TYRION

Lord O'Neill's long legs strode forward, his black boots slapping the smooth stone of the floor loudly with each step. The speed the Canadian was moving was not only enough to send Tyrion waddling furiously, but also forced poor Podrick hop along every three paces. Every second step sent pain into the barely healed wound on his buttocks, where the bullet had carved flesh.

Yet Tyrion's fingers played with another such bullet in his pocket, dropped by accident from the weapon of one of the Canadian warriors and forgotten. His forefinger held it in place by its sharp point, while the rest shifted it from side to side, the source of Canadian might revealing itself to him.

The Tully guards both ahead and behind them were double motivation to ignore any pain, their short spears plenty sharp and plenty capable of inflicting far worse. Only Ser Addam was able to keep up, though the man's face was in great need of a shaving razor.

They hadn't been told where they were going, they had simply been bundled into one of the Canadian carriages with their mouths gagged, driven to the courtyard at the centre of Harrenhal's towers, where they had met the Tully guards and ungagged again. There had been no time for questions even so, just an order with a pointed speartip to keep moving. Lord O'Neill and Lord Sayer were coming along as escort to somewhere, it seemed.

I hope not an audience with Lord Robb, Tyrion thought darkly, What an embarrassment that would be. After they entered what Tyrion knew was the ominously named Tower of Dread, the mixture of pain in his quickly-tiring legs and his own fears for what was about to happen began to overwhelm him. They still need us, he reminded himself, not quite believing it.

"Lord O'Neill!" Tyrion cried out, his voice as steady as he could make it, "I must insist on asking where you are taking us!"

"Shut up, Imp!" shouted a Tully guard from the rear, slapping the back of his head with the butt of the spear just enough to sting but not enough to throw Tyrion to the ground.

To everyone's surprise, Lord O'Neill turned quickly on his heel and unsheathed one of the deadly Canadian weapons, a small one-handed type. And it was not deployed to make Tyrion hold his tongue.

Instead, the Canadian 'warrant officer' directed his angry eyes and weapon at the guard. Lord Sayer joined the motion with his longer two-handed weapon, though different from the one the young man had struck Ser Gregor down with at the Ruby Ford.

"You don't strike our prisoners for anything except an escape attempt," Lord O'Neill growled, "I don't care how annoying or offensive you find them. They're hurt, I'll be blamed, so I'll make you hurt for hurting them."

The Tully guard seemed to comprehend what was being pointed at them. There had been a short demonstration of the Canadian weapons the first night they had spent at Harrenhal, and Tyrion well understood they made an impression. They were loud enough to be clearly heard at camp, even though the shooting was happening on the other side of the godswood.

Lord O'Neill's anger subsided down to the level of a scowl, and he lowered the weapon. "On second thought, jog on," he said, "We know the rest of the way from here, and the guards ahead don't need reinforcements."

The men-at-arms looked at each other, then they complied. They skirted the two foreigners in the corridor and left the doors. Tyrion knew the mighty warriors would be running off to report the incident to their liege-lord. But then, the Canadians seemed uniquely unbothered by the opinions of lords. I wonder if Aegon the Conqueror was the same, he wondered, Though he did leave most of the nobility intact.

Lord O'Neill issued another order to Lord Sayer, this time in their own language, and the younger man moved to the back. Where he can kill anyone trying to escape. "Let's go," O'Neill sighed.

"Where are we going?" Tyrion asked, seeing the opportunity.

O'Neill looked down at him, which was a considerable effort for someone so tall standing so close. "Our camp isn't the best place to hold you," he said, "So we're throwing you in with your brother and the other Lannister prisoners."

"The dungeon then," Ser Addam commented. He was wrong of course. The great cells of Harrenhal were under a different tower.

"No, actually," Lord O'Neill smiled wanly, "Captain Duquesne was fairly pissed off when he discovered the treatment of the Lannister prisoners. He insisted they be moved out of the dungeons and into better quarters. Lord Tully insisted in return that you lot be kept with them. What's good for the goose is good for the gander."

"What?" Podrick asked. Lord O'Neill ignored him.

"And where is Lord Duquesne?" Tyrion asked, "Why is he not here to escort a prisoner of my rank?"

