TYRION
As the clansmen of the Vale approached each, watchers from towers of unmortared stone fled with reckless abandon, leaving behind vittles and packs as they took to their horse and ponies… and red banners emblazoned with the Lannister lion. The clan chiefs found this greatly amusing, Chella's harsh laugh erupting in the ear each time it happened.
Tyrion could not explain the phenomenon. Though he rode at the front of the column, not a single one of his father's bannermen seemed to recognise him, and they seemed more afraid of the clansmen than good sense ought to suggest. There were perhaps three hundred of the barbarians behind him, and the total number assigned to watch the low hills was at least that much by Tyrion's count. But why? He wondered, What could be up here that requires such a strong watch? Who commands them?
More strange was when one of the towers bothered to release a raven. The big black bird burst forth from the top of the last tower before the flats, but a far larger all-white eagle swooped out of sky and savaged the messenger with its talons. Tyrion grimaced at the attack, tracking the raven as it fell and half-expecting the eagle to follow up its meal. Except it was not a meal. The eagle had continued to circle instead, eyes trained down at the ragged column Tyrion was leading. What does it want? he asked himself, More questions.
The next bewildering sight was not long in coming. As they approached the Crossroads above the Ruby Ford, the very place Tyrion had been captured by Catelyn Stark, the fleeing horsemen appeared again. Standing just north of the village around the inn, they had received reinforcements, bringing their number up to equal that of the clansmen. They were drawn up in a battle line, lances and swords ready, Tywin's lion banner flying overhead.
"We are betrayed!" Ulf shouted, the Moon Brother chief drawing his rusted axe from a loop of leather at his hip. The other clansmen went for their weapons too, forcing Bronn to draw his longsword in response.
Tyrion held a hand up. "Wait! These are my father's men. This is no ambush."
"They look no different to the lowland lords we've fought before," Chella said, the small, flat woman bearing her teeth at the Lannister line in front of them.
"Do you not see the big fucking lions on those flags?" Bronn asked her, "Those things tell you what lord's about to kill you or not. Lions means they're his father's men."
The clan chiefs began to bicker about this.
Tyrion wasn't about to let them decide he had sold them out. "Chella, Shagga, Conn, Ulf and Timett son of Timett," he declared, "Follow me and I will prove they are my father's men." He didn't wait for an answer, but kicked his horse forward before an objection could be raised. The animal trotted forward at a respectable pace; fast enough to break into a gallop easily but slow enough that it didn't look like an attempt to escape or charge.
Tyrion searched the familiar banners for a senior lord. He quickly spotted the man in charge on the battle line, and it was no wonder; silver armour, bristling with jewels and a purple cloak with silver trim. Ser Flement Brax. Tyrion quickly aimed his horse in the direction of the man, before reining up his horse to say his greeting. "Ser Flement!" he called, "I did not expect to see you here." Though I'd expect you to recognise the golden-haired dwarf son of your liege lord.
"Nor I you, Tyrion," Ser Flement replied, raising his visor, "My lord, we thought Catelyn Stark and Lysa Arryn had you killed…" He paused and looked behind Tyrion, "Who are these?"
"Bosom friends and retainers," Tyrion answered, not bothering to look at the clansmen who had followed, "I must find my father. Where is he?"
"Lord Lannister has withdrawn south. I expect you'll be able to catch him up at Darry. He commanded me to stay here and attempt to get the measure of the Starks before withdrawing myself."
Tyrion's jaw set. Something was terribly wrong. "Why is my father withdrawing?"
Ser Flement's face curled with anger. "The Starks have made a pact with the wildling savages," he said, "They have managed to kill or capture a thousand of our riders. Ser Addam was among the first, we only knew the Starks were coming because no ravens came from him for a week. Every man that rides north up the Kingsroad does not return, or almost. A few managed to escape the last attack. They brought back tales of sorcery and gigantic woolly unicorns. The Stark vanguard marches under the banner of a red-eyed white direwolf on black. It will soon be here my lord, you should ride on to your father."
Tyrion found himself struck dumb. Not by the mention of unicorns or magic, but by the description of the vanguard's banner. Jon Snow, his mind raced, My father is running from a boy, a boy who was supposed to be a man of the Night's Watch. The black brothers were supposed to stay out of the realm's affairs… but perhaps they had always been more northern in their interests. Jeor Mormont was as northern as could be. Did the Old Bear broker alliance between the Starks and the wildlings?
