Kingspyre Tower
With the sun slowly setting upon the Riverlands, Tyrion's men have gathered under the tallest structure in Harrenhal: Kingspyre Tower.
At least, that's what maesters and surveyors called it after Balerion's burning. They're not even sure if this is where the last Hoares died, but the fact still remains that it's the single tallest tower in the Riverlands. As wide as the Red Keep's great hall, the tower would require a hundred servants and guards to properly man. Alas, Tyrion has barely more than twenty.
Men with winched crossbows look out of the grand dining room windows, watching for any signs of movements coming from Harrentown. For fear of being noticed, they use small lanterns instead of torches for the night.
Tyrion seats himself on the dining room's grandest chair of velvety cushions and bat-shaped carved wood, cleaning his nail with a small dagger. Laying on the dinner table is a stone fist brought in by Ser Barron, its size dwarfing his own hand. He recognises the headgear for only one man could withstand its weight: "Ser Gregor Clegane's?"
"Maybe," says the old knight, downing a bit of wine they've pilfered from the cellar. "Found it among torn metal plates and a bent greatsword, Milord. That and a couple of broken shields. I heard his greathelm was decorated with this, so…"
"But no bodies."
"Some blood on the wood and dirt, but aye, no bodies," the knight nods.
"Then your man escaped," Bronn snickers as he gives a bit of old morsel to Jaime. "Saw the battle going badly for him and decided to take no chances."
"What kind of person would even budge The Mountain That Rides? I heard he even killed his own horse in front of Robert! The man has no fear… But neither is he a fool." Downing a much needed cup of Arbour Red, Tyrion remembers the few times Ser Gregor Clegane visited Casterly Rock. My father sure has chosen interesting companies… Not that I don't have one myself, he sighs. Though the sorcerer's failure still weighs heavily on his mind, he'll have to wait for tomorrow to bring it up. "If the Mountain's truly become a robber knight, he'll soon come to conflict with father."
"Which means…"
"It's not our problem," the Lannister smiles as two guards bring them supper. Bronn and Tyrion sup on the newly bought beef, onions, mushrooms, and some gravy mixture they found in the kitchens. Ser Robyn and Ser Barron get their fair share as well for today's work; the others will make do with the remaining rations. An uneasy expression rests on the sellsword's face as he scoops up more of the onions. "Problem, Bronn?"
"Curiosity, that's all. If those Riverlords got the men and forces for it, why haven't they moved here? This place's got wines, jewels, proper armaments, and is far stronger than their dingy wooden palisades."
"Unlike Milord here, not many would brave the ghosts wanderin' these halls," says Ser Barron with wary eyes.
A snappy remark nearly escapes Tyrion's lips; the knight is right. If they're following the advice of the woman sorcerer, then there's no doubt they listen to every drivel she speaks of. He should know considering he followed Lady Shizuha's advice blindly, and look where that got him. At least we'll have peace tonight, so thank you unknown sorcerer for your baseless fears. Finished with his plate and a goblet of wine, a faint tired buzz is setting in. I should sleep, but… "Ser, are there any books around here? A good read is important for a good night's dream."
"Well, the lower towers have a few books, M'lord, but I'd advise against going there so late. And of this tower…" The young knight drums his fingers on the table in thought.
"We've not checked the floors further up," says Ser Barron.
"Why, scared of ghosts?" he snickers at the two knights. Hearing no response, he sighs and jumps off his chair before walking to the stairs. "Come with me, Sers. My hands are not that adept at carrying many books, you see."
"W-Well, Milord, the upper floors are-"
"Don't mistake my words. That was an order. What men are you to be scared of the dark? I see now why my father called you bottom-of-the-barrel," Tyrion scoffs, glancing at now their emboldened stance. "Oh, and bring that lantern. Can't scare away the ghouls without some lights, can you?"
Tyrion is used to living in tall structures before with Casterly Rock being near three times taller than the Wall, but that castle had a system of lifts and winches for him to take. This? This is all stairs, at least the parts that survived. "How many damn floors is this place?" he grumbles, climbing onto the next floor. He hopes that when Jaime conquers the castle he'll build winches just for Tyrion.
And the air here is dustier than the Hall of Heroes in Casterly Rock. Nothing like a few hundred years' worth of grime for a guest, he thinks, kicking a piece of rubble.
One of his men walks out of a room all dressed in gold-embroidered robes and jewels. "Ah! Evening, M'lord," the soldier bows. Tyrion raises an eyebrow at his get-up. "O-Oh, I should take this-"
"No no, keep it. Take whatever trinkets and coins here as your rewards for last night's valour." He peeks into the room and sees a couple of men trying to unclasp a tapestry from the wall. "But leave the wall hangers," he adds, "father expects a semblance of the original decorum."
