Riverlands

Tyrion breathes a sigh of relief as he enters the tent Bronn hastily erected, taking off his wet fool clothes. Though much smaller than the one at the Lannister camp, he can't really complain as he's the one who insisted on bringing small ones for ease of travel.

But here underneath the cold and dark rain, the tent feels far smaller than it actually is. Bronn's quick riding managed to find them a spot in a grove of trees, but the leaves does little to block the raindrops. At least this place is away from any rivers and streams, Tyrion thinks as he takes off his wet boots. Those places would be bursting their banks by now, and I'd rather not try my luck swimming.

Bronn barges in, soaked but with a lit lantern in his hand. He looks more like a wet dog than a wolf. "So much for your predictions, Imp," he grumbles, taking off his wet septon garb and opening a bag of clean clothes. "This don't look like a drizzle to me."

"I'm no maester, Bronn. However, I am correct when I said it should be lighter than before, or else I doubt the tent would fare well underneath the torrent."

"One out of one correct guesses," he chuckles. "Your dwarven luck at play, I see."

"Guilty as charged," Tyrion smiles, "though I doubt we'll have much success doing a midnight's march. We'll have to postpone it to dawn, unless the rain doesn't let up until morn." He peeks out of the tent, his head immediately graced by a cold shower. Though he can still see out, the sky is slowly darkening for they are near sunset when setting up the camp. His men are still moving about and erecting their own tents, no fires having been lit. Fair enough, every single thing here is soaked to the bones. Gods, I do feel- "Gah!"

A flurry of wet feathers hit his face as Jaime flies into the tent, shaking off the droplets on her feathers and wetting everything inside. "Caw!"

"…Thank you, Jaime. You're a real sweetheart."

"Caw?" she says, settling herself on Tyrion's damp blanket.

"Can't the bird just sleep outside?"

"And what, let her get sick and draw Lady Aya's ire? I plan to live long, Bronn, not die early being swept up into the sky. Besides, I'm going to defeat her."

"With what? Leaves?" Bronn chuckles.

"Sorcery, Bronn. If Lady Aya can summon a storm with feathers and birds, I'm sure Lady Shizuha can conjure up something with leaves." Hopefully my conjecture is true, else I'll be more like a fool than my late Uncle ever intended me to be. Those things look nothing more than leaves with writings on them.

Tyrion crawls across the tent and opens his bag. He retrieves two things: the painted leaves from Lady Shizuha and those strange paper documents Lady Aya wanted to use for offerings. With careful eyes, he compares the two objects and sees similarities with the symbols on them. So they do come from the same origin. Damn it, I should have stayed behind and asked her all about tengus! Maybe I could use one of the leaves and call her forth? No, that'll be a waste; I only have five of these… Whatever these things are.

Speculating on the strange symbols, which is unknown from any books about sorcery or history he has read, he wonders if there's much difference between them. Are the symbols a different written language like how High Valyrian are written in glyphs? Lady Shizuha explicitly mentioned her leaves to be magical, but Lady Aya didn't do the same for her papers. Is it the material that carries the magic, or is it the writing? Maybe I should try and test something…

With his nail, Tyrion folds an empty area of Lady Aya's white paper and licks it before tearing a piece of. He cuts it to smaller pieces, roughly as large as his palm, before fishing out a piece of writing charcoal from his bag. Bronn, who has been doing maintenance on his equipment, pauses and asks: "What are you doing?"

"Trying to see if I can replicate magic," Tyrion answers. "What if sorcery works through the written language? I've heard tales about the First Men and the Children having weapons carved with runes, and even Old Valyrian magic mentions something similar. I must test it out."

"As long as the tent stays grounded, go wild," he chuckles, sounding quite disbelieving of Tyrion's effort in practising sorcery.

"Oh, I'll show you sorcery, Bronn. I shall become the first Lannister to conjure magic, so witness me."

"I'm witnessing you, alright."

