The Stolen Kiss

Lord Hoster Tully sat in his solar drinking red dornish wine. A second silver cup sat beside Harry's hand as he took another seat opposite his lord.

The solar itself was cluttered, mostly with documents of one kind or another, and Harry guessed that this was where Lord Hoster worked. A stack of books sat on a small table in one corner of the room.

Lord Hoster noticed Harry looking that way, and smiled indulgently. "My daughter Cat will read to me sometimes, when my eyes tire overmuch from work. I shall be sad to see her go to Winterfell, for all that I know it's for the best for her."

"If he is anything like his brother Eddard then Brandon Stark is a fine man," Harry said softly. "He will make a fine husband, no doubt."

Lord Hoster nodded. "Yes, he…he will make my Cat happy, I am sure. And her children will inherit Winterfell and the North."

Harry took a sip of the harsh Dornish wine while he waited for Lord Hoster to explain why he had asked the knight of the Vale to join him here. He could not believe it was to talk about Cat.

Unless…unless he had some inclination? Harry's blood chilled for a moment before he relaxed, reminding himself that nothing had actually happened between them. He had feelings, and he thought that Lady Catelyn might feel something too, but it wasn't as if either of them had acted on those feelings. There was nothing for Lord Hoster to chide him over. Certainly nothing that could disgrace Harry or stain the honour of the Arryn line.

Lord Hoster, too, drank of his wine. Some of it stained his beard a deeper red than it had been before. He set down the goblet and clenched his hands together. "I am told you wish to take leave of my hospitality, Ser Harry. Does Riverrun so fatigue you that you cannot bear to remain? You have not been gone long enough to be homesick."

Harry smiled. "I am sure, my lord, that there are those who could grow homesick in less time then my stay here, but, I confess, that is not it."

"Then why do you seek to go?"

"Because I do not see why I was ever here, my lord," Harry replied. "If you wish to make a marriage pact between Lady Lysa and myself you could simply arrange matters by raven with my father. Seven know that you don't need my consent, and you certainly don't need hers. There is no need for us to meet beforehand, to approve of one another. My brides don't meet their husbands until the wedding day."

"True," Lord Hoster allowed. "But what of that? Am I not allowed my foibles or my eccentricities?"

"You are the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, my lord, you are allowed whatever you wish," Harry said. "But that doesn't mean that I am allowed no wishes of my own."

"You do not like my younger daughter? You prefer her betrothed sister perhaps?"

Harry became very still. "I know not of what my lord speaks."

"I am not blind, Ser Hal," Lord Hoster said. "I have seen you dance attendance on my elder daughter when you ought to have pursued the younger."

"If you have been watching, my lord, you will know that I have tried," Harry said. "Lady Catelyn is an easier companion than her sister, that I grant, but I have tried."

Lord Hoster nodded. "That you have, ser. Although it seems that you do not wish to try any more."

Harry sighed. "If I am to wed Lady Lysa then I will," he said. Although I'd rather have Catelyn. "But, if you're motive in inviting me here, or Jaime Lannister for that matter, was for any purpose of love then…I fear her eyes upon another light."

"I am well aware of on whom my Lysa's eyes alight," Lord Hoster growled as he rose to his feet. "That stripling boy, I've seen her making eyes at him. She practically moons over him. There are times when I regret taking him as my ward."

Harry clasped his hands together. "I take it, lord, that a Baelish match does not enter into consideration?"

Hoster glared at him so fiercely that Harry shrank back in his seat a little.

"Of course not," Harry answered his own question. Much too poor, and too lowborn.

Lord Hoster turned away, clasping his hands together behind his back as he strode over to the window.

"I am not blind to the fact that you must think this strange," Lord Hoster said. "No doubt your father and Lord Tywin found it strange as well. And you are right, I could have arranged a match with Jon, or with Lord Tywin, via raven and you – or Jaime – need never have set eyes on Lysa till the appointed day. I could have kept Cat and young Stark separated until then also. But I did not do so, and I do not wish to do so now."