O'Neill rolled his eyes. "You've heard the Starks have declared their independence? And the riverlords decided to join the new country. Ah wait, how could you? I ordered everyone to shut up around you."

Tyrion blinked. He had not heard a thing about independence. Nearly three hundred years and the North thinks it is its own realm once more, and they're taking the Riverlands as well!

"But that's madness," he thought aloud, "By what right?"

"The right of 'fuck you, we're not living under Lannister pricks any more' I suppose," Lord Sayer replied with his lip curled in disgust, "And I don't blame them, remembering what I've seen on the way here."

Lannister pricks? Tyrion smelled a rat. "My father fights to crush a rebellion against the King. And the King is a Baratheon, not a Lannister."

Sayer snorted in reply. "That's not what Lord Stannis told everyone."

Definitely a rat, Tyrion thought. A rat that thinks it knows more than it can prove.

"Every lord in the country got a message saying your sister slept with your brother and that's what made King Joffrey," O'Neill explained, "Nasty."

"Preposterous!" Ser Addam shouted. He really believes his friend incapable of such a thing.

Tyrion was careful to guard his feelings on the matter. "Convenient, more than anything else," he said, "It would make Lord Stannis into King Stannis."

The Canadian bowed his head once, conceding the point. Tyrion's brow raised itself as the man confirmed it. "Yeah, that's what we thought," O'Neill admitted, "At least Stannis bothered with making something up. The other brother, Renly, he declared himself king just because he could."

Tyrion almost flinched at that. How many kings is that now? Four? It didn't bode well for a quick victory. We must untangle ourselves, somehow.

Sayer sighed loudly. "Anyway, Captain Duquesne is consulting with our darion about it through the weirwood. We were supposed to negotiate a peace, but it's looking less and less likely to happen now."

O'Neill gave a dismissive flex of his fingers around his weapon's grips. "Everything we've said to you, he authorised you to hear. You have a stake in peace too."

So the Canadian wants me to know, so I won't cause trouble? Tyrion nodded repeatedly in thought. He needed to find some way to help stop all the other kings from crushing his family first. And to that end, there was one particular obstacle that needed removing. "One last question?" he asked, "Shall Ser Gregor be joining us?"

Lord O'Neill rubbed the back of his neck with annoyance. "Fine, one last answer," came the reply, "Gregor Clegane is sick again. He's strapped to a table in another one of these towers, under heavy guard and being looked after by Maester Carden. Wouldn't want him dying before the war crimes trial, would we? He'll have plenty of company, of course."

The Canadian's gaze fell on Ser Addam. The knight couldn't meet it. He hadn't told Tyrion the tale of his capture, or of the crimes the Canadians accused him of. We'll have to see about that later, when Jaime and I can corner him together.

Wishing he could stand for a moment to ease the throbbing from the seat of his britches, Tyrion nonetheless gave a false smile. "Well then," he said, "Lead on."

Lord O'Neill led the group up the tower, into poorly lit corridors and spaces teeming with heavily bearded Stark men-at-arms, grey direwolves eyeing Tyrion from every tabard hanging at his eye level. Further in, wildlings started appearing too, covered in chainmail made in Lannisport or Ashemark that had been captured in battle.

It was a great relief when a door was opened and he was shoved clear of the darkness and hostile warriors into a room that was the opposite. Tyrion was half-blinded by sunlight pouring in open window-frames, aided by a generous breeze that caused tears to form at once.

Blinking away, he saw it was a fine noble's room, large and with all the appropriate trappings; generous black carpeting, tapestries of Riverland scenes on the walls, side tables with wine and light meals laid out smelling utterly divine. It was all a far cry from what treatment he had been given before, though he could not admit being treated with deliberate cruelty either. Life at camp is no way for a nobleman to live, he had decided.

The only strange thing was that there were seven beds crammed in against the walls, like if a barracks were furnished for lords rather than smallfolk. That strangeness was quickly explained as Lannisters appeared from behind the curtains of one of the beds. He recognised the long blonde hair of Willem Lannister, Uncle Kevan's face staring back at him through his son's. The weak-chinned Cleos Frey and his weasel-faced brother Tion appeared a moment afterwards from two more beds.