Shit, what first? He decides to copy the hard-to-see symbols on the leaves instead of the paper, remembering Lady Shizuha's words. Using the charcoal, Tyrion tries his best to match the strokes and cut and shape of the largest symbol on the leaf. Getting an acceptable drawing out of it, he wonders what to do next. Pray to her? And so, he closes his eyes and clasps the paper. "I pray to you, oh Goddess Shizuha," he speaks softly, "to bring forth your sorcery and come before me. Now, appear!"

He throws the paper into the air, catching the orange glow of the lantern's light, before it falls softly to the ground like a dead leaf.

Nothing happens.

Bronn and Jaime laugh in unison at Tyrion's folly. "Gods, maybe those clothes are turning you into a fool," the sellsword wipes the tears from his eyes.

"Caw! Caw!"

"Alright you two, enough of that. I still have more papers to go so don't be so quick to judge." Gods, this is becoming a joke, isn't it? Sighing and with his spirits weakened, he decides to take a different method: the Common Tongue. Perhaps she wrote it in a language that she understands, but I must do it in the one that I understand. As he's about to write down her name, Tyrion realises that he doesn't actually know how to spell Lady Shizuha's name. Pronouncing it is one thing, but writing it…

He throws the next paper into the air. Nothing happens. Figures. If simply writing one's name can cast curses, then Cersei would have killed half the court by now. But what then? How does magic work? Thinking back on the two sorcerers' words, what were their similarities? Symbols? Hand movements?

…Fear?

"Bronn, have you ever been afraid?"

"Afraid?" The sellsword looks at him suspiciously. "Why do you ask that, Imp?"

"Well, I remembered how those two talked about fear and reverence, how their magic depend on how much people react to them. Figure I'll try something with that."

"Bunch of peacocks," Bronn scoffs, continuing to oil his dirk. "All boast of fear and reverence, but they're only doing that to sway your heart, just like a commander's speech. Because then you'll fear and respect them, hold them to a higher esteem than need be. None of that fuels magic, only egos."

"I suppose you're right, but then again we do not know how Lady Shizuha was capable of that."

Bronn shivers. "That was disturbing. Don't tell me you're about to do the same, Imp?"

"Imagine that, one of me fucking a beautiful whore, another feasting on boar, and another annoying my father and sister," Tyrion laughs. "That's just a dream, Bronn. I'm just trying to conjure up something, anything from sorcery. Even a puff of flame is good enough."

"Tell you what, an advice from an experienced sellsword," Bronn's voice turns serious. "You're much better of training with a blade than trying to play with magic."

"A blade? Have you looked at me? I'm not Jaime."

"You did well enough with a shield so why not a blade?"

"Desperation, Bronn. An actual knight would have knocked me over and cleave me in two. Besides, at least I can hold a piece of paper. Your sword is taller than I am, and with a shield I'll look more like a turtle than a knight."

"So you forgo a normal blade to a double-edged one. One that would cut your hand every time you use it."

"Better than a blade that I cannot wield."

"You know," Bronn turns to Tyrion and points at his chest with the dirk. "In the amount of time you try to spit leaves out of your mouth, my blade would have gone through your heart and empty your guts. All of that before any sorceries brushes my skin."

"That's… Visceral. Thank you for the image, Bronn."

"No problem," the sellsword smiles. "Speaking of guts, are they done with the fire? I'm starving."

Tyrion's stomach growls. Their last meal was during their ride before meeting Lady Shizuha, thus his hunger is even more palpable now. Looking out of the tent, he feels no more drizzle and sees the red comet shining bright in the night sky. There's already a small campfire at the centre of the grove, his shivering soldiers gathering around it for warmth. "Ser Barron," he calls out, "anything for our meals? We're dying here."

"Sorry about that, my Lord," the knight approach the tent, having already changed into his sleeping clothes. "I'll get some meat and onions cooked up for you."

"Some for me as well," Bronn adds, poking his head out above Tyrion. "Can't leave out your Lord's protector now, can you?"

"Get your own meals, cutthroat."

"Behave yourself," Tyrion admonishes. "My friend here is also requesting for a meal. Give him the same one you'll give to me, understand?"

The knight glare at Bronn before answering. "Yes, my Lord."

"Sheesh, so much for knightly politeness," Bronn chuckles as he settles back into the tent.

