(Casterly Rock: 2/21/299) Tyrion II
"Ser Amory, surely this is some form of jest?" Tyrion said, repeating the man's words in his mind. To his side, standing by the gilded wartable were Jaime and Kevan Lannister, Joffrey 'Baratheon', and Loras Tyrell, each armed and armored, save the prince, who lacked a suit of steel. The four shared looks of disbelief, fear, hatred, and amusement, respectively, at the man's report. As he stared at the landed knight with the blackened puffy face, he found his armor, and singed cloak, all covered in soot. Having arrived only hours ago, the man's breaths still maintained their shallow and pained nature. So labored were they that Tyrion felt as if the man would collapse and die right then. 'Possibly the last of his house. Short-lived as it was…'
"Iffff…it…pleases you," Lorch shuddered in his boots, the layers of fat beneath his chin jiggling along with the rest of his body.
"The Tooth reduced to rubble? The army there completely destroyed?" he probed and shouted, not in anger, but in sheer disbelief, and received only a terrified nod in return for his troubles.
"You filthy liar!" Joffrey screeched, pointing to the man, the hate marring his young face into something horrid.
"Silence!" the bald lion roared, clenching a fist, and staring daggers at the eldest of Cersei's brood. A moment of defiance crossed young emerald eyes, before relenting, and taking whatever sharp retort conjured, back towards the furthest recesses of Joffrey's mind. "Now, go on," Lord Tywin said, clad in his simple black tunic with golden clasps, and but the faintest twinge of irritation dancing upon his thin lips.
"I assure you…it is true…" the sooty knight turned to face his father, the Lord of Casterly Rock.
"Someone other than you must have escaped? Surely?" Tyrion pressed, as he took a gulp of wine, accidently allowing for a few drops to escape his lips and splash upon the cuffs of his crimson leather sleeves.
"The men who managed to escape?" Lorch shivered in-between words. "The…the Palelord and his men…they rode them down, I saw! While I was in chains, amongst the rest, I heard his words. I heard what he said to the girl. Ursa…gods…she…she…was…a…mmmm…monster," he squeaked at the his own words, his piggish eyes darting this way and that, appearing more as a mouse scurrying beneath a table during a feast, than a knight in full steel. "Her…eyes…they burned with the fire…of the seven-hells…she waded through the flames without fear…she was the stranger, all clad in red…she…she wished us all executed."
"What did this Palelord say," Tyrion leaned in, for the moment paying no regard to Ser Amory's descriptions of the Baratheon girl, and more to the words overheard by the swine knight before him. The goblet of wine, he had so eagerly been guzzling down, had been temporarily forgotten.
"'That the officers would be useful, and that some would be privy to your…plans,'" Lorch began to recite, looking to the Lord of the Westerlands as he uttered the last. "To which the girl had answered, 'Unlikely.'"
"And then?" he pushed along the Ser Amory's recounting, lost in his eagerness to know more about the foe they had found in the formerly mysterious and unassuming Baratheon girl from Dragonstone. 'Azula's spawn. Father was right.'
"He said, 'If you would allow me, my lady, we could learn soon enough,'" the look of terror that crossed the man's eyes, when he uttered the words, had caused a chill to run up Tyrion's spine."That…that his family had a saying, 'A naked man has few secrets. A flayed man, none.' Then she gave him leave to…to…"
"To what?" Kevan asked next, evidently engrossed in the man's tale.
"To flay them, while they still drew breath," Ser Amory appeared as a pale ghost before Tyrion's eyes, and turning paler still, the more he looked at him. "They flew the banner of…"
"The House of Bolton. The flayed man," Tywin grumbled, cutting off the landed knight, as he tapped his finger upon the mantle.
"Yes, my lord," the horrified knight hastily bobbed his head.
"Did any of the men talk?" Tyrion asked the question he knew his father cared the most for.
"They all did, but…but they were not the answers the Pal…Lord Bolton sought to hear…"
"Why did the deed surprise you, Ser Amory?" the Blood Rose asked, his interest piqued. "Did you not bear witness to my own deeds? The ones I imposed upon the bandits in the mountains?"