The further up they go, the more apparent that Ironmen built this place. Images of waves and longships are carved onto the walls. Beneath their feet are dusty mosaics of krakens and whales and sea dogs, all dancing to the Drowned God's tune. The next stairway is decorated with a sea dragon's maw, its eyes as dead as the stones it's carved on.
And there's something in the air. Not a smell nor dust, but pressure. Pressure pressing all around them that even darkens the flickering lantern. Tyrion keeps his nerves and moves along, eager to find some form of entertainment for the night.
"Ahh, this might be it," he grins, lighting up a large doorway lined with images of ravens. A maester's quarters, must be. Inside, his eyes are immediately drawn to the grand shelves clawing at the ceiling. Most of them are empty though, a great disappointment for the avid reader.
Taking the lantern from Robyn he goes straight to the nearest full shelf. His eyes wander from spine to spine, a finger tracing each word of the leather-bound tomes. History of the Wall, The Might of House Hoare, The Drowned God and His Rituals… Midnight Upon the Empire of the Dawn sounds interesting. He pulls it out and gives it to Ser Barron; perhaps he can add to his collection back at Casterly Rock. Another book titled The Blood of Magic piques his esoteric interest. Is there anything about dragons? he wonders. The flame sputters as he turns the next corner-
A face.
"GAH!" Tyrion leaps back as Ser Robyn draws his sword against the vagrant. "Bloody- You said this place was empty!" he yells at Ser Barron, hands still clutching the lantern.
"Name yourself and you may leave this place alive," Robyn demands with a poke of his longsword. But the man lies still, unblinking, the lantern light reflected in his dull grey eyes. Now calmed down, Tyrion sees what a massive one he is. His beard melds with the rags on his body, making him look more bear than man. He turns his head — Gods, he's alive — and looks at the dwarf with a terrified expression, snot and spit dribbling out of his mouth. "…What should we do, M'lord?" the knight whispers.
"Tell him to-"
The three flinch at the man's sudden movement, but he's not attacking. No, he's grabbing at his head and sobbing, dropping onto the floor a bent knife and a torn-up red ribbon. Tyrion notices that his clothes are no mere rags but a beat-up surcoat. All their eyes widen at the emblem. "…Ser Gregor Clegane?"
"T-That's the Mountain, M'lord!?" Ser Robyn cringes. "By Her Holiness, his hands! What happened to him?"
"I don't know, but the man's still alive. Ser Barron, run down and get a few men to move him. Oh, and place the books on the dinner table."
It takes seven men to budge the head of House Clegane from his corner and five to hold his massive frame. As they march him down to the dining room, Tyrion notices a few festering wounds on the man's back. Bite marks, he realises, like the ones in the forest.
Gregor makes no effort to resist as he's seated on the largest chair available, still creaking under his weight. Under bright lantern light, it's clear how emaciated the man is. Though still a massive frame, his muscles have wasted away. His skin is pale and eyes sunken, like someone you'd see begging in a dirty corner of Lannisport. Ser Robyn shoves a waterskin to his lips but some trickle down his beard. "Can you talk, Ser?" No answer.
"Don't bother," says Bronn, "the man's a lost cause."
"What do you mean?"
"He's broken." Jaime lands atop Gregor's wiry hair, poking at it like a piece of meat. "Seen his like many times in the Riverlands, a bit more common with greenboys than older sellswords and knights. Seen enough horrible shit, they break like a twig. Some become mad bandits, others…" The sellsword clicks his tongue with a rare look of pity. "I say we end him here, Tyrion. Less nightmares for him, less dead weight for us."
"Nay, we should bring him to Lord Jaime's camp, Milord," Ser Barron interjects. "Even if he's become a halfwit, I'm sure there's use for men like him. And he's the head of House Clegane for goodness sakes! He has no sons and his brother refused to take a knight's vows. We can't just-"
"So that'll be the end of House Clegane," says Bronn. "He won't be the first House who met their end, and certainly not the last. Your father has to look for a new hound to play with."
…
Tyrion walks around Ser Gregor, making sure to keep his distance if the man ever wanted to try dwarf-tossing. He tries to convince himself that it's because of the knight's headaches and addiction to milk-of-the-poppy, nothing more. But his eyes keep on focusing on those bite marks, so deep and gouging as if it had been done by lions.
And knowing what happened last night, he doesn't want to take any chances.
