His standard-bearer rode to the edge of the moat to hail the men in the gatehouse. “Lord Nestor’s seat. He should be expecting us. Look up.”
Catelyn raised her eyes, up and up and up. At first all she saw was stone and trees, the looming mass of the great mountain shrouded in night, as black as a starless sky. Then she noticed the glow of distant fires well above them; a tower keep, built upon the steep side of the mountain, its lights like orange eyes staring down from above. Above that was another, higher and more distant, and still higher a third, no more than a flickering spark in the sky. And finally, up where the falcons soared, a flash of white in the moonlight. Vertigo washed over her as she stared upward at the pale towers, so far above.
“The Eyrie,” she heard Marillion murmur, awed.
The sharp voice of Tyrion Lannister broke in. “The Arryns must not be overfond of company. If you’re planning to make us climb that mountain in the dark, I’d rather you kill me here.”
“We’ll spend the night here and make the ascent on the morrow,” Brynden told him.
“I can scarcely wait,” the dwarf replied. “How do we get up there? I’ve no experience at riding goats.”
“Mules,” Brynden said, smiling.
“There are steps carved into the mountain,” Catelyn said. Ned had told her about them when he talked of his youth here with Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn.
Her uncle nodded. “It is too dark to see them, but the steps are there. Too steep and narrow for horses, but mules can manage them most of the way. The path is guarded by three waycastles, Stone and Snow and Sky. The mules will take us as far up as Sky.”
Tyrion Lannister glanced up doubtfully. “And beyond that?”
Brynden smiled. “Beyond that, the path is too steep even for mules. We ascend on foot the rest of the way. Or perchance you’d prefer to ride a basket. The Eyrie clings to the mountain directly above Sky, and in its cellars are six great winches with long iron chains to draw supplies up from below. If you prefer, my lord of Lannister, I can arrange for you to ride up with the bread and beer and apples.”
The dwarf gave a bark of laughter. “Would that I were a pumpkin,” he said. “Alas, my lord father would no doubt be most chagrined if his son of Lannister went to his fate like a load of turnips. If you ascend on foot, I fear I must do the same. We Lannisters do have a certain pride.”
“Pride?” Catelyn snapped. His mocking tone and easy manner made her angry. “Arrogance, some might call it. Arrogance and avarice and lust for power.”
“My brother is undoubtedly arrogant,” Tyrion Lannister replied. “My father is the soul of avarice, and my sweet sister Cersei lusts for power with every waking breath. I, however, am innocent as a little lamb. Shall I bleat for you?” He grinned.
The drawbridge came creaking down before she could reply, and they heard the sound of oiled chains as the portcullis was drawn up. Men-at-arms carried burning brands out to light their way, and her uncle led them across the moat. Lord Nestor Royce, High Steward of the Vale and Keeper of the Gates of the Moon, was waiting in the yard to greet them, surrounded by his knights. “Lady Stark,” he said, bowing. He was a massive, barrel-chested man, and his bow was clumsy.
Catelyn dismounted to stand before him. “Lord Nestor,” she said. She knew the man only by reputation; Bronze Yohn’s cousin, from a lesser branch of House Royce, yet still a formidable lord in his own right. “We have had a long and tiring journey. I would beg the hospitality of your roof tonight, if I might.”
“My roof is yours, my lady,” Lord Nestor returned gruffly, “but your sister the Lady Lysa has sent down word from the Eyrie. She wishes to see you at once. The rest of your party will be housed here and sent up at first light.”
Her uncle swung off his horse. “What madness is this?” he said bluntly. Brynden Tully had never been a man to blunt the edge of his words. “A night ascent, with the moon not even full? Even Lysa should know that’s an invitation to a broken neck.”
“The mules know the way, Ser Brynden.” A wiry girl of seventeen or eighteen years stepped up beside Lord Nestor. Her dark hair was cropped short and straight around her head, and she wore riding leathers and a light shirt of silvered ringmail. She bowed to Catelyn, more gracefully than her lord. “I promise you, my lady, no harm will come to you. It would be my honor to take you up. I’ve made the dark climb a hundred times. Mychel says my father must have been a goat.”
She sounded so cocky that Catelyn had to smile. “Do you have a name, child?”
“Mya Stone, if it please you, my lady,” the girl said.
It did not please her; it was an effort for Catelyn to keep the smile on her face. Stone was a bastard’s name in the Vale, as Snow was in the north, and Flowers in Highgarden; in each of the Seven Kingdoms, custom had fashioned a surname for children born with no names of their own. Catelyn had nothing against this girl, but suddenly she could not help but think of Ned’s bastard on the Wall, and the thought made her angry and guilty, both at once. She struggled to find words for a reply.
Lord Nestor filled the silence. “Mya’s a clever girl, and if she vows she will bring you safely to the Lady Lysa, I believe her. She has not failed me yet.”
“Then I put myself in your hands, Mya Stone,” Catelyn said. “Lord Nestor, I charge you to keep a close guard on my prisoner.”
“And I charge you to bring the prisoner a cup of wine and a nicely crisped capon, before he dies of hunger,” Lannister said. “A girl would be pleasant as well, but I suppose that’s too much to ask of you.” The sellsword Bronn laughed aloud.
Lord Nestor ignored the banter. “As you say, my lady, so it will be done.” Only then did he look at the dwarf. “See our lord of Lannister to a tower cell, and bring him meat and mead.”
Catelyn took her leave of her uncle and the others as Tyrion Lannister was led off, then followed the bastard girl through the castle. Two mules were waiting in the upper bailey, saddled and ready. Mya helped her mount one while a guardsman in a sky-blue cloak opened the narrow postern gate. Beyond was dense forest of pine and spruce, and the mountain like a black wall, but the steps were there, chiseled deep into the rock, ascending into the sky. “Some people find it easier if they close their eyes,” Mya said as she led the mules through the gate into the dark wood. “When they get frightened or dizzy, sometimes they hold on to the mule too tight. They don’t like that.”
“I was born a Tully and wed to a Stark,” Catelyn said. “I do not frighten easily. Do you plan to light a torch?” The steps were black as pitch.
The girl made a face. “Torches just blind you. On a clear night like this, the moon and the stars are enough. Mychel says I have the eyes of the owl.” She mounted and urged her mule up the first step. Catelyn’s animal followed of its own accord.
“You mentioned Mychel before,” Catelyn said. The mules set the pace, slow but steady. She was perfectly content with that.
“Mychel’s my love,” Mya explained. “Mychel Redfort. He’s squire to Ser Lyn Corbray. We’re to wed as soon as he becomes a knight, next year or the year after.”
She sounded so like Sansa, so happy and innocent with her dreams. Catelyn smiled, but the smile was tinged with sadness. The Redforts were an old name in the Vale, she knew, with the blood of the First Men in their veins. His love she might be, but no Redfort would ever wed a bastard. His family would arrange a more suitable match for him, to a Corbray or a Waynwood or a Royce, or perhaps a daughter of some greater house outside the Vale. If Mychel Redfort laid with this girl at all, it would be on the wrong side of the sheet.
The ascent was easier than Catelyn had dared hope. The trees pressed close, leaning over the path to make a rustling green roof that shut out even the moon, so it seemed as though they were moving up a long black tunnel. But the mules were surefooted and tireless, and Mya Stone did indeed seem blessed with night-eyes. They plodded upward, winding their way back and forth across the face of the mountain as the steps twisted and turned. A thick layer of fallen needles carpeted the path, so the shoes of their mules made only the softest sound on the rock. The quiet soothed her, and the gentle rocking motion set Catelyn to swaying in her saddle. Before long she was fighting sleep.
