Riverlands

"Bloody little- Ouch!" Bronn cries out as the little fairy he captured bites his thumb, drawing some blood. The little blonde thing barely the size of his hand giggles, drawing the sellsword's ire. "Is that how you wanna play, is it?" Quickly snatching her, he ties her legs up with some yarn before letting her hang upside down. "How'd you like this!?" With a wind-up, he twirls the fairy around like a slingshot with such speed that the thing starts screaming. But a sharp leaf ends the punishment short, nearly freeing it from his grasp.

"Why are you people so mean to fairies!?" the self-proclaimed goddess Shizuha huffs, readying other leaves to throw. Even her painting duplicates turn to glare at him from the trees.

"Mean!? Little brat tried to shove a crayfish down my nose!"

"And little she may be, she's a prisoner of war," Tyrion adds, cutting a bandage for the poultice on his arm. Here in this little grove of reddening trees, the sorcerer assures them of protection from fairies. Yet still advocating for their release. "That little thing ambushed and killed half of my men, stealing valuables and corpses like they're made of gold. I've no sympathy for bloodthirsty dolls."

"They're not bloodthirsty, they're just playing around."

"Play- Why, that would make Bronn the best companion for children! Isn't that right?"

"Heh, you know me," he replies, shoving the tied-up fairy into a canvas bag. Jaime pokes at it with her beak like some tasty morsel. "Love those little bastards."

"You know I don't mean it like that."

"I don't, Holiness Shizuha, and that's the problem." Bronn cringes at the title but anything to keep her by their side. "Fairies, magic, you… All are foreign to Westeros." Or anywhere else for that matter. I very much doubt the Dothrakii fear winged children in dresses. "At times, I even wondered if that midnight assault was by your doing."

She looks aghast by the small accusation. "I-I warned you of fairies that day!"

"And that's as useful as telling me grumkins and snarks roam the night, granted I could have taken the warning more seriously," he shrugs before pulling out some clean sheaves of paper and charcoal. "But without context and knowledge, warnings will fall on deaf ears, Holiness Shizuha. And so to help us, care to explain what fairies are? You seem quite familiar with them."

And so the sorcerer speaks of strange concepts such as the "embodiment of nature" and its "innocence," none of which he saw during the assault. Even so, Tyrion scribbles it all down; this talk of magic is of great interest to him, even if it dabbles into foreign concepts of balance and the like. No matter, he's a fast learner. Looking through the notes, he asks: "What of intelligence? I've only heard them giggling or screaming rather than actual words."

"Intelligence…" She plucks a read leaf from the air before continuing. "Not that smart, really. Someone once said they're like children, only half as smart and twice as curious. They can make simple traps, though, and sometimes help each other."

"Which we experienced," Bronn nods, looking down at Tyrion's diligent form. "Neat handwriting."

"This is what Lannister teaching gets you." He reviews all the notes on fairies and their propensity for random assaults. But none of that was random, he thinks. They aimed for our rear to stop us in our tracks before an ambush. They may be too dumb to organise themselves, but with an intelligent leader… He eyes the smiling sorcerer but the word 'intelligent' doesn't match her. Whoever the culprit is, Tyrion wants to repay the debts and throttle them blue. No, it must be- "Your Holiness Shizuha, I seem to remember you mentioning tengus before?"

"Tengus?" A soft breeze flows through the grove, stopping Jaime in her tracks. The crow and sorcerer tilt their head at his question. "What about them?"

"I have a certain… Problem with them. You see, the one-"

"CAW!"

"…The-"

"CAW!"

"…"

"CAW!"

"Bronn."

"Quiet!" The sellsword throws a pebble at the crow, sending it away. "Damned bird's informing on us."

"Is the name Aya Shameimaru familiar to you? Black hair, red eyes, and sharp ears?" Recognition flashes over the sorcerer's face before settling into a deep frown. Tyrion smirks. "I take that as a yes?"

