Tyrion IV

"Good bread, this," said Domeric Scalp-Taker mildly, munching on very ordinary fried bread on this very ordinary morning. Would that it were poisoned.

More than any other, this man was responsible for his family's downfall. Father, Jaime, and Uncle Kevan were all dead. Cersei was fled across the Narrow Sea with her children. Tyrion had thought to make discreet inquiries as to their whereabouts. He'd sent them off with every copper he could dig out of the empty treasury, but Seven knows coin didn't last forever. Tyrion Lannister, Lord of the Rock, had no shortage of coin. It was everything else that was the problem.

For lack of fighting men, he had to beg the king to send help when the Ironborn came calling. Now he was breaking his fast with Bolton and his Northern blooddrinkers. Did Stannis mean it as an intentional slight? No, surely not. That man was entirely lacking in subtlety.

"I'm pleased you find it so, my lord," Aunt Genna said with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Meanwhile, her husband Emmon Frey's smile seemed quite genuine.

"Yes, and it's lovely you've brought some of my Frey kin with you," he said genially.

Ser Domeric smiled back. "Indeed. I have a surfeit of Freys, to tell it true. My wife Alyx is back at the Dreadfort, but you see before you Ser Alesander, my old squire, and Bradamar, one of my present ones. They're her brothers."

"And me!" The Dornishwoman added. "I am a Frey by marriage." Alesander clasped her hand, and they looked lovingly into one another's eyes.

And a Sand by birth, Tyrion thought. Oberyn Martell's own baseborn get, now a lady knight. They said she was the one who killed Jaime. It was hard to believe. That skinny girl? Suddenly, a picture of the ox-like Al Frey mounting her invaded his mind. However did she survive?

Aunt Genna's nose wrinkled. "They look more like Crakehalls to me."

Alesander Frey, the big one, laughed. "That's correct, my lady. Our grandmother was Lady Amarei Crakehall, Lord Walder's third wife. Our father, Symond Frey, is in the Bolton Bag trade, and other merchandise in lizard-lion leather."

"In trade, him and his Braavosi wife." There was judgment in Aunt Genna's voice. Tread carefully, my lady. Domeric Bolton's army was within Casterly Rock just now.

"That's right," Bradamar, the small one, though he was twice Tyrion's height and likely three times as heavy, confirmed. "Mother taught us the tongue of her city in case we might need to go into trade ourselves. Fortunately, our sister Alyx made a very favorable match."

"I suspect you're pleased, squiring for such a great knight." With every mote of effort he could muster, Tyrion kept the mockery out of his voice.

"More than pleased, my lord!" the boy said enthusiastically. He'd already cleaned his plate. This was a hungry host, and like to eat up the Rock's stores. Not that Tyrion had a choice about feeding them. Well, mayhaps he could buy food from the Reach once all of this was over.

"Ser is a wonderful teacher. We even used his lessons in the battle," added the wild wolf girl, none other than Arya Stark. They'd asked, very politely, for her to keep her giant direwolf out of the hall while they ate. She agreed, grudgingly. Other than the monstrous pet, the lass was cute as a kitten, pretty in pink with a long braid down her back. Aunt Genna fussed over her terribly when she came in from the battle, covered in mud and blood. Others, not her own, she said.

Plainly, Ser Domeric did not disdain warrior women. Was it a Northern thing? He'd never heard of a girl squire, let alone a knight, yet they must call Elia Sand a ser, lest they offend their rescuers.

"Speaking of the battle, what do you mean to do with the prisoners?" Tyrion asked, dreading the answer.

"Sacrifice them to the gods, of course," the Scalp-Taker answered as casually as he might an invitation to go hunting. It chilled Tyrion's blood. "Do you have a godswood at Casterly Rock, with a weirwood, a real one?"

"We do," he answered. "It is called the Stone Garden. I can take you there after we eat. It is a twisted thing, but alive. All other growth has long since been choked out by the heart tree's roots."

Domeric hummed thoughtfully. "I'll see what I can do. Ah, and you might send a raven to Winterfell. Lord Stark should have Theon Greyjoy's head off. This is rebellion. That was an army we faced, not isolated raiders."

Tyrion could only agree. "We lost contact with Fair Isle some time ago. The Crag and Banefort might also be lost."

Bolton nodded. He took a sip of small beer, and swallowed heavily. "Greatjon Umber ran into heavy resistance. He had to take Kayce and Feastfires by storm, or so his bird said. Significant casualties, but they triumphed."

"And the south?" Tyrion inquired.

"Lord Blackwood made it to Crakehall unscathed, but unfortunately Paxter Redwyne's fleet has been delayed by bad weather. The Sunset Sea has been unusually stormy of late. The last I heard, he'd put in at the Shield Islands for repairs. We can't put the Ironborn down for good until he gets here, so I suppose we need to focus on digging them out of their holes and repelling their raids."

An involuntary sigh of relief escaped Tyrion's lips. Bolton would be back in the saddle again soon. That one was made for wars. He was not the type to sit behind stone walls for long. Let him ride out hunting reavers, far away from them.

