Tyrion III

"Still no word, Pycelle?" Tyrion asked, a little sharply.

The Grand Maester drew himself up with ponderous dignity, the many jeweled chains about his neck clinking softly as they sat heavily on a velvet robe. "Not since yesterday, no, my lord."

Oh, to be another chain about that neck! He'd dearly like to squeeze, and squeeze, and squeeze until that old man turned purple. Every morning Tyrion waited here at the base of the rookery, and every day Pycelle took his own leisurely time tending the ravens. Younger men had the task of feeding and caring for the birds, but Pycelle had charge of all messages meant for the king's own council. Any message of import would come from him.

Cersei will be ever so cross with me, Tyrion thought. Her boy could move his mouth a bit now, even feed himself; though it was plain to see Joff had lost weight. Those fine golden curls had gone limp and greasy for want of washing, and the strapping lad had but little to do but sit and stew in his grievances, going to skin and bones. Servants did not dare even enter his chambers. Only the queen.

Something would have to be done. The sheets had not been washed in some time, and the room smelled of sickness and rancid blood. It was not a wholesome place, the royal bedchamber, if ever it was under Robert or, gods be good, Aerys. The cut healed clean, but the wound still bled on the coverlet of a night. Tyrion had seen that himself. Sleeping in such could not be healthful. The last time he spoke to the king, Joff had been quite senseless, drugged with sweetsleep and milk of the poppy. The wound still pained him, but too much poppy was perilous.

"Some fresh air and sunshine might do the lad good," Tyrion suggested. "Ser Aron Santagar has missed him in the yard."

Working out his aggression with a sword had always served for Jaime. If it was thus with the father, why not the son?

"It's not safe," Cersei claimed. "Joffrey stays within Maegor's until the king's enemies are dealt with."

That may take longer than you imagine, sweet sister.

The moon had turned since Jaime marched, and they had no word. Surely, if victory or disaster befell his brother, some word should have come. From Father, they had a bit more to give them hope. Brynden Blackfish still followed, but had made no aggressive moves. Lord Tywin Lannister had crossed the Blackwater upriver at the point where the Gold Road met a ford. Some men floated down the river on rafts, bringing word. If they were very fortunate, Father could be here in a few days, and mayhaps Tyrion could sleep soundly at last.

They had galleys in the Rush, ready to contest a crossing from Stannis, who could be close at hand himself. But Stannis had more ships. If he fell upon them now, the outcome was certain defeat. All but the knights of the Kingsguard left with Jaime. They had no men to send north to scout.

It was the not knowing that Tyrion despised the most. His brother was in peril, a boy king sat the throne, and the task of holding it all together was proving to be too much for such a small man. He wanted Jaime, even Father. Could someone come? Anyone?

***

He spoke too soon. Horses came down the Kingsroad, aye, but none Tyrion Lannister cared to see. They flew the flayed man banner. Ser Domeric Bolton led them, first and fastest, but the man's tail included rough knights in dented armor, savages in skins, lean, cruel men out of the cold, dark places of the world.

The sight of him unmanned the city watch almost instantly. Some gold cloaks walking the walls threw down their spears and ran without so much as a "by your leave." Would that Tyrion could run. Did they think the dwarf did not know fear? Cersei ordered the drawbridge of Maegor's Holdfast raised immediately, and barricaded herself and her children within. Sweet sister forgot he was outside, typical.

She came and peeked over the battlements after Tyrion made enough of a nuisance of himself, screaming from the other side of the dry moat. "What do you want, imp?" the queen demanded.

Oh, so I'm the imp again, eh? "Domeric Bolton only has a few hundred men," he pointed out, quite reasonably. "Not near enough to take the city."

"I know enough of war to know what a van is!" was Cersei's reply. "The Vale marches behind him. Jaime failed, and we're undone!"

Gods be good, she sounded half-mad already. "You don't know that!" he cried back. This would not serve. All the castle could hear their bellowed conversation. "Lower the drawbridge and let us speak privily, sister. Father's army is not far. All is not lost, and we don't know for certain what happened to Jaime."

"Jaime is dead!" she screeched. "I saw it in a dream! He is my other half; I know it. When he left this world, I felt as if my right hand was cut off."

Madness, Tyrion thought. They had nought to talk about. He thought rapidly, and she was not far wrong, much as it shamed him to admit, though no doubt incorrect in the particulars. If the Scalp-Taker was here, Jaime was defeated, but defeated wasn't dead. He could've been captured or escaped. She was also correct about the van. Lord Horton Redfort and all the power of the Vale of Arryn would be here soon. Ser Domeric was but their first grasping finger. They needed to be stalled until Father arrived. That was the only way.

"I'll go out and treat with him!" the dwarf declared stoutly, trying to appear taller and braver than he was. A lion might die, but he would die roaring! "Father will come, you'll see. They'll need time to build rams in any case." Telling her about the gold cloaks who abandoned their post at the first sight of Bolton banners would not be particularly helpful just now.

"Suit yourself, and die as you wish, Tyrion. I prefer to spend my final hours with my children."

Tyrion had Jyck find him a coat of mail. It was an ill-fitting hauberk that hung down past his knees, meant for a squire twice his size, but it made him look martial enough. Morrec readied his horse, and they rode out of the city under a peace banner. The gate was manned, thank the gods.