"One of the more annoying tengus," she grumbles, the many duplicates mimicking her expression. "She's nosy and abrasive, pointing her camera here and there like she gives a damn. I always try to be gentle to those sorts but she well and truly tug at my annoyance. The great tengus never took many actions against her; I suspect they gave up in trying to rein her in," she sighs. "Sometimes, I wish the Four Devas still rule the Youkai Mountain."

Writing down the new and familiar terms, one of the words pops out to him. But do we have time? "Bronn, any news of the scouts?"

"Not yet," says the sellsword, peering out of the grove. "Might still be looking through the castle. Or dead."

I have time then. Circling a word on his sheet, he asks: "What is a 'camera'? A sort of weapon?"

"Aya likes to call it a weapon but it's just her pride speaking. It's a tool to make photos of her… Unfortunate victims."

"And what are photos?"

"Oh, does it not exist here?" A leaf lands on her head before she hums in deep thought. "A photo… Is like an instant painting. It, uh, captures a scene and turns it into a picture? I'm not sure how it works though, you'll have to ask a kappa for that."

Kappas, devas, great tengus… The maesters never told me of your- Wait, pictures? He produces one of the small wax-smooth paintings from his satchel, the image of red forests matching the sorcerer's hair. "You mean something like this?"

"Ah, you do have one!"

"A souvenir from that damned tengu," he says, handing the picture over. The sorcerer looks over it with a bit of glee. "What can you make of it?"

"Well, as much as I detest her presence, there's no doubt in her photographing skills."

"Keep it. The image of an autumn forest seems a fitting gift for the Goddess of Autumn Leaves," Tyrion bows with a smile, but his heart and mind are racing wildly at the implications. No need for painters, no need for maesters, accurate reconnaissance… He can only imagine what kind of warfare she can bring with such a magical tool. His only hope lies in the disorganisation in trying to command wild rabbles and actual birds. No, we do have one advantage. "In truth, Your Holiness, Lady Aya has been a sharp thorn in my side."

"Oh no, did she take embarrassing pictures of you?" she tuts. "That tengu never had a sense of privacy."

"No, but she did threaten to kill me and my father." The sorcerer's face pales as Tyrion recounts Lady Stormcrow's many threats and terror, with some embellishment of course. Bronn soon joins in with the tale in the mountain pass, dragging in the other knights for their accounts of the Lannister camp's crowing terror. Jaime hops from branch to branch, looking quite angry at their discussion and giving Tyrion a semblance of mirth. "All of that," he concludes, "simply because I care for my family."

A lie. He'd watch his father and sister be eaten by crows with glee. The rest he can wave away.

The sorcerer is at loss for words, her duplicates having stopped their painting. "That… That DAMN TENGU!" She stomps the ground with such force a small jolt ripples through the air, turning the surrounding woods bald as all their leaves fall. "I thought she moved past doing these cruel- Ugh, that little…"

"Which is why we need you, Holiness Shizuha." Tyrion stands from the fallen tree he's sitting on, approaching the sorcerer. "We Lannisters are adamant in bringing about peace, especially with my… Nephew on the Iron Throne." Gods, Joffrey is on the Throne. "The Seven won't answer our prayers and neither would the Old Gods nor these Devas you spoke of. But we do have you. And so I pray to thee: help us. Help us secure peace upon Westeros, help us clip this errant tengu's pride and terror."

The sorcerer's eyes tear up as she leans down and grabs his hands; hers are soft to the touch. "As my first worshipper in this unknown land, I'll do my utmost to answer your prayers. You have my eternal blessings, Tyrion Lannister."

Looking at her beautifully glowing visage, his heart tightens for a moment but he shoves away such feelings. Not here, not now, and not with this deluded sorcerer. "And you shall have my worship," he smiles back before letting go. "Now, let me suggest you a few… Actions."

Harrentown

With Tyrion finishing the sorcerer's preparations, the Harrenhal scouts return. "Not a soul, M'lord," says their weary leader, "at least, not the parts we scoured."

That doesn't bring much confidence. "Look alive, men," Tyrion replies as he climbs onto his replacement horse, "and lead the way."