A long blast from a horn to the north woke Tyrion from his thoughts. Not far away where the Kingsroad emerged from a small woodland, knights in black, grey and white were galloping. They turned sharply off the road and began to array themselves across the field beside, almost exactly at the right angle to take Ser Flement's line in the flank. Leading them was none other than Jon Snow, recognisable by the colour of his hair and the direwolf at his side. Ghost had grown since Tyrion last saw the beast, big enough to tear down a horse with ease. Stark's bastard quickly put his helm on and put down his own visor, drawing a bastard sword. Appropriate, Tyrion's mind joked.
"Turn the line!" Ser Flement commanded, pointing with his sword, "Draw up from here across the road westwards!"
The Lannister host quickly rearranged itself; men to the right of Brax wheeled around, those to the left circled and went behind Tyrion and the others. The Starks did not charge. Noting they were outnumbered even by Brax's small host, Tyrion turned to the clan chiefs. "Best get your warriors ready, friends," he said to them, "There's a battle to be had here."
"You are mad, half-man," said Timett son of Timett, his face drained of all colour, "Look!" A burn-scarred hand shot out and pointed north.
Seeing the man so afraid was terrifying in itself. Timett was barely a man grown but he was feared by all for the act of burning out his own eye, impressive even among the Burned Men tribe. In doing so, he won the place of war chief. Tyrion found his head turning to see what the chief could see.
As the last of the Stark knights exited the woods, following behind them was something that Tyrion knew had not been seen south of the Neck since the Andals' time or earlier.
The tales of woolly unicorns had not been false. The creatures were far more like bulls than horses, particularly in the head and hooves, and their horns were twisted things that could impale a man with ease. But that was all that could be seen directly of them; each pair that emerged from the woods was draped to the knees with chainmail or coats of plate.
Their riders were just as well armoured if not better so, many having full breastplates. Their lances were huge; thirteen foot by Tyrion's guess and tipped with steel, so large that the riders held them with two hands. Above them with the lead unicorn, a banner of a weirwood on black flew, a crazed and bloody smile carved on its bark.
"Fuckin' hells," Bronn muttered loudly, "Look at them."
What pit did the Starks find these in? Tyrion asked himself. He racked his brain for any mention of such creatures and their riders in accounts he had read about the wars the Starks fought against the Kings Beyond the Wall, but came up empty. His mind moved to panic, until the stream of unicorns stopped short unexpectedly. There was no great number.
"We have more warriors than they do," Tyrion said to Timett, before addressing the rest of the chiefs, "Bring your clans down to join my father's men, and we can share in the victory."
None of the clansmen moved, they just stared at him like he had two heads. Tyrion gestured at Ser Flement. "Look at the steel my father can provide, it's yours if you'll but fight this day!"
"No, my lord," Ser Flement said, "We'll withdraw. We don't have the numbers to fight them, and your father would have me executed if you died here after being found alive."
"But Ser…" Tyrion began.
"Take this, bring your warriors through and head south across the Ford," Ser Flement interrupted, handing over a Lannister banner on a spear, "Now!" He waited until Tyrion took the banner before he dropped his visor down again and rode to join the new centre point of his own battle line.
Another blast of horns. The Stark host began moving slowly across the fields, menacingly lowering their lances. Ghost led the way, padding forwards with his tail and ears fully raised. They're giving Brax the opportunity to leave. The Starks don't want a fight. Or do they?
Tyrion turned to Bronn, the look on his face question enough.
"I agree with the too-shiny lord," the sellsword said, "Those beasts aren't to be trifled with, not without archers anyway."
Unable to gainsay two men with more fighting experience than he had, Tyrion simply nodded once. "Clansmen of the Vale, follow me!" The savages showed no reluctance at that command.
He waved to his own small host and spurred his horse forwards again, clearing Ser Flement's battle line and south past the Inn at the Crossroads. It hadn't changed at all; Masha the innkeep stood at the door gawping as he passed.
It seemed like an age since Tyrion had last seen the place, recalling the feeling of being surrounded with unease. He found that his present circumstances were not a pleasant thing to put to memory either. He felt a stirring temptation in his stomach to stop and order the clansmen to punish her for allowing Catelyn Stark to take him prisoner, but the deep horns of the northern cavalry droned again and wiped the feeling away.