"Robyn, take yourself and seven men to the upper floors and scour every room you find. If there are any survivors, bring them here. And if there's trouble, well, fight on if you can kill whatever has caused this," he gestures to Gregor's wounds. "Is that clear?"
"Of course, M'lord," the young knight replies with some worry in his eyes. Fear of ghosts...
To brighten his spirit, Tyrion fishes out the crumbling leaf from his pocket and hands it to Robyn. "Keep it. It'll be of more use to you." That thing is useless anyway, Tyrion thinks as the knight's face lights up in awe. Well, if it'll help the lad's fight for me… "Pray to that leaf and she'll come to aid. But remember: one use."
"Aye, M'lord! Thank you!" And with that, the young knight and his men march up the stairs.
"Ser Barron, secure the Mountain so that he won't try and kill us in our sleep. And the rest," he turns to the crossbowmen, "keep guard, alright?" Tyrion taps his foot on the floor in thought. "Ah that's right. Bronn."
"Yep?"
"Carry those books to my bedroom please. I've had a long enough day to deal with," he yawns, "and I think I deserve a good night's rest."
"And I think I've earned my coins, Imp. Remember what I said: I'm no servant of yours."
"…Fine, I'll carry the books myself," Tyrion grumbles, choosing the lightest of the two. "And worry not for coins: a Lannister always pays their debts."
"Aye, and I'm counting them."
Going up with a lantern in hand, Tyrion opens the door to the room Ser Barron reserved for him. It's quite dusty from many years of disuse, so he opens the window to let in the cool night's air. Jaime flies in and perches herself above the curtains. "What do you want?"
"Caw," says the crow, tilting her head before hopping onto a soft cushion. There, Jaime nestles herself before closing her eyes.
Sighing, Tyrion sets the lantern on the bedside table and climbs onto the bed. He prefers a whore to warm his side but tonight his company is a book. No matter. I'll find one at Jaime's camp. And with that, he opens Midnight Upon the Empire of the Dawn and starts reading.
Kingspyre Tower
Water.
He can feel it lapping at his feet as he stands atop Kingspyre Tower, laughing madly into the salty winds. Longships swim and crash against the waves, clouds swirl and churn like a whirlpool, and high above the moon kisses the sun.
The birth of dragons. The belief of some backwater Dothrakii from the Essosi plains. But the moon's dark circle doesn't crack like a serpent's egg. No, for its shadow creeps ov-
"CAW! CAW!"
"Gah!" Tyrion is startled awake and pushes the heavy book off of his face. His drool stains the illumination of God-on-Earth's many wives, turning their golden jewels muddy. Around him the room is still dark and cold, a soft breeze blowing through the open crack of the window. Autumn. And this chill is too cold for comfort. His lantern is nearly out and a soft red glow emanates from the red comet outside. "Gods, what time is it?" he groans, shooing the crow from his chest and rubbing his-
*KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK*
"Lord Tyrion! Are you awake, Lord Tyrion!?"
"Now I am." Tyrion puts on his shoes before taking the lantern. Jaime caws again but he ignores her. "Why wake me?"
"T-There's a problem, my Lord. A large one."
Always a problem to deal with… "What, you've found more survivors? I'm sure Ser Barron… Could…" All his hair stand up ends as a black mass blocks the window of twinkling starlight. A deep rumble fills the room as if he's surrounded by hungry lions. Wispy black tendrils slink through the crack, tugging at the curtain and window frame like a kraken. But perhaps due to the Lannister's stillness, the darkness slips away noiselessly and light graces the bedchamber. Tyrion gulps.
That… That's a problem.
He swings open the door and nearly crashes into the soldier's knee. "What in the Seven Hells was that?" he whispers as the two rush down the stairway, Jaime passing overhead. Recognising the man as one of the excursionist, he asks: "What happened?"
"Long story, my Lord, bu-"
"Keep it short."
"Upstairs was full of bones, my Lord. Something stalked us. A snark, a ghoul, the Others… We don't know but it was a vicious thing. If it wasn't for the lad's thinking we won't be here," he grins before turning dark. "And he, well…"
The knight — Ser Vali if Tyrion remembers correctly — opens the dining room door to reveal the hectic mess within. Tired-looking men rush to move their supplies down the tower. Ser Gregor is tied onto a stone pillar, his shallow breaths whispering prayers and nonsense. And on the dinner table where Tyrion ate his meal lies the young Ser Robyn, bleeding profusely from horrific wounds on his- Tyrion looks away, intending to keep the dinner in his stomach. "He earned his steel, my Lord," says Ser Vali, "worthy of lands and titles."