"You do the right thing, my lord," Harry said softly. Amongst his father's friends – Lord Hoster, and Lord Rickard Stark – it seemed such consideration for their daughters was, pleasantly, something approaching normal. Lyanna and Robert had met more than once, and Robert professed himself smitten by her beauty and her gentle loveliness. It didn't stop him from sleeping around in the meantime but then they weren't wed yet, and Harry was of the opinion that they were both entitled to enjoy their primrose days before marriage came calling.

Although even then what Lord Hoster was doing – or seemed to be doing – was unusual. It wasn't as if Lord Rickard had waited on his daughter's leave to make the match with Robert, and if Brandon Stark had had to woo Lady Catelyn Harry was unaware of it. Why then, was Lord Hoster putting Lady Lysa's suitors through their paces thus contrary to custom?

"I love my daughters," Lord Hoster declared. "For many years, until the gods saw fit to grant me Edmure and at the same time take Minisa away, I thought that the rule of Riverrun and all my lands would fall to Cat when I was gone. Now it is not so, but all the same…I love my daughters. I would see them well matched and happily, that I may know that they will be well cared for when I am gone."

Harry was silent for a moment, drinking the sour wine to cover himself while he considered. He half-thought that if Lord Hoster wished for his daughter to be happy he would allow her to marry Petyr Baelish; but that was hardly the sort of thing one could say to one's host. And in any case, the charm of being Lady Baelish might well wear off if Lysa had to live in what Harry understood to be a rather pokey windswept tower on the coast of the Fingers. "So you wish to see your daughters married not only to great lords but also to good husbands?"

"So you see, Ser Harry, that your visit here is not for your benefit, nor even so much for Lysa's as for mine."

"Indeed, my lord," Harry murmured. "And, um, how have I done so far?"

"If you could focus your attention upon Lysa rather than Cat it would be a good start," Lord Hoster said. But his voice softened a little as he turned back to face Harry once more. "But I am not unimpressed. I think that you would take care of my Lysa."

"I would try my best, my lord," Harry said earnestly, for he most devoutly hoped that he could never be so vile or wretched as to treat his wife cruelly, no matter the circumstances of their marriage.

"I am prepared to bend Lysa to my will in this matter, to bear her misery now for the sake of her future contentment," Lord Hoster continued. "But I would rather that she be reconciled to the match to some degree."

"Then you no longer consider Lannister."

"I did not say that, but Jaime Lannister is no longer here," Lord Hoster replied. "Please, Ser Harry, stay a little while longer. Stay for the hunt, at least." He resumed his seat, and drank once more of his Dornish red. "I know that Lysa can be…I know that she is not her sister but please, Ser, I love her no less dearly. Stay, for the love between our houses."

Harry considered, and drained the last of his wine while he did so. If he returned to the Eyrie his father might not be best pleased with him. Negotiations could be carried out by raven, but it was clear that Harry had not sealed the deal, proving himself to be beyond doubt a better man than Jaime Lannister. Lannister was gone, but Harry would clearly need to up his game a little if he wanted to make his father proud.

There were times when Harry suspected that his father loved Ned and Robert more than him, though he had never voiced those suspicions to either of them, much less to his lord father himself. This was the first chance he'd really gotten serve the Vale and impress his father. So could he really refuse a further chance to succeed? He thought not. And besides…

And besides, the pleasures of Riverrun were not to be denied. Although he had been warned from spending too much time with Catelyn, the fact remained that to spend a little more time in her company was not an opportunity to be sneered at.

Harry smiled slightly. "Very well, ser. I will stay, until the hunt at least."

Knights and lords and eager young squires rode up and down upon the meadow, accompanied by hordes of barking boarhounds that flocked around their heels. Falcons flew from the hands of their masters, while guards on foot crashed through the thicket with spears and crossbows at the ready trying to drive the quarry out into the open.