"I did, but…Bolton…Lord Bolton," he backpedaled, seemingly afraid to utter the name without proper title. "He had a way about him. A way to draw out the suffering… Once his task was done, the girl ordered the bodies impaled, and left to rot upon the ruins of the Tooth. As a message…she had said, for those willing to pursue the commands of false kings and princes. For those who pay even the faintest heed to any murmurs of rebellion against the crown…"
"What of the women and children?" Tyrion felt his stomach turn, after asking the question, forcing him to resume his attentions upon the only thing that could settle his biliousness. His goblet of wine.
"The few that survived were imprisoned. The Lady Alysanne was not amongst them, for she was in the main tower when it had collapsed," the seared manticore continued, in a dreadful daze, summarizing the man's own accounts of House Lefford's fate during the battle at the Golden Tooth.
'Such as it had been, at any rate,' he said to himself before adding voice to his words. "And no casualties for the enemy? None whatsoever? How? That host was near five-thousand men!"
"We tried…we had seen flames, that first night. We saw them steadily appearing higher and higher upon the mountains and crags, a bit away from the Tooth, reaching places no man could have possibly reached. Especially during such late hour. But we thought nothing of nothing of it. 'A ruse,' Lord Lefford had said. But he…he was wrong. It was during the next night that I awoke, and stepped out of my quarters, into the very bowels of the seven-hells! The glow of the flames, and the crying star overhead, made for a crimson dawn in the dead of night. I saw…" his eyes grew wide, "in the mountains…rings of flame. They flared once, then twice, and then turned into orbs of flame, before they shot forth in unrelenting fury. As if the very fires of the hells themselves had come upon the Tooth. They rained upon the towers, and the walls, toppling them over as if they had been made of mere sticks! The archers attempted to strike at the lights, but they were quick as lighting, and smashed the battlements with their fiery bolts. Then they disappeared amongst the rocks, just as swiftly as they appeared. It was at that first onslaught that the Mountain made to sally out of the gates with two-hundred hastily assembled men. But before they reached the main gate a glow appeared, like a second sun, opposite the gate, and blew it open. The Mountain and his men were thrown aback, some landed dead, impaled by wood and hot steel, though not Ser Gregor. He rose to his feet, and saw as I did. There, standing beneath the burning arch, were five figures, and a very large white wolf. The Baratheon girl stood at the center, clad in red, her headpiece shimmering in the flames, and she was flanked by four in steel plate with Dragonstone coloring, while the wolf simply stared at us as we did it. At her back, came a small host bearing the standards of Bolton, Dragonstone, Sunglass, Frey, and Rambton."
"What did you do?" Tyrion questioned, his curiosity growing ever more at the harrowing tale.
"I…I ran," Lorch gibbered.
"You bloody coward!" Joffrey hissed.
"You didn't seem to get very far," Loras pointed out, gesturing to the state of the man's armor, and the fevered account spilling forth from the man in question.
"A ball of flame smashed upon a watchtower and barred my path in its ruin…" Ser Amory bit at his dry, char-covered lips, drawing a thin sliver of blood as he did so. "I was trapped…then I heard a familiar voice among the flames and deafening blows inflicted upon the walls, 'Run little piggy! Run!'"
"The Baratheon girl?" Jaime asked, with narrowed eyes, as he gripped his sword hilt all the tighter.
"It…it was the Princess," the man choked out. "She was perched high on the ruined battlements, like a hawk, her features darkened by smoke and shadow, a fell grin upon her lips…."
"The Princess? Myrcella, you mean? She has no such hair, and she is here within the Rock, you are…" Amory interrupted Tyrion's words, unafraid of such things, busy as he was in his terrified stupor.
"No!" Lorch shouted feverishly. "Not Princess Myrcella…Princess Rhaenys Targaryen…daughter of Elia Martell! I'm sure of it…it was her! In the darkness her skin was as it had been, her hair oily black! When I dispelled the smoke from my eyes, she transformed in the gloom it seemed, and emerged with pale skin, and a head of hair spun of silver stars! It was her, my lord! I promise you! She may not have had the coloring of Dorne in her, but her eyes…her face…her voice. It was as I remembered them…but they were different now. They were matured, sharp as knives, and pitiless…" the man stuttered, the fear evident in his tone and most especially in his eyes. "Squeal for me little pig…" Amory muttered fearfully.