Perhaps she did doze for a moment, for suddenly a massive ironbound gate was looming before them. “Stone,” Mya announced cheerily, dismounting. Iron spikes were set along the tops of formidable stone walls, and two fat round towers overtopped the keep. The gate swung open at Mya’s shout. Inside, the portly knight who commanded the waycastle greeted Mya by name and offered them skewers of charred meat and onions still hot from the spit. Catelyn had not realized how hungry she was. She ate standing in the yard, as stablehands moved their saddles to fresh mules. The hot juices ran down her chin and dripped onto her cloak, but she was too famished to care.
Then it was up onto a new mule and out again into the starlight. The second part of the ascent seemed more treacherous to Catelyn. The trail was steeper, the steps more worn, and here and there littered with pebbles and broken stone. Mya had to dismount a half-dozen times to move fallen rocks from their path. “You don’t want your mule to break a leg up here,” she said. Catelyn was forced to agree. She could feel the altitude more now. The trees were sparser up here, and the wind blew more vigorously, sharp gusts that tugged at her clothing and pushed her hair into her eyes. From time to time the steps doubled back on themselves, and she could see Stone below them, and the Gates of the Moon farther down, its torches no brighter than candles.
Snow was smaller than Stone, a single fortified tower and a timber keep and stable hidden behind a low wall of unmortared rock. Yet it nestled against the Giant’s Lance in such a way as to command the entire stone stair above the lower waycastle. An enemy intent on the Eyrie would have to fight his way from Stone step by step, while rocks and arrows rained down from Snow above. The commander, an anxious young knight with a pockmarked face, offered bread and cheese and the chance to warm themselves before his fire, but Mya declined. “We ought to keep going, my lady,” she said. “If it please you.” Catelyn nodded.
Again they were given fresh mules. Hers was white. Mya smiled when she saw him. “Whitey’s a good one, my lady. Sure of foot, even on ice, but you need to be careful. He’ll kick if he doesn’t like you.”
The white mule seemed to like Catelyn; there was no kicking, thank the gods. There was no ice either, and she was grateful for that as well. “My mother says that hundreds of years ago, this was where the snow began,” Mya told her. “It was always white above here, and the ice never melted.” She shrugged. “I can’t remember ever seeing snow this far down the mountain, but maybe it was that way once, in the olden times.”
So young, Catelyn thought, trying to remember if she had ever been like that. The girl had lived half her life in summer, and that was all she knew. Winter is coming, child, she wanted to tell her. The words were on her lips; she almost said them. Perhaps she was becoming a Stark at last.
Above Snow, the wind was a living thing, howling around them like a wolf in the waste, then falling off to nothing as if to lure them into complacency. The stars seemed brighter up here, so close that she could almost touch them, and the horned moon was huge in the clear black sky. As they climbed, Catelyn found it was better to look up than down. The steps were cracked and broken from centuries of freeze and thaw and the tread of countless mules, and even in the dark the heights put her heart in her throat. When they came to a high saddle between two spires of rock, Mya dismounted. “It’s best to lead the mules over,” she said. “The wind can be a little scary here, my lady.”
Catelyn climbed stiffly from the shadows and looked at the path ahead; twenty feet long and close to three feet wide, but with a precipitous drop to either side. She could hear the wind shrieking. Mya stepped lightly out, her mule following as calmly as if they were crossing a bailey. It was her turn. Yet no sooner had she taken her first step than fear caught Catelyn in its jaws. She could feel the emptiness, the vast black gulfs of air that yawned around her. She stopped, trembling, afraid to move. The wind screamed at her and wrenched at her cloak, trying to pull her over the edge. Catelyn edged her foot backward, the most timid of steps, but the mule was behind her, and she could not retreat. I am going to die here, she thought. She could feel cold sweat trickling down her back.
“Lady Stark,” Mya called across the gulf. The girl sounded a thousand leagues away. “Are you well?”
Catelyn Tully Stark swallowed what remained of her pride. “I?.?.?.?I cannot do this, child,” she called out.
“Yes you can,” the bastard girl said. “I know you can. Look how wide the path is.”
“I don’t want to look.” The world seemed to be spinning around her, mountain and sky and mules, whirling like a child’s top. Catelyn closed her eyes to steady her ragged breathing.
“I’ll come back for you,” Mya said. “Don’t move, my lady.”
Moving was about the last thing Catelyn was about to do. She listened to the skirling of the wind and the scuffling sound of leather on stone. Then Mya was there, taking her gently by the arm. “Keep your eyes closed if you like. Let go of the rope now, Whitey will take care of himself. Very good, my lady. I’ll lead you over, it’s easy, you’ll see. Give me a step now. That’s it, move your foot, just slide it forward. See. Now another. Easy. You could run across. Another one, go on. Yes.” And so, foot by foot, step by step, the bastard girl led Catelyn across, blind and trembling, while the white mule followed placidly behind them.
The waycastle called Sky was no more than a high, crescent-shaped wall of unmortared stone raised against the side of the mountain, but even the topless towers of Valyria could not have looked more beautiful to Catelyn Stark. Here at last the snow crown began; Sky’s weathered stones were rimed with frost, and long spears of ice hung from the slopes above.
Dawn was breaking in the east as Mya Stone hallooed for the guards, and the gates opened before them. Inside the walls there was only a series of ramps and a great tumble of boulders and stones of all sizes. No doubt it would be the easiest thing in the world to begin an avalanche from here. A mouth yawned in the rock face in front of them. “The stables and barracks are in there,” Mya said. “The last part is inside the mountain. It can be a little dark, but at least you’re out of the wind. This is as far as the mules can go. Past here, well, it’s a sort of chimney, more like a stone ladder than proper steps, but it’s not too bad. Another hour and we’ll be there.”
Catelyn looked up. Directly overhead, pale in the dawn light, she could see the foundations of the Eyrie. It could not be more than six hundred feet above them. From below it looked like a small white honeycomb. She remembered what her uncle had said of baskets and winches. “The Lannisters may have their pride,” she told Mya, “but the Tullys are born with better sense. I have ridden all day and the best part of a night. Tell them to lower a basket. I shall ride with the turnips.”
The sun was well above the mountains by the time Catelyn Stark finally reached the Eyrie. A stocky, silver-haired man in a sky-blue cloak and hammered moon-and-falcon breastplate helped her from the basket; Ser Vardis Egen, captain of Jon Arryn’s household guard. Beside him stood Maester Colemon, thin and nervous, with too little hair and too much neck. “Lady Stark,” Ser Vardis said, “the pleasure is as great as it is unanticipated.” Maester Colemon bobbed his head in agreement. “Indeed it is, my lady, indeed it is. I have sent word to your sister. She left orders to be awakened the instant you arrived.”
“I hope she had a good night’s rest,” Catelyn said with a certain bite in her tone that seemed to go unnoticed.
The men escorted her from the winch room up a spiral stair. The Eyrie was a small castle by the standards of the great houses; seven slender white towers bunched as tightly as arrows in a quiver on a shoulder of the great mountain. It had no need of stables nor smithys nor kennels, but Ned said its granary was as large as Winterfell’s, and its towers could house five hundred men. Yet it seemed strangely deserted to Catelyn as she passed through it, its pale stone halls echoing and empty.
