No wind, only mist. No birdsong, only the soft, steady splash of oars.
The small boat touched shore, and the Brotherhood filed out—five, ten, twenty—roughly thirty or forty in all. Fragmented scale armor, mismatched arrows, tattered cloaks in black, brown, and earth-stained yellow. And women in gray robes.
Gray was the color of the Silent Sisters, the Stranger's handmaids. A shiver slid down Tyrion's spine. Lady Stoneheart.
"Lady Stoneheart of the Brotherhood Without Banners." Tyrion gave a small nod. "An honor to meet you. A gift for the occasion."
He tossed the bronze crown onto the ground before them.
"Not a Frey this time?" Thoros picked up the crown and passed it to Lady Stoneheart.
"Few Freys dare wander the Riverlands now," Tyrion said. "The ones left either march with their armies or hide behind castle walls. A crown means more, doesn't it?"
She studied it in silence, her fingers brushing the sword-shaped points as though testing their edge. Cold light flickered beneath her hood.
"Lady, do you remember me?" Tyrion asked. "At the Eyrie. Where everything began. Hard for me to forget."
Lady Stoneheart lowered her hood and unwound the gray wool scarf from her face. Her hair was dry and brittle, white as bone. Her forehead was mottled gray-green with patches of brown rot. Rags of flesh clung to her face from eye to jaw—some split and crusted with dried blood, others peeled back to reveal bone.
Yes. Catelyn Stark. Now a corpse, a wight, a living dead thing.
"She was dead indeed," said Thoros of Myr, catching the look on Tyrion's face. "The Freys slit her throat from ear to ear. By the time we found her on the riverbank, she'd been three days gone. Harwin begged me for the kiss of life, but too much time had passed. I would not do it. So Lord Beric set his lips to hers and gave her his fire. And… she rose. May the Lord of Light watch over us. She rose."
"Beric gave his life," Tyrion said quietly. "A good man. A good knight. Eddard Stark should never have—"
A harsh hiss cut him off.
"She doesn't like you speaking of Lord Eddard," Thoros said, then motioned toward Brienne. "Brienne of Tarth?"
The knight nodded.
Fingers that had once belonged to Lady Catelyn dug hard into her own throat. Her broken, strangled words trickled out like icy water. A Northerner translated, "She asks if you found her daughters."
"I did," Tyrion answered.
"I didn't ask you," the man said, eyes returning to Brienne. "You answer."
"Yes," Brienne said, dropping to one knee. "I found the two Stark girls. They're safe now."
"Where are they?" the Northerner pressed.
"Under my protection," Tyrion cut in.
"I didn't ask you," the man shot back.
"Go to hell," Tyrion snapped. "Did no one teach you how to speak to a Lord?"
The crowd stirred. Two of the Brotherhood drew their swords. Tyrion didn't move. Brienne didn't either.
"This is the justice you claim to stand for?" Tyrion said with a cold smile. "Or did you throw honor to the wolves after the wedding and turn yourselves into puppets of vengeance?"
"Lannisters and Freys are the same as the Boltons—none of you have honor!" someone shouted from behind.
"But I brought you a Frey. I even killed a Frey for you—Bolton, too," Tyrion said. "I can lift the bounty on your heads, bring peace back to the Riverlands, let the smallfolk survive the winter."
He turned to Thoros. "The night is coming."
"The night is coming," the red priest replied.
"Better trust the Others up north than the Lannisters," someone muttered, though far fewer dared echo the sentiment now.
"Fine, you don't trust the Lannisters. Then who do you trust?" Tyrion counted on his fingers. "Lysa Arryn? The Vale sat on its hands through the whole war. House Tyrell? They're King's Landing's closest allies. Dorne? Too far away to matter."
"By your logic, is there anyone in this world worth trusting?"
No protests rose this time. Only murmurs remained; no one shouted back.
Lady Stoneheart hissed again.
"What do you want?" the Northerner asked.
"I want your allegiance. If not allegiance, then your help," Tyrion said. "Sansa and I are betrothed in King's Landing. I will marry her. And Arya—her marriage will also be arranged by me."
A fresh wave of murmurs rolled through the crowd.
"You… how could you possibly be worthy…"
"Enough. Spare me this tedious nonsense," Tyrion said with a frown. "If it were your daughter marrying me, you'd be kissing my ass and thanking every god in the sky. Why not be honest? I've already paid with several Frey lives, and a crown as a greeting gift. Ask the Lady. What does she want?"
A low, chilling hiss rippled through the group, raising gooseflesh.
"She wants her son alive, or the men who killed him dead," the Northerner said. "She wants them fed to the crows, the same way they did after the Red Wedding. Freys and Bolton, yes. We'll give her as many as she wants."
"Frankly," Tyrion said, "which gods do you follow? The Old Gods, the Seven, or the Lord of Light? Tell me—between Walder Frey and Roose Bolton, whose life can you actually take? Or are you planning to deceive the Lady?"
"Think over my terms. They benefit all of us," he added. "What stands before you is vengeance within reach, not empty promises. The night is coming."
"The night is coming," more and more voices echoed.
Then silence. A terrible silence.
Thoros said nothing. The Northerner said nothing. Until...
"Kill Walder Frey. Kill Roose Bolton. Kill every murderer at the wedding." Lady Stoneheart's voice rasped, and this time Tyrion could finally make out the words. "My daughters are yours to do with as you will."
The fire of the Lord of Light burned within her, but it was vengeance that fueled it.
"Thank you, my lady. You're as understanding as you were in the Eyrie," Tyrion said with a bow. "We'll speak again soon. Next time we meet, I'll call you mother-in-law."
"Turn. Turn and go." Then he whispered to Brienne, "Don't look back."
The two mounted their horses. Lannister cavalry closed in quickly, shielding their retreat.
"When you return, don't tell Sansa. Not what her mother has become."