Two Freys and a Lannister, Tyrion thought, Like the start of a bad jape. These Freys were born of a Lannister mother yet did not possess the Lannister prowess.

"Lord Tyrion," Willem said, with a small bow from the waist, "It is good to see you alive."

The two Freys nodded rapidly, their eyes gleaming. Gods, they really are glad to see me.

"It would be better if we were free," Tyrion replied in jest, noting Lord O'Neill rolling his eyes yet again at the words, "Admittedly there were moments I doubted I was alive." Like when I was struck down by a sorcerous metal bolt, in the rump no less!

There was a rapid rustling as yet another curtain moved aside. Ser Jaime Lannister stood up from his bed against the backdrop of the open window, his eyes narrowed from just having woke up. Tyrion's brother looked terrible; there was bags under his eyes and his hair was unevenly cut. But he was also clean, albeit dressed in fresh clothes of little ornament, and still alive. The two Freys scattered as he walked through the space in the middle of the room.

"Jaime!" Tyrion burst out in greeting, unable to contain his joy. It didn't matter that he knew this reunion had been coming.

The more handsome Lannister smirked and opened his mouth to answer, but closed it again just as quickly. His green eyes tracked to the foreigners in the room. Tyrion turned to look. They were standing to the side of the doorway with their weapons in their hands. They are no fools.

Hostility poured from Jaime's outwardly placid face for reasons unknowable.

Sensing no good would come of conflict, Tyrion cleared his throat. "Brother, may I present Lord Padraig Jack O'Neill…" he began, before turning to the tall Canadian, "I confess, I don't know what you're lord of?"

"I didn't want to be introduced," O'Neill replied, his tongue working in his mouth with annoyance.

Interesting. Tyrion set aside the curiousness of the man's reply for the moment. "And with him, Lord Sayer of Yellowknife," he continued, "They're…"

"You're Canadians," Jaime interrupted, speaking to the pair.

O'Neill's face betrayed no surprise. "And you're the Kingslayer," he replied at once.

A sharp smile spread over Jaime's face, completely bereft of any humour. "I suppose I am," he said, "I did slay a king."

Lord O'Neill narrowed his eyes. "You're about my age," he said, "Maybe a little older? But you killed the king five-and-ten years ago?"

Jaime did not answer. His muscles coiled ever so slightly under his skin, ready to pounce. Lord O'Neill's eyebrows raised ever so slightly in challenge, the sorcerous weapons in the Canadians' hands shifting an inch in the direction of Jaime.

Tyrion felt his wound throb with worry about how that would turn out. "Approaching six-and-ten now, since the Mad King got his due reward," he said, "Why?"

O'Neill gave a slight tilt of his head in acknowledgement. "Story as I understand it is like this," he said, "King hires young bodyguard. King acts like a cunt. King Cunt gets killed for his trouble by the young bodyguard. That sound about right?"

"Yes?" Tyrion said.

"So what's the big problem?" O'Neill said, "Why the feck does every Westerosi lord spit your name like a bird just accidentally shite in their mouths? The king was burning people without fair trials, from what I hear. Even with fair trials, that's not the behaviour of someone you want as your king."

Exchanging glances with the younger Lannister and Freys present, it took a moment before Tyrion's jaw worked itself loose. How does their society work if a King cannot act as he feels necessary? "A regicide cannot be pardoned completely, lest the crime become common," he explained, though it hurt his brother to hear it, "To say nothing of smallfolk killing their lords. Certainly, it cannot be celebrated…"

Lord O'Neill raised a hand in protest and shook his head. "That's a pile of crap. They'd be celebrated for killing a mass-murderer. That he's the king or a lord wouldn't matter too much. People who kill for pleasure are begging to be killed in the first place."

Jaime's smile slipped slightly. "Aerys enjoyed it, but he didn't believe he was killing without cause," he said, "And I swore an oath to preserve the royal family. I am hated by the lords of this land because I broke that oath. Four times over, many would argue."

"Because many believed it was done to aid our father," Tyrion added quickly, "To gain favour with the rebels as my father's army was sacking the capital."

Lord O'Neill shook his head again, this time in clear disbelief about something. "I'm sure we could go back and forth on the history," he said, "But at the end of the day it's not really my business."