Lysa was waiting alone in her solar, still clad in her bed robes. Her long auburn hair tumbled unbound across bare white shoulders and down her back. A maid stood behind her, brushing out the night’s tangles, but when Catelyn entered, her sister rose to her feet, smiling. “Cat,” she said. “Oh, Cat, how good it is to see you. My sweet sister.” She ran across the chamber and wrapped her sister in her arms. “How long it has been,” Lysa murmured against her. “Oh, how very very long.”
It had been five years, in truth; five cruel years, for Lysa. They had taken their toll. Her sister was two years the younger, yet she looked older now. Shorter than Catelyn, Lysa had grown thick of body, pale and puffy of face. She had the blue eyes of the Tullys, but hers were pale and watery, never still. Her small mouth had turned petulant. As Catelyn held her, she remembered the slender, high-breasted girl who’d waited beside her that day in the sept at Riverrun. How lovely and full of hope she had been. All that remained of her sister’s beauty was the great fall of thick auburn hair that cascaded to her waist.
“You look well,” Catelyn lied, “but?.?.?.?tired.”
Her sister broke the embrace. “Tired. Yes. Oh, yes.” She seemed to notice the others then; her maid, Maester Colemon, Ser Vardis. “Leave us,” she told them. “I wish to speak to my sister alone.” She held Catelyn’s hand as they withdrew?.?.?.?
?.?.?.?and dropped it the instant the door closed. Catelyn saw her face change. It was as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” Lysa snapped at her. “To bring him here, without a word of permission, without so much as a warning, to drag us into your quarrels with the Lannisters?.?.?.?”
“My quarrels?” Catelyn could scarce believe what she was hearing. A great fire burned in the hearth, but there was no trace of warmth in Lysa’s voice. “They were your quarrels first, sister. It was you who sent me that cursed letter, you who wrote that the Lannisters had murdered your husband.”
“To warn you, so you could stay away from them! I never meant to fight them! Gods, Cat, do you know what you’ve done?”
“Mother?” a small voice said. Lysa whirled, her heavy robe swirling around her. Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie, stood in the doorway, clutching a ragged cloth doll and looking at them with large eyes. He was a painfully thin child, small for his age and sickly all his days, and from time to time he trembled. The shaking sickness, the maesters called it. “I heard voices.”
Small wonder, Catelyn thought; Lysa had almost been shouting. Still, her sister looked daggers at her. “This is your aunt Catelyn, baby. My sister, Lady Stark. Do you remember?”
The boy glanced at her blankly. “I think so,” he said, blinking, though he had been less than a year old the last time Catelyn had seen him.
Lysa seated herself near the fire and said, “Come to Mother, my sweet one.” She straightened his bedclothes and fussed with his fine brown hair. “Isn’t he beautiful? And strong too, don’t you believe the things you hear. Jon knew. The seed is strong, he told me. His last words. He kept saying Robert’s name, and he grabbed my arm so hard he left marks. Tell them, the seed is strong. His seed. He wanted everyone to know what a good strong boy my baby was going to be.”