"What!? Impossible!" Jaime shook his head and frowned, before the smallest bit of defiance tinged his next words. "She…you killed her," his brother's voice had grown dangerously low, the growl of a lion followed by the hiss of a snake. "You stabbed her half a hundred times," Jaime said with closed fists, before catching himself and loosening his hands. Presenting the cocksure smirk Tyrion acquainted him with, Jaime continued, even though the smile had not reached his eyes. "Has her little ghost finally come back to haunt you?"
"I know what it is I saw, Ser Jaime," the man wrung his hands nervously, seemingly ignoring the fury in Jaime's words, as he shifted between staring at Tyrion's brother and father. "She stared at me from her roost, then turned when men rushed her from along the battlements. She turned and opened her mouth…and they…they were consumed by fire. After that, she leapt from the walls, and landed right in front of me like a cat pouncing upon prey. Her legs should have broken from the landing, but she was very much unhindered. The girl came at me with smiles and daggers of flame, 'I must admit, I have never carved up a pig…' she had said, before the Mountain charged from behind, with a handful of others. He nearly succeeded in cleaving her in two, but she hopped back, mocking them all the while. 'My, aren't you a big one? What's the matter, big man? Afraid to take little old me on, by yourself?' her voice dripped out like poison!"
"The Mountain?! What happened?" the Blood Rose questioned flatly, all amusement lost, and now more serious than ever.
Ser Amory looked to the former squire of Ser Gregor, then back to the Lord of the Westerlands. "No? Well, you know what they say? The bigger they are, the more ashes they make!" she had taunted, before outstretching her palm and engulfing the Mountain, and the men behind, in a monstrous plume of fire that saw them all die instantly. All that was left was the smell of cooked flesh and a mangled mess of blindingly white-hot steel," the man said to a silent audience, for even Tyrion found himself at a loss for words. Noticing the silence, Amory Lorch looked up. "She would have done the same to me had the Baratheon girl not intervened, calling out her name. 'Syrah!' She came up to the silver-haired princess and touched her upon the shoulder, whispering something into her ear. The girl looked disappointed, but she grew closer anyways, and clenched her tiny fists. I could not move when she tore off my helm and reared her arm back. 'What a pity…' she had said before her balled hand struck me across the face, and made me see darkness. I remembered it feeling as if I had been kicked by a horse," the man rubbed at his swollen cheek. "I woke up chained to a chair, in the ruins of the barracks, with the silver-haired girl standing by my side. Ursa Baratheon, and her guard, along with a Yi-Tish woman bearing a scar across her face, were exchanging words with Lord Bolton, and Robb Stark. From outside, a man was dragged in... I …I had returned to my senses, just in time, to watch the Lord of the Dreadfort perform his foul works upon what remained of Ser Gregor's and Lord Lefford's men…Eagerness burned in all of their eyes, save the Stark heir, and all of the Baratheon girl's personal guard save two, who had all left the barracks before the screams began…" the man grew pale, his eyes wide, before he continued his account. "The rumors? The ones of the Lady Azula's people consorting with demons? They…they are all true…They must be…"
Ser Amory's foreboding reply took Tyrion aback, causing him to remain silent at the suggestion, as the memories of the books he had read came to the fore. Books of the Fire Nation and the red faith. Of spirits and demons. Of sacrifices and bloodlines. His mind gathered them all, and the briefest spark of doubt ignited in his mind.
Ser Amory took on a face of uncertainly, before he produced a scroll from the satchel at his side. One bearing the waxy seal of the Burning Stag. "My lord? The Baratheon girl? She…she spared me from the slaughter…because she wished me to give you…this…" the gutless pigman coughed, causing a layer of ash to puff up as he did so, when he moved to present the letter to the Lord of Casterly Rock.
"Open it. Read it," Tywin commanded, with an unreadable expression chiseled across his face. An expression that faltered for only the briefest of instants, one in which only the quickest of eyes could catch. Fortunately, Tyrion had two of them, and he found a look of disappointment and anger, stain the normally stoic face. Though which exactly held more favor, Tyrion could not tell.