"I simply prayed, Ser," the young man winces as Ser Barron tries his best to stitch the wound. Bronn sits on a nearby chair whistling as he whets his longsword to a sharp shine. "It was Her Holiness' blessings, Her powers which saved us."
The sorcerer's blessings? Wait… "Ser, where did you stash the leaf?" he asks with worry.
"I… I used it, M'lord- Geh…" Ser Barron ties a tight tourniquet above the elbow before wiping his brow; the old knight looks hopeless with blood all over his hands. "It bit through my mail and bent my sword, that ghostly fiend. But when I thought all was lost, I called Her name and She drove back that foul darkness!" the knight laughs before being smacked by Ser Barron.
"Be still, lad!"
"Sorry…"
…Tyrion's eyes twitch at the thought. Someone other than him using the sorcerer's spells? What!? How!? How did this bloody green knight call for the sorcerer's power? I prayed to- Nay, she named me her first worshipper! Does that not put me in her good grace?
"…Shit, that's all I can do, young man," the old knight huffs while looking at his stitches. "Ain't no maesters around here to help, else they'll know how to stitch that properly."
"Even with maesters, that arm won't recover," says Bronn, standing tall with his longsword in hand. "I've certainly seen worse, lad. But I can tell you that that," he lies the blade's edge on the inside of the elbow, "won't survive the night. You know what I mean, don't you, Robyn?"
Did he curry some favour when I was not looking? Tyrion ponders, looking into the knight's terrified eyes. No, he was with me from the very beginning. Was it the prayers? No, both of us prayed and I'm sure I called upon the sorcerer the most.
"I'm a knight," Ser Robyn spits at Bronn's boots. "My hand is my tool, cutthroat. I will wield my sword for my Lord Lannister 'til the end for it is my calling."
"And once all that mess turns green, all that will be calling is the Stranger," the sellsword cackles, souring the knight's face. "I'm doing you a favour here, young man. That green will rot you 'til your ribs go hollow and full of yellow pus. And frankly, you have potential," he smirks before nodding at Ser Vali and Ser Barron. The two hold down Robyn as the knight struggles weakly against them; blood loss is an effective sedative. Shoving a ball of cloth into the knight's mouth, Bronn lifts his sword and- "Ah right, permissions. Tyrion, mind if I shorten him a bit?"
The Lord's mind still swims in trying to find the reason for the sorcerer's selectiveness. What quality does the man being held down has that Tyrion doesn't? Not a sharp mind, nor his words, nor his interest in magic… Or is it because I'm…
An ill thought for an ill night; Lady Shizuha doesn't seem the kind of person to hold such judgements… Or does she? What would make her any better than those whores in Lannisport or… He clicks his tongue; this woman might be different. Maybe… Maybe…
"Uhh, Tyrion?"
"Hmm? Ah, the arm… Cut it," he waves with nonchalance before walking to his satchel. Ah, there's my hat. He hears a sword's swoosh before a chop; if Bronn didn't fill the knight's mouth up, Tyrion would have gone deaf from the screaming. Though he keeps his eyes away, the feeling of mirth and disgust jostle about in his stomach. "Well," he whispers to himself, "I'll still give him a keep. He deserves that much."
The guardsmen present can only cringe at the impromptu surgery; one nearly heaves his dinner. "Stitch it up now," Bronn huffs before wiping down his sword and picking up his cloak. "And quit moaning, Robyn. If you're worth your steel, you'll survive," he pats his shoulder before going to Tyrion. Jaime grabs a piece of bloody flesh before landing near them, cawing for more. "The lad should be easy enough to carry, but what do we do with the Mountain? We've got no wagons and I doubt any of our horses can hold him."
"Then leave him here," says Tyrion as he dons the hat and coat. "We'll confirm for Jaime that Ser Gregor is… Well, physically here; I'm not so sure about his mind," he glances at the empty-eyed giant-of-a-man. "And regarding Harrenhal… I'll need to convince him of sorcery and-"
*THUMP THUMP*
The walls tremble at the sound, loosening decades-old dust into the air. A few candles drop and break on the floor, alerting whatever is above. Drawing their swords and pointing their crossbows, the men's faces droop as an inky black mass seeps through the ceiling like clotted blood through cloth. Ser Barron keeps a firm hand on Robyn's mouth, though his own lips are muttering the Seven's prayers. Ser Vali's sword trembles at the sight; was it this thing that wounded Ser Robyn? The one who chased them down the tower? Tyrion notices Bronn eyeing the stairway but steps on his toes, reminding the sellsword who's filling his coffer. The others…
To say they're not at wit's end right now would be a lie.