"I don't think knights take kindly to a man who's only loyal to their gold."

"Nah, they're simply jealous because sellswords are better than them."

"Really? Pray tell, why?"

"Simple. A sellsword will attend a hundred battles when a knight will only do twenty. You never know if those painted spurs of theirs came from their skills in battle or because they languish with other flowery lords. You can't trust a knight to be skilful, but a sellsword's sign of skill is staying alive." As he explains this, Bronn twirls his dirk around, catching the shine of the light. "My blade's been with me for a long time, and I can bet many dragons that this thing is more skilled than those knights outside of the tent."

"Better to keep you loyal, then," Tyrion comments.

"As long as I get my gold, you're alright."

"M'lord," Ser Robyn opens the tent with bowls in his hands, "stewed meats and bread for supper. Cooked to perfection."

"Thank you," says Tyrion, taking a sip of the broth. It is, indeed, quite sweet and savoury. "Compliments to the chef, Ser Robyn. Do get some rest; we're planning to depart before dawn as well."

"Before dawn," the young knight frowns. "I'll tell the others, M'lord."

"What's the plan, Imp?" Bronn asks after the young knight leaves, already halfway through his stew. "Another mad dash?"

"Not really. Let me see…" Tyrion puts down his bowl and opens up the map of the Riverlands before them. Jaime takes this chance to eat some of Tyrion's meat. "We should reach the Trident by first light, but it all depends if we'll be able to pay for a ferry at Harroway Town."

"If they'll even let us cross."

"Correct. If all else fails, we can travel a bit downstream at cross at the Ruby Ford. But even then the river may be overflowing from all the rain today so we would have to wait."

"There goes my dreams of finding rubies," Bronn says before yawning and putting his empty bowl outside. "Well, I should sleep early again. Turn off the lantern when you're done, alright?"

"Good night, Bronn." Tyrion takes his bowl from Jaime and eat the remaining meat and bread. Now full, he places his bowl on top of Bronn's before continuing his experiment with the leaves and papers. So… Large symbols didn't work. How about the small ones on the leaves? Drawing them on a piece of paper, he feels his head ache before yawning loudly, tiredness slowly seeping into his mind. Gods, I should sleep early as well.

Saying a little prayer for Lady Shizuha, he throws the paper into the air. And just like before, it flits about before landing on Bronn's leg. The sellsword simply snores in response. Well you're a quick sleeper. Giving up for the day, he puts all the materials back into his bag before snuffing out the lantern. In the dark, he can hear Jaime settling on the other end of his blanket, getting all comfortable and warm.

It's been a while since he slept with another person nearby; a shame that it isn't a whore, though. But should he feel safe with Bronn and his blade so close by? Have I even earned his loyalty? Or can that man be bought out by my father and sister to fuck me over? The Lannister gold is not really his, after all, but his father's. What can I give him then to earn his loyalty? Better equipment? Knighthood? Land and title? Would he even accept those things?

But those are questions for another day. Even the commotion outside the tent does not keep Tyrion awake as he falls into a deep slumber.

Riverlands

"M'lord, forgive us for-"

"For what? For experienced landed knights to be tricked by a bunch of children? Is memory failing me, or have you not risen from being a squire?"

"My Lord, please forgive Ser Robyn's failure," Ser Barron steps forward, already dressed in his septon disguise. "We tried our damnedest but there were too many of them. I believe I saw more than thirty hiding in the woods."

"You believe or you know? Well then, I believe that you must have swung your sword blindly through the trees rather than catch the intruders. Look, if you have qualms about killing children that's fine; frankly, rather not have another Mountain in my midst. However, at least put some effort in apprehending them? Get back our gold?"

"M'lord, we have no qualms in attacking wretched thieves! Ser Barron slew seven while I did four with my sword and crossbow."

"So why is your sword clean?" Tyrion asks. "Where's their blood, their bodies?"

"Robbed by ghosts, we were," Bronn sneers as he rides over on his horse, not dressed in his still-wet disguise. "And a bunch of greedy ghosts, too."