The man looked to them all, and swept his forearm upon his brow, as the beads of sweat collecting therein had begun trickling down along his face like rain upon glass. After Amory broke the seal, Tyrion could see the sunlight piercing through the parchment, revealing very few words written upon the page. "I have set my sights on Sarsfield and Ashemark. Surrender now, and they will be spared. Refuse to surrender, and they will suffer the same fate as the Golden Tooth. You have four days, from the twentieth day of this month. I eagerly await your response," Lorch whimpered, staring at the Lord of Casterly Rock. His father clenched his jaws, muscles twitching, as he bore his green eyes into the fearful man. "Ursa Baratheon, she…she sent the same offer to Lord Lefford…though used less words."
"'Surrender or die,' I take it?" Tyrion said.
Ser Amory nodded.
"Get out," his father said to the man, voice barely above a whisper, yet every bit as sharp and deadly as Tyrion knew it to be.
"As you command, my lord," the man bowed, then scuttled off like the many insects lurking in the cisterns, and never looked back. Not even once.
After Ser Amory vacated the room, Tyrion felt the silence begin to suffocate him. "Well," he started, in an attempt to break the silence, "if there was ever any uncertainty to the rumors of Azula Baratheon being a 'butcher,' then this should finally put them to rest. For how else could the thirteen-year-old get of Azula and Stannis Baratheon have learned such things?" he coughed, still harboring skepticism at the idea that such a young child could be so monstrously efficient. He entwined his fingers, staring at those gathered in the hall. After taking in the various looks of bafflement and anger, his eyes came to focus upon his father, who standing silently by the mantle, staring at the fire.
"Sarsfield, I understand, but Ashemark?" Loras questioned. "Why there? If this girl has such powers at her disposal, then why waste time attacking that place? It holds no strategic value, not with the Golden Tooth destroyed. The doors to the Westerlands are flung wide open now, and the Riverlords can come and go as they please. Why not march straight for the Rock?"
"Perhaps she is?" Kevan suggested. "Why name them directly and give away your position? She could conceivably go around the mountains, through Hornvale, and attack from the east along the Gold Road. Less resistance, especially when compared to marching straight through Sarsfield."
"She is not lying," Tyrion felt himself frown, as he recalled passages from the history book the Lady Azula had gifted him many moons ago. "She wishes the Westerlands destroyed utterly," he shared a look with his father, who he knew had read that particular entry more than once. 'The Great Victories of Fire Lord Sozin,' his mind read the title as if the very pages were open before him. "Like her mother's great-grandfather did to the Air Nomads before her. She is going to march right up to each holdfast, stronghold, castle, and fortress in the Westerlands, and burn them all down," he said, and collapsed further into his chair, completely winded after the dooming statement. 'Though even saying that now,' Tyrion wondered, 'how much of Fire Nation history is true? Are we to be remembered as just another barbarian horde?' he wrapped his hand around his half-full goblet and drank deeply.
Without turning back, his father gave command, "All of you, out."
Tyrion shrugged, as he set his cup aside and began rising off his seat, before he found his movements cut short by his father's steely voice. "Not you." He saw the others hesitate in their exit, Jaime most of all, but after a moment he too left the room.
Tyrion turned to find emerald eyes focused squarely upon him. He looked around the room, as if it had been his first time within, but found himself unable to draw completely away from his father's punishing gaze. "Your little plot to stir the faith into action has proven a failure. Hightower was not as amendable to the idea as we'd hoped. Especially not with the Sept of Baelor still standing. And with Robert on the march, Lord Tyrell is being called on his bluff. Even if Dorne and the Golden Company do have a Blackfyre claimant, as you say, Tyrell will have no choice. He will either submit and join cause, or see himself, and the army he has gathered, destroyed. The King will give no quarter, not with the Yi-Tish woman perched upon his shoulder. But it is no matter now. It was a desperate grasp, with a high chance of failure," his father walked to a large tome resting upon his gilded desk, near the back corner of the hall. Prying it open, the lord lion retrieved a sheet of worn parchment hidden within its pages. "This letter arrived shortly before dawn," he stalked forward, placing the tattered missive upon the tablespace before him.