He waved Lord Sayer out of the door before making to leave himself, only looking back at the last moment. "We'll keep you here until we decide what to do. The northern lads seemed afraid we'd just leave them, so this is our way of showing we're not." He pointed at Tyrion. "Don't get too comfortable. We could be moving out as early as tomorrow night."

And with that, the door was closed and its heavy iron bolts slid over to lock it firmly, reminding all inside they were prisoners despite the salubrious surroundings.

Jaime allowed a sigh to leave him. "So those were the mighty Canadians," he said, "I cannot say they look entirely formidable. Oddly good teeth though."

The jape did not amuse Tyrion in the slightest. He rounded on his brother to explain. "Jaime, do not underestimate them," he said, "Your sword would afford you nothing against them in battle, save for the most dire luck on their part."

Green eyes laughed at him for that. "The small one is too scrawny, the large one too slow," Jaime announced, sitting back on his bed and tucking his hands under his head, "And their strange clubs gave no cause for such alarm, brother. Give me a hundred of the Rock's best and their hundred would fall like grass beneath our horse's hooves. Like wildfire, sorcery is only useful when no one knows you intend to use it."

Did I sound alarmed? Tyrion wondered briefly, before his brother's arrogance finally caused irritation to bloom red across his face. The bullet became a weight in his pocket. "That scrawny boy is the reason Ser Gregor is missing a leg," Ser Addam explained, causing the eyes of the Freys to bulge, "That slow man is who shot your father off his horse from several hundred yards. And he's far from slow. He's a pugilist."

Jaime turned over onto his side, supporting his head with his arm. His face was blank of any amusment now, a small admission of wrong and about as large as one Tyrion was likely to get. "Truly?" he asked.

A lump grew in Tyrion's throat. "I saw it with my own eyes," he rasped out, before he coughed to clear the way, "Ser Gregor and I led the vanguard into the forest by the Ford. I had clans of the Mountains of the Moon by my side, and Bronn, a sellsword…"

"You led the vanguard?" Jaime interrupted, before his eyes shifted in understanding, "Father…"

"Yes, it was Father's idea," Tyrion snapped, "We rode into that forest and fought wildlings and unicorns draped from head to hoof in chainmail. Meanwhile, the main body of cavalry came up behind, getting slowed down by stakes and the like."

Jaime scoffed. "Unicorns… so it was a trap. How like Father to deliberately spring it."

Tyrion glared at the second interruption. Am I telling the tale or not? "You must hear this, brother. Let me speak." At last, Jaime sat up on his bed again, outwardly showing that he would listen now.

"Aye, a trap, but unlike any Lord Tywin could have conceived possible," Tyrion continued after a beat, "When the main body of cavalry had crowded by the weak palisade's defences, cutting their way through it…"

Without wanting to, Tyrion went back to the moment itself, his mind painting over the room with the forest by the Bloody Ford.

A sound like thunder shook the air and the ground, followed by loud pops and the crackle of burning. A blast of hot air swept through the trees, sending every leaf and shrub flailing. Men ducked their heads as things began falling from the sky.

Something heavy and wet slapped Tyrion hard from above, coating the top of his helm with something before falling to the dirt at his feet. He flinched and reached up to where it had hit. His hand came back covered in blood. He looked down at what had fallen on him, and almost gagged.

It was a horse's head, trailing part of its throat behind it. The metal bit was still clenched between the animal's teeth, torn leather straps hanging from it.

Tyrion scrambled away from the gore, turned to the source of the noise.

The log barriers and the Westerland cavalry behind them had both disappeared. In its place was a field of broken and torn bodies, both of horses and men, bleeding and smoking. The banners of the lords, knights and free companies lay amongst them, the Lannister Lion included. Tyrion could smell it all on the air now, blood and smoke and burning flesh and shit, just like he had on the day itself.

The rearguard of the cavalry were turning to flee back to Lord Tywin. Tyrion could see his father, atop his horse in the middle of the Ruby Ford. He just sat there, staring. In fact, the whole battle seemed to have stopped all across the line of fortifications. Every face was turned to this small corner of the world to witness the destruction.

The stares seemed to snap Tyrion out of his unconscious reverie, the feeling of their eyes on him embarrassing him to return again. His fingers curled around the bullet in his pocket again, playing with it idly once more.