“Lysa,” Catelyn said, “if you’re right about the Lannisters, all the more reason we must act quickly. We...”
“Not in front of the baby,” Lysa said. “He has a delicate temper, don’t you, sweet one?”
“The boy is Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale,” Catelyn reminded her, “and these are no times for delicacy. Ned thinks it may come to war.”
“Quiet!” Lysa snapped at her. “You’re scaring the boy.” Little Robert took a quick peek over his shoulder at Catelyn and began to tremble. His doll fell to the rushes, and he pressed himself against his mother. “Don’t be afraid, my sweet baby,” Lysa whispered. “Mother’s here, nothing will hurt you.” She opened her robe and drew out a pale, heavy breast, tipped with red. The boy grabbed for it eagerly, buried his face against her chest, and began to suck. Lysa stroked his hair.
Catelyn was at a loss for words. Jon Arryn’s son, she thought incredulously. She remembered her own baby, three-year-old Rickon, half the age of this boy and five times as fierce. Small wonder the lords of the Vale were restive. For the first time she understood why the king had tried to take the child away from his mother to foster with the Lannisters?.?.?.?
“We’re safe here,” Lysa was saying. Whether to her or to the boy, Catelyn was not sure.
“Don’t be a fool,” Catelyn said, the anger rising in her. “No one is safe. If you think hiding here will make the Lannisters forget you, you are sadly mistaken.”
Lysa covered her boy’s ear with her hand. “Even if they could bring an army through the mountains and past the Bloody Gate, the Eyrie is impregnable. You saw for yourself. No enemy could ever reach us up here.”
Catelyn wanted to slap her. Uncle Brynden had tried to warn her, she realized. “No castle is impregnable.”
“This one is,” Lysa insisted. “Everyone says so. The only thing is, what am I to do with this Imp you have brought me?”
“Is he a bad man?” the Lord of the Eyrie asked, his mother’s breast popping from his mouth, the nipple wet and red.
“A very bad man,” Lysa told him as she covered herself, “but Mother won’t let him harm my little baby.”
“Make him fly,” Robert said eagerly.
Lysa stroked her son’s hair. “Perhaps we will,” she murmured. “Perhaps that is just what we will do.”
?
Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter35 凯特琳
“夫人，您应该先捎个信来，”他们骑马爬上山口，唐纳尔·韦伍德爵士对她说，“那样的话，我们就可以派人护送。这年头山路的安全不比从前，更何况您只带了这么点人。”
“唐纳尔爵士，我们的确是尝到了惨痛的教训。”凯特琳道。有时候她觉得自己铁石心肠。六个英勇的人牺牲了性命，她才能走到这里，然而她却连为他们掬一把泪都做不到。就连他们的名姓，也越来越模糊。“原住民日夜骚扰，我们第一次损失了三个人，后来又死了两个，兰尼斯特的仆人伤口溃烂，死于高烧。听到你手下接近的声音时，我本以为我们完蛋了。”他们决定孤注一掷，手握武器，背靠岩壁。侏儒当时一边磨斧头，一边开着语气辛辣的玩笑，这时波隆首先看到来者高举的旗帜，正是艾林家族的蓝底白色新月猎鹰标志。对凯特琳而言，再也没有比这更受她欢迎的东西了。
“琼恩大人死后，这些原住民越来越胆大包天。”唐纳尔爵士道。他是个二十岁的年轻人，体格健壮，长相虽丑但待人诚恳，生了一个宽鼻和一头散乱的棕色粗发。“若是交给我办，我会带上一百精兵深入山区，把他们从窝里赶出来，好好教训一顿，可您妹妹不准。她连放手下骑士参加首相的比武大会都不准。说是要把所有的兵力都留在这儿，守护艾林谷……可谁也不清楚到底是要防备谁。有人说这是在捕风捉影。”他不安地看着她，仿佛突然想起她的身份。“夫人，希望我没说错话。我没有冒犯您的意思。”