Harrenhal is not that far from the grove; he can see the silhouette of its towers in the distance. While taking that castle under House Lannister would be a great achievement, it's been some time since he had both hands full of a whore's tits. "Ser Robyn, did you not say there's a town near Harrenhal? The one with demon worship?"

"Harrentown, M'lord. I'd advise against going there," the young knight shivers. "I saw Rivermen throw the Seven's drawings into the God's Eye, Father help us."

"Planning to go there, Imp?" Bronn smirks, keeping a firm grip on the bagged fairy. "Thought you'd be interested in world wonders."

"First, Harrenhal is no world wonder but a half-melted candle from by-gone days. And second, wonders are best admired from afar. Learnt that the hard way with the Wall," Tyrion huffs. "Had I wanted a frozen heart, I'd stay behind with my father at Casterly Rock. Then again, I heard there are great tapestries within the castle."

"Heard it's a haunt, Milord," says Ser Barron, twirling his grey beard. "'Ole Harren the Black melded the stone with children's blood, gathered by that witch Mad Danelle. Whole land's cursed."

"Tell me, Ser Barron, can you read?"

The older knight grimaces. "Fear not, Milord. Why?"

"Oh, nothing." A smarter man would have known the two hundred years difference between them. Then again, I'd rather not contend with a like mind, Tyrion muses. The only other shining intellects here are Bronn and Jaime, and one of them is a bird. Yet your allegiance shines through, he thinks, watching the crow fly up high and never greet him. Trust as far as I can throw them…

"We cut through this forest, M'lord. Safest to be hidden."

"Lest those fairies hide here as well," Bronn groans before entering the woods. The trees have yet to turn orange, but the air feels staler than a crypt. A man's corpse lies rotting near a tree, bitten to hell by some wild animals. And for all of that, not one utter a call in this place. Some of the men whisper prayers to the Warrior while others surprisingly call for the sorcerer's name. What do you know, your first true believers, Tyrion smiles before exiting the forest and…

…

As a dwarf, there are many times he felt small and helpless. In his father's shadow, near the Wall's icy blue… But none are as oppressive as the curtain walls before him. He had seen drawing's of Harren's folly before, both its completion and Balerion's work. To read that it's larger than Winterfell is one thing, but this…

Hundreds of unmanned scorpions litter the wall, making him wonder how many men were supposed to hold the castle. A deep unease churns his stomach as the retinue pass beneath the towers' immense shadow, bathing nearby lands in darkness. Hill-sized rubble litter the area, half-consumed by trees and weeds. The shaken leader directs them towards a massive gate, immense enough for even giants. Did Harren Hoare expect them as guests? Murderholes the size of his head dot the stony ceiling with the promise of death, though luckily none falls through.

But all stop at the sight of the towers. Piercing the sky like mountain peaks, the glimmering towers stand tall in their half-melted glory. As the sun's rays peek through their ruined tops, they seem to stare down at him. Tyrion gulps. He can't be here, shouldn't be here. "Bronn, Robyn, prepare your disguises," he commands, "because we're scouting Harrentown." And away from this damn place. "Ser Barron, I trust you can set up camp here?"

"Of course, Milord."

"See if you can find traces of the Mountain, or the sellswords, or whoever. Anything to get father off my back," he spits before turning to the gate and riding out. Putting on his scuffed-up fool's hat, he sees Jaime roosting atop one of the scorpions. "Not coming?" The bird flies to the towers. "Suit yourself."

"Is this truly a good idea, M'lord? The town is-"

"Cursed?" Bronn scoffs. "Bet those ones you call demons are just piss-poor sorcerers tricking people with coin tricks and nifty lights."

"Or someone as capable as Lady Stormcrow and God- Lady Shizuha." Slip of the tongue, nothing more. "That'll be a vicious problem."

"Doubt it," the sellsword replies as they trot out of the forest and towards the small town in the distance. "I've seen my fair share of hedge wizards and woods witch, Imp. Their claims to predict the future and whatnot. Those two women are rarer than virgin whores, I tell you. My question is how many men this one control."

"The town's allied with those demons," says the knight. "Even saw a few household knights with 'em. Maybe more than a hundred?"