Harry held out his arm and let Hedwig fly, less because he wanted her to find something – he couldn't really say that he was interested – and more because she'd been cooped up in the falconry at Riverrun for weeks and she must be dying to get some real flying in.

"Off you go, girl, stretch your wings," he said. "I'll whistle when it's time to return."

Hedwig shrieked at him as she took flight into the endless blue.

Harry smiled. Don't worry, I'll give you a decent time up there.

He cast his green eyes over the horsemen below – he and his mount stood atop a slight rise with the bulk of the Tully hunting party some way below – before turning his gaze upon Lady Lysa. She sat silent, demure and side-saddle atop a roan mare, with her parti-coloured gown of red and blue hanging down one side of the horse halfway to the ground. Her red hair hung loose down behind her back, save for a few strands falling before her shoulders, and her head was bowed slightly down. Her expression was as downcast as her head, almost forlorn, as if she had been completely forsaken in the world.

That might have had something to do with the fact that Petyr Baelish was focussing all his attention upon Lady Catelyn, a little way away, or it might have been something else altogether.

I suppose I won't know unless I ask her about it.

Harry nudged his horse with his knees, bearing him closer to Lady Lysa. He had made an effort – more of an effort – these last few days leading up to the hunt, and he fancied that she was starting to open up to him a little more.

They were both under the shade of a broad willow tree, and the sunlight dappled through its awnings to fall upon them both in fits and starts.

"You do not enjoy the hunt, Lady Lysa?" Harry asked gently.

"No, ser," Lysa murmured. "I take no pleasure in it, although…I'm surprise that you don't seem to either."

"I can take no joy in the death of a dumb beast," Harry said. "There is no honour in it."

"Honour," Lysa repeated, investing the word with a note of scorn.

"Something troubles you, my lady?" Harry asked. "Something more than your disinterest in the hunt."

Lysa didn't look at him, or raise her head at all, but he thought he saw her glance towards her sister and Petyr for a moment. "I don't understand why we have to put words like honour and duty before our happiness. I don't understand why we can't just do the things that make us happy, no matter what other people say. I don't understand why some people are so much more fortunate than others."

"As for the latter, my lady, you will have to speak to a septon for I know not," Harry said. "But as for the former two: if we thought only of our own happiness would we be any better than the beasts that your father and his men hunt? Are we not men because we can put others ahead of ourselves?"

"But why should we condemn ourselves to misery for the sake of other people?" Lysa demanded. Now she looked at him. "Why can't we live as we wish to, love as we wish to, without needing the permission of old men who only disapprove because they don't understand how we feel?"

"I think you do your father wrong, my lady. He loves you dearly."

Lysa's face reddened. "I didn't…I'm not…I…forgive me, ser, I spoke out of turn."

She looked away, and Harry could feel the greater chill in the air.

That was the wrong thing to say, clearly.

He glanced up, and an idea struck him to hopefully salvage this situation. He reached up and plucked a leaf from the willow tree that spread its eaves above them. Pressing the leaf to his lips, he began to blow into it.

A squeaky sound, partway between a horn and a whistle, emerged filtered by the leaf before his lips.

Lysa gasped, looking at him with surprise in her blue eyes.

Harry whistled at her, blowing a long note on his leaf, and then a couple of shorter ones. He smiled, as much she could see his lips what with the leaf and all, and whistled again.

Lysa began to giggle, covering her mouth with one hand as laughter emerged from between her lips. Harry blew on the leaf a little more.

Lysa was still smiling as she plucked a leaf of her own from the tree above and tried to blow through it. No sound emerged but the sound of blowy breath.

"Hold it like this, my lady," Harry said. "With your fingers on either side, pressing it to your mouth. Yes, that's right. Now, blow."

Lysa blew, and this time she achieved the same whistling sound that Harry had made. She seemed so absurdly pleased that Harry's smile broadened, and they whistled at each other for a while before Lysa removed the leaf from her mouth.

"I've never heard anything like that," she gasped. "Where did you learn to do that, Ser Harry?"

