My lady, you should have sent word of your coming, Ser Donnel Waynwood told her as their horses climbed the pass. We would have sent an escort. The high road is not as safe as it once was, for a party as small as yours.

We learned that to our sorrow, Ser Donnel, Catelyn said. Sometimes she felt as though her heart had turned to stone; six brave men had died to bring her this far, and she could not even find it in her to weep for them. Even their names were fading. The clansmen harried us day and night. We lost three men in the first attack, and two more in the second, and Lannister's serving man died of a fever when his wounds festered. When we heard your men approaching, I thought us doomed for certain. They had drawn up for a last desperate fight, blades in hand and backs to the rock. The dwarf had been whetting the edge of his axe and making some mordant jest when Bronn spotted the banner the riders carried before them, the moon-and-falcon of House Arryn, sky-blue and white. Catelyn had never seen a more welcome sight.

The clans have grown bolder since Lord Jon died, Ser Donnel said. He was a stocky youth of twenty years, earnest and homely, with a wide nose and a shock of thick brown hair. If it were up to me, I would take a hundred men into the mountains, root them out of their fastnesses, and teach them some sharp lessons, but your sister has forbidden it. She would not even permit her knights to fight in the Hand's tourney. She wants all our swords kept close to home, to defend the Vale against what, no one is certain. Shadows, some say. He looked at her anxiously, as if he had suddenly remembered who she was. I hope I have not spoken out of turn, my lady. I meant no offense.