A Game of Thrones 4-Book Bundle

mockery.
    â€œThe Starks do not murder men in their beds.”
    â€œNor do I,” he said. “I tell you again, I had no part in the attempt to kill your son.”
    â€œThe assassin was armed with your dagger.”
    Tyrion felt the heat rise in him. “It was not my dagger,” he insisted. “How many times must I swear to that? Lady Stark, whatever you may believe of me, I am not a stupid man. Only a fool would arm a common footpad with his own blade.”
    Just for a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of doubt in her eyes, but what she said was, “Why would Petyr lie to me?”
    â€œWhy does a bear shit in the woods?” he demanded. “Because it is his nature. Lying comes as easily as breathing to a man like Littlefinger.
You
ought to know that, you of all people.”
    She took a step toward him, her face tight. “And what does that mean, Lannister?”
    Tyrion cocked his head. “Why, every man at court has heard him tell how he took your maidenhead, my lady.”
    â€œThat is a lie!”
Catelyn Stark said.
    â€œOh, wicked little imp,” Marillion said, shocked.
    Kurleket drew his dirk, a vicious piece of black iron. “At your word, m’lady, I’ll toss his lying tongue at your feet.” His pig eyes were wet with excitement at the prospect.
    Catelyn Stark stared at Tyrion with a coldness on her face such as he had never seen. “Petyr Baelish loved me once. He was only a boy. His passion was a tragedy for all of us, but it was real, and pure, and nothing to be made mock of. He wanted my hand. That is the truth of the matter. You are truly an evil man, Lannister.”
    â€œAnd you are truly a fool, Lady Stark. Littlefinger has never loved anyone but Littlefinger, and I promise you that it is not your
hand
that he boasts of, it’s those ripe breasts of yours, and that sweet mouth, and the heat between your legs.”
    Kurleket grabbed a handful of hair and yanked his head back in a hard jerk, baring his throat. Tyrion felt the cold kiss of steel beneath his chin. “Shall I bleed him, my lady?”
    â€œKill me and the truth dies with me,” Tyrion gasped.
    â€œLet him talk,” Catelyn Stark commanded.
    Kurleket let go of Tyrion’s hair, reluctantly.
    Tyrion took a deep breath. “How did Littlefinger tell you I came by this dagger of his? Answer me that.”
    â€œYou won it from him in a wager, during the tourney on Prince Joffrey’s name day.”
    â€œWhen my brother Jaime was unhorsed by the Knight of Flowers, that was his story, no?”
    â€œIt was,” she admitted. A line creased her brow.
    â€œRiders!”
    The shriek came from the wind-carved ridge above them. Ser Rodrik had sent Lharys scrambling up the rock face to watch the road while they took their rest.
    For a long second, no one moved. Catelyn Stark was the first to react. “Ser Rodrik, Ser Willis, to horse,” she shouted. “Get the other mounts behind us. Mohor, guard the prisoners—”
    â€œArm us!” Tyrion sprang to his feet and seized her by the arm. “You will need every sword.”
    She knew he was right, Tyrion could see it. The mountain clans cared nothing for the enmities of the great houses; they would slaughter Stark and Lannister with equal fervor, as they slaughtered each other. They might spare Catelyn herself; she was still young enough to bear sons. Still, she hesitated.
    â€œI hear them!”
Ser Rodrik called out. Tyrion turned his head to listen, and there it was: hoofbeats, a dozen horses or more, coming nearer. Suddenly everyone was moving, reaching for weapons, running to their mounts.
    Pebbles rained down around them as Lharys came springing and sliding down the ridge. He landed breathless in front of Catelyn Stark, an ungainly-looking man with wild tufts of rust-colored hair sticking out from under a conical steel cap. “Twenty men, maybe twenty-five,” he said, breathless. “Milk Snakes or Moon Brothers, by my guess. They must have eyes out, m’lady … hidden watchers … they know we’re here.”
    Ser Rodrik Cassel was already ahorse, a longsword in hand. Mohor crouched behind a boulder, both hands on his iron-tipped spear, a dagger between his teeth. “You, singer,” Ser Willis Wode called out. “Help me with this breastplate.” Marillion sat frozen, clutching his woodharp, his face as pale as milk, but