“唐纳尔爵士，实话实说怎么会冒犯到我呢？”凯特琳知道妹妹怕的是什么。不是影子，而是兰尼斯特，她一边想着，一边回头瞄了一眼骑行在波隆身旁的侏儒。自从契根死后，他们俩便成了哥们儿。小个子的精明狡狯，让她颇感不悦，他们刚上山时，他是她的俘虏，五花大绑，求助无门，瞧瞧如今他变成什么样了？虽然依旧是她的囚徒，但骑着马，腰间斜插匕首，鞍上绑着大斧，肩头披了跟那歌手赌骰子赢来的山猫皮披风，身上穿着从契根尸体上取走的锁子甲。二十名骑士和士兵走在侏儒和她残败不堪的队伍两侧，他们都是她妹妹莱莎及琼恩·艾林幼子的忠仆，然而提利昂却连一点畏惧的神色也无。难道他真是无辜？难道他当真与布兰、琼恩·艾林以及其他事情无关？果真如此，那她又是怎么了？为了把他带来这里，六个人丢了性命。
她毅然决然地抛开疑虑。“等我们到了你的要塞，如果你能立刻请柯蒙学士过来，我会非常感激。罗德利克爵士因为伤势的关系，高烧不退。”她不止一次担心这忠勇的老骑士撑不过这趟旅程。末了他已经几乎无法骑马，波隆力劝她任他自生自灭，但凯特琳不听。她反而令他们将他绑在鞍上，并吩咐歌手马瑞里安负责看护。
唐纳尔爵士迟疑半晌才回答。“莱莎夫人下令要学士留在鹰巢城，以便随时照顾劳勃少主。”他说，“不过我们血门要塞有个修士负责处理伤患，他可以替您手下疗伤。”
相较于修士的祈祷，凯特琳对学士的医疗知识要有信心得多。她正准备说出心中想法，防御工事便已在前方出现。迤长的城垛建筑在两边危崖上，山路收缩到勉强只容四人并肩骑行，两座瞭望塔攀附于岩壁之上，彼此以一弯饱经风霜的灰石密闭拱桥相连。沉默的脸庞从塔中的射箭孔、城垛和石桥间注视着他们。快到顶端时，一名骑士骑马过来迎接。他的坐骑和铠甲都是灰色，但披风却是奔流城抖擞的蓝红相间图案，一尾用黄金和黑曜石精工打造、闪闪发光的黑鱼镶在他肩头。“是谁要通过血门？”他喊道。
“唐纳尔·韦伍德爵士，以及凯特琳夫人和她的同伴。”年轻骑士回答。
血门骑士揭开面罩。“我就觉得眼前这位夫人面熟。小凯特，你离家可真远啊。”
“叔叔，您不也是？”虽然历经了一切苦难，她还是发自内心地微笑。听见那沙哑、如烟熏般的嗓音，仿佛时光倒流二十年，又把她带回到童年时光。
“我的家就在这里。”他粗鲁地说。
“你的家在我心里。”凯特琳告诉他，“把头盔拿下来，我想再好好看你。”
“只怕过了这些年，还是没好看到哪里去。”布林登·徒利虽然这么说，但当他揭起头盔时，凯特琳却认为他撒了谎。他的容貌虽然饱经风霜，岁月偷走了他的红褐头发，只留满头灰白，但他的笑容依旧，肥如毛虫的浓眉依旧，深邃蓝眼中的笑意依旧。“莱莎知道你要来吗？”
“我们事先来不及通知。”凯特琳告诉他。这时其他人也跟了上来。“叔叔，只怕风暴在我身后穷追不舍。”
“我们能进峡谷吗？”唐纳尔爵士问。韦伍德家的人向来讲究礼仪。
“以鹰巢城公爵、艾林谷守护者、真正的东境守护劳勃·艾林之名，我让你们通过，并要求你们以他之名维持和平。”布林登爵士回答，“走吧。”
于是她骑马跟在他身边，穿过血门的阴影。英雄纪元时期，无数兵马命丧于此，却依然无法攻克峡谷。石砌工事彼端，峰峦骤然展开，绿野、蓝天和白雪皑皑的山尖骤然呈现，美得让她喘不过气。此刻，艾林谷正沐浴在晨光之中。
峡谷在他们面前绵延，直至氤氲弥漫的东方，这乃是一个祥和恬静的国度，四面受群山庇护，内中是肥沃的黑土，宽阔而舒缓的河川，还有在阳光下明亮如镜、数以百计的大小湖泊。田野间大麦、小麦和玉米结实累累，就连高庭所生产的南瓜也不比这里硕大，水果更不及此地甜美。他们走进峡谷西端，通过最后一道山口后，道路便开始蜿蜒向下，直至足足两里高的山脚下。此处峡谷甚窄，不需半日即可穿越，北边的山脉近在咫尺，凯特琳仿佛伸手可及。此地最高的山被称做“巨人之熗”，重重山脉都仰之弥高，它的山尖离地三里半，消失在冰冷的雾气之中。“阿莱莎之泪”幽魂般的激流自其高耸的西峦贯穿而下，即使距离如此遥远，凯特琳也分辨得出那条闪亮的银丝带，与暗色的磐石对比鲜明。
叔叔看见她停了下来，便策马靠过来指给她看。“就在那里，阿莱莎之泪旁边，如果你看得够仔细，阳光又恰好照到城墙，就能见到闪现的白光。”
七座高塔，奈德曾经告诉她，如纯白的匕首刺进苍天的肚腹，耸立云天，站在城垛上，云层都在你脚下。“要走多久？”她问。
“今天傍晚我们可以抵达山下，”布林登叔叔道，“但上山还要再花去一天的时间。”
后面的罗德利克·凯索爵士开了口，“夫人，”他说，“恐怕我今天没法再走下去。”他的脸塌成一团，新长的胡子参差不齐，看来非常虚弱，凯特琳真担心他会跌下马。
“你本不该再走。”她说，“我所要求你做的，你不但尽数办到，还大大超出我的期望。我叔叔会陪我上鹰巢城，兰尼斯特必须跟我走，但你和其他人没有理由不留在这里好好休息，恢复元气。”
“能招待他们作为宾客是我们的荣幸。”年轻的唐纳尔爵士努力严肃而依礼地说。除了罗德利克爵士，当初跟她一起从路口旅店出发的人，如今只剩波隆、维里·渥德爵士和歌手马瑞里安。
“夫人，”马瑞里安驱骑向前，“请您允许我也陪伴您到鹰巢城去，我看到了故事的开头，也想看看故事怎么结束。”男孩的声音虽然憔悴，却出奇坚决，眼里闪着热切的光芒。
凯特琳原本就没有邀这名歌手同行，完全是他自作主张。至于为什么许多比他勇敢的人都弃尸荒野，他却活得好端端的，她就不得而知了。总之他在途中长了点胡碴，看起来多了点男人味道，他都走了这么远，或许她不该拒绝他。“好吧。”她对他说。
“我也去。”波隆表示。
她更不喜欢他。要不是波隆，她绝不可能抵达艾林谷，这点她很清楚。这名佣兵是个极其剽悍的战士，他的剑为他们杀出一条血路。即便如此，凯特琳还是不喜欢这人。他有勇气，力量也不缺，但他心里没有仁慈二字，更别说忠诚。她时常看见他跟兰尼斯特骑行在一块儿，低语交谈，同声大笑。她原本打算当下就把他和侏儒隔离开，但既然答应让马瑞里安一起去鹰巢城，她实在没有合适的理由拒绝他。“随你的吧。”她说，却也发现他根本就没请求她同意。
维里·渥德爵士和罗德利克爵士留了下来，由一位说话轻声细语的修士照料他们的伤势。他们那几匹憔悴不堪的马也被留下。唐纳尔爵士保证会先派鸟儿将他们到来的消息通知鹰巢城和月门堡。有人从马厩里牵来精力充沛、鬃毛蓬松而熟悉山路的马，他们只歇息不到一个小时便又再度上路，朝下方的谷地平原出发，凯特琳走在叔叔旁边，波隆、提利昂·兰尼斯特、马瑞里安以及布林登的六名手下跟随在后。
直到他们走过三分之一的下山路，远离其他人的听力范围之后，布林登·徒利方才转向她说：“好吧，孩子，告诉我这场风暴是怎么回事。”
“叔叔，我早不是小孩子了。”凯特琳道。但她还是一五一十地告诉了他，虽然花的时间远远超出预期。她从莱莎的信、布兰坠楼、刺客的匕首、小指头，一直讲到她在岔路旅店与提利昂·兰尼斯特的巧遇。
叔叔静静地听着，眉头越皱越深，浓厚的眉毛盖住了眼睛。布林登·徒利是个善于倾听的人……除非对象是她父亲。他是霍斯特公爵的弟弟，虽只相差五岁，但自凯特琳有记忆起，两人便已不和。凯特琳八岁时兄弟俩一场大吵，霍斯特公爵指责布林登是“徒利家的害群黑羊”，但布林登笑着说他们家族的标志是跃出水面的鳟鱼，所以他应该是黑鱼，而非黑羊。从那天起，他便以此为纹章。
一直到她和莱莎出嫁那天，两人的纷争都没结束。布林登正是在婚宴上对他哥哥宣布自己要跟莱莎一起离开奔流城，去为她的新婚丈夫、鹰巢城公爵效命。据艾德慕偶尔写给她的信中所言，从那之后，霍斯特公爵再没提过弟弟的名字。