"What is this?" he wondered, spotting bits of wax imprinted with what appeared as the Greyjoy kraken.
"Read it," Tywin ordered with narrowed eyes.
Looking down, Tyrion began to read through the message written in a sinister-looking hand with curved, tendril-like, letters.
"To Lord Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West and Lord of Casterly Rock,
So sorry for sinking your ships during my late brother's failed rebellion. I know we can put that bit of bad business aside, considering our mutual dislike of the Lady Azula and her ilk, and move on to greater and grander things.
As I do not seek to bore the great Lord Tywin, I send you this letter because my brother, Balon Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of Pyke, is indeed dead. I am poised to name myself King of the Iron Islands, and only a few loose ends remain in the forms of my nephew and niece. Worry not though, for they will be dealt with before long. Also, you'll be pleased to learn, that word has reached my ears of the firebitch's impending demise. Sadly, the how and why, are my business. However, if we can come to an arrangement before then, I foresee an exquisite future for both of our great houses. One of iron and gold. One littered with the blood and bodies of our enemies.
Unfortunately, before such things come to pass, it would behoove us to keep this between ourselves. At least for the moment, lest others learn of my return to the Islands, before I am ready. I have already taken Azula's Mercy. Her stronghold on my island, now lies in my hands, as does the blood of her people stationed there, and soon enough her northern fleet will be mine. All I require from you, is to have your fleet ready when she inevitably sends her ironships to break you at Lannisport. I will be waiting, and together we can smash her little toy ships apart! I have many fine things nestled away, that will surprise even her and her firespawn. Many fine things, indeed.
Consider my offer, for I hear you haven't much time.
King Euron Greyjoy."
Staring at the letter, he sat there dumbfounded, as he looked to his father. "Euron Greyjoy? Isn't he dead? Why? Why did you not tell the rest?"
"Unlike them," Tywin growled, almost pained at the very words he was to speak, "you have the facilities needed for subtlety and misdirection. Your brother is too stubborn, Joffrey is too impetuous, Loras is too…unpredictable, and your uncle hasn't the mind for schemes."
"Subtlety?" he repeated. "The idea to bring about the return of the faith-militant was not exactly subtle."
"No, it was not," his father agreed, then continued with almost a sigh of exasperation. "But it was creative, and far better than simply sending armies out to die against the woman and her demons. Not without first understanding their capabilities."
"You used the Tooth as bait?" Tyrion asked, surprised at the idea.
"I had not expected such an overwhelmingly destructive response. Not with mere fire, at any rate," his father admitted. "I only wished to learn how people such as the Lady Azula's performed during a siege. For they had no prior exploits with which for me to judge. All their battles had been at sea, or against armies upon a field, but never an attack upon a fortified position. And even the battles that they had part in, were cleverly altered after the fact, so as to make no mention of their sorcery."
"The Lady Azula hid her secrets well," Tyrion grumbled, having developed a begrudging respect for the woman, even though she sought his house's destruction
"Mmmhmm," his father nodded, seemingly sharing in his thoughts. "Their effectiveness in battle aside, her daughter let one go to tell the tale, and give away her strategy. We know the mountains better than they ever will. These are our lands. I will write to every lord in the Westerlands, to prepare ambushes all along the mountains. Every cliff, every stone, every crag, will have a dagger waiting for any firebender found stalking along its face. We will make them pay for every inch. Every single one. And should there be truth in Greyjoy's words, about Azula's impending death, then perhaps ending the fawn will make for an even more agonizing departure?"
"Well, we always pay our debts, do we not?" Tyrion smirked. "Although, I didn't expect you to take Greyjoy at his word, or even consider them. Wishful thinking or…"
"Her death has been long in coming, whether by his hand or mine," Tywin grunted, as he sat beside him. "Even if Greyjoy is lying to me, he will be just as dead as he would have been otherwise. The Lady of Dragonstone would not allow another Greyjoy to have kingship over the Islands. Not while she holds Balon's heir. And if this is some clever ploy by her, then I question its purpose. Because I cannot see what advantage this would give her, which she does not already possess. Perhaps your clever mind can see something I cannot, hmmm?"