"Violent as well," Tyrion adds. "Is it true that those 'ghosts' stole half of our bolts and arrows? Well? Were we robbed by ghouls trying to wage wars from their graves, or are you simply too unskilled to catch or strike down thieves?" The two knights doesn't answer Tyrion's frustrations, instead just looking at each other with looks of doubt and unease. "You know what? I'd rather not hear more of your excuses. Get on your horses; we're leaving for the Trident."

As the two run for their mounts, Tyrion climbs up his own horse, groaning from all the trouble his men are causing. Being the Dwarf of Casterly Rock has never taught him to be frugal, but he's sharply aware when he's short of funds. "Damn children stole three-quarters of our gold, Bronn."

"What a lucky day to be a Rivermen," the sellsword chuckles.

"A dwarf's luck, but the gods never smiled for me. There's not going to be enough for a ferry across at Harroway."

"Maybe it's for the best. I doubt they'll let suspicious men with gold cross the river easily. We can just cross the Ruby Ford," Bronn says. "I heard it's quite low at this time of year."

"Before the rains, maybe. But that damn place must be overflowing now."

"There goes my dreams of riches," the sellsword smiles before a flash in the sky interrupts them. They both look up and frown as there are barely any stars are visible in the night. "Lightning," Bronn groans. "And with this much clouds, bet it's going to rain."

"Don't be so pessimistic, Bronn. I'm sure if Septon Barron pray loud enough the Seven will disperse them for us."

"Might as well pray to that Lady Sorcerer of yours for dry weather. Ah, speaking of which," Bronn rolls up the length of his breeches and shoves his hairy leg at Tyrion. "What the fuck is this?"

"What's what?"

"This, Imp. The paper stuck to my leg."

Paper? Curious, Tyrion trots over to Bronn and sees the small piece of paper from last night stuck to him. Its edges are line with reddish scratches. "Can you not just peel it off?"

"First thing I tried doing with no result. The damn piece itches as well."

Interesting, Tyrion scratches his chin while hiding his growing smile from Bronn. "And you've tried using water to rub it off?"

"Paper's not taking water and stayed dry. What're you going to do with this, Imp? This is your damn paper from last night."

What indeed… Taking a closer look, he sees that it's not the one with the larger symbol written on it. So it's the smaller corner symbol then, but which one? Shit, I should remember it since it was only last night! But this… This can only mean one thing: I can do sorcery. A giddy feeling bubbles up inside him, just like when his brother gifted him that trained mare. Tyrion Lannister, the first Lannister to ever cast and work with sorcery. A strange and simple one, but like any beginning knight he's only rough around the edges for now. In the future… I need to know how it works, but who else must I contact? Maybe Lady Shizuha if her talks of speaking to trees are truthful, but who else? An Archmaester at the Citadel?

"Well?" Bronn asks, bringing him to attention.

"Don't know," Tyrion shrugs to the sellsword's annoyance. "Better just to ride it out. I'm sure you'll forget all about it with all the sores from the journey."

"You better hope so, Imp."

As the two survey the soldiers' disguises, Jaime lands on Tyrion's saddle. "Caw!" she says, earning a playful pet from him.

"Alright, so we'll be heading South towards a small town not far from here. Can you lead the way?"

"Caw!"

"That crow's more competent than your knights," Bronn comments, low enough for the people around them to not hear. "Following orders, accomplishing tasks… You should get it knighted."

Tyrion sighs. It's true enough that he relies on Bronn and Jaime for help most of the time, but that doesn't hide his disappointment with the rest of these soldiers and knights. A man loyal to gold and a bird loyal to the enemy… Might as well have actual lions in my ranks. At least then they'll eat the thieves and be too full to eat me. "Are you all ready?"

"Yes, Lord Tyrion!"

"Alright men, we shall ride for the Trident. Onwards!"

The Lannister company depart from their little grove and gallop South through the Riverlands. Jaime takes off, barely visible in the night sky. Luckily for them, the red comet appears from behind the clouds, allowing him to see the bird's guidance. the comet's tail curve in the sky, and from this angle it looks more like a demon's grin.