虽然如此，在凯特琳的少女时代，每每父亲大人太忙，母亲大人又病得太重，霍斯特公爵的子女分享喜怒哀乐的对象，却是布林登叔叔。不论凯特琳，莱莎，还是艾德慕……噢，对了，即便父亲的养子培提尔·贝里席……他都耐心十足地侧耳倾听，为他们获得的成功同声欢笑，对他们幼稚惹来的麻烦表示同情，一如此刻。
她说完之后，叔叔沉默了很长一段时间，他的坐骑沿着陡峭的岩径小心下山。“这事一定要让你父亲知道，”最后他说，“如果兰尼斯特真的出兵，临冬城距离遥远，艾林谷有崇山峻岭，但奔流城恰好在他们必经之路上。”
“这正是我担忧的，”凯特琳坦承，“等我们到了鹰巢城，我立刻请柯蒙学士派鸟儿捎信去。”她还有别的消息要送，奈德交代她通知诸侯，命令他们准备防御北方。“艾林谷里情势如何？”
“人人都义愤填膺，”布林登·徒利说：“琼恩大人深受爱戴，如今国王把一个近三百年来都由艾林家族继承的职位交给詹姆·兰尼斯特，大家都觉得深受侮辱。莱莎命令我们称呼她儿子为真正的东境守护，但这骗不了人。至于首相大人的死因，也不只有你妹妹怀疑。当然，没人敢公开宣称琼恩是被谋害，可这却是个挥之不去的阴影。”他看了凯特琳一眼，嘴巴一抿。“还有那孩子的问题。”
“那孩子？他怎么样？”眼前是一块低垂的岩石，她低下头，之后他们转了个大弯。
叔叔的口气忧心忡忡。“劳勃公爵，”他叹道，“才六岁大，一天到晚生病，拿走他的玩偶他就哭。他是琼恩·艾林的亲生儿子，有天上诸神为证，可有人传说他太过虚弱，无法继承父亲的宝座。过去十四年来琼恩大人都在君临任职，此间是由大总管奈斯特·罗伊斯负责，不少人据此认定应该由他来代理，直到那孩子长大为止。还有的人认为莱莎理应再婚，并且越快越好。如今鹰巢城内挤满了追求者，多得像战场上的乌鸦。”
“我早该料到，”凯特琳道。这消息不足为奇，莱莎还年轻，山谷王国更是一份最厚重的嫁妆。“莱莎会再嫁吗？”
“她同意，只要找到合适的人。”布林登·徒利道，“但她却拒绝了奈斯特大人和其他十来位追求者。她对外发誓这次要由她来选择夫婿。”
“别人也就算了，至少你不该怪她。”
布林登爵士哼了一声。“我也没怪她，可……在我看来莱莎只是装模作样，她虽然很享受被人追求的爱情游戏，但我相信你妹妹打算亲自主政，直到儿子长大，成为名副其实的鹰巢城公爵。”
“女人跟男人一样可以英明统治。”凯特琳说。
“合适的女人才可以。”叔叔从旁扫了她一眼，“凯特，别搞错了，莱莎可不是你。”他迟疑了一会儿。“真要说的话，我很怕你会发现你妹妹能帮得上的忙……没有想像中的多。”
她被搞糊涂了。“你是什么意思？”
“从君临回来的莱莎，和当初随被任命为首相的丈夫南下时的她，已经不是同一个人。这些年来她吃了不少苦头，你一定得知道。艾林大人虽然是个忠实的好丈夫，但他们的婚姻是建立在政治而非感情之上。”
“我的不也是？”
“你们的婚姻出发点相同，但你的际遇比她好得多。她有两个孩子生下来就没活成，经历了四次流产，加上艾林大人的死……凯特琳，诸神只给了莱莎一个孩子，如今她活着就是为了他。可怜的孩子。难怪她宁可逃走，也不愿见到儿子交给兰尼斯特家抚养。孩子，你妹妹现在非常害怕，而她最怕的就是兰尼斯特。她像个夜贼似的偷偷溜出红堡，跑回艾林谷，一切都是为了把儿子从狮口中抢救出来……结果这会儿你却把狮子带进了她家门。”
“我把他擒来的。”凯特琳说。她右手边的山岩出现了一个裂缝，活像一张深不见底的黑暗大口，正张开打着哈欠。她勒紧马缰，小心翼翼地绕过去。
“是吗？”叔叔回头瞄了一眼，看看正在身后缓缓下山的提利昂·兰尼斯特。“我见他鞍挂斧头，腰插匕首，后面还有个如影随形的佣兵。亲爱的，你所谓的‘擒’从何说起啊？”
凯特琳不安地动了动。“反正侏儒人在这里，并且不是自愿。不管什么说法，总之他是我的犯人。莱莎想叫他认罪的急切程度不会在我之下。兰尼斯特家谋害的不是别人，正是她的丈夫啊，当初写信警告我们的也是她。”
“黑鱼”布林登疲倦地对她笑笑。“孩子，希望你是对的。”他叹口气，言下之意却大不以为然。
马蹄下的斜坡开始放缓，太阳已在西边。道路逐渐宽阔，变得笔直，凯特琳也首次注意到路边有野花和青草。等他们抵达谷地平原，行进的速度更快，他们没有浪费时间，加紧赶路，穿越青翠绿林与沉静的小村庄，经过果园和金黄色的麦田，溅起水花渡过阳光照耀的溪流。叔叔派出掌旗手跑在前面，长竿上飘扬着两面旗帜，上方的是艾林家族的新月猎鹰，下面则是他自己的黑鱼。农家马车，生意人的货车和小贵族家的骑手纷纷回避，让他们通过。
即便如此，当他们抵达巨人之熗山脚下那座坚固城堡时，天色已经全黑。城垛上火把通明，新月在护城河的漆黑水面舞动。吊桥已经升起，铁闸也已降下，但凯特琳看到城门楼内的火光，灯光也从城楼后面的窗户间流泻出来。
“这就是月门堡。”队伍靠近城堡时，叔叔说。他的掌旗手骑到护城河边招呼塔楼里的人。“奈斯特大人的居城。他应该在等我们了。你再看看上面。”
凯特琳抬起头，不断抬高、抬高、抬高。起初，她只看到山石和树木，夜幕覆盖的崇山峻岭，漆黑一如无星之夜。接着，她注意到高处飘渺的花火，那原是一座城堡的塔楼，嵌筑于陡峭的危崖绝壁上，其灯火犹如橙色的眼睛般俯视大地。在那之上，还有一座更高更远的塔，再上去还有一座，几乎只是夜空中一点闪耀的火星。最后，在飞鹰翱翔的极高处，有一片在月光下闪烁的白光。她仰视着高空朦胧的苍白高塔，晕眩感顿时排山倒海般袭来。
“鹰巢城。”她听见马瑞里安喃喃说，显然大为震惊。
提利昂·兰尼斯特尖锐的声音插进来：“看来艾林家的人挺孤僻，不喜欢有人作伴。假如你打算要我们摸黑爬上去，那干脆在这里把我杀了好了。”
“我们今晚在此过夜，明天上山。”布林登告诉他。
“哟，我可迫不及待，”侏儒回话，“要怎么上去？骑山羊我可不在行。”
“我们骑的是骡子。”布林登微笑道。
“山上凿了石阶。”凯特琳说。奈德提起他与劳勃·拜拉席恩和琼恩·艾林在此度过的童年岁月时，曾经跟她讲过。
叔叔点头。“现在天太暗，看不见，但的确是有石阶可走。石阶对马来说太陡太狭窄，骡子倒还勉强能成。沿路有三座堡垒：危岩堡、雪山堡和长天堡，骡子最高可以走到长天堡。”
提利昂·兰尼斯特一脸狐疑地往上瞄。“那接下来怎么办？”
布林登微笑道：“在那之后，山路太险，连骡子也上不去。所以接下来我们步行上山，或者你想搭篮子？鹰巢城在长天堡正上方的山顶，它的地窖里有六个挂铁链的大绞盘，负责拉补给。如果你愿意，兰尼斯特大人，我可以安排你跟面包、啤酒和苹果一起上去。”
侏儒干笑一声。“可惜我不是南瓜。”他说，“哎，如果我老爸知道他儿子跟萝卜一样被拖上断头台，一定很不高兴。假如你们要徒步上山，恐怕我也得照做。我们兰尼斯特家的人多少还有点自尊。”
“自尊？”凯特琳斥道。他那充满嘲弄的口吻和过于轻慢的态度让她非常恼火。“我看是自傲吧。骄傲自大，贪得无厌，迷恋权位。”
“我老哥的确傲慢得很，”提利昂·兰尼斯特答道，“我老爸则根本是贪婪的化身，至于我那好姐姐嘛，迷恋权位就跟呼吸一般重要。惟有我，却是只天真无邪的小羊。怎么样，要不要我咩咩叫两声给你听啊？”他咧嘴嘻笑。
她还不及回答，吊桥便喀啦喀啦降了下来，接着他们听到上过油的铁链滑动，铁闸也随之升起。士兵们手持火炬出来为他们照明，叔叔领头穿过护城河。奈斯特·罗伊斯男爵，艾林谷的大总管和月门堡的守护者，正在中庭里迎接他们，身边围满了骑士。“史塔克夫人，”他鞠躬道。他是个身躯庞大、胸膛厚实的人，动作起来颇显笨拙。