"Give me time, father," he countered, cradling his cup within his hands, thinking of every possible reason Azula Baratheon would have to pursue such an elaborate deception. 'If it even was one,' he thought to himself. After a moment Tyrion faced his father, "What would you have me do?"
"Go to Lannisport, and ready the fleet. Ser Daven will be awaiting you there, to assist in the preparations," he said simply. "We will keep Greyjoy's secret for now, and in the meantime, I will dispatch Kevan and Jaime with thirty-thousand men to Hornvale."
"Hornvale? But I thought…"
"You and Kevan were both correct, and we will leave it at that. Now go," his father sat firmly in his seat, appearing as a statue once the words had left his lips.
(Lannisport: 2/21/299) Tyrion II
"Fifteen Dromonds and forty-seven war galleys," he grunted out the list of Lannister ships in port, as he waddled his way across the docks of Lannisport. Alongside him was his golden-haired, ringmail-clad cousin, Ser Daven Lannister. "May as well be kindling for what good they'll do against Dragonstone's Ironships."
"We know what they can do, Tyrion. Even the butcher will think twice about striking against an awaiting and prepared Lannisport," Daven snorted, his voice far more reserved than he had known from times past. He had seen the formerly eager knight become withdrawn after the ravens had come bearing news of a supposed incestuous affair between Tyrion's siblings. Around them, he heard the sounds of numerous catapults being constructed at key locations within the city. He knew they were weapons of war meant to punish any encroaching armies, but fleets were a different story, and somehow Tyrion felt the gesture futile.
"If you say so cousin. But keep in mind, that the Lady of Dragonstone has shown, given recent events, that she is never idle. She's been here before. Seven-hells, she helped rebuild part of it," he replied, observing the commotion on the docks, as every outsider who stepped foot on them were meticulously searched for any sort of jewelry or precious stone that had even a passing resemblance of being used for ill-intent. The news of the glamours, that the Lady Azula's red priests had at their disposal, had instantly caused his father to instigate harsher security practices upon the docks and roads coming into Lannisport and Casterly Rock. Spilling forth from ships were men of every color, each bearing supplies and materials of every stripe. 'All offering them at exorbitant prices, no doubt,' his mind hissed. 'Vultures, the lot of you, trying to make money off of a dying lion.'
"Lord Tywin sent you here to oversee the port, and help in its preparation," Daven sighed. "Not to criticize and sound defeatist."
"And how would you know why my father sent me here?" he quirked a brow, knowing that to have been the stated reason, but far from the truth.
"I…just assumed…" Daven stuttered.
"Of course you did. Look, if anyone can attack Lannisport and succeed, it would be Azula," he raised a fist and narrowed his eyes. "She did it to the Greyjoys, she did it to the Targaryens, and she did it to the Redwynes," he listed off, unfurling a finger from his clenched hand with each house he mentioned.
"Those were not the…"
Ignoring whatever words his cousin started to speak, Tyrion stared out at the sea of sails, spotting one that he had most definitely not expected, one he had last seen in King's Landing. 'Pentoshi?' his mind inquired, as he watched the ship with the cheese sails make port. 'Hmmm, curious…'
"How did you make it as far Deep Den while you were unconscious?" Daven asked, stirring him out of his thoughts.
"I wish I knew," he replied truthfully, as he still struggled to remember the face of the woman, who had been party to their escape, from King's Landing. "The last thing I remember was being in the capital, then waking up in some rotten little hovel along the road to Deep Den," as he spoke the words, he could not help but add his silent recollection. 'With nothing but Cersei's shrieking about her bruised face,' he felt a small smile tug at his lips and immediately cut it short, lest his cousin question the change of demeanor.
"Any word on…" his cousin continued with his incessant prodding and he had finally had enough.
"Apologies cousin," he clenched his fist in exasperation, "but I have no desire to engage in conversation with you. My father has sent me here for a reason, and that reason involved the ships and the port, not informing you of the latest gossip. You are to assist me. So if we could please carry on with the rest of this day with as little words exchanged between us as possible? Surely this can be accomplished?" Hearing no immediate response, Tyrion continued on in silence, his feet clapping against the wooden pier.