The proprietress of the Crossroads Inn was frantically pacing, but there was nothing she could do; the damned Tourney had Kingsroad overflowing with people, and it was also raining.
The dwarf flicked a gold coin from his pocket, catching it smoothly as it bounced off his finger.
The allure of a Golden Dragon was something many couldn't resist.
A Free Rider in a faded blue cloak stood up. "My Lord, if you don't mind, you can have my room."
"This fellow is clever," Lannister said, tossing the coin over, which the Free Rider caught in mid-air. "And not bad with his hands."
"Lannister is certainly generous, giving away a Golden Dragon just like that." Catelyn saw the gleam of the gold, clearly.
Even as Lady of Winterfell, Catelyn would never spend money so extravagantly; financially, Catelyn felt she was as frugal as Eddard.
The dwarf turned to Marsha Heddle, saying, "As for food, I suppose that won't be a problem, will it?"
"Anything, My Lord, anything you wish to eat." The power of a Golden Dragon was infinite; the proprietress intended to treat such a valuable customer well.
Catelyn looked at the dwarf's figure, and couldn't help but think of Bran, covered in blood, the poor Child struggling to breathe.
What can I do for you, Child?
The dwarf glanced at the nearest table. "My men will eat the same as these folk, but double portions; we've ridden a long way. Roast me a bird—chicken, duck, or pigeon, any will do—and bring a pitcher of your best wine. Yoren, will you join me?"
"Yes, My Lord, I'll eat with you," the black-clad brother replied.
Catelyn still felt a secret relief, for with so many tables and benches between them, the dwarf hadn't seen them.
But the good Singer leaped up at that moment, like a fly to carrion. "My Lord, may I entertain you during your meal with a song praising your father's great victory at King's Landing?"
"Then I'd surely die of nausea," The Imp said sourly; this Singer's tongue ought to be cut out.
Everyone knew what Lord Tywin's great victory at King's Landing truly was: a trick, a slaughter.
If this Singer had better taste, he'd play a song about the Rains of Castamere instead.
But The Imp spotted an unexpected person; his gaze had fallen upon Catelyn. "Lady Stark, what an unexpected surprise. I regret not seeing you in Winterfell."
The Singer Marillion's mouth fell open, and Catelyn slowly stood up. Damn it, what a coincidence.
Ser Rodrik began to curse; damned coincidence.
If the dwarf had stayed a few more days at the Wall, if they hadn't come to this inn.
But everything was already decided; everyone reacted, looking at Catelyn.
"Lady Stark?" the proprietress Marsha asked gruffly.
"The last time I lodged here, I was Catelyn Tully," Catelyn told the proprietress.
Catelyn saw the people around them whispering, all eyes fixed on her.
Catelyn's head felt hot, then she took a deep breath.
Should she take a risk? Or should she follow Eddard's advice and return to Winterfell as quickly as possible?
"My Lady," Roderick interjected, but the old knight couldn't stop Catelyn's actions.
It looked like things were about to get much worse.
Catelyn surveyed the room, looking at the knights and sworn swords.
The only trouble was those vagrant-like Mercenaries, but from the looks of it, these Mercenaries shouldn't interfere with her plans.
Should she really take the risk?
Catelyn felt she had no time to think; the opportunity was fleeting.
She wasn't doing it for herself, but out of her maternal instinct and pride.
"That gentleman sitting in the corner," Catelyn said. "Is that the black bat of Harrenhal embroidered on your cloak?"
"Yes, My Lady," the knight stepped forward, hastily replying.
"my father is Hoster of Riverrun, may I ask if Lady Mooton is his loyal ally?"
"He certainly is," the knight replied firmly.
Ser Rodrik sighed, but still drew his sword.
The Imp blinked; what was this Madwoman trying to do?
His two uneven eyes were full of confusion.
Catelyn gave instructions in turn: the knights of House Harroway, House Bracken, and House Frey.
These knights all stood up and agreed, like a group of well-trained dogs.
"This man came to my house as a guest, intending to murder my seven-year-old son," Catelyn pointed him out to everyone in the room, ensuring the dwarf had no escape.
Ser Rodrik walked to her side, sword in hand. "In the name of King Robert and the noble lords you serve, I ask you to bring him to justice and assist me in taking him to Winterfell, to await the King's law."
"What the hell?" The Imp's mind was hazy; how did he get involved in plotting against Bran?
Damn it.
More than a dozen longswords simultaneously scraped from their scabbards, the sound piercing the quiet of the air.
Catelyn felt her plan was secure; the advantage was hers, and the sound of swords being drawn was so pleasing to her ears.
"My Lords, please, don't brandish your swords here!" the proprietress pleaded.
Tyrion grabbed Jak's arm before he could be sliced into pieces.
The numerical disadvantage was too great; now was not the time to act.
"Lady Stark, I believe you are mistaken.
I have absolutely no involvement in your son's affairs.
I swear on my honor."
"Lannister honor," Catelyn said, then revealed her scar. "This scar was left by his dagger, a dagger used to try and murder my son."
Catelyn's words ignited the air with tension; they were swayed by her words, and The Imp felt his life was hanging by a thread.
They were strangers, yet they were all willing to kill him because of Catelyn's words.
The Imp thought quickly; the odds were against him, and surrendering to stabilize the situation was the best option, one against a dozen knights.
