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Quod Spectet Mundus ~ That The World Looks
Stories about how it had first been built abounded and none of them were alike. Some said that dark arts had been used in its making, that thousands of men had died and that the very walls were cursed. Every man who had worked on the castle was put to death upon its completion, that only the incumbent Lord would know of its secrets. Lyanna certainly thought it was cursed as she languished in the bower with the other castle women, spinning and weaving day after day as the Clearwater Reach roared past the windowslits. Her father guarded his great bridge jealously, letting pass only those who bribed him enough or whose purposes suited his own. Less affluent merchants only made the crossing a couple of times per year and most of the smallfolk were reduced to wading over Stonecross Ford five miles upriver, where well worn stepping stones and dangerous undercurrents claimed a dozen lives a season. Horses fared better but shorter legged livestock were herded across at their peril and it was a fortunate farmer who arrived at market with most of his stock.
Lord Fitzwarren was not loved by the people he ruled. Those on dry land scarce ever saw him unless he was forcibly quelling bad feeling and they deeply resented paying tax to a man so bloated with wealth from his river crossing. Only that morning his three sons had ridden out with a retinue to remind a number of smallfolk and farm tenants that their tithes were past due.
Lyanna herself could count on her fingers and toes the number of times she had escaped the bleak walls of Riverfall. It was past time that she should have been wedded to some neighbouring Lordling but suitors had to travel no small distance to court her at 'The Bridge At The End Of The World.' Many and more had sailed off from the base of Riverfall's drop and out onto the open sea in search of new lands but none had ever returned. They were many days ride from the King's Keep where Edmure's own taxes had to be paid and if King Theoden was aware that Edmure only declared about half his revenue he had yet to attempt to bring Lord Fitzwarren to heel.
Lyanna watched from her bedroom as her father rode out with yet more men. She had feigned a headache to escape the inane chatter of the other women and was enjoying her solitude. Her older brothers had yet to return and the sun was setting. Her father was not concerned about them drinking and wenching but to do so in hostile company such as that of his dissatisfied subjects was unwise.
Two candlenotches had burned down by the time Edmure returned. Lyanna saw that some of the men were injured, sat two to a horse so they could be held in the saddle by another. The blood and muck on them was such that she could not pick out her brothers. She threw on a cloak against the cold and made her way downstairs to the great hall, where the injured would be taken. There she found men on trestles, either motionless or screaming for aid. Her eldest brother, Rhys, was arrowshot in the thigh and a bright gash welled red from his forehead where he had fallen from his horse.
Lyanna helped the other women to cleanse, cauterise and stitch, brewing poultices and wrapping bandages until she could hardly stand. Rhys and his brothers had left with eight mounted men and her father had followed with a score more but only 12 had returned to Riverfall, on just eight horses. Edmure was in a foul mood and had to be talked around for half a candlenotch by his wife and the flagon of ale she plied him with, before he would allow his minor wounds to be seen to. Of her two youngest brothers there was no sign.
"Rhys... what of Garath and Edwin? She asked quietly as she stitched his thigh. Rhys had been liberally sedated with rich golden mead and it took a moment for his eyes to focus on her own.
"A whore did for Garath. He paid the woman fair but after she demanded more because of his rank. He refused and she vowed to bring him a bastard to call him sire nine moons hence." Rhys smiled drunkenly at the memory, pausing to gasp as Lyanna stitched. "Well, Garath laughed in her face and threw a few coppers just to watch her scrabble in the dirt for them. Some drunkard cursed him as a miser like his Lord father and a fight started, I know not by whom. Edwin went to Garath's defence and suddenly we were trapped in that tavern, grossly outnumbered. Garath went down and men laid about him with boots and chairs. I was trying to quell things, yelling that no man should want to incur father's wrath. Others were fighting me and I couldn't get to them."
Rhys trailed off, his face crumpling with grief as he looked away. Lyanna was deeply shocked and only judicious dosing with mead would have her brother talking so frankly to her of drinking, whoring and brawling. She knew her brothers weren't wide eyed innocents but to picture them like this distressed her almost as much as what Rhys said next.
"They're dead Lyanna, or at least I dare to hope they are." He waved at the mead cup and she brought it to his lips, lifting his head and shoulders. Rhys swallowed down his tears, aware of his father's livid presence nearby. "If any man of them has the wits to claim them hostage, the gods alone know what father will do. They're good people Lyanna, but he's a tyrannical swine. I don't wonder that they hate us."
Lyanna chewed her lip and looked askance at her father, who was pacing the hall.
"I want every man fit to sit a saddle on the East Bridge! Leave a double watch on the West run so that they don't think to try anything. If my sons die while you're supping ale and pottage I'll string every last one of you gutless curs the length of Riverfall Bridge for crowfeed!"
Edmure paused beside Rhys and regarded his injuries dispassionately.
"I'm told you used your mouth first and your sword a long way second." He snapped. Rhys sobered and scowled at him, refusing to be stared down.
"They had us five to one and we'd been drinking. If I could have talked and bribed our way out of that tavern I would have... and you would have more sons yet living."
Edmure turned on his heel and strode from the room.