Darry was a tiny castle, though Tyrion recognised his time in the Red Keep and his home of Casterly Rock coloured his opinion on castles and their relative sizes. In the light of sunset, the keep seemed bathed in red. Surrounded by the red tents of the redcloaked footmen of the West, and draped with red banners, the place looked like a granite mountain.
Or a copse of weirwoods, Tyrion thought as he rode up.
Entry to his father's camp was a simple matter. Bronn carried the Lion banner alongside him, and every lordling and captain knew Tyrion on sight. The clansmen of the Vale were forced to camp on the other side of the Kingsroad, which was as much to their liking as it was to the redcloaks.
Tyrion made sure meat and mead would be delivered to keep the clansmen happy while he went to meet his father; the chiefs were not allowed to follow, but the size of the host under his father allowed Tyrion to convince them it was a bad idea to force the matter. The food and drink was the carrot to the stick.
Tyrion and Bronn were quickly led through the outer walls and into the central keep, a squat square building with round towers on the corners. Brought to the smoky 'great hall' which was not great at all, they found the Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West. Tyrion bade Bronn wait outside, not wanting to distract anyone with the sellsword's presence, before approaching the man he came to see.
Tywin Lannister was fitter than his fifty or so years would suggest, tall like his son Jaime, his golden hair cut short everywhere but his cheeks. He was dressed in fine velvet clothes, in crimson of course, though his riding boots were splattered with mud from the withdrawal.
Ser Kevan Lannister, Tyrion's uncle and Tywin's brother, was there too. He was heavier set and did not hide his balding by shaving his head. The two elder Lannisters were sharing a jug of ale on one of the trestle tables, its surface covered with papers and maps.
Tyrion was noticed by his father first. Gold-flecked green eyes peered over a flagon at him. His father did not rise to greet him, but put his drink down. That action alone was enough to turn Uncle Kevan around to see what Lord Tywin was looking at.
"My lords," Tyrion called.
The two elder Lannisters exchanged glances.
"Tyrion," Lord Tywin said, searching his dwarf son up and down with his eyes, "The reports of your death were premature, I see."
"Disappointed, father?" Tyrion asked, moving to join the pair without waddling as best he could, "I heard you went to war after Lady Stark kidnapped me."
"An action that would not have been necessary if you had defended yourself against a woman," Lord Tywin replied sharply, "Your brother would not have allowed himself to be taken so easily."
Tyrion hopped onto the bench opposite Lord Tywin and grabbed a spare cup. "Even Jaime would have hesitated to fight to the death if faced with a whole inn's worth of Riverland men-at-arms with no way to withdraw. I hear you're very familiar with withdrawal of late, for reasons that escape me."
Tywin's gaze became a glare. "Jaime has a whole sheaf of honours that speak otherwise. He smashed Vance and Piper in front of the Golden Tooth, and broke Edmure Tully and the might of the Riverlands in front of Riverrun. The Tullys' home is put to siege, and we have captured many keeps south of the Trident."
"Oh?" Tyrion retorted, pouring a drink, "Why is it you have no such honours, Father? I've seen the vanguard of the Stark host, before Ser Flement Brax sent me on my way. The creatures the wildlings were riding indeed looked formidable, but I can't imagine you could fail to find a way to defeat them. We can afford caltrops, surely."
Tywin's face reddened with anger. "Harrenhal is ours, and Ser Gregor has made the riverlords miserable from the mountains to the sea. You talk as if we are losing."
Tyrion felt a little hope bolstering forth. If the Riverlands was broken and helpless before Western arms, then perhaps his father was just being cautious with the northern threat. "Is it merely the Starks we face? How did Eddard Stark go north to command his host? Should we not be afraid of King Robert marching up from the capital behind us to help his friend?"
"Robert Baratheon is dead," Lord Tywin declared, "Joffrey sits the Iron Throne. Eddard Stark and his daughter Sansa are prisoners, though that has not deterred his sons from marching on us."
Taken by surprise, Tyrion took a breath to consider the news. "Joffrey might be who sits on the throne, but it's Cersei who rules." And how she'll enjoy doing it.