He only had two men: Jak, who was a decent swordsman, and Morris, who was utterly useless, serving as cook, stableman, and personal attendant.
Just then, a discordant voice came from the corner.
"Damn it, you bitch, you're disturbing the gentlemen's meal!" The scruffy Mercenaries in the corner suddenly stood up, most of them still wrapped in Shadowcat and Goat pelts, looking ferocious.
Only then did Catelyn realize this group of Mercenaries also meant trouble; they looked destitute, with some even missing limbs, but undoubtedly, these men carried a scent of blood.
They fed on gold and scorned earthly honor.
"Damn it, how dare you treat our liege's daughter like that!" a knight of House Harroway roared.
"How to deal with her? Isn't the old trout almost dead?" The leading brown-haired Mercenary brandished his longsword, speaking with disdain.
Catelyn suppressed the rage in her heart; a dozen against a dozen, if a fight broke out, the outcome would be hard to predict, especially since those Mercenaries had seen blood, while her knights might not possess such ferocity.
"But why, why would they oppose me?" Catelyn wondered.
"my father is Lord Hoster of Riverrun, my husband is Lord Eddard of Winterfell, and my sister is the Lady of The Eyrie.
If you gentlemen would hand this man over to us, I would be eternally grateful," Catelyn declared loudly.
The power of the fish, the wolf, and the eagle—she believed these Mercenaries would give her a satisfactory answer.
"Fuck you, we are Free Riders from the Snake People of the Mountains of the Moon, and we never revere any lord.
Especially Old Arryn, he's our enemy!" The leader, wrapped in Shadowcat fur, laughed heartily, and his subordinates joined in.
The High Mountain Clans are primitive tribal groups living at the foot of the Mountains of the Moon in the Vale.
They retain many first men traditions, with customs similar to the wildlings Beyond the Wall—raiding and insubordination.
Catelyn's mind went blank; she hadn't expected to encounter wildlings from the Mountains of the Moon in this inn.
Wildlings usually only robbed travelers on mountain roads; though they would raid outside the mountains, that was very unusual.
"My Lady, they are surely not wildlings; they are merely disguising their identities," Ser Rodrik whispered, reminding her.
Wildlings from the Mountains of the Moon generally wouldn't descend so far, and their stature and equipment didn't resemble wildlings.
"Duel, I want to duel you!" The knight from House Harroway could no longer restrain himself; he stood up, drew his longsword, and charged at his opponent.
The opposing Mercenary leader took up his longsword and deftly dueled the knight from House Harroway.
The Free Knights from House Harroway swung his longsword, only to find he was gradually reaching his limit.
His opponent remained at ease, clearly superior.
"You've been to battle, you've killed people!" The Free Knights was astonished; he would pay the price for his rashness.
"Damn it, stop playing with him!" The Mercenaries burst into laughter. "These Riverlands cowards are bloodless fools!"
The longsword of the Mercenary leader, clad in Shadowcat fur, suddenly moved with blinding speed, becoming a blur.
The longsword pierced the abdomen of the House Harroway knight, who instantly dropped dead.
The Free Knights's body fell to the ground, and the room was suddenly filled with the scent of blood.
The proprietress turned pale with fright.
"Leave our poor dwarf alone; legend says touching a dwarf's head brings good luck.
My Lady, I don't want to hear it a second time," the leader said coldly, wiping his blade on the House Harroway knight's body.
"You..." Catelyn felt a fire rising in her throat.
Catelyn glared furiously at this group of outlaws, wanting to see their faces clearly.
But she had never seen them before.
The "wildlings" raised their crossbows, aiming them at Catelyn and her supporters.
"My Lady, I'm afraid things are not going well," Ser Rodrik said.
The movements of those wildlings opposite were swift and brutal; they were likely battle-hardened veterans who had retreated from a battlefield, not the wildlings they claimed to be.
Moreover, their appearance clearly didn't match their story.
Catelyn's face was ashen; the only chance, the best chance, was missed just like that.
Catelyn's nails dug fiercely into her palms; a foolish kidnapping.
"Listen to me, gentlemen, there will be other days, and I don't think these good friends opposite will give up so easily.
How about this: we go our separate ways, and I promise to forget these things.
My esteemed Lady, I will visit you another day," The Imp cleared his throat.
The Imp felt as if heaven was helping him; although he didn't know who these wildlings truly served, they were at least helping him.
And judging by their attitude, it was clear they were deliberately trying to annoy Catelyn, this Madwoman; these people certainly weren't wildlings.
The Imp had also read many books; authentic mountain wildlings were mostly poor and barbaric, with tattered armor and weapons.
"Lady Catelyn, have you made up your mind?" the wildling leader said coldly, aiming his crossbow in other directions.
A soldier from House Bracken tried to grab his crossbow, but the opponent's crossbow had already fired maliciously, hitting right at the Bracken soldier's feet.
"Don't make me angry, or I don't mind killing all of you."
A young knight from House Frey trembled, and his longsword actually fell to the ground with a crisp clang.
This was a real battlefield, more bloody than the young man had imagined.
"Watch your swords, lads.
I don't like killing young men; it makes me feel unsafe," the wildling leader looked at the group of Frey Family knights.
Although these children had good armor and attire, they were still just children.
"We'll see about that!" Catelyn retorted fiercely, but she felt a sense of powerlessness.
"Come here, dwarf!" the wildling leader shouted.
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