"The Canadians unleashed their sorcery," Jaime said, speaking Tyrion's own memory aloud, "I have heard this tale. I did not think to believe it could kill so many. It serves the Starks and Tullys too well, for us to believe they have such power whenever they should decide to call on it."

"You would be wise to believe," Tyrion said, "Thousand of knights and freeriders were turned to burned chunks, Jaime. In the same amount of time it would take you to swing your sword. The heart of Westerland chivalry, gutted like a fish. By only four Canadians. Now there are a hundred or more."

The Freys flailed about around him. "Then we are lost?" said Cleos, throwing his arms as he paced back and forth, "There is nothing we can do against such sorcery?"

His despair was so repulsive, it seemed to shake Tyrion's own out of him. "I did not say that," he said, "And I am not truly sure it is sorcery the Canadians command."

Tyrion pulled the bullet out of his pocket, the shining brass and copper glinting in the light from the window. He threw it to Jaime, who caught it without trying. "Those clubs the slow one and the scrawny one were holding weren't clubs. They are bolt throwers, and that is one of the bolts."

Jaime looked at it in his palm for a moment. "It's tiny," he said, "How could this fell a knight in plate?"

"They are shot with great power," Tyrion said, "And a great many can be shot at a time. The scrawny one explained that one of their throwers can shoot seven hundred such bolts in a minute, though by my estimation the weapons only hold about thirty to forty at a time. I know not how the throwers function, but they have mechanisms like machines. Sorcery to my mind ought not to need mechanisms of metal."

Jaime glanced at the bullet again as he held it between thumb and finger, before throwing it back. "So you can't fight them in the open," he thought aloud, "No wonder Father's host was turned to mincemeat."

Mayhaps you should not be so critical of Father dear Jaime, Tyrion thought, You lost to a boy without the aid of sorcerous machines.

"They used such weapons against my outriders," Ser Addam weighed in, "Upon the King's Road they set an ambush, and we rode straight in. These bolts went through plate like paper. Some went in the front of men and out the back, through both breastplate and backplate."

Jaime nodded, his hand going to his chin in thought. "Better to be where they aren't, then."

"You do not understand," Tyrion said, holding the bullet up again, "This is no easy thing to create. Is there a smithy in Westeros that could create such a bolt with the exact same likeness again and again so that they could be shot seven hundred times in a minute by hundreds of warriors? To say nothing of the throwers themselves, or the horseless carriages that the Canadians travel in."

Jaime's eyebrow raised so high, it creased his brow deeply and made him look eeriely like Lord Tywin for a moment. "Horseless carriages?"

"Aye," said Podrick Payne as he approached from a corner, most enthusiastic about the things in question, "The Canadians ride in horseless carriages that need no rest nor vittles. My lord has had occasion to ride in one himself, once or twice."

Jaime looked to Tyrion for confirmation. He gave it with a small nod. It was quite an experience, being jostled this way or that as the carriage had moved at the same speed as a charging horse for more than an hour. Lord Duquesne had wanted to separate him from the other prisoners for a while. According to Pod, it was to affect searches among the other prisoners.

Still, Jaime needed to comprehend. Tyrion held up the bullet again. "This represents a more advanced civilisation, brother. Like the Andals, bringing war with greater tools than the First Men could muster, but with a similar power to the Targaryens."

Jaime frowned, shaking his head. "Then pray tell, how are we not doomed? Was your fight at the Bloody Ford simply the Field of Fire of our era?"

Tyrion's jaw set. He refused to entertain that possibility entirely. It would send him into true despair, and too quickly. Luckily, his mind provided more soothing answers.

"It could very well be, in the end," he admitted, "But for the moment, we Westerosi still have advantages. The Canadians are not openly courting conquest. I cannot believe the northmen or riverlords find them pleasing, particularly allied to wildlings as they are… they are truly different. As alien to us the Dothraki, yet they claim we are like a vision of their own past."

"So they're arrogant," Jaime said with no irony at all, "But they have the power to back their arrogance."