Their run is not as fast as before due to the quagmire formed in the rain. The small streams he so enjoyed before has broken their banks, making their journey slow and sometimes treacherous. The Trident must be worse as well. At least with this pace, my hips may survive the journey.

"Caw caw!" Jaime lands on Tyrion's saddle, looking quite excited.

"What is it, Jaime?"

"Caw!" The crow takes off into the air, but this time heading sharply to the West. That's not where Harroway is. Must be hungry, Tyrion reckons. Should have fed her some morsel before departing.

"Do we follow the bird?" Bronn asks.

"She's looking for food. Just keep South until we see the river."

"CAW!" Jaime now lands on top of Tyrion's fool hat, cawing to the top of her lungs. "CAW! CAW!"

"Damn it Jaime! Haven't I told you about cawing on my head?" The bird ignores him and begins pecking at his hair. He tries to push her off but to no avail. "Stop that! Have you gotten a taste for dwarf blood!?"

"You're small and look like a morsel," the sellsword laughs.

"Caw!"

"Do you want to be put in a cage, Jaime? Because that's how you-"

Tyrion's threats are cut off by the sound of shouts and splashing from behind him. Stopping and turning his horse around, he sees Ser Robyn's and Ser Barron's horses tripping and falling into an overflowing mud bank. But before he could hurl insults at those buffoons, more of the horses fall and his men fall into the mud below. Another flash of light, but the sky is clear now. Another group of experienced horses fall into the mud.

Something 's wrong.

"Caw!" Jaime calls out before taking to the sky, circling the scene before them. A shiver runs down Tyrion's back. Though he's never been in a battle before, he can feel tension rise in the air. Something is happening, and even Bronn knows enough to draw out his sword, his face fixed with worry.

"Up on your horses now!"

But before the soldiers can follow his commands, their surroundings light up with strange colours and shine. Glowing orbs and arrows appear from all around them, bursting out of shrubberies and trees and even the streams. For a moment, everyone freeze in awe as the Riverlands become as colourful and lively as a carnival.

Then those orbs and arrows strike the fallen men, filling the cool night air with screams and sparks.

"Form up!" Tyrion shouts, trying to get the situation under control. "Form up and-" A blinding beam of blue cuts through his shouting, leaving a trail of scorched mud and grass. His horse whinnies and nearly cause him to fall off. Looking around frantically, he sees them coming from behind the tree line, small silhouettes flitting about in the dark. "Bronn! For every sorcerer you kill I'll give you a crown!"

"Not enough, Imp!" Bronn answers back, looking ready to make an escape as another beam tear through bushes and setting them alight.

"A dragon then! Now go!"

"Aye, and get yourself to safety!" the sellsword shouts back before charging towards the sorcerers, dodging a red beam of-

"SHIT!" Tyrion ducks, nearly hit by the red beam. He needs to find somewhere safe, but where?

"Caw caw!" He sees Jaime fly by, glowing orbs following her tail. He can't ask her for guidance.

Shit shit SHIT! Tyrion gallops his horse through the muddy ground, trying to find a safe spot between trees or bushes or rocks. He sees the survivors of the initial volley scatter into the night, but their attackers can see them all the same. Another glowing barrage of purple arrows fly into the air and hit their mark, releasing screams from his soldiers. Who the hell is ambushing!? Lady Stormcrow!?

He stops his horse and barely dodges a volley of purple and green arrows, the projectiles hissing in the wet ground as they disappear one by one. If he's hit by that…

He spurs his horse again, now running towards Bronn's location. There's no use in him trying to find his missing men in the dark, and at least he knows where Bronn is. The horse jumps over the mangled body of a man, one of the many corpses in the area. The screaming, the lights, the smell of charred flesh… Shrill laughter fill the air, coming from all around. A battlefield is no place for a dwarf.

Racing wildly towards the trees, a stream of green orbs appears to his left and swings wide towards him. Tyrion ducks his head again and feels the cold heat of the light strike his hat, luckily avoiding decapitation.

But his horse isn't so lucky.

The mount under him bucks and crashes into a stream, throwing him off into the water and rocks. Lanterns sparkle in his eyes, but he's unsure if they're from the sorcery or the fall. "Fucking hells…" He rises out of the water and spits out the mud in his mouth, wiping away his face. It stings. The corpse of his horse lies- No, that's Ser Robyn's horse, not mine.

