Chapter 50 – Tyrion
A cool breeze brushed past the battlements. Standing on tiptoe, the little man peered over the stone parapet, watching the roaring river surge past the base of the castle. Then he turned to the black-haired, dark-eyed sellsword beside him.
"My father once tried to turn old Frey against that wolf-pup, then bring the crafty fossil over to our side. Unfortunately, Eddard Stark's escape ruined any chance of success."
"Isn't the current situation even better?" the sellsword asked.
"Desperate gambles aren't Father's usual style. This whole business isn't nearly as pretty as it looks." Tyrion shrugged. "And honestly—what's so wonderful about war? Shame Lord Bolton rejected our little suggestion. We could've ended this conflict early."
"Well, as things stand, I wager you'll be the ones to win in the end," the sellsword said. "Especially after you took this city."
"This place is crucial." Tyrion cast a glance over his shoulder at the Crossing, smiling faintly.
"House Frey soared from obscurity in a few centuries and became one of the most powerful noble houses in Westeros—just by owning this bridge."
"A vast treasure," the sellsword murmured, licking his lips.
"You're truly willing to hand it over to those mountain tribes?"
"Of course. That was the bargain."
"And what about the Frey 'prince'?" The sellsword snorted with open mockery.
"Rhaegar Frey?" Tyrion chuckled. "He was a Frey. Now look—how many Freys are even left alive? There were far too many of those weasel-faced creatures anyway. People instinctively dislike those of us born ugly—you understand—so I suppose he did everyone a favor. But do you really think my father will leave such an important stronghold in the hands of a man like him?"
"But he helped you take this treasure."
"And he'll be rewarded appropriately. Just… not with this." Tyrion turned back toward the horizon.
Far away, smoke rose from a sprawling camp like faint gray ribbons. Morning mist clung to the tents and training fields. From this distance, the thousands of troops looked like ants moving inside a hazy mirage.
"I once accompanied King Robert to Winterfell as a guest," Tyrion recalled. "Eddard Stark seldom smiled. He showed Robert an occasional warm expression, but even then, the man was mostly stone-faced. To everyone else—including my darling sister—he seemed cold or dismissive."
"So we Lannisters never cared for him. And Catelyn Tully… gods, that woman had a temper." He chuckled. "Though I admit, his bastard boy was rather interesting."
"See? Lannisters dislike Starks, Starks want Lannisters dead, and before you know it—war. That's all war ever is."
"War makes plenty of people rich," the sellsword said cheerfully. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here."
"If Jaime hadn't been captured, do you think I'd have gotten my turn at glory?" Tyrion scoffed.
"Father dangled a rope and told me to climb these walls on my tiny legs, seize the city, then face a pack of snarling wolves. Tell me, does that sound like a delightful opportunity?"
"At least now he's not complaining about my short arms and legs," Tyrion added. "That part is a pleasant change."
"Success tends to hush criticism," the sellsword said lightly.
"Oh, spare me. The risks were enormous. If not for those clansmen, I'd have been killed in last night's little uprising." Tyrion rubbed his neck, still uneasy.
The clans were notoriously undisciplined—reckless in everything. Last night, remnants of House Frey launched a surprise attack, using their knowledge of the city's layout. In the confusion, one man nearly took Tyrion's head clean off.
"And without the clansmen, you wouldn't have gotten in at all—even if someone opened the gate." The sellsword countered dryly.
—
As if summoned by their words, a towering figure emerged from the gatehouse.
A hulking man in ragged hides, long brown hair hanging wild, his warped features making him look more monster than man.
Shagga of the Stone Crows.
He hauled a huge wooden barrel across the battlements and stopped in front of them. With a loud thud, he dropped it at Tyrion's feet and roared:
"Son of Dolph is a warrior! Not your errand slave!"
Tyrion's face received a full shower of mountain-man spit. The sellsword snickered.
"Seems your savage can't tell the difference between 'carry this up here' and 'find a servant to carry this up here.'"
"Then I suppose I wasn't clear enough." Tyrion wiped his face calmly and looked up.
"All right, Shagga. As thanks, I've arranged for a few goats for you—so you won't run out of animals to feed when you… remove other men's manhoods."
The insult hit home. Shagga's snarl melted away, and curiosity crept into his voice.
"Half-man found goats? Where?"
"The Crossing has everything, my friend." Tyrion stepped to the barrel, lifted the lid, and peeked inside.
"What is that?" the sellsword asked, leaning in.
Every two days he saw one of these delivered to Tyrion's tent, but never learned what was inside.
"A special charm—maiden's first blood mixed with herbs and a dozen odd things. Recipe from an ugly witch in Lannisport." Tyrion dipped his fingers in casually.
"Whole barrel of it. Care for some?"
As Tyrion reached for his body to smear it on, Bronn immediately leapt backward in horror.
