Chapter: 51 Game Rules
"Dolf's son Shagga… Shagga thinks he—he needs to piss."
…
The words shattered the suffocating silence. Instinctively, every pair of eyes turned toward the hulking clansman beside Tyrion. Yet no one laughed. The lingering horror in their chests made the sentiment feel painfully relatable.
Right now, every face on the battlements was pale with fear. Men looked at one another, opening their mouths to speak only to discover there were no words left in them.
At last, someone whispered—barely audible, almost a groan:
"Did… did the black sorcerer curse us?"
…
"Vaun's son Vaun doesn't want to become a dried corpse."
…
"Rumm's son Rumm neither! Rumm's son Rumm has not lived enough yet!"
…
The murmurs grew louder, then louder still, until the wall was abuzz with nervous shouting. Even the Lannister-trained soldiers looked shaken, whispering to each other with the same haunted eyes. Speculations and wild fears spread like wildfire.
Tyrion—who moments ago felt the same dread—snapped back to himself. This was bad. Very bad. If panic spiraled here, the whole city would boil over.
"Shut it down," he barked. "No one spreads a word of this. Seal the gossip!"
But the clansmen were not exactly paragons of discipline.
By late afternoon, every mountain tribesman in the city knew.
The tale had mutated as it traveled:
The North had brought a mighty sorcerer.
He had laid a curse outside the walls.
Those struck by it would shrivel into husks.
Witnesses dramatically recounted what they had seen—eyes wide, voices trembling, each retelling more vivid and grotesque than the last, as though sharing the horror might free them from it.
By nightfall, the entire city was infected by the rumor.
"Black sorcerer cursed Riverrun Crossing—soon the Trident will swallow the whole city!"
"He cursed the Crossing! Everyone inside will be drained into corpses!"
"He cursed—"
Exaggeration fanned the flames. A single gruesome ritual turned into stories of dozens slain… hundreds… thousands. The black mage was now said to be unleashing clouds of shadow like storm fronts, preparing to obliterate Riverrun Crossing and uproot Lannister rule entirely.
The surviving Frey loyalists lurking in the shadows seized the chance. They whispered everywhere:
"This calamity is the Lannisters' fault.
They angered the sorcerer!
To escape the curse, we must drive them out!"
A few listened. Most did not. The mountain clans were too violent and unpredictable—rebellion would only earn brutal retaliation.
But fear had a way of working its own poison.
By the end of the day, the city felt… unnaturally quiet.
Petty crime plummeted. Many refused to leave their homes. Children were locked indoors. When the nightly curfew fell, not a single soul walked the streets.
Even passing clouds were interpreted as omens of an impending doom. The timid cried at the slightest breeze.
In just one day, Riverrun Crossing had become a city trembling in its own skin.
…
The next morning, the young man in the black cloak rode out from the northern camp once more. Surrounded by soldiers, he approached the edge of Lannister bow range at a steady, unhurried pace.
The moment the sentries recognized him, one of them shrieked in panic.
Tyrion, startled by the shout, looked up—and his blood ran cold.
"Bronn! Archers—have them shoot him!"
"Arrows can't reach that far," Bronn muttered. "And even if they could—look at all those tower shields. They were ready for it."
"Then use the catapults! If arrows won't reach, throw rocks at him!"
"If we had catapults, I would," Bronn said wearily. "The Crossing only has scorpions."
"Then use the scorpions!"
"They won't pierce those shields. Also… the scorpions were destroyed."
"…Destroyed? By who!?"
"Your tribesmen." Bronn shrugged. "They smashed them when they seized the walls. Said they'd lost too many cousins to them. Not 'good things,' apparently."
"..."
Tyrion released Bronn's tunic, his face darkening. Watching the cloaked figure draw nearer, anxiety churned like a storm in his gut.
He already knew exactly what was coming.
"If I send men out to strike now… what are our chances?" he asked quietly.
"Assuming anyone here will obey your orders?" Bronn snorted, gesturing at the wall. "Look at them. They're terrified out of their wits."