A bloody taste lingers in his mouth and his ears are still ringing from the chaos all round him. But now, the sounds have gotten quieter. Did they win? Or is he going to die? He pats himself down and realises that his bag has fallen off somewhere. And since no projectiles are flying near him, he cautiously crawls across the bank of the stream, hiding in the bushes as he searches for his bag.

Another stream of blue and red flies high above him, coming out from the tree line. He glimpses a long blade striking down one of the origins, snuffing out the lights. Glad to see you alive and kicking, Bronn. A shame that you're over there and not with- He ducks as a large spiralling pattern of glowing arrows flies through the sky, forming flower-like patterns in the air. Whoever is conjuring up these projectiles are obviously quite wasteful. Or so powerful that they can afford to waste it. And with this ambush, who's the perpetrator? Did Lady Stormcrow break her agreement? Or did Lady Shizuha lure me into a trap? Perhaps the cult I've heard Ser Robyn talk about…

Just when he's about to give up his search, he sees his bag caught in the outstretched hand of a dead man, threatening to flow even further downstream. Tyrion crawls faster towards it, ignoring the brambles and thorns before reaching the water's edge. Standing up, he wades into the water and-

"He he he~"

…A laughter from behind him. A child's laugh. The thieves?

He turns to see who it is but flinches upon setting eyes on them. A little girl, only as big as a cat yet with the appearance of an eight year old, float in the air before him. Her dress is as green as her eyes and hair, but what disturbs him the most are the glowing wings on her back, shaped like that of a horsefly's. Tyrion gulps. "H-Hi there little girl," he stammers out with the best smile he can muster. "What's your name?"

The girl doesn't answer but simply smiles back at him, giggling. Her wide eyes do not blink. A sprite, a Children, a ghost, or… Fairy. Lady Shizuha warned me about them.

Tyrion slowly walk backwards towards his bag, keeping his eyes on the girl. "A fair maiden like you shouldn't get up so early in the day, lest you'll row wrinkles like my sister," he laughs. But the girl doesn't. Just a stare and a smile. Damn it, where the hell is my bag!?

A red beam crosses the night sky as another little girl appear from the bushes, double the first one's height. And another one appears. And another. One even rises out of the water beside him, holding a crayfish and a bright smile. The girls giggle at each other, their wings fluttering with the wind. His heart is nearly beating out of his chest. Though they look so child-like and innocent, he doubts they'll simply play tea time with him.

"Well, I'm a fool and I have many japes. You love japes, don't you? S-So, once upon a time there was a bear and-" His fingers touch the strap of his bag. Clasping it, he pulls his hand forward and… He can't move his arm. What!? Something's holding my hand! He tries to turn around but something in the water grabs at his legs. Tyrion can feel it slowly creeping up his body before revealing itself to be tendrils of greenery, wrapping around like a kraken ready to drown him. "HELP! Bronn! Come help me and-" Several strings of vine muffles his mouth. He bites away at it to break free, but all it does is fill his mouth with the taste of grass.

The girls giggle again looking at his captured form. He looks at them with weary eyes, pleading. The larger one steps forward and lends her hand. A cruel joke for it is not an offer of freedom from the bonds; her hand glows bright-red, like that beam he saw in the sky. Closing his eyes, he prays for salvation and mercy to anyone: the Old Gods, the Seven, he even adds in that sorcerer Shizuha. Any of them in this time of need.

He awaits his doom, regretting for not reaching Casterly Rock sooner and for not making love to a whore before doing this. How he wishes to die in a warm bed with wine and women by his side.

Then the girls scream.

Opening his eyes, he sees the large winged girl with a quarrel sticking out of her forehead. Her face is stuck in a pained expression as she falls into the shallow stream, her body disintegrating into the water. Another one readies an attack but is downed by another bolt. The rest scatter into the dark, laughing and crying all the while.

