"You've lost Lannister!" Robb shouted. "Look to the west, your father's army flees. Yield and I promise you a lenient confinement."
"Well …" Tyrion drawled, standing up straight and adjusting the tilted, dented, blood splattered open faced helm on his big head enough to reveal a sly grin and his mismatched eyes; a twinkling green one and a piercing black one. "My little band of brothers does seem to be the only thing stopping you from bagging the lot." In the time it took for the halfman to make his pronouncement several score more of retreating Westerlanders made it into the ford.
"And I am the only thing stopping you from being killed," the young Lord of Winterfell countered.
"Oh I wouldn't be so sure," Tyrion answered and then casually flipped his axe into the air. Without looking he stuck out a hand and effortlessly caught the haft end as the axe dropped back towards the earth. "Care to give me a try Stark? The Young Wolf versus the Dwarf Lion, hhhmmmmnnnn?"
"Archers!" Lohgun bellowed.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk, Badger. Don't be a spoilsport. I thought you and I were friends," the halfman declared merrily.
"Stop dragging this out! Yield!" Robb shouted. Behind the Lord of Winterfell, lordlings and battle chiefs shouted orders to try and organize the hodgepodge of northerners into some semblance of fighting order.
Tyrion sighed. "Do I have your word that …"
"My lord, no!" some dismounted, thick bellied knight wearing the sunburst livery of House Kenning burst out indignantly. The pudgy man sprouting an orange goatee took several ponderous steps forward, waiving about his well-used long sword in menacing fashion.
"Bronn," the stubby Lannister said in a bored tone, eyes pointed skyward in a silent prayer to save him from fools.
Barely taking an eye off of the wildling, who he still faced, the bodyguard hopped back and spun about; blade arcing through the air to smash down on the elbow joint of the honorable Ser's plate armor. The impact of the blow arrested the long sword from the knight's grasp. The next cut removed a row of teeth and opened up a cheek.
Tyrion cocked his head around to stare hard at the motley collection he'd found himself in charge of. "Anyone else? No? Good." Satisfied, he turned back around to Robb and manufactured a polite, insincere smile. "My apologies for the distraction, my lord, now where were we? Ah yes, do I have your word as a Stark that I will not suffer ill from you, or any of your allies, from the accusation that I had anything at all to do with any of the most unfortunate circumstances surrounding your poor brother Bran or your, delightful, lady mother?"
The irony which the halfman stressed on the word delightful was not unnoticed. Robb stared hard at Tyrion and his twinkling green eye. As the seconds passed, the Lannister's smile evolved from something false into a beguiling, puppy doggish look. And all the while scores more of Westerlanders on foot and on horse to their west fled into the ford. "Alright damn you."
Tyrion sketched a brief bow. "Now this lenient confinement … will there be wine and whores? A man, even a halfman, does not live on bread alone."
Robb ground his teeth. "Yes," he hissed.
A superior smirk broke out and Tyrion laid down another demand, "And as noble fellows, we will be granted the privilege of keeping our steel, so long as we only use it to defend our honor. Including Ulf son of Umar over there?" And the halfman pointed toward a knot of ragged, barbarian looking Mountain clansmen before continuing with evident amusement in his voice. "Despite all my powers of persuasion, I fear even I can't make these Moon Brothers, Black Ears, and Burnt Men relinquish their hard stolen cutlery."
"Yes, Others take you Imp!" the Young Wolf snarled. Nearby Grey Wind growled.
All merriment left Tyrion's face. His green eye stopped twinkling. A storm descended on his brow. "You should not have said that. You should not," he announced with words devoid of all emotion.
"Shall I kill him?" his man Bronn asked in a deep, monotone voice.
Tyrion gazed a long moment at Robb. More Westerlanders escaped from the press of the North's rampaging center. Three dozen archers pushed and wiggle their way through the reforming lines of the North's right wing to take position either side of the seething Lord of Winterfell.
"No," Tyrion said in a coldly calculating tone. "There's always the future, or maybe the day after that. But now I have one last demand."
"What is it?" asked Lohgun quickly, not giving his young liege time to say anything that might prove irrevocable.
The ominous cloud hanging over Tyrion palpably lifted. "When your little rebellion is won, support me as the new Lord of Casterly Rock."
Lohgun blinked. Robb blinked. Those were not the words anyone had expected the angry dwarf to utter. The Badger looked over at the Young Wolf and nodded his head vigorously, mouthing, 'do it!'.
"Agreed," the Lord of Winterfell said hesitantly.
The insincere smile returned to the halfman's face. "I yield. We yield. Here catch," and he tossed his hand axe underhand to the wildling, who batted it down in surprise instead of attempting to catch it, eliciting a chuckle from the would-be Lord of Casterly Rock.
"Badger, take the prisoners to the rear!" commanded the Young Wolf, who then turned to the lines of vengeful northerners formed up behind him. "Charge!" Robb screamed, waiving his sword dramatically over his head. A mighty roar of approval greeted his theatrics. Then the Lord of Winterfell put spur to horse and almost a thousand men rushed off to close the approach to the Ruby Ford.
"At least he didn't rear his horse," Lohgun muttered to himself.
Lohgun took command of the newly arrived group of archers and ordered them to guard the ten times their number in prisoners on the march across the edge of the chaotic battlefield to the hopefully more secure rear. Concerned that the cluster of Westerlanders could overwhelm them at any time, the wildling placed himself at the side of their diminutive captain. Progress was slow as Tyrion Lannister more waddled than walked; and the weight of his armor offered an additional impediment. It did not take long for the halfman to rip off his ill shaped helm and throw it away with a sigh of pleasure. Soon he bent and wrestled a wineskin off a fallen northerner with a pike sticking in his chest. Another sigh of pleasure followed.