The atmosphere in the Northman's camp could not be more different than the one in the city. Rather than gloom and dread, there was cheer. Domeric played a woodharp and sang sweetly. There were ladies about, and a cask of wine had been tapped, but the sentries were alert and barred his path. "State your business," mumbled one in an accent Tyrion couldn't place.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

"I am come to treat with Ser Domeric Bolton, on behalf of King Joffrey, first of his name," said Tyrion, mustering what dignity he could in a shirt of chain that was too big for him. The men about studied him with beady, suspicious eyes, but a man with a big nose and an ugly Dornish wench on his arm bid them let Tyrion through with a wave of his hand.

The Scalp-Taker was playing a fast, furious song, picking the strings of the harp like a hated enemy. Tyrion thought he caught a few words. It was something about a devil going down to Starfall, of all things. When he finished, the knight waved him forward and even offered Tyrion a seat on a drumhead, along with a cup of wine.

"I believe I will partake, thank you." One of Domeric's squires, the Dornish girl, came over and filled his wooden cup from a convenient flagon. Tyrion took a sip. "It's quite good."

"Sweet wine from Volantis," Ser Domeric explained. "Lady Whent's favorite, and mine. She always has plenty for me when I stop by."

"Already in Harrenhal, are you?" Tyrion ventured. If the man was drinking, might be he'd let some choice morsels slip.

"Well past Harrenhal, my lord. The Kingslayer is dead, by the way."

The sweet wine turned sour in his mouth. He could be lying, but somehow, Tyrion didn't take the Northman for a liar. "How?"

The man looked him right in the eyes. Ser Domeric's were so grey they were almost white, like they had no color at all. Demon eyes, cold and unfeeling, no matter how sweet the voice. Demons out of seven hells could beguile at need, his septon used to say.

"In battle, how else?" Domeric explained, quite casually. "We trapped his host between Lord Horton's knights and my own, slipped past him and took Ser Jaime in the rear. It was quick, a lance through the heart, but Ser Jaime Lannister has been dead this last fortnight."

Tyrion leapt off the drumhead. "The battle happened a fortnight ago? Where have you been since?"

"Hunting his sellswords. They scattered from the God's Eye to the Narrow Sea. Some escaped me to take ship, but not many, I think."

With great difficulty, Tyrion forced himself to breathe and keep his voice level. "Did you take prisoners?"

The man laughed. "The knights of the Vale did. We took scalps."

Unsaid was the fact that Ser Domeric took Jaime's scalp. Was it hanging from his belt even now? Tyrion couldn't bear to look. "Do you mean to sack the city?"

Scalp-Taker thought for a moment. "If you make me break your gates, yes. Lord Horton's army will be here soon."

Worse, and worse, but the time they wasted hunting sellswords might make all the difference. Father was close as well, and would repay this debt with interest.

Grief for Jaime stopped his words in his throat. Tyrion wanted to be away from the place, even back with Cersei. "Is there no mercy in you, Ser?"

"Mercy?" Domeric's voice was contemptuous. "We're here to put Stannis on the throne. If you want mercy, beg it from him. Any man who opposes me loses his life and scalp, as all the realm knows. Make me break your gates, and you will not like the outcome. Yield, and your chances might be better. Once Lord Horton arrives..." He shrugged.

Stall him, stall him. Tyrion must stall him. "Give me until tomorrow," he begged. "The king's council and regent must deliberate before yielding the city to you."

This, Ser Domeric allowed easily. "Go then, and I'll await your word on the morrow."

He thinks he's already won, Tyrion thought viciously. Well, they would see about that, wouldn't they? A lion bearded in his own den was the most dangerous of all.

***

The king's council and regency never saw Tyrion, for Cersei would not admit him to Maegor's. Instead, he watched from the walls as Lord Horton Redfort arrived and began investing the city. With grave trepidation, Tyrion considered the last contingency.

But Father arrived! His van made it as far as the Lion Gate before being driven back. At his approach, Lord Horton withdrew the Vale host to the North. Tyrion was about to head back to Maegor's and tell sweet sister they were saved when he saw that the Vale was not fleeing, but drawing up to offer battle. Lord Tywin, after marching so far, could not deny him. The Lannister host took a strong position on the tourney grounds, with their backs to the river and the city itself protecting their right flank.

From there, it was steel and screams. Maesters teaching warcraft often demonstrated battle strategy using blocks, but from this vantage point, the men in battle array were not in squares and rectangles with clean lines, but rivers. Rivers of ants beneath banners dashed themselves against each other in waves, trying to flow around and choke one another.

The tide rolled in. The tide rolled out, and fewer ants fought beneath the banners. The two rivers seemed of equal strength, but none was stronger than the river to the rear, drawn up under the proud lion of Lannister, hard by the shores of the Blackwater Rush.

One river receded to be replaced by another, as rivers are wont to do, flowing and making new paths for themselves through the depths of time. Tyrion wanted to send help, but he had no knights, and the city watch didn't heed him. King's Landing held its breath as the streams and torrents buffeted one another, leaving ants to lie where they fell, bereaving the banners of followers.

The mightiest river in the Vale had a flayed man at its head, leading thousands of armored ants, tearing up the tourney grounds and kicking up awful clouds of dust that made it difficult to see the battle. They came down like a waterfall of steel, overflowing the lesser streams, washing away ant and banner both. They receded only to change course and flood the land anew, even reaching the proud lion of Lannister. Father's banner withstood the deluge for a time, but the flood carried it away, and the ants scattered, some to be crushed by the waves, and some fleeing madly into the Blackwater Rush, dragged down to the bottom under the weight of their armor.

All hope fled. Tyrion returned to his chambers with leaden feet and sent word to Ser Barristan. He was to take the queen and her children in hand, whether they willed it or no, and take ship for the Free Cities. Tyrion would rather not know where. On the morrow, he yielded King's Landing.