Straining his neck, he sees that his prayers have been answered: Ser Barron rides to him on a wounded horse while Ser Robyn approaches with a spent crossbow, a few soldiers in tow as well. "Mmmmph mmmmph!" he commands his knights. They got the message as Ser Robyn unsheathes his sword and cuts away at the plants on his mouth. "By the Gods, am I glad to see you!" Tyrion laughs.

"We saw your lights, M'lord, and we came running," says Ser Robyn as works to free his Lord.

"Lights, what lig- Ah!" Looking at his bag, he sees that whatever inside is glowing brightly as ever. He'd seen this glow before, like the radiant shine of Lady Shizuha. Did-Did she actually answer my prayers!? "Shit, we must move now," he says, freeing himself from the last strands of plants. Ser Barron lifts him up onto his horse before the group of men departs to a safer place. "To the woods, Ser Barron! We can hide there!"

Though they're able to ride some distance towards the trees, another barrage opens up from the stream and strikes down some of the men. At this rate, they'll all die before escaping. Tyrion rummages around the drenched bag and finds one of the glowing leaves, as dry as paper and glowing bright against his eyes. "My lord, what is that!?" Ser Barron shouts.

"Our salvation." Holding the leaf close to his lips he recites a short but honest prayer. "Oh, Lady Shizuha, come forth and smite these fucking attackers. Send them all to hell!" He throws the leaf into the air. Tyrion can feel his strength drain away from as the leaf multiply itself into a silhouette of the sorcerer. Then in a flash of orange light, she splits apart into hundreds of leaves and flies off into the distance.

And Tyrion, with all his energy taken out of him, collapses onto Ser Barron's back.

…

Opening his eyes, he sees that he's not on a horse anymore. His body doesn't feel tired either. "Must have been a long sleep," he groans, slowly getting up from the leaf-covered ground. The sun shines bright in the sky, dappled by the leaves overhead. "…Where am I?"

There's no one around him. No sign of the battle, no sign of Bronn or the knights, not even Jaime. Just him, some leaves, and a forest of… He's not sure what kind of trees these are with its whirling green bark full of mushrooms. He stands up, and realises that this is not where the battle had taken place. There's no streams, no ponds, no nothing.

He walks around this unearthly forest, calling out for Bronn and Jaime, sometimes for the knights. The only answer comes from a rustle in the leaves of trees, as if someone's tracking him. Sometimes, when he comes across a dark path, Tyrion sees the strange mushrooms glow in eerie blue and green.

What the fuck is this place?

But before he could wander anymore, he feels a cold splash of water on his face. Opening his bleary eyes, he feels as if an auroch had slept on top of him. He blinks, realising that the sun is only breaking at the horizon. Bronn stands over him with Jaime on his shoulder, the sellsword's smile lacking another tooth. "Wakey wakey. You've got a long enough beauty nap, Imp."

Tyrion groans. Looking around, he sees his men dragging the dead bodies of fellow Lannister soldiers, with some scavenging the field for supplies. It seems that they're in a small isle between a few streams. "What… Did we win?"

"Caw!"

"I wouldn't be here now, would I?"

"How?"

"Damned golden leaves of yours nearly cut me up, you know. Nipped the Kingslayer on her tail too, but nothing we can't manage," the sellsword sighs, crouching beside Tyrion. "Lost my horse, though. I chose that one myself, so it was a good one. The leaves did a number on those things, and the rest was done in by your knights."

"…I did sorcery," Tyrion speaks softly.

"That you did. On your first battle too, so that's something to celebrate! Hurrah!" Bronn laughs. Tyrion laughs along with him, though he starts to have a coughing fit once he gets too loud. "Yeah… First time for everyone. Not too worry, for a man like you will spend most of his time behind the battle."

"The others?"

"Half of 'em are dead."

"Half…"

"But that means you only lost the bad ones, so take some solace in that fact."

Half of his men are dead, all in a single night… What will his father say about this failure of an excursion? But he shouldn't dwell on that for now. In fact, he has another question for the sellsword. "Hey, Bronn?"

"Yes?"

"What's in that sack?"

"Oh this?" He raises up the sack in his left hand, the content within struggling to get out. Bronn grins at Tyrion. "Revenge."