Arya Stark and Brad the boy had an enthusiastic conversation about all the men they killed. Tyrion hoped never to meet those two once they grew up. Imagine spending one's childhood under the tutelage of the most murderous man in the Seven Kingdoms. They didn't even realize how they were disturbing Aunt Genna.

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"I think I want to take up the warhammer," Bradamar stated excitedly. "Did you see what Ser could do? It was like he could kill a man with a touch."

The girl listened very seriously. "It's a fine weapon, and not as heavy as I thought it would be. If we were facing knights in plate, I don't think our spears would do."

"That's true, but a lance would serve if you were mounted," the Dornishwoman pointed out. "That battle was a strange circumstance. Once you're a knight, you'll do most of your fighting ahorse."

"Along with rich ransoms and tourney prizes!" said Alesander Frey.

"And what tourneys have you won, husband?" teased Lady Lance.

The big man flushed. "So, about those warhammers..."

Once the plates and cups were cleared away, Ser Domeric loosened his sword in the scabbard. "Let's see this godswood of yours. Best to deal with the prisoners before you have to feed them."

How kind of him, offering to dispatch their useless mouths! Even so, there was a certain bloody sense in it. With no further ado, Tyrion Lannister waddled out of the dining hall. Ser Domeric, his motley crew of cronies, and that monster wolf all fell in behind him.

Through golden halls and passageways they went, past suits of armor and tapestries dating back to the days when the Lannisters were Kings of the Rock. It was a long, hard climb up several flights of carved stone steps, but eventually they reached an airy cavern with a wide hollow that faced the sea. The breeze set Tyrion to shivering a bit. Within were diverse stone benches where you could sit and read. Tyrion had come here often enough in his boyhood, when he wanted to get away from the laughs and his father's judging eyes.

The sound of steel drawing made him turn around, fear flashing in his mismatched eyes. The Scalp-Taker held a red sword, unmistakably rippled where the spellsmiths of Old Valyria folded the metal back on itself thousands of times.

"The god does not look so badly off," Bolton said. "I see red leaves and the face bleeds sap like any healthy weirwood. The chamber could do with a little more air and light, but this is a mountain. I suppose it's the best you can do. Let's start bringing the prisoners up." He gave the sword a few experimental slashes. The sound of it cutting the air disturbed Tyrion more than he could say. "We'll make a game of it. Everybody can have a turn with my new sword while we sacrifice to the gods."

The children cheered, and the wolf even seemed to understand, barking almost like a dog in acknowledgement.

Aunt Genna was off in her chambers brooding, but Tyrion would not ignore his guests. Lannisport was safe thanks to them, whatever else he might think of the Northern savages.

So Tyrion watched. He watched Domeric Bolton slash a bound Ironborn man's neck quick as lightning. That red sword moved faster than his eyes could follow.

Domeric whistled. "Oh, that's smooth as butter. I think I'd still prefer a warhammer for fighting men in plate, but against mail or leather? I think I'm in love."

"Me next! Me next!" Bradamar Frey cheered childishly. He opened a prisoner's guts, spilling entrails on the heart tree's twisted roots. His friend Arya went for the thigh, and laughed as the captive went white and fainted before he died. Al and Elia were more serious, practicing strokes they might use in combat. They cut and killed without hesitation or regret.

Everyone enjoyed playing with the sword. Even Tyrion got a turn. It was light enough for his short arms to handle the blade well. It was not the first time he killed a man. That was at the Red Keep, when Renly Baratheon's blades came for them in the night. With his best impression of his brother, the short man cut a great gash in the midsection of a very fat oarsman. Vile things spilled out along with blood, making Tyrion want to retch.

All the while the wolf sat there, watching contentedly as they opened up one prisoner after another, sometimes lapping up the blood with her thick tongue. The affair resembled an outing to a fair more than a human sacrifice, so merry they were. Servants even came, bringing snacks of honeycakes and watered wine, before fleeing from the abattoir to empty the contents of their stomachs someplace else.

The tree drank it all greedily. Nerves might've been playing tricks on Tyrion's eyes, but he could've sworn he saw the roots sucking up the blood faster than seemed natural. Shouldn't the ground be muddier? Was it stone or thick-packed dirt? Honestly, Tyrion didn't know.

They managed to finish off the last of the prisoners a good hour before supper, giving everyone time to bathe and change, which was a comfort.

That evening, the Rock experienced truly stupendous singing, so good, in fact, that Aunt Genna forgot her grievances for the nonce. Domeric himself was excellent, but the bull Alesander was also quite good. Brad and Arya accompanied them on drums and pipe, respectively. Small wonder they found a warm welcome wherever they went.

It was perhaps too much to hope for that he would leave the next day. Those storms Lord Paxter Redwyne wrote of evidently made their way north, and for three days and three nights the walls of the Rock were buffeted with wind and rain the likes of which Tyrion had never seen. At times it seemed as if the very mountain was shaking with the force of it.

On the fourth day, once the skies cleared up, they found the roof over the Stone Garden shattered. There was rubble everywhere, and it looked as if the tree itself had burst through the mountainside. A red comet blazed overhead. It was the first day of the new year.