Bronn whistles. "For a bunch of no-names? Impressive," he chuckles before being interrupted by the thrashing fairy. He gives the bag a good whack before sighing. "Should have left this at Harrenhal… Ah, right! What was my disguise again?"

"You're my father," says Tyrion, "and I'm not so sure if that's an improvement."

"You're what, my half-wit dwarf child?" he smirks. "Hey, could be worse."

"Ser Robyn will play as your younger brother, Bronn. Once there, we'll buy the necessary supplies before the investigation of these supposed 'demons'. Will anyone recognise you, Ser?"

"I don't think so, M'lord," the young knight answers. "Didn't wander too long in town. We shouldn't as well," he nods towards a few gallows and posts lining their path. Bodies of men hang high from ropes, filling the air with a foul stench. House Prester, House Clegane, House Lannister, and that one's a Lorch, Tyrion notes as they pass by their tattered clothing and shields. Good thing I dyed my hair, then.

"Halt! Who goes there?" two armed men demand with rope-decorated spears in hand. There are no identifying sigils on them. Must be commonfolks.

"Rivermen, good Sers," Bronn descends from his horse and urges the others to follow. "We journey to King's Landing and in need of supplies. Lions be prowlin' here," the sellsword spits. "This here's my brother, Robyn. Killed the fucker who killed my wife, let the Father see them justly."

"You have my condolences," the taller guard nods. "Any man who kills a Westerman is a friend of ours."

"Is that a dwarf?" The shorter one points at Tyrion with a large grin. "Hah! Look at its face, Koryn! Bet my balls have a better… Oh, is that your son?"

Bronn's face strains to stifle a laugh. "Yep, little Giles I call 'im."

"Ah, my deepest condolences. Can't imagine having that as a child," the guard cringes.

"What's your name?" Tyrion asks in a falsetto. It won't do to forget this idiot's name.

"Ben," he replies. "What you planning, Bronn? Earn a few coins with that motley boy of yours?"

"A few coins wouldn't hurt. Are we allowed in?"

"Go ahead," says Koryn. "Just… Careful when around those with painted shields, you hear? They've been jumpy as of late."

Painted shields? With a quick goodbye for the gatekeepers, the three enter the fortified town of Harrentown. Only, the wooden walls are brand new, bordering some burnt-down buildings and spear-wielding sentries. "Don't remember it to be like this," Bronn mutters. "The town's always been on the dinkier side…"

Unlike the rest of the Riverlands, Harrentown still holds vibrant life within. Children and urchins dart between stalls and markets, men and women carrying out their poor lives in the street… But what worries them most is the abundance of soldiers present here, and not just mere hedge knights. "They've increased," says Ser Robyn. Among them, Tyrion sees Blackwood shields, Bracken horses, Mallisters, Mootons, and even a few Tullies.

A few people point and laugh at the sight of Tyrion, but he pays them no heed for now. Alerting his brother Jaime of this town would teach them. As the two men buy their share of supplies, the Lannister scans the buildings for any places that stand out. There's one. Near the town's square, he sees a small inn surrounded by men emblazoned with red stallions. Green serpents are painted on its walls. "Know anything about that?" he asks Ser Robyn.

"Aye. That's where the demon worshippers gather," he replies, stuffing the horse's pack with bread and dried meats.

"No demon would hire Brackens as guards," he whispers back. "There must be some nobles in there, and perhaps the sorcerers as well." Tyrion pats the autumn leaves in his pocket, a goal forming in his head. "We need to get inside."

"They won't welcome strangers," says Bronn, "let alone a dwarf."

"So we'll sneak in, distract the guards somehow." Now, what would draw the attention of Brackens? Walking not far from the building, Tyrion passes by a tavern full of bawdy cheering. A soldier stumbles out laughing, all red-faced with beer stains on his House Blackwood tunic. A smirk crosses the Lannister's face. "Excuse me, would you-"

"W-Woah! A bloody dwarf!" the man cackles, throwing spittle onto Tyrion's face. He props himself up on a beam before asking dumbly: "Is… Is a mummer's troupe in town?"

