JEROME FLYNN SAVES WESTEROS
Part 1 – THE IMP
The eldest of the three wretches stuck on miserable, wet duty took the reins of his mount and cleverly earned a piece of silver by without direction moving his horse next to a bale of straw that was still waiting in the light rain to be rolled into the much drier stable. His legs and back ached fearsomely from the hard ride to reach the crossroads before dark.
A goal that had been missed, but not by terribly much; as, thankfully, the sound of dinner, or at least drinks, still being served within the inn could be heard over the semi-regular drumming of fat drops on his wide brim hat and cloak.
Thus, with only the assistance of his two stunted, tired legs, Tyrion was able to dismount directly onto the tall pile of bound stalks and then hop down into the mud of the establishment's inner yard. Then, without even bothering to order Morrec or Jyck to be sure to grab the saddle bag holding his valuables, he immediately began hobbling towards the covered porch and the promise of dryness, warmth, and sustenance just beyond.
The five steps up out of the muck proved only a modest hindrance as the powerful smell of roast pork and stuff birds drew him on; as well as causing his mouth to salivate and his indecently empty stomach to rumble with anticipation.
"I wouldn't enter were I you, Lord Lannister," a voice from the shadows caught him unawares.
"What?" Tyrion hesitated, stumbled to a stop, and looked a tad foolishly about. In the dark, beneath the roof's overhang, a man – no a sellsword - in black ringmail over boiled leather sat on a tilted stool so the wall supported his back. With his hands, he kept repetitively honing a dagger over a whetstone. "Why?" escaped his lips without volition.
"Lady Stark and a shit load of Tully loyal Riverlanders are within."
"Lady Stark? Here?" Tyrion babbled, trying to make his brain function to the consternation of his weary and aggrieved body.
"Did you not wonder where she was when you passed through Winterfell?" the voice asked. A voice some disjointed part of himself found both intriguing and dangerous.
"I did … how did you …?" he stuttered.
The teeth of a smile caught what light from the fires burning in the inn's hearths passed out the thick, distorted windows. "I'm not one of Varys' little birds. But I know a few things if you care to spend the coin to learn them."
"Is this rascal bothering you, milord?" Jyck asked with hand on pommel; having come up to join him out of the rain on the porch. Yoren and Morrec followed up the stairs before Tyrion could finish gathering his wits; the inn beckoning as grand as the loveliest of whores to distract him.
"No, no imposition, yet. What sorts of things?" Tyrion suspected he wanted to know; bringing his focus as best he could on the cunning sounding cutthroat.
"Things best not spoke of in front of our Wandering Crow here. An honest man I wager, but one's whose loyalty through practicality is of a more Northern persuasion if you catch my meaning."
He nodded his head in agreement. "Yoren, go within. And to honor the road we have ridden together in friendship, if Lady Stark is within, please make no mention of my being here. There's a good fellow."
"My lord," the black brother grumbled unhappily at the obvious possible conflict of interest.
"I promise you, Yoren, I have never had ill intentions towards House Stark. Besides, it's not as if I am asking you to come back out to tell us if her presence within be true." Much as he desperately wanted to ask it of the black brother.
His companion of many, many miles set his mouth before slowly dipping his ugly head once in acknowledgement; then slipped into the blissful warmth and the promise of food.
"This had better be good … ?"
"Bronn. Call me, Bronn."
"Very well, Call Me Bronn. What do you know of Lady Stark being here?"
"She is returning to Winterfell from King's Landing."
Tyrion's mismatched eyes whirled as he attempted to contemplate how such could have, would have happened; were it true. "She … came by ship from White Harbor … to see … her husband." He pieced together. "Though why did she not return that way?"
"As clever as I remember," the sellsword muttered before a louder, "But why did she come, eh?"
"The boy lives. He's alive. But they said he remembered nothing." His earlier sensations of unease turned straight to icy fear in his belly. "What did he remember?"
"No, she left before Bran awoke. And he truly doesn't remember why he was pushed."
Pushed, not fell. "You do seem to know more than a few groats worth of news, Call Me Bronn," Tyrion announced pleasantly while worry about who this informant was quickened his growing discomfort.
A pleased with himself, almost wolfish smirk split the dark beard on his face. "I do."
Tyrion raised both hands and extended them in opposite directions. "However, Winterfell and King's Landing are a slight distance apart," he pointed out skeptically.
"A Valyrian dagger's width," came the darkly chuckling response. "Someone sent a badly trained assassin carrying a lord's ransom in his incompetent fucking hands to kill the boy after the King headed back south."
'Cersei. You stupid fucking cunt!'
"Lucky for the lad, Lady Stark was there to delay the deed long enough for his pet wolf to show up and tear out the killer's throat."
"Quite," he murmured. For had the stupid brute lived to blab, Tyrion felt certain that this particular Lannister would never have left Winterfell alive, saddle or no saddle as gift for young Bran.
"Lucky too for whoever sent the idiot. Dead men tell no tales, do they?"
"Yet she blames my House," Tyrion concluded.
A mocking, chill grin was the sellsword's first response. "The rosy smiles across her palms from keeping the blade off the boy didn't put her in a forgiving mood."
"Morrec. Jyck. Get the horses. Quickly."
Neither were the sharpest of servants, but they scrambled back down the stairs and sprinted out into the rain without complaint. No questioning of whether Lady Catelyn Stark nee Tully was actually within or not. The picture had been painted vividly enough for even a blind Lion to discern the shape of it.
"What do you want, Call Me Bronn?" he inquired of the sellsword whisperer. 'And who in King's Landing do you work for?' he wondered, but did not ask aloud.
"Gold, wine, quim … a boat to sail to the Summer Isles when the Others return," the man japed.
"And just how many few other things of interest might you have to tell me?"
"A great many," he laughed.
"Then ride with me," Tyrion offered; calculating the chances he was being led into a trap.
"I intend to."
Tyrion turned his sore and tired body back down the stairs to start the journey into darkness ahead. "A Lannister always pays his debts," he declared as challenge.
"Knew you were gonna bloody say that," Call Me Bronn snickered softly behind him.