Ser Keven cleared his throat. "Regardless, Seagard still stands against us, and the Freys. It's possible that Walder Frey has given his troops over to Lord Stark's sons. Between Stark, Frey and the wildlings, the host coming towards us could number as many as thirty thousand, though that is a guess. We do not know anything about its size."
They keep saying Lord Stark's sons, Tyrion noted, So they know Jon Snow is with his brother's host.
"Lord Frey is not that courageous," Lord Tywin added, "He would only march if he thought he would gain from it, and with Riverrun besieged, I would not wager on him thinking such a thing. I would not worry about the Arryns either, for that matter. But we do not know."
"I take it the reason for us not knowing is that our scouts keep going missing?" Tyrion said, "Ser Flement mentioned we had lost a thousand men and Ser Addam Marbrand to the Starks and wildlings."
Lord Tywin said nothing for a moment, running a thumb through his whiskers. "It is not just the Starks and wildlings with the dregs of riverlords we face." He turned to Ser Kevan. "Show him."
Tyrion watched as his uncle searched for and found a raven scroll on the table, before receiving it himself. An inspection of the seal revealed a leaf sigil, a maple leaf if he was any judge. He picked up some cheese from the table and ate, trying to identify what house the sigil belonged to. Maple leaf, Riverlands…
"House Blanetree?" he asked the others in confusion.
"Read," Lord Tywin commanded impatiently, returning his attention to the documents in front of him.
Seeing his outburst was not relevant, Tyrion did as he was commanded and found himself more dumbstruck than he had been when told the news of King Robert's demise. Exclusion zones, crimes against humanity, declared with in the tone of a royal command. Utter madness, yet my father and uncle treat it with utmost seriousness. Who are these Canadians? Tyrion struggled to put his next question into words.
"You think these foreigners are responsible for the scouts being eliminated?" he asked, deciding to avoid any accusation that both of them had lost their minds.
"We are certain," Ser Kevan said, "We have had only two reports from survivors of battles with the Starks. Both describe wildlings fighting in disciplined order, under their leaf banner.
"And?" Tyrion asked, "How does that mean they are responsible?"
"Wildlings are expert ambushers, but lack the understanding of our way of war. And Lord Varys reports stranger tales, like these foreigners being able to see in the dark or move over great distances with ease."
Lord Tywin straightened in his chair. "Our own reports corroborate those tales. The surviving scouts say they have seen moving buildings with glowing eyes that crawled along the ground, or eagles killing our ravens."
Tyrion frowned. "That last report may be true. I saw an eagle kill a raven as soon as it flew from one of our watchtowers while I descended from the Vale… Who are these Canadians? I have never heard of such a people."
"Nor has Varys or the Grand Maester," Ser Kevan said, putting his cup down.
"Then what do we know?"
Lord Tywin stood, and pushed another document over to Tyrion. The eunuch's flowing handwriting was readily apparent as he looked through the pages.
"They appeared north of the Wall," Lord Tywin began as Tyrion read.
"Appeared?" Tyrion asked, "What does that mean?" He flicked through the first few pages and found nothing but the same word; 'Appeared'.
"Shipwrecked, some of Varys' birds tell him," Ser Kevan answered, "Though that does not have the ring of truth to me. There is no reason for anyone to be that far north, save for Essosi slavers. And slavers are not warriors."
"It matters not," Lord Tywin said, "What matters is the Lord Commander was wounded in battle and his temporary replacement decided to treat the foreigners as if they were wildlings, solidifying their bond with the savages."
Tyrion found that curious. Which man could be responsible for such a thing? Surely not the Stark in black? "Who was the acting Lord Commander?"
"Ser Alliser Thorne,"Lord Tywin said.
"Ah," Tyrion intoned, "That I can believe. The man is not well given to diplomacy."
"Was," Ser Kevan said, "His judgment on who to make an enemy and who to make a friend was never good. He was loyal to the Targaryens right until we ended that dynasty as a force in Westeros. Even after Rhaegar was smashed."
"Which is why he was sent to the Wall," Lord Tywin replied with impatience, "His declaration against the foreigners got him killed, in the end. Varys writes that they breached the Wall at the Nightfort and stormed Castle Black from the south without taking a single casualty. Something that was attributed to sorcery, but I am more inclined to believe was good planning. Varys says they crept in and seized the armoury, the Night's Watch didn't have swords and armour to go between them. Hundreds died before the Watch surrendered."
