Tyrion led his cavalry in a sweep along the riverbank as the battle neared its end.
During his maneuver, Marbrand's heavy horse smashed through the northern ranks with ruthless efficiency, more brutal even than the Mountain's charge.
Many of the men Tyrion knew were now only corpses, scattered among congealing pools of blood. Countless clansmen lay dead—some missing everything below the elbow, others with skulls crushed like overripe tomatoes. Their low rate of armor had cost them dearly. Without the Lannister-forged gear, the losses would have been far worse.
Shagga sat slumped against a tree, bristling with arrows like a chestnut burr, Conn's head pillowed on his knee.
Tyrion had thought them both dead, but as he dismounted, Shagga opened his eyes, one tooth gone. "They killed Conn, son of Coratt."
Handsome Conn bore no wound but the red mark of a spear thrust through his chest. Bronn hauled Shagga upright, and only then did the huge chieftain seem to notice the arrows sticking from his body. He cursed about the holes they had torn in his armor and leather, fumbling to yank them free.
Bronn stopped him quickly, reminding him the arrowheads had to be cut out.
While they worked on Shagga's wounds, Chella, daughter of Cheyk, rode up to show off an ear she'd taken from a foe. Timett led the Burned Men, and Ulf the Moon Brothers, turning over corpses, stripping them of coin, arms, and armor, looting the dead they'd cut down.
Of all the mountain warriors who had marched with Tyrion, barely half remained alive.
He ordered the survivors to tend their fallen, sent Bronn to gather the scattered clans, care for the wounded, and watch the prisoners, then went alone to seek his father.
Great Lord Tywin sat by the riverbank, sipping from a jeweled cup while a squire unfastened the clasps of his armor. Not a trace of satisfaction touched his face.
"They say Lord Tywin Lannister never smiles. It seems they're right," Tyrion said as he came to the bank, tossing aside his helm and unfastening his cloak. A squire scurried to retrieve them.
"Not even a victory like this can make you smile. It feels like my dear sister's married life."
"Silence." Tywin cut him off, though without true anger in his tone. That alone told Tyrion the old lion's fury lay elsewhere.
A maester handed Tyrion a letter. He took it and squinted at the script, muttering as he read.
"Let's see… ah, so this is the bad news." He turned his back to the wind. "My dear brother's been captured. No surprise—the writing's atrocious. I remember Jaime's hand was as fine as his swordplay."
"That is your brother!" Lord Tywin set down his cup, his hand trembling slightly. "By the gods, could you not—"
"—show my brother the respect he deserves," Tyrion finished, catching sight of his uncle's hand settling on his father's shoulder. "So what? We've punished the Tullys. All we need do now is trade Lord Eddard for my brother, and everything will be as it was."
Unless… Tyrion thought grimly. Unless all we have left of Lord Eddard is his rotting head.
"Eddard Stark has already been beheaded," Ser Kevan said heavily. Tyrion saw his father's face twitch at the words.
The worst move yet in the game of thrones. And nothing he could do to reverse it—short of being reborn as the wise and noble King Joffrey.
One by one, the lords and knights returned from the battle. Some were caked in blood, others still pristine, but all wore the glow of victory.
Yet when they saw the solemn faces of the three Lannisters, the joy drained from them at once, and silence settled over the camp.
"My sister should have the Stark girls in her keeping," Tyrion said, his tone tinged with hope. "If we offered to return the boy's sisters..."
Tywin Lannister gave a contemptuous snort. "He'd be mad to trade Jaime Lannister's life for two little girls."
"Then ransom Ser Jaime," said Lord Lefford, "no matter the cost."
Tyrion shot him a withering look, unwilling to waste words on the fool. He kept reading. "There is at least some good news. Thanks to our warning, the host besieging Riverrun hasn't taken heavy losses. That means our strength still holds the advantage."
"But the Starks aren't our only foes," Tywin said. "In the south, Renly has joined with the Reach, and Stannis too has marched."
"As for the Starks, you judged correctly. Had Lord Eddard lived, we might have used him as leverage to strike a truce with Winterfell and Riverrun, buying time to deal with Robert's two usurping brothers. But now he's dead..." His hand clenched into a fist. "Folly. Utter madness."
"I won't linger here. Bolton does not concern me—he's a cautious man, and the Green Fork will only make him more so. His pursuit will be slow. Therefore... at first light tomorrow we march on Harrenhal. Kevan, order Ser Addam's scouts to mask our movements. Give him as many men as he asks."
"I've already instructed Ser Stafford Lannister to raise new levies at Lannisport and rally Riverrun's broken men at the Golden Tooth, to guard against Robb Stark pushing into the Westerlands."
Yet your brother-in-law is a bungler, as Jaime has said more than once, Tyrion thought. He held the words back—no use pouring salt into the wound, nor tarnishing the Lannister name.
"And you," Tywin turned to his son, "you'll ride for King's Landing. I mean to place you in the Red Keep."
"That was my thought as well," Tyrion agreed with a nod. "But in what role? Acting Hand of the King? My sister won't stand for it."
"Let her object. Someone must rein in her precious son before he ruins us all. What were our sly friend Petyr, the venerable Grand Maester, and that gelded fool Varys doing while Joffrey blundered again and again? Whose idiocy put it into his head to raise Janos Slynt to nobility? His father was a butcher, and they gave him Harrenhal! Harrenhal! The king's own castle! So long as I draw breath, he'll never set foot inside. I hear he chose a bloodied spear for his sigil. If I'd been there, I'd have forced him to make it a bloodied cleaver."
"Janos Slynt?" Tyrion frowned, searching his memory.
Tywin had not raised his voice, but the fury in his golden eyes was plain. He despised such upstarts more than anything.
"And they dismissed Barristan Selmy! What madness was that? Yes, he's old, but 'Barristan the Bold' still carries weight in this realm. Whom he serves, he honors. The Hound cannot fill that role. Dogs belong under the table gnawing bones, not sitting at it." He jabbed a finger toward Tyrion's face. "Since Cersei cannot manage that whelp, you will. And if those so-called counselors dare play us false..."
"No need to say it. I'll deal with every one of them."