"I learnt it from a farmboy on my father's land," Harry said. "And please, my lady, Harry will be fine. There is no need to stand upon my knighthood."

"Harry," Lysa murmured, as if she were trying on his name to see how it fit in her mouth.

"Or Hal, if you'd rather; many of my friends use it."

Lysa chuckled. "You're not a usual knight, Harry. You're really very-"

Whatever Harry might really very have been was interrupted by something moving in the thicket to Lysa's right. She looked that way, and Harry put a hand to the hilt of his sword as he urged his horse a trifle forward.

The boar burst out of the thicket squealing and snarling, legs pounding as it tore across the hillside and darted in front of Lysa's horse before it turned away. Lysa's roan reared in panic, and Lysa panicked too, squealing in fright as she fumbled for the reins.

And then the horse was off, racing down the hill and away, and carrying Lysa with it.

"Help!" Lysa screamed, as she clung to her horse for dear life as it bore her away. "Somebody help!"

Harry urged his own mount forward, driving his knees into the flanks of the destrier as a trot became a canter became quickening to a gallop. His horse tore across the meadow, and though Lysa's mare was running swift Harry's warhorse proved its equal, if not its better, as it churned up the sod with its hooves in pursuit of Lysa. Voices called out to him, but Harry ignored them. There was nothing but Lysa now, Lysa and the chase.

Lysa's horse, senseless in its distress, carried her through the edge of a forest and into a tiny stream that somewhere would join up with one of the tributaries of the Trident. Water splashed from the hooves of the horse as it stormed through the water.

I have to stop it soon, Harry thought as he rode his own mount down the bank. Any moment now the horse might trip and fall, and then Lysa would…it hardly bore thinking about.

But he wasn't about to let that happen.

Harry had caught up to them by now, and he rode his own horse down the bank of the stream, keeping level with Lysa.

"Hold on, Lysa," he cried. "Just a little longer." He stood up in the saddle, judging the distance between them, how fast they were going, how he'd need to do this.

And then he leapt.

It was probably not the smartest thing to do. Ned, if he'd been there, would have called him a fool. Robert would have thought it was a fine thing, which was probably as great proof of how foolish it was as Ned's condemnation would have been. But Harry was confident that things would work out because, well, things had a way of working out around him. He didn't get hurt when he fell, when he wanted to hide he couldn't be found, when he wanted to get up somewhere he found that he could do just that.

So when he jumped for Lysa's horse he was fairly confident that he wouldn't end up breaking his neck in the stream or getting trampled by said horse or landing anywhere but precisely where he wished to land. And he didn't. He landed behind Lysa but on her horse, and he immediately sawed on the reins, murmuring sweet nothings to the frightened roan until she came to a stop.

They were all alone, having left the rest of the hunting party far behind. Just him and Lysa, sobbing desperately.

Gingerly, Harry placed his hands upon her shoulders. "It's alight, my lady. You're safe now."

Lysa looked up at him through eyes filled with tears, and then she buried her face in his chest as she clung to him, trembling like a leaf.

"Oh, Harry," she gasped, shaking and sobbing. "I was so scared, I…I've never been more scared of anything in my life."

Harry stroked her back gently with one hand. "There's nothing to be afraid of any more."

"No," Lysa agreed. "Because you saved me."

They remained that way, locked in embrace, until the anxious Tully men caught up with them.

The godswood at Riverrun was large, larger and more spacious than the godswood at the Eyrie - not that that was so much a slight on the Eyrie as an honest reflection of the fact that you simply couldn't get so much room when you were building on the edge of a sheer precipice; in consequence, many things were larger at Riverrun - sprawling across the centre of the castle in the same way that the great weirwood tree sprawled across the centre of the godswood, it's branches blocking out the stars with a canopy of leaves as red as blood.

Harry shivered a little. This being the dead of night, the godswood was appropriately cold for all that it was summer.