Tyrion grimaced at the thought. The Night's Watch did not strike him as a force that could hold out against a determined enemy at all, when he had visited Castle Black. "So the Canadians are a deadly foe to those that cross them."
"And diplomats to boot," Ser Kevan commented.
Tywin inclined his head once, slowly, agreeing with his brother. "Their next move was to broker a truce between the wildling king and Robb Stark."
That explains Jon Snow, Tyrion thought as he drank, Though how the North could be persuaded to ally with wildlings, I cannot imagine. "So we have three formidable opponents in front of us," he said, "Your plan is to withdraw to Harrenhal, gather up the garrisons you've posted and invite them to attack on your terms?"
Ser Kevan's lips curled with amusement. Tyrion winked back at him, though inwardly felt irritation. Yes, Uncle, I can read my father. He would never fight on any terms but his own.
"Precisely," Lord Tywin said, picking up his quill to write, "The question now is what to do with you."
Tyrion shrugged. "I have my own plans," he said, "I picked up three hundred or so mountain clansmen from the Vale on my way here, for the promise of silk and good steel. I'll be needing arms and armour for about two thousand, if that's not too much trouble?"
Lord Tywin looked up from his letter, his brow ever so slightly raised in surprise, only noticeable to those who knew him well enough. "Have you?" he asked, ignoring the remark about the cost of buying the clansmen's loyalty.
Of course he doesn't believe me. "I have," Tyrion confirmed, "They're camped across the…"
The door to the 'great' hall opened loudly, and Ser Flement marched through, looking considerably worse for wear than when Tyrion had seen him in the morning. His beautiful silver armour and fine purple cloak was splattered with blood, and the man's grim face told that it wasn't the blood of a wildling savage or a Stark bannerman. At least he made it back. It's possible to survive the unicorn riders.
"Ser Flement," Tywin called, "What news?"
"We suffered but the Starks did not cross the Ruby Ford," the Brax man reported, "But we have discovered something of greater import. A man approached us from the direction of Saltpans before we rode here; one of our scouts."
"One managed to escape?" Tyrion asked.
"Yes, he was stationed atop a hill a few days ago to watch the Starks pass by, and managed to remain undetected in disguise. He made it across the river and mud by the Quiet Isle ahead of our arrival."
"What did he see?" Tywin said, his voice level. Tyrion could tell from that deliberate tone that he was far from calm.
"My lord, the main Stark host is not immediately behind the vanguard, and the full strength of the north is not on the Kingsroad. It seems to be only the foot, plus the brother's small host and about the same number of mounted wildlings. He did not see Robb Stark or his direwolf either."
Then where is the boy who greeted me with sword across his lap? Tyrion questioned.
Lord Tywin nearly jumped from his seat. "They've attempted to deceive us," he declared.
"Of course," Tyrion agreed, "And it appears they've succeeded. I would worry more about where Robb Stark and the cavalry have gone."
"Riverrun, no doubt," Ser Kevan said, "But by now it is too late to warn Jaime."
"Jaime has the numbers to deal with the young pup," Lord Tywin declared, "But the same cannot be said about the host marching on us. We have the advantage, we just did not know it. Kevan, send word to Ser Gregor immediately. Have him return tomorrow morning. We are marching north again."
Ser Kevan bowed his head to his elder brother and gave Tyrion a look before departing with Ser Flement in tow, the pair striding out with purpose.
"I see you're all eager to avenge the deception," Tyrion said, "It appears there will be a battle after all."
Lord Tywin leaned over the table on his hands. "You have a task as well" he said, "Your savages will join Ser Gregor in the vanguard, where they can be the most use. Tell them they shall have everything they wanted and more, should they join us in crushing our enemies. Once that is complete, I will give you a small force to deal with some of our thorns in the rear. The Vances and Pipers have been raiding our lands across the Red Fork."
Great, I'll be shot off my horse from the roadside on the way home. Tyrion resisted making a joke about thorns in his rear, but didn't imagine Ulf or Chella would let him ride off anyway. "The clansmen will not allow me to leave without their steel and silk," he said, "So I'm afraid someone else will have to pull those thorns." He saluted his father with his cup and drank.
"Very well," Tywin stated sharply, "Then you will ride in the vanguard too, to secure the loyalty of the clans until delivery can be made in full."
Tyrion almost choked on his ale. Shit.