"…Sadly not," Tyrion groans, wiping his face clean. "A Blackwood man, I presume?"

"Oh, this?" he tugs at the tunic. "Aye, Lord Brynden Blackwood's best guard, you'll find. Trust me, and don't listen to the other twats at the bar! They're just jealous."

So his eldest son is in control of this detachment… Hopefully, the boy's still wet behind the ears. "Well, every House would benefit to have a man like you," Tyrion remarks, patting the man's knee. "However," he adds, "maybe not so much Lord Bracken."

"Ugh, those horse pricks," the man spits. "Daring to strut around as if they're stallions when they're simply a bunch of asses."

"And the insults they speak of," the dwarf huffs, glancing at the now curious man. "Once I heard them say the honourable Lord Brynden to be a wood-whelp, or a little sapling made for a dwarf's bow. They have no respect to fellow Riverlords, and Blackwoods least of all." All lies; he never once heard an insult about Blackwoods. But that's all he needs to rile him up.

"…They said WHAT!?" The man's posture straightens as his hand wanders down to the hilt of his sword, fury growing in his eyes. "Those bloody bastards!" Bronn and Tyrion's grin grows wider as he marches down the tavern's steps-

-and is stopped by Ser Robyn's firm hand shaking him by the shoulder. "Calm down, Ser! You can't just attack those guards" says the young knight, churning the Lannister's stomach with a foul taste. You cunt! He was just about to- "It's no good for a lone assault. Call the others to help."

…

"Aye, that's a fine thought!" the soldier grins before running back inside the tavern. The three step aside as about a dozen armed and drunken Blackwood soldiers march towards the guarded inn, insults and anger lining every movement.

"…Wow," Tyrion chuckles as he watches them shout down the guards. "I certainly did not expect that from you, Robyn. My my, I'll have to find you a good keep then."

"M'lord is too kind," the young knight scratches his head. "I strive to be in your good grace."

"Smart lad. Now," he gives the knight the horses' reins, "tend and ready them once we're back. Let's go, Bronn!" As the screaming match turn violent, the two slink behind the building and see no guards. Satisfied, Bronn climbs into a second-floor window before hoisting Tyrion up into the empty room. It's a bit dusty here, an old shield depicting the bats of House Whent hanging on the wall. As the clamour outside grows louder, Bronn peeks out and sees an empty hallway. Tip-toeing their way to the stairs, they overhear an ongoing conversation.

"…and move this army to Stone Hedge, I say," a gruff voice commands. Peeking from the stairs, Tyrion sees a tall sandy-haired figure with a brown cape decorated with red stallions. "It'll place us near Riverrun, allowing quick assaults and retreats for the Kingslayer's camp."

"Yet you're complaining that Stone Hedge is a burnt mess," a younger man sneers. He must not be older than the Snow bastard up North, but this one carries far more weight and pride. "Admit it, Harry, you want your natural father's good graces by rebuilding his castle. We're at war. How are you supposed to be my elder?"

"Suppose we're focusing on the wrong thing, my Lords," says a man with a raspy voice, obscured from Tyrion from his vantage point. He fishes out one of the sorcerer's glowing leaves from his pocket, vibrating from anticipation. "While the Riverlands have the Lannisters, our true enemy lies up North. My son, he saw ill dreams of Winter's coming and-"

"CROAK."

The two nearly jump out of their skins as a fucking frog hops onto Bronn's foot, croaking all the while. "Shoo," he whispers, pushing it towards the stairs. It takes one last look at the two before hopping down. "Get on with the fucking spell."

"Patient," he hisses back. Holding the leaf between his fingers, he closes his eyes and prays- nay, demand for the sorcerer to slay these men… But it does not respond. Come on, now! He tries again, whispering the sorcerer's name and her supposed divinity, yet it does nothing. Is this one damaged!?

"My Lords!" Some wounded Mooton man from the outside barges in and kneels before the meeting. "Th-There's a scuffle, my Lords. Some Blackwood men attacked the guards with live steel."