凯特琳下了马，站在他面前。“奈斯特大人，”她说。她久闻其大名，他是青铜约恩的堂弟，生于罗伊斯家族的旁系支脉，但本身依旧是个响当当的人物。“我们长途跋涉，疲累不堪，如果您方便的话，今晚想在此借宿一宿。”
“夫人，请别客气。”奈斯特男爵粗声道，“但您的妹妹莱莎夫人刚从鹰巢城传话下来，希望能立刻见您一面。跟您同来的人今晚就住这里，明天一大早送他们上山。”
叔叔翻身下马。“这太疯狂了！”他唐突地说。布林登·徒利向来不是个善于修饰话语棱角的人。“今天并不是满月，你还要他们连夜上山？就算莱莎也知道这是找死。”
“布林登爵士，骡子认得路哪。”一个瘦长结实的十七八岁少女自奈斯特男爵身边走上前来。她一头剪短的黑发，身穿骑马皮衣和一件镀银轻环甲。她朝凯特琳鞠躬的姿势，比她主人还要优雅。“夫人，我向您保证，不会出事的。能带您上山是我的荣幸。这条路我摸黑走过几百次，米歇尔说我父亲准是头山羊。”
她那充满自信的口气，听得凯特琳忍不住微笑。“孩子，你可有名字？”
“夫人高兴的话，叫我米亚·石东就行。”女孩道。
她听了却不高兴。凯特琳好不容易才维持住脸上笑容。石东是艾林谷私生孩子的姓，正如北方的雪诺，高庭的佛花。依照习俗，七大王国各有专门给没爹的孩子用的姓。凯特琳对这女孩本身并无恶感，只是不免突然想到奈德那正驻守长城的私生子，这个念头让她羞愤交加。她挣扎着找话回应。
奈斯特男爵填补了沉默。“米亚是个机灵的孩子，她起誓会把您安全地带到莱莎夫人那边，我相信她。她从没教我失望过。”
“既然如此，米亚·石东，我就把自己交到你手中了。”凯特琳道，“奈斯特大人，还请您严加看管我的犯人。”
“也请您给这位犯人弄杯酒，来只香酥烤鸡，免得他饿死。”兰尼斯特道，“饭后有个女孩乐乐更好，怕只怕我要求得太多了。”佣兵波隆听了哈哈大笑。
奈斯特男爵没理会他的嘲弄。“夫人，就照您吩咐，一切悉听尊愿。”然后他才看看侏儒。“把兰尼斯特大人送进塔上的监狱，帮他张罗酒肉。”
提利昂·兰尼斯特被领走之后，凯特琳向叔叔和余人告别，跟着那私生女穿过城堡。两头骡子等在城堡的上层庭院里，整装待发。米亚扶她骑上，一位身着天蓝色披风的守卫拉开狭窄的后门。门外是浓密的云杉和松木，山壁像堵黑墙，但岩石上果真有深深凿出的石阶，向上直入天际。“有些人觉得闭上眼睛会比较安心，”米亚领着骡子穿过后门，走进森林。“他们觉得害怕或头晕的时候，常把骡子抓得太紧，可骡子不喜欢这样。”
“我本姓徒利，又嫁进史塔克家，”凯特琳道，“要吓到我可不容易。你打算点火把吗？”石阶像沥青一般黑。
女孩扮了个鬼脸。“点火你反而看不见啦。今晚天气这么好，有月亮和星光足矣。米歇尔说我有对猫头鹰的眼睛。”她也骑了上去，催促骡子踏上第一阶。凯特琳的坐骑自行跟了上去。
“你刚才也提到米歇尔。”凯特琳道。骡子的步伐虽慢，却很平稳，她已经非常满意。
“米歇尔是我的爱人。”米亚解释，“米歇尔·雷德佛，他是林恩·科布瑞爵士的侍从。过几年等他当上骑士，我们就要结婚了。”
她的语气好像珊莎，都是那么愉悦美妙，无忧无虑，充满梦想，凯特琳听了不禁微笑，笑里却带着忧伤。她知道雷德佛家是峡谷地区历史悠久的世家大族，体内更有先民的血脉。她或许能成为他的爱人，然而雷德佛家的人绝不会娶私生女。他家里会帮他安排一桩门当户对的婚事，或许是科布瑞家族，也可能是韦伍德或罗伊斯家族，甚至是艾林谷外的豪门望族。就算米歇尔·雷德佛跟这女孩睡过，也不能代表什么。
上山的过程比凯特琳原本期待的要轻松许多。森林离他们很近，伸展过来遮住山路，搭起一棚瑟瑟作响的青绿屋顶，连月光也被遮蔽，所以她们仿佛是在暗道里行进。但是骡子的步履稳健，毫无疲态，米亚·石东也的确如有夜视能力。山路蜿蜒崎岖，两人沿路缓步慢行，越过山壁。厚厚的松针铺在地上宛如绒毯，骡子走在石阶上只发出最细微的声音。这片宁静安抚了她的情绪，轻微的晃动让凯特琳在鞍上摇摇摆摆，没多久她就开始抗拒瞌睡的诱惑了。
或许她真打了一阵盹吧，因为宏伟的镶铁城门突然便矗立在她们面前。“危岩堡到了。”米亚开心地跳下骡子宣布。坚实的石城墙顶插满铁钉，两个圆胖的塔楼环绕主堡。城门在米亚的呼喊下缓缓打开，负责指挥这座堡垒的骑士是个粗壮的家伙，他亲切地叫出米亚的名字，拿出刚从烤架上取下、虽有点焦但热腾腾的烧肉和烤洋葱招待她们。凯特琳早已忘记自己有多饿，站在中庭里就吃了起来，马夫则把她们的鞍鞫换到精力充沛的新骡子背上。温热的肉汁流过她的下巴，滴在披风上，但她实在太饿，便也管不了这许多。
随后她们骑上新骡子，在星光照耀下再度出发。凯特琳觉得这次的山路更为艰险，不仅路径更陡，石阶磨损得厉害，地上也散满了小圆石和岩石碎片。有好几次米亚都得下骡，清开路上的落石。“若是骡子在这里摔断腿，那可就危险了。”她说。凯特琳只有同意的份。此时她已经能切身感受所处的高度，这里林木渐稀，风势转强，拉扯着她的衣服，把头发吹进眼睛里。山路不断迂回盘旋，因此她可以看见下面的危岩堡，以及更下方的月门堡，那里的火光好似烛焰一般。
雪山堡比危岩堡小得多，只有一座加固的塔楼，一座木料搭建的主堡，以及躲在低矮石墙后的马厩。围墙砌得很粗糙，没有涂上灰泥。虽然如此，它却紧靠着巨人之熗，形势足以掌控危岩堡以上所有的石阶。若有敌人想动鹰巢城的主意，他就得从危岩堡一阶一阶地打上来，同时还必须承受自雪山堡如雨般落下的飞箭和落石。这里的指挥官是个一脸麻子、焦躁不安的年轻骑士。他拿面包和乳酪招待她们，并请两人到他的火炉边取暖，但米亚婉拒了。“夫人，我们应该继续走，”她说：“如果您愿意的话。”凯特琳点点头。
她们再次换了新骡子。给她的那头是白的，米亚一见便微笑道：“夫人，小白是头好骡。就算步履坚冰，它的脚步也很稳，但您千万小心，他要是不喜欢您，可是会踢人的。”
诸神保佑，小白似乎还挺喜欢凯特琳，至少它没有踢人。路上没有冰，这点她也很感激。“我妈说，数百年前，这里就是风雪线。”米亚告诉她，“从这往上便是白茫茫的，冰雪从不融化。”她耸耸肩，“离山顶还很远，我不记得在这儿看过雪，不过，或许古时候是那样罢。”
她好年轻，凯特琳心想，一边试着回忆自己是否曾如她这般纯真。这女孩大半时光都活在夏季，除此之外她一无所知。孩子，凛冬将至啊，她想告诉她。话到嘴边，几乎就要出口，或许她究竟是逐渐变成史塔克家的人了吧。
雪山堡之上，强风是个活生生的事物，犹如荒野孤狼般在她们周围呼啸狂吼，时时又归于平静，仿佛有意诱使她们掉以轻心。从这里看去，星星似乎更亮，好似近在咫尺，触手可及。一弯新月挂在清朗的夜空中，显得硕大无朋。凯特琳只觉上山时往上看比往下看感觉好多了。经过几百年来的结冰、融雪和无以计数的骡蹄踩踏，石阶破损得相当厉害，即便是在黑暗中看不清，她依旧提心吊胆。当她们来到两座尖石间的平台时，米亚爬下骡子。“这里我们最好牵骡子过去，”她说，“夫人，请注意，这儿的风有点强。”
凯特琳手脚僵硬地从阴影里爬出，看看眼前的山路：大约二十尺长，三尺宽，但路的两边都是万丈深渊。她能听见冷风的呼啸。米亚轻轻探出脚步，骡子平稳地跟随在后，尤似穿越城堡中庭。接下来就轮到她了。凯特琳才刚踏出第一步，恐惧就紧紧地抓住了她。她感觉到两侧的虚无空洞，感觉到在她周遭大口呵欠的黑色气旋。她停下脚步，颤抖着不敢前进。狂风向她嘶吼，拉扯她的披风，企图将她拖下山崖。凯特琳畏缩地退了一小步，但骡子挡在后面，她没有去路。我要死在这里了，她心想。她觉得背心冷汗淋漓。
“史塔克夫人，”米亚从对面喊。女孩的声音听起来仿佛有几千里远。“您还好吗？”
凯特琳·徒利·史塔克咽下了仅存的自尊。“孩子，我……我做不到。”