And the rumbling again, deeper now and clawing at the Lannister's beating heart. As the blackness drips and floats above the floor, pearl-white gnashing teeth form at its surface. The lanterns flicker again, now sputtering one by one and leaving only a single dim light on the dinner table. But in this room, the shadows dance with them all.
Tyrion has no idea what that thing is. It looks like no phantom nor demons of fairy tales; just a ball of inky darkness. Like an endless hole poked through the world, none can take their eyes off of it and its swimming teeth. He gulps and sweat drips from his nose, waiting for that mass to move. To attack, to grab them, to...
…
…
Is… Is it not moving? Tyrion realises as it remains suspended in the air. Jaime and Bronn remain still in its sight- Wait, does that thing even have eyes? Or is it like those blind troglodytic creatures told in books? Is it even alive? A dangerous idea forms in his head. Bronn's eyes widen as Tyrion reaches slowly into his bag and pulls out a piece of charcoal he used for writing. And with sweaty hands, he throws it towards a group of chairs, creating a small clatter.
And the thing moves towards it. By the Seven, that thing is blind.
As the black mass grope and scour the chairs with black tendrils, Tyrion takes off his boots before taking the lightest of steps towards the stairway. Seeing no reaction from the thing, Bronn does the same as they slowly make their way to the exit. His men with their armour slowly scoot their way as well, keeping their crossbows aimed at it. Jaime looks ready to fly but Tyrion waves his hand; many windows are open and she can escape la-
*THUNK*
A quarrel is accidentally loosened into a chair near Ser Vali, knocking it down with a loud thunk. With terrifying speed, the black mass slams into the chair and pulls it into the darkness. The good knight bites his thumb as to not cry out in terror while the thing rips the wood to splinters. The offending man is given a death glare before continuing their slow escape; Tyrion will be sure to remember-
"Eww, this one tastes bad," says... A little girl's... Voice...
What?
Pieces of cloth and wood fall out from between the mass's many teeth. Wait, are they frowning? "I'm hungry," the mass complains, clacking its many teeth. Bronn and Tyrion look at each other, making sure that they're not imagining this. Gods, that is a child's voice! Is that thing trying to trick me, or is it like those fairies? "Where are you, Mister Dog-shirt?" it asks with a childish inflexion, the sharp tendrils scratching at the floor and table as it floats away from the terrified Ser Robyn. "I want my dinner!" the teeth clack and rattle, nearly putting out the lantern nearby.
Wait, hunger... Tyrion waves for Ser Vali's attention and points at Robyn's cut severed limb. Though distraught by the command, the knight grabs it by the torn-up hand and throws it near Ser Grogor. The wet slap attracts its attention as the mass lunges at it like a hungry wolf. The Mountain misses its tendrils by a mere foot, sparing the man's life. For now.
With the thing fully distracted, the men rush out with quiet steps. Tyrion can hear the nasty crunching of bones and- Ugh, I'm going to be sick. Ser Robyn is helped by Ser Barron and Vali out of the room while Jaime quickly flies out the window and into the safer knight. Bronn snatches the lit lantern and Tyrion...
…
No. No, he should leave. Leave that thing behind to consume whatever spoiled meats and rats in this accursed castle. Let it kill Mister Dog-shit for all he cares — it'll be mercy to that pitiful baby-murderer. But his attention is still grabbed by that black mass, the one that can talk and think and... Bronn grabs his shoulder but Tyrion shrugs him off. "Let's go," the sellsword whispers; the Lannister pulls open his satchel instead.
Inside he can see the multitude of glowing leaves, the supposed powerful weapons from the sorcerer. Yet when he wanted to use it the most, her magic failed him. How useful would that be in a dire situation if Ser Robyn still lost his good arm? Not only that but he must come to great deals with the sorcerer, convince her of his piety and... It's all just taxing. But the thing in front of him, the one that speaks like a child, the one who may not be half as smart, the one who could slip through walls and tear through metal...
Father once said 'Every tool have their use.' Some jobs require lions, while others hounds and goats. And I only have a paltry...
Tyrion fishes out a couple of dice he won from the singer back at the Vale of Arryn. Well, now the Vale of Stormcrow. He can feel the weighted sides of the dice in his hand. Taking a deep breath, he throws it at the shadow and stops its incessant chewing. The teeth turn to him. "Who was that?"
"Greetings," he smiles at the dark mass, "my name is Tyrion Lannister. May I know yours?"