Tyrion scanned the battlements. Dozens of wild-eyed clansmen shrank back from the parapet, whispering, praying, shaking.
His heart sank.
Still, he wasn't ready to give up.
"Maybe I can talk some sense into them."
He squared his shoulders and marched toward the nearest squad of mountain men.
He returned less than a minute later, looking utterly defeated.
…
Up on the walls, panic had already overtaken reason. The clansmen erupted into frenzied shouting the moment they spotted the black-cloaked figure approaching once again.
Word of the black sorcerer's return spread through the wall guard long before Tyrion could rein in the rumors.
Those mountain clansmen who hadn't witnessed yesterday's horror were skeptical at first—unwilling to believe their comrades' trembling retellings. Yet curiosity gnawed at them. And curiosity, mixed with fear, proved far stronger than Tyrion's strict orders.
Soon, the battlements filled with broad-shouldered tribesmen, eyes wide, half-terrified and half-fascinated, all staring at the supposedly "frail" young man approaching outside the walls.
They no longer sneered at the pale pretty-faced outsider the way some chieftains had on the first day. Not after yesterday.
Under dozens of uneasy gazes, blood-stained skeletons clawed themselves free from over ten corpses. Soldiers shoved the torn-open husks—ragged skin, spilled intestines, filth, greenish-yellow organs, and brain matter like gray jelly—off the stone platform. Everything tumbled into the river below, swept away by the fierce current of the Trident.
"Is the black sorcerer releasing his bone-warriors to sneak into the city and kill us?"
The question came from Shagga—who had somehow materialized beside Tyrion again. He stared at the drifting remains, following every floating organ with horrified fascination until his gaze drifted down to the moat beneath their feet.
"Relax," Tyrion muttered, resigned. "My method will keep you safe."
He pointed at his own foul-smelling, blood-smeared clothes.
"Dolf's son will not bathe in that filthy stuff!" Shagga snorted, glaring nervously at the ritual outside. His steps wobbled as he backed away.
On Tyrion's other side, a young chieftain with brown hair and a single remaining eye touched the empty socket instinctively. Terror flickered across his scarred face.
Tyrion didn't notice the expression. He didn't need to. With last night's chain reaction still fresh, he already knew: today's spectacle would spread even faster.
He was furious—and helpless.
Furious because the clansmen refused to obey anything. They didn't listen, didn't care, didn't recognize any authority but their own whims.
Helpless because of the calm figure outside the walls—the black cloak at the center of the circle of soldiers.
Tyrion prided himself on intellect, cunning, and influence. He had always believed these were enough to survive anything. Even as a dwarf, he'd carved out space through wit alone.
But before this inexplicable sorcerer, his strengths felt like glass candles—fragile, flickering, useless.
"…The rules of the game have changed."
He muttered the words as he descended the battlements, troubled to the core.
And right on cue, by noon the rumors had exploded:
The black sorcerer had unleashed undead warriors inside the city.
They were slaughtering mountain clansmen in the dark.
As the panic grew, it somehow became true.
Clansmen started turning up dead—most torn apart horribly, heads severed, bodies ripped open, hearts missing. Whether done by frightened clansmen killing each other, by Frey loyalists, or by opportunistic criminals, no one knew.
Chaos devoured the Crossing.
…
Day Three
Under guard, Tyrion trudged toward the walls at dawn. Along the streets, streams of tribesmen—filthy, broad-shouldered, nervous—were heading the same way.
He could do nothing to stop them.
Punishment? Bribes? Threats? Reason?
None of it mattered.
Compared to real sorcery, his authority meant nothing.
Last night's meeting with the clan chiefs had been a catastrophe. He'd raised his voice slightly—and they'd screamed insults at him for minutes.
Tyrion had never felt so angry. Or so powerless.
Are you with House Lannister or with the damned sorcerer?
Use your heads! Calm down! It helps all of us!
He'd said it. He'd meant it.