“没问题的，”私生女孩说，“我知道您行。您看看路有多宽。”
“我不想看。”世界仿佛在她身边旋转，山脉、天空和骡子通通搅成一团。凯特琳闭上眼睛，稳住自己急促的呼吸。
“我这就过来，”米亚道，“夫人，您站在那儿别动。”
此刻凯特琳最不会做的就是乱动。她听着风声呼啸，以及皮革在石头上发出的摩擦，随后米亚就来了，轻轻地牵起她的手。“您怕的话，闭上眼睛就好。绳子可以放开，小白自己会走。很好，夫人。我带您过去，您看吧，没什么大不了。走一步试试看，就是这样，动动您的脚，往前滑就对了，看，挺简单吧？再来一步，慢慢来，路这么宽，您都可以跑哩。再来一步，再来。对了。”私生女孩就这样一步一步带着闭起眼睛，颤抖不已的凯特琳走过危崖，那头白骡子则慢悠悠地跟在后面。
长天堡不过是一道新月形状，沿着山壁用粗石堆砌而成的高耸城墙，但凯特琳·史塔克却觉得，即便傲立云霄的瓦雷利亚通天塔也没这般美丽。雪线由此开始，长天堡历尽沧桑的城墙处处结霜，其上的斜坡挂满了长长的冰柱。
米亚·石东向守卫打过招呼，城门便在她们面前打开，此时东方已经渐露曙光。城墙背后是一连串的坡道，各种大小的岩石摇摇欲坠，这里无疑便是全世界最容易山崩的地方了。她们面前的岩壁上开了一个通道。“马厩和军营都在里面。”米亚说，“最后一段路是在山内，有点黑，但也免了风雪。骡子只能到此为止，从这儿开始，嗯，直直地爬上去，那路比较像石头做的云梯，而非正式的台阶，但还不算太难走。大概再有一个小时就到了。”
凯特琳抬头仰望，在头顶正上方，破晓的晨光之中，她可以看见鹰巢城的基石，离她们大概不超过六百尺。从下看去，如同小小的白色蜂窝。她忆起叔叔提起的篮子和绞盘。“兰尼斯特家的人或许自负傲慢，”她告诉米亚：“但徒利家的人懂得变通之道。我已经骑了一整天马，又走了大半夜。请他们放下篮子，我跟萝卜一起上山。”
凯特琳·史塔克终于抵达鹰巢城时，太阳已经高高升起。一位满头银发、身材健壮、穿着天蓝色披风、新月猎鹰胸甲的人扶她出了吊篮。他是琼恩·艾林的侍卫队长瓦狄斯·伊根爵士，站在他身边的则是体格瘦弱、神色不安、头发太少、脖子却太长的柯蒙学士。“史塔克夫人，”瓦狄斯爵士道，“您真是教我们又惊又喜。”柯蒙学士颔首同意。“可不是嘛，夫人，可不是嘛。我已经带话给您妹妹，她吩咐您一到就叫醒她。”
“我希望她昨晚睡得香甜。”凯特琳的话中带了一丝嘲讽，但似乎没人注意。
他们护送她从绞盘室走上螺旋梯。以王国中贵族的标准而言，鹰巢城规模不大，只是七座白色尖塔像筒里的箭一样挤成一团，坐落在山巅上。它虽无马厩、铁铺或犬舍，但奈德曾说这里的粮仓和临冬城的一般大，而塔楼足以容纳五百人。然而当凯特琳行经其中，却发现城堡异常荒凉，白石打造的厅堂里回声四起，空无一人。
莱莎独自在书房里等她，身上披着睡袍。她一头红褐色长发未经整理，垂过裸露的肩膀，覆在背后。一个侍女站在她身后，正帮她梳理因睡眠而打结的发丝。凯特琳刚进门，妹妹立刻笑盈盈地起身。“凯特，”她说，“噢，凯特，见到你真好。我亲爱的好姐姐。”她跑过房间，紧紧地搂住姐姐。“我们好久没见面了，”莱莎抱着她喃喃说，“噢，真的好久好久。”
事实上，两人有五年没见。对莱莎而言，那是残酷的五年，岁月在她身上留下了痕迹。妹妹小她两岁，但现在看起来年纪却比她大。莱莎原本就比凯特琳矮，如今她胖了，脸也显得苍白臃肿。她有着徒利家族的蓝眼睛，却是那么黯淡而湿润，目光游移不定，小嘴唇也没了生气。凯特琳抱着她，想起当年在奔流城的圣堂婚礼时站在自己身边，那个身躯纤细、抬头挺胸的女孩。如今妹妹的美貌只剩下那头蓬松柔软、流泻至腰的红棕色长发。
“你看起来气色很好，”凯特琳撒了谎。“只是……有点累。”
妹妹松开她。“是有点累，是啊，真的有点累。”这时她似乎注意到在场的其他人：侍女、柯蒙学士和瓦狄斯爵士。“你们下去罢，”她告诉他们，“我想跟我姐姐单独谈谈。”她挽起凯特琳，看着他们离开……
……门一关上，便立刻摔开她的手。凯特琳见她脸色一变，仿佛乌云遮蔽了太阳。“你到底想干什么？”莱莎斥责她，“竟然未经许可，连声招呼都不打，就把他带来这里，把我们扯进你跟兰尼斯特的争端……”
“我的争端？”凯特琳简直不敢相信自己的耳朵。壁炉里火光熊熊，但莱莎的声音却没有丝毫温暖。“小妹，打一开始这就是你的事。你写了那封该死的信给我，说兰尼斯特家的人害死了你丈夫。”
“我写信的目的是警告你，叫你离他们远一点！不是叫你跟他们硬碰硬！诸神在上，凯特，你知道这样做会有什么后果？”
“妈？”一个细小的声音说。莱莎旋身，厚重的长袍也跟着转圈。鹰巢城公爵劳勃·艾林站在门边，抱着一个破烂的布偶，睁大双眼看着她们。这孩子瘦得可怜，个子比同年龄的孩子都要小，一张病恹恹的脸，还不时颤抖。她知道，学士管这种病叫癫痫。“我听见说话的声音了。”
这也难怪，凯特琳心想，因为莱莎刚才几乎就是在吼。妹妹看她的眼神依旧锐利如刀。“小宝贝，这是你凯特琳阿姨。她是我姐姐，史塔克夫人，你还记得吗？”
小男孩一脸茫然地看着她。“好像记得。”他眨着眼说。凯特琳上次见他时，他还未满周岁。
莱莎在火炉边坐下。“小亲亲，到妈咪这儿来。”她整整他的睡衣，拨拨他的头发。“你看他漂不漂亮？其实他也很强壮，你别听信外边的传言。琼恩很清楚，他亲口对我说‘种性强韧’，这是他的临终遗言。他一直念叨着劳勃的名字，用力抓我的手，直到留下血痕。他是要我告诉他们，种性强韧，这是他的种，他要大家都知道我的小宝贝长大之后会变成个强壮的男子汉。”
“莱莎，”凯特琳道，“如果关于兰尼斯特家的情况属实，那我们应该赶紧采取行动。我们——”
“不要在我宝贝面前谈这些。”莱莎说，“他的脾气很纤细，对不对啊，小亲亲？”
“这孩子是鹰巢城公爵，也是艾林谷的守护者。”凯特琳提醒她，“现在不是曲意温柔的时候。奈德认为依目前情势很可能会演变至战争。”
“闭嘴！”莱莎怒叱。“你吓到孩子了。”小劳勃从她肩头偷偷望了凯特琳一眼，然后发起抖来。他的玩偶掉到地毯上，他则紧紧抱住母亲。“我亲爱的小宝贝，别怕喔。”莱莎轻声说，“妈咪在这里，不会有事的。”她掀开睡袍，拉出一只苍白但涨鼓鼓、奶头红润的乳房。男孩渴切地抓住它，把头埋在她胸口，吸吮了起来。莱莎抚弄着他的头发。
凯特琳说不出话来。这竟然是琼恩·艾林的儿子，她难以置信地想。她想起了自己的小儿子，瑞肯才三岁，年纪只有这男孩的一半，却精力旺盛，足以当他好几倍有余。难怪艾林谷的诸侯们焦虑不安。她终于了解到国王为何要把这孩子从母亲身边带开，交给兰尼斯特家抚养……
“在这里，我们不会有事。”莱莎说。至于这话究竟是对她说，还是对那孩子说，凯特琳无法确定。
“别傻了，”凯特琳道，怒意陡然从心中升起。“现在哪里都不安全。你以为躲在这里，兰尼斯特家就会忘记你的存在吗？你真是大错特错！”
莱莎伸手捂住男孩的耳朵。“就算他们带兵杀进崇山峻岭，穿过血门，也不可能攻破鹰巢城。你自己也看到了，没有人能攻到这里。”
凯特琳有种想甩她耳光的冲动。布林登叔叔试图警告她，她这才明白原因何在。“世上没有攻不破的城堡。”
“这座城堡就攻不破。”莱莎坚持，“而且每个人都知道。现在惟一的问题是，我该怎么处置你带来的这个小恶魔？”
“他是坏人吗？”鹰巢城主松开口中红润潮湿的乳头问。
“他是个非常非常坏的人。”莱莎告诉他，一边穿好衣服。“但是妈咪不会让他欺负我的小亲亲。”
“让他飞。”劳勃急切地说。
莱莎搓搓儿子的头发。“这主意不错，”她喃喃道，“这主意的确不错。”
|
[ 此帖被挽墨在2015-08-29 12:53重新编辑 ]
|
