Osmund Kettleblack
They were received, fed, given horses, and that very same day a detachment of three dozen warriors set out for the Eyrie. The horses, well-fed and rested, moved with powerful, steady strides.
Mile after mile fell beneath their hooves. The road climbed ever upward, only now and then descending from one mountain, before inexorably rising higher and higher again. The air grew colder. A wind picked up—and never let go. Its vicious gusts cut like knives, and toward the end of the journey the first snowflakes began to fall from the leaden sky—sparse, hard pellets.
After the warmth of King's Landing, the cold up here in the heights was felt especially keenly. The Kettleblacks wrapped themselves in their cloaks, trying to preserve what little warmth remained.
The final stretch, after the Gates of the Moon, proved particularly grueling. Part of the way had to be covered on specially trained mules; the rest required going on foot along a narrow path and worn stone steps, always mindful that at any moment one could slip and plunge into the gorge below. No one felt any desire to find out just how far the bottom was.
"Fucking Arryns," Osmund growled. Since his brother's death, he cursed without pause, always finding some new outlet for his anger. "What kind of twisted urge made them crawl all the way up to the very top?" Still, he now lowered his voice. Locals marched ahead of and behind the column—people who were exceedingly sensitive about the honor of the Arryns and their Vale.
They were expected at the Eyrie. Osmund nearly dropped his jaw when he saw who was waiting for them at the gates.
"What the fuck are you staring at me for, Kettleblack?" Sandor Clegane snarled instead of greeting. His burned face twisted into a terrifying grin. "Now you're just as much a dead man as I am. Come, be numbered among us!"
"Didn't expect to see you here," Osmund replied. He feared few people in this world—but he had no hurry to pick a fight with the Hound.
" I don't give a shit who you thought you would or wouldn't see." the Hound said. Over the past months his temper had only worsened. His voice rasped like a saw biting into bone, and his eyes held no more warmth or kindness than the filthiest, farthest corner of the Seventh Hell. "Come on. Littlefinger's been waiting."
Escorted by the Hound, they were led to one of the chambers. Impeccably dressed as always, smiling Petyr Baelish greeted them and questioned them at length—about how everything had gone, and about the overall situation in the capital.
With every word they spoke, the joy burned brighter in his gray-green eyes.
"He's truly dead?" Baelish asked once more.
"As surely as you're standing in front of me, my lord," Osmund replied with an involuntary grin. "What, haven't the ravens spread the news across the realm yet?"
"Not yet, my friend. The Lannisters are likely in no hurry to announce such an event. What a blow to their prestige! I understand them completely," he chuckled softly. "Well then—you've done splendidly. It's a great tragedy that Osfryd died. He was a skilled warrior, and I mourn with you. But the dead cannot be brought back, and the living must tend to their affairs. Rest, lads. Eat, drink, wash yourselves—and start choosing a castle. The Seven bear witness, you've earned it!"
The brothers spent several days in one of the towers. They were housed, it must be said, in great comfort. Wrapped in the furs and clothing provided to them, even the cold no longer bit quite so fiercely. A fire burned in the hearth. They drowned their grief for Osfryd in wine, devoured mountains of meat, and fucked the girls Littlefinger sent their way. Things began to settle. Their brother would not return—but such was a warrior's fate. Sooner or later, they would all follow him.
Their father departed back to Gulltown to carry out another of Baelish's errands.
One day, while strolling through a small inner courtyard and dreaming of getting the hell down from these damned mountains as soon as possible, they encountered a peculiar man. A grim figure with one eye wrapped in a bandage looked vaguely familiar.
Osmund tensed and suddenly realized who stood before them—Beric Dondarrion, lord of the Dornish Marches: tall, well-built, and swift. He immediately remembered the last time he had seen him—when Ned Stark was still alive and had sent Dondarrion into the Riverlands to deal with Gregor Clegane.
Back then, Beric had looked young and handsome. Gods, barely half a year had passed since then—and how much had changed! The realm was different now. People were different. Dondarrion had aged; gray streaked his beard, lines creased his face. And where his right eye had once been, there was now only a patch. It seemed the Kettleblacks were not the only ones with stories to tell.
Beric recognized them, nodded, and passed by in silence, wrapping himself tighter in his cloak. A look of doom seemed permanently etched into his features.
Still, Dondarrion—like the Hound—was not here by chance. It appeared Littlefinger was assembling quite the company.
"Something's brewing, brother. Mark my words," Osney said with a grin. It was as if he'd read Osmund's thoughts. He repeated it softly. "Something's brewing."
(End of Chapter)
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