They hadn't listened.
All night, they whispered superstitiously about the sorcerer. Every mention of his existence made them tense up like startled deer—making Tyrion's stomach sink lower and lower.
"At this rate, if the enemy attacks…"
Lost in grim thought, he barely noticed the scuffle in the alley until shouting tore through his haze.
"Karsor's son Das will crush your skull, you stupid Milk-Snake dog!"
"Sala's son will kick your eggs first, you stinking, soon-to-be-eggless Howler!"
The tribes were brawling again—Howlers versus Milk Snakes this time. Tension had them all on edge.
Normally Tyrion welcomed inter-tribal fights—they made controlling them easier. But now?
Now it only deepened his despair.
The enemy isn't even at the gates yet… and they're already tearing each other apart.
He climbed onto the battlements. In the misty morning light, the black sorcerer appeared again—right on schedule.
He had considered ordering men to mount a surprise attack and kill the mage once and for all. But even his Lannister-trained soldiers balked at the idea—terrified they'd be drained to husks or turned into skeleton puppets.
Tyrion hated it.
But he understood.
There was risk.
Who knew whether the sorcerer could drain a hundred men in an instant?
He suspected the mage was bluffing—repeating his display for intimidation.
But suspicion wasn't enough to gamble with his remaining soldiers.
And even if he gave the order…
The sorcerer was on horseback. They'd never catch him.
…
The third ritual mirrored the first.
But instead of leaving afterward, the black mage poured a bucket of shimmering, multicolored liquid into the river. The hues spread across the surface like oil, only to be swallowed again by the current—drifting silently toward the moat.
Combined with the gruesome corpse-ritual moments earlier, the sight was eerie beyond belief.
The clansmen, who had watched stiffly for minutes, suddenly erupted.
But instead of fear—
They reached a decision.
"These Seven-Kingdom stone houses stink. Sala's son is going home!"
"Kuru's son also wants to go home! Too many fools, too many smells—mountains better!"
"Bring Gondor's son! We go together!"
"There's too much stuff to carry. Let's burn the stone house-city! Easier!"
"Tim's son thinks that's a good idea!"
Chaos exploded across the wall.
Their desire to leave spread like wildfire. Within minutes, the entire mountain host was shouting, arguing, packing.
Some grabbed torches and set fires across the city, ignoring Tyrion's desperate orders. After being reprimanded, they cursed at the Lannister officers instead, even shoving them.
After all—Lannister had promised them the city.
If they were leaving, why should they leave their spoils for "outsiders"?
"Dolf's son Shagga is also going home," the giant told Tyrion cheerfully as the dwarf tried to salvage the situation. "After battle, you visit me. We feed goats together. Also, the goats you gave me—I cannot carry them. Bring them to me later. Take special care of the gray-hoofed nanny goat. Don't let her get sick."
Tend your goats, my ass, Tyrion thought, face twitching.
He begged. He pleaded.
It changed nothing.
Shagga slung a huge pack over his shoulder, tied treasure-laden horses together, waved at Tyrion, and led the Stone Crows out through the south gate—laughing the whole time.
Their expressions?
Like men finally escaping hell for heaven.
No one dared stop them.
Not after weeks of seeing their brutality firsthand.
Once the Stone Crows left, the rest followed—Burned Men, Black Ears, Howlers, Red Forges—every clan packed up, cursed the city, and marched south for the Mountains of the Moon.
By dusk, barely two hundred Lannister soldiers remained.
And Riverrun Crossing—a fortress won through blood and cunning—was about to collapse entirely.
The Frey loyalists, sensing weakness, surged out of hiding. Chaos exploded. The remaining Lannister garrison fought to suppress riots, but the city spiraled further into madness.
At sunset, seeing the city hollowed out, the northern army launched its assault.
They took Riverrun Crossing in under an hour—losing fewer than ten men.
A siege that had trapped them for half a month…
shattered as easily as glass.
Every northern lord stood dumbfounded.