"WHAT!?" the Bracken man roars, knocking over his chair. "Attacking my men!?"

"Yes, they-"

"I told you not to mess with me, Brynden!" he points at the boy who's looking on, quite confused. "You and your father are always a thorn in my father's side. My lady, we should have never trusted them!"

Lady? Pausing his prayers to rack through his memories, Tyrion doesn't remember any mention of leading Ladies in the Riverlands. Well, he doubts Shella Whent to be leading them from her advanced age. Must be the sorcerer then. Gods, why must the ones skilled in magic be women? He wonders if that's why they demand to be called goddesses.

"Your father? You're a bastard!" the Blackwood jeers. "That 'red stallion' couldn't even sire a son with his wife and had to drag you out of the shoddy shack you were born in."

"Why you-"

Someone slams down their hand on the table, stopping the two quarrelling Lords. "While I do enjoy some quarrels myself," says a husky voice, "we have more pressing matters. For one, there are intruders in this inn."

Tyrion's heart freezes as he looks nervously at Bronn, his lips mouthing the word "run."

"What? Even crows shouldn't be able to- Tch, the fucking guards! Where are these intruders!?"

"My informant says upstairs," she answers, a frog croak accompanying her words. "Two men. One tall and the other much shorter."

Bronn pulls him by the shoulder, urging them to go. But the Gods be damned, Tyrion wants to see the sorcery through. This is his only chance to kill all these fuckers at once, to help Jaime and convince his father that he's a worthy son for Casterly Rock. "Come on, Lady Shizuha, work with me! WORK!" The creaking of wood sounds closer and Bronn lets go of his shoulder. The glow on the leaf dims as he tries harder and harder, bubbling more frustration as it tears under his-

"YOU! Put down your-"

"ARGH!" A chair flies over Tyrion's head and hits the Mooton man square on the chest, sending him down the stairs and breaking the Lannister's concentration. Bronn grabs him roughly by the arm and drags him to the window as the two scramble out of the building. "Damn it Imp, why are you always making it hard!?"

"I did it once, Bronn, and I can do it again," he huffs as they both run for Ser Robyn and the horses. But with Tyrion's legs, it's enough of a delay for the Lords to exit the building and point their men towards them. Stuffing the crumbling leaf into his pocket, the three gallop past the gaggle of commonfolks and head straight towards the gate guarded by those two men from before.

Those fighting stallion men behind them break away from the scuffle and climb onto their horses, giving the three a chase. In front, the two lone guards raise their spears to hold the three's escape. But seeing something that Tyrion doesn't, Ser Robyn and Bronn draw their hidden weapons and shouts "CHARGE!" with all their lungs, spurring their horses and sending dust onto Tyrion's face.

Whether it be the blades, the horses, or the natural fear of being trampled, the two guards drop their spears and scamper away as the three riders rush out of Harrentown with unwanted companions in tow. Slowing down, the two warriors move to the sides of Tyrion as they gallop for the forest. An arrow flies past their heads, nicking Bronn's steed. Another punches through the top of Tyrion's fool hat, earning a gulp from the Lannister.

But as they enter Harrenhal's stretching shadow, the chasers come to a sudden stop. They pelt a few more arrows before yelling a few curses and riding back to Harrentown, leaving the three tired men to their heartbeats. "Gods," Tyrion wheezes, "that was-"

"Stupid," Bronn spits, "very very stupid. The hell were you waiting around for, you almost died! What about my golden dragons, huh!?"

"Bronn, M'lord is-"

"No, Robyn… Bronn is right," he confesses, looking at his pocket of leaves. That BITCH! Was this a trick all along? Is there something she's not telling me? Why the HELL WON'T THE LEAVES WORK!?

…

Taking a deep breath and unclenching his fist, Tyrion turns to the looming shadow of Harrenhal. Or maybe she's tired fro spying? Whatever the answer, he's too tired to care right now. With the lowering sun, its top looks as aflame as the day Balerion was set upon it. "We secure one of the towers and fortify it. Once I hear their reports and rest, we'll move for Riverrun. Gods be good, we encounter no more nightly troubles."