"'Tis a question of will, brother," Tyrion stated, "If they have the will, they could take this realm for their own or force us to do whatever they please. But if they do not, we can destroy them if we're patient. They'll hesitate at the wrong moment, go forth to a place too disadvantageous, or become complacent where they can be dealt with by assassins' blades rather than those of knights."

There was quiet for a few minutes as the other occupants of the room considered this. A stillness that was only interrupted when Jaime shrugged and laid back down. "It matters not," he said, "We have enemies besides them. The guards have been bragging that Lord Renly and Lord Stannis have declared for the throne. Stannis even declared Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen my bastards."

And what did your face look like when the guards told you that?

Tyrion prepared his voice carefully for his response. "Which makes Stannis the king by right, and as such is worth less than a lie; it makes him look grasping and false."

"Lord Renly's might is not false even if he is grasping," Jaime continued, "Should we be traded back to Father for the great Lord Eddard Stark and his brats, we face quite a Baratheon storm. To say nothing of the grumkins north of the Wall."

Tickled he was the one who would get to tell, Tyrion let out a laugh. "Oh but Lord Renly and Lord Stannis are doomed," he said, "The foreigners want a general peace so we can all fight the grumkins together. The Baratheon pretenders are unlikely to oblige them. All we need do is be the advocates for such a peace, and let the Baratheon pretenders rage until they run their hosts into the fangs of Canadian sorcery."

To Tyrion's surprise, the whole room lit up with smiles. Jaime's was particularly wicked, which warmed the heart for the prospect. Ser Addam, who had been in a melancholy for the whole time Tyrion had been journeying as a prisoner with him, suddenly chuckled under his breath.

The mere thought that the misfortune the Lannister cause had suffered from could be turned upon their enemies was a jolly notion indeed.

That night, Tyrion dreamed deeply.

First of the massacre at the Bloody Ford, this time the gods sending him a vision of he himself leading the men that were slaughtered. He felt his body come apart in the gouts of fire shot towards him. His death sent him reeling out of sleep, soaked with sweat. No one else woke from slumber, so he returned to it himself.

His second dream was much more pleasant, of the hours before the battle in his tent. Shae embraced him, her brown hair falling across his face, their hands intertwined, nothing but their sweat between them. It was as pleasant a dream as he had seen since the day itself, and the wound on his hindquarters did not seem to exist.

Yet it all came to a sharp end. Voices sounded in the background. A sudden nudge turned the clarity of the dream into waves of nothing, like water still enough to be a mirror finding a boulder rolled into it.

Tyrion awoke to the sight of a Dornishman in Canadian green standing over him, pulling the curtain wider. The man spoke what was obviously a command in his own language, and gestured with his thumb to rise. Gods, what now? Tyrion followed the order, knowing better than to question it of a man who didn't speak a word of Common.

The room was a shambles, tables, plates and smoking candles strewn about the place at random. Most of the light was being produced by the foreigners' own devices, stretching in beams everywhere. Two dozen Canadians had boiled into the room, all of them armed and armoured. Lord Duquesne stood in the centre, eyes narrow with both fatigue and anger from the bags under his eyes and the colour of his face.

Jaime was flat on his stomach in front of the Canadian marshal, another man holding his arms together while a third bound them together with a strange cord that clicked as it was tied. Beside him, Ser Addam was already bound with the same, a rather impressive bruise developing on his forehead under his mop of copper hair. The Freys and Willem kept to their beds, covered by Canadian weapons.

What fresh hells has been sent here this night?

Podrick appeared quickly on hand to answer, as the Dornish-looking Canadian backed off to aim his rifle at Tyrion instead. "My lord," Podrick whispered, "Ser Addam struck Lord Sayer as he was being awakened, and it just turned into a brawl!"

"Which was not an intelligent move," Lord Duquesne declared, having heard every word out of the squire's mouth, "Your brother in particular… Going for one of our weapons? I could've shot him where he stood."

Jaime grumbled something, but his mouth was quickly sealed shut by the appliance of a sort of grey bandage. Tyrion winced, which Duquesne caught too.

"Just some duct tape," he explained, "Your brother is mouthy."

"What is your purpose here?" Lord Tyrion asked, "Is it not the case that Ser Jaime is in fact Robb Stark's prisoner, and not yours to mistreat?"