"Hmmmnn?" Tyrion mumbled, holding up the wineskin to Lohgun while swishing a mouthful about between his cheeks.
Keeping a wary eye on his charge, he accepted the well worn deer hide and squirted a stream of it into his dry mouth. "Owf!" he gurgled and spit out the vile vinegar and piss tasting concoction. "How can you …?"
"Drink it?" The halfman smiled dreamily. "A little imagination. A little willpower. Some, admittedly, hard work. With these, almost anything can be achieved. You're living proof of that, Badger."
"Even become Lord of Casterly Rock," Lohgun taunted.
The barb missed its mark, the smile never faltered. "My dear father," said Tyrion, laying on the irony, "would say that a man must see the world clearly. I would simply add, 'and a dwarf doubly so.'" The halfman said the last bit with a shrug that challenged his keeper to say otherwise.
"It looks like your dear father didn't see so clearly today, eh bub?"
"As the Black King on a Cyvasse board, it is difficult to foresee the Rabble throwing over the Dragon; but when pride obscures vision, anything is possible. I do hope this victory won't blind your young Robb. It would be a … pity if my urge for … self-preservation came to naught."
"A Stark's word is his honor," Lohgun proclaimed proudly.
"Unlike mine? Or yours?" the halfman chortled with amusement.
Lohgun flipped back the tent flap, "Will, I've brought you a companion," he shouted.
"Ahhh, good. The worst is over then. I take it?" Crypt responded. The blind man sat in a stool, holding a knife in one hand and a piece of wood in the other. A dozen whittled sticks littered the rug around his feet.
"The Lannister's flee. Robb is moving to cut off their way back over the ford."
Willam frowned. "So the fighting continues?" he accused more than asked.
"Robb's a big lad. He can't be mothered forever. It'd be a disservice to him and to Ned's memory."
Willam pursed his lips from inside the beard he was growing. At last he nodded in agreement and quietly said, "Suppose you're right. Joy."
"Joy," the Badger repeated sadly.
"How cheery," the halfman chirped. "Now I was promised wine and whores. If Lord Dustin is meant as an offering to slake my lust, the wine better by the Gods be the best in the Seven Kingdoms!"
A hint of distaste quirked the corners of Willam's mouth. "Tyrion Lannister. Have our positions changed? Are you now my guest?"
The halfman mockingly bowed to the blind man. "An honored guest, Ser. In exchange for a certain … immediate tactical advantage, Lord Stark has promised to support my becoming the next Lord of Casterly Rock."
The empty, scarred eye sockets widened in surprise at that announcement. "Ohhh, you bloody …"
Frantic shouts and cries of "Make way!", "Ser Brynden", and "The Blackfish!" boomed over the encampment. Lohgun immediately ducked out of the Stark pavilion to see what the ruckus was; a score of knights under a tattered Trout banner and a hundred or more men-at-arms pushing their way forcefully to Lord Edmure's large tent. The hairs on the wildling's arms stood on end. He sensed something was horribly wrong and took off at a run.
"Bring a healer!"
"Where's a master?!"
The Badger pushed and shoved his way through the mass of dented, wounded, tired, bloody, sweaty men. Every face he glimpsed either a mask of concern or freely flowing tears.
"Brynden! Brynden!" he screamed, his voice joining the crescendo of pained voices.
At last he burst through the front row. A wave of stench met his nostrils. The Blackfish lay on a tarpaulin stretcher. His nephew gently held his head, tears dripping freely down onto Brynden's well groomed, grey beard and bushy eyebrows. The Blackfish's guts appeared splayed open in a blaze of crimson blood, brown feces, and a tangle of sliced intestines. The bright blue eyes remained open, periodically blinking.
A healer whispered in his friend's ear, "Do you wish milk of the poppy, my lord."
"No," he slurred.
"The Crakehalls will not long forget your deeds this day, Uncle," Edmure gushed weepily.
"Dark wings, dark words," the Blackfish gasped.
"Uncle!" Edmure cried.
"Bryn!" Lohgun shouted, throwing himself on the ground next to his long ago companion.
The Blackfish's blue eyes flickered up to look through the gap between Edmure's arms and head. He choked out a pained laugh. "The Stranger has sent a bird to see me off."
The Badger, Brynden's nephew, and a slew of men looked up. Perched atop the central pole peeking through the top of Lord Edmure's tent sat a gigantic black raven.
Caw!
He choked out a pained laugh. "The septons say that death comes on a pale horse. Marbrand rode a roan. And now a damned crow wants to feed on my soul."
"No!" men yelled.
"Take my body to Riverrun. Put me … on a boat." He gasped in agony. "I … I … expect just one shot from you Edmure," he wheezed.
Caw! Caw!
"I'm coming," he whispered. "Isn't there … enough blood … already, raven? Oooooohhhhhhhh," he moaned.
"Uncle!" Edmure wailed.
"The pain won't last much longer," Lohgun reassured his friend.
"No, no … I … I see," he barely exhaled.
"What Bryn?"
"What Uncle?"
Caw! Caw! Caw!
The clear blue eyes blinked one last time. In a hushed voice full of awe, the Blackfish spoke, "Warren, Logan … oh my stars and garters … I'm flying." And then Brynden Tully spoke no more.