The note that brought him here had been anonymous, left on his pillow by someone unknown. A servant, presumably, but as Harry couldn't think of why a servant would want to meet with him in the godswood in the dead of night he also presumed that they had left it on the orders of someone else. But who?

I suppose I'll find out when they arrive.

If they arrive.

It occurred to him, having been waiting here for a little while already with no sign of the mystery person who had summoned him to this meeting, that this might be someone's idea of joke. He couldn't think it likely, however, if only because he couldn't think of anyone in Riverrun who would find this amusing.

He paced up and down beneath the weirwood tree, shivering occassionally in his doublet of sky blue, rubbing his gloved hands together as he waited for the author of the missive to reveal themselves.

"Ser Hal?"

Harry turned around to see Lady Catelyn walking slowly towards him. She was more than half concealed beneath a long scarlet cloak that fell almost to the ground to shield her from the elements while her hood, thrown up over her face, cast it in shadow. But her voice was unmistakable.

Harry stared at her as she approached. When he spoke his voice was touched by hoarseness. "My lady. This is...an unexpected pleasure."

Catelyn threw back her hood, revealing her delicate features in the moonlight. "Thank you for coming. I...I wasn't sure if you would."

"Your invitation was too intriguing to refuse," Harry said. "Although-"

"Thank you," Catelyn said. "You saved Lysa today."

"I did what was right," Harry said. "Had any other knight been in a position to intervene I'm certain sure they would have done the same."

"But they didn't," Catelyn replied, stepping closer to him until only a couple of paces separated the two of them beneath the weirwood tree. The ancient face carved into the wood seemed to watch the pair of them where no mortal eyes could see. "You did. You saved my sister, and for that you have my thanks."

"Gratitude is no more necessary than reward, my lady," Harry said. A frown besmirched his features. "Lady Catelyn...surely you did not need to summon me to this place upon this hour, nor creep in here yourself, to tell me you are grateful for your sister's life."

"No," Catelyn whispered, but in the silence of the godswood her whispered word carried like a shout. "Harry." She reached for him. "Do you love my sister?"

Harry's green eyes widened a little. Does she...is this...what do I do?

He glanced around. There was no one here but them. There was no one to see but the weirwood tree and the lifeless eyes carved into the wood. He took a step forward and reached out for her. "No," he said softly, as he placed his hands upon her arms. He could feel them beneath her cloak. "I fear there is another rose in Riverrun that I desire."

Catelyn stared into his eyes. Harry stared right back. Words passed between them without the need for speech, words of desire and passion, words of the heart that neither of them could put to word, and neither needed to.

It was Catelyn who looked away first. "This is not right," she said. "We should not be here."

"Then why are we here?" Harry asked. "Why did you summon me here?"

"Because I..." Catelyn trailed off. "Because I had to be sure, but...we should not be here."

"But here we are," Harry said. He could feel her shivering beneath her cloak. "Is it the cold that makes you tremble?"

Catelyn shook her head. "I am afraid."

"Of what?" Harry asked. "I can protect you."

"Brandon would kill you if he knew of this."

"I'm not afraid of Brandon Stark."

"You should be," Catelyn replied. She hesitated, her lovely blue eyes darting this way and that in confusion. "I'm afraid of him," she confessed.

Harry's grip upon her arms tightened protectively. "My lady...Catelyn...Cat, has he hurt you?"

"No, of course not," Catelyn replied. "But the way he talks...this was a mistake, goodnight, Ser Harry."

"Please, wait a moment," Harry said, though he released her so that she might go if she wished. She did not go, not yet. "If...if you had a choice-"

"I don't have a choice, and neither do you," Catelyn said desperately. "I know what my duty is."

"Then why are you here?" Harry demanded.

"Because..." Catelyn trailed off, looking at him.

For a moment, all in the godswood was silent.

Then Harry pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

It was wrong. It verged on dishonourable. But at this moment, in this place, Harry found he didn't care.

And by the way she kissed him, and as she kissed him melted into his embrace, neither did she.