Lord Duquesne clicked his tongue impatiently. "I will do anything that is required to stop a man who beats one of mine and another who tries to steal one of our weapons," he said, "Like I said, I could've shot him dead with perfect legality as he was struggling on the ground, trying to grab the weapon from the man he had jumped. Yet there he is, still breathing. I'm not going to kill peace by killing your brother."

Tyrion took a breath, and stood up, still in the clothes he had been wearing the previous day. I could use a bath, he thought absurdly. "My apologies, Lord Duquesne. Ser Addam is friend to my brother since they were boys, No doubt my brother was only defending him after he was startled awake by your man."

Duquesne looked to Lord Sayer. The young man's shoulder out of place, and teeth were bared with the pain of dislocation. Another soldier was readying to pull on his arm and pop it back. What did Ser Addam do? Tyrion wondered. The young Sayer seemed to acquiesce to that version of events with a few words in their own tongue, spoken softly.

"Looks like it's your lucky day," Duquesne said, "Or night."

Deciding that it was too, Tyrion pushed his luck. "Why was Lord Sayer waking Ser Addam?" he asked.

Duquesne sighed wearily. "We're leaving and we're taking our prisoners with us," he responded, "I've received orders to go to King's Landing at once."

Panic rushed up Tyrion's bones. "You mean to take the capital with a hundred men?!"

Duquesne's eyes lit up with amusement. "As much fun as that would be, it's not my first thought. I'm going to start negotiations on a general peace, then rope in the Starks and Tullys and anyone else who comes as they arrive. Given your family is in the weakest position, our darion thought it was the best place to start."

Tyrion's panic drained away, and he smelled opportunity. "My father would not be pleased to hear you mistreated his beloved son," he said, gesturing to Jaime.

Duquesne's lips thinned for a moment, and he gave another command. The soldiers lifted both Jaime and Ser Addam to their feet, cut their arms free and ripped off the strange grey bandages from their mouths. Both men shouted with pain as it was removed, some sort of glue having been applied to the underside adhering strongly enough to hurt when ripped.

"For the record, I'm the only reason Ser Jaime was bathed and put into a room with soft beds in the first place," Duquesne continued, "The Starks and Tullys were happy to keep him in a cage in the pigsty, wearing nothing but rags and eating leftovers. Lord Karstark has wanted to cut Ser Jaime's balls off for a while, insult to injury. I insisted otherwise."

Lord Duquesne turned to Jaime and Ser Addam. "You cooperate, you get treated right. You screw with us, we put you on your ass. You try to kill us, I do my merry best to drop the fucking sky on you. Understood?"

Ser Addam replied first. "I was having a bad dream when your man touched my arm," he said, "I thought I was still dreaming. I apologise, my lord."

Duquesne grimaced with annoyance, likely believing the reasoning but repulsed by the obedience. Ser Addam's melancholy had affected his sleep, after all, and his spirit. The Canadian then looked to Jaime.

Tyrion's brother rubbed his jaw with great exaggeration. "Not quite understanding your meaning, but the odds are rather long now without a blade." Jaime pointedly looked around the room at the soldiers.

Tyrion wanted to groan. Jaime never had learned when to just smile and nod. A defect with its roots in his exceptional talent for killing men.

A sharp hiss of breath announced that Sayer's shoulder was back where it should be. Good timing, Tyrion thought. "Lord Duquesne, if we can put this mess behind us, I am sure I can be of assistance in bringing my father around to the idea of a peace."

"I'm sure you can too," Duquesne replied, "I've already sent word to our hosts that we're leaving. Now move."

He nodded to the soldier beside Tyrion, and as a result, he, Podrick and Ser Addam were shoved out of the room first, before the Canadians withdrew one by one. Lord Duquesne was last out, before a baffled looking Tully guard shut and locked the door.

"Off to King's Landing we go," Tyrion remarked.

"Queen Liz commands, and we obey," Duquesne quoted, "Over the hills and far away."

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is up for an ASOIAF Fanfiction award once again, this time in the category of Best Ongoing Story.
I would be deeply grateful if you would consider voting for Canucks. Even if you don't, there are many other stories in the running among many categories.

The vote is open until December 28th, and is available on the AsoiafFanfiction Reddit