"Seven hells—have you LOST your mind?!"
The stench rising from Tyrion's body was a rancid mix of blood and musk. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, yet his hands never stopped smearing the sticky red paste over himself.
"They say this stuff can ward off sorcery," Tyrion explained. "Even Lord Varys swore by it and sent a raven warning us. After what happened in King's Landing, I doubt that absurd tale was a lie. One never knows—go to sleep one night and wake up with a mage holding your favorite appendage hostage. Of course, if said mage were a lovely young lady… the situation wouldn't be entirely hopeless."
He glanced at Bronn.
"Sure you don't want some?"
"No thanks. I'm just a nobody—no sorcerer's going to bother with me." Bronn dodged out of reach, pinching his nose. Then something occurred to him, and he stiffened.
"So… what about Lord Tywin?"
"You think my dear father isn't terrified of that black sorcerer?" Tyrion grinned. "The old man cherishes his life more than anyone. I learned this trick from him."
He kept smearing. In moments he was covered head to toe in the glistening, foul-smelling mixture. The guards on the rampart instinctively backed away several paces, keeping very safe distance.
Bronn simply stared at him, utterly dumbfounded.
Thinking of the dignified, immaculate, terrifying Lord Tywin Lannister—coated in this—was a vision Bronn's mind refused to accept.
"You're going to be the laughingstock of the Seven Kingdoms," he muttered, close to groaning.
"Kingdom's already full of rumors; Lannisters are the punchline of half of them," Tyrion said cheerfully. "And who dares spread gossip about this? Besides, it's effective. None of us have fallen for that sorcerer's tricks like my foolish sister did. If your commander ends up bewitched, how are you supposed to fight a war?"
His grotesque appearance didn't seem to bother him in the slightest.
Bronn said nothing for a long while. When he finally looked at Tyrion again, his eyes held… pity.
Power had its privileges—but also its burdens.
"Half-man saw black sorcerer before?" Shagga suddenly lumbered up beside them, voice full of nervous curiosity. When he wasn't angry, the brute was almost endearingly simple.
"No, but I hear he's young and easy to recognize." Tyrion tilted his head toward Bronn.
"Who knows—might even be one of your long-lost relatives. Both of you share the same dark hair, dark eyes."
"If my family weren't all dead, I might almost believe you." Bronn snorted. He was about to say more when he froze, gaze shifting toward the fields beyond the walls. His brows drew down.
"If I'm not mistaken… that man approaching is your 'black sorcerer.'"
Tyrion whipped his head around, gripping the crenellation with both hands. After squinting into the distance, he let out a low whistle.
"Well, look at that. Rumors really are dangerous. He's not black at all—he's paler than milk."
"And prettier than the top girl at Chataya's brothel," Bronn murmured, rubbing his chin.
"Could probably make more money than the top girl too."
"Dolf's son Shagga will chop off his man-root and feed it to goats!" the clansman huffed, glaring down the field. Now that he'd seen the "dreaded sorcerer," all his earlier unease had evaporated.
"Feeding it to goats seems wasteful. Take it to King's Landing—some fool might pay good coin for a mage's… trophy."
"..."
Tyrion and his companions were still laughing crudely among themselves when the events on the field abruptly silenced them all.
"What are they doing?" someone asked, but no one answered. Every man on the wall went still, eyes fixed on the scene outside.
Out beyond bowshot—just at the edge of range—several figures stopped. They bent to their tasks, arranging items around the cloaked young man at their center.
A stone slab inscribed with tangled carvings was set onto the ground. Strange objects were placed beside it. Then a ragged man—bound, filthy, cursing wildly—was dragged forward by two soldiers, forced onto the slab, and held down.
Under the sorcerer's quiet command, the horror began.
A soldier knelt, lifted hammer and spike—and drove the first iron nail through the man's arm.
Blood spurted across the slab. Screams mingled with curses. Nail after nail hammered into flesh, until all four limbs were pinned.
Even from three hundred meters away, the sight was hideously clear.
A low, cold chant threaded through the wind. The bound man's furious cursing turned instantly into shrill, animalistic screams.
Pain. Madness. Begging. The eerie chanting rose, fell, twisted—until the spectacle became nightmarishly surreal.
The final spike was driven into the man's throat and chest junction.
His screams faltered.
But the ritual did not end.
If anything, it had barely begun.
Under the sun, the man's blood-drained skin darkened rapidly. His body shriveled as though collapsing inward, moisture vanishing, flesh sinking. In moments, the burly captive transformed into a hunched, withered old husk.
The chanting intensified.
Then, with a final shudder, the man became a mummified corpse stretched grotesquely over the stone.
The river wind blew across its desiccated face—those hollowed, sunken eyes seemed to stare directly at the battlements of the Crossing.
Tyrion fell silent.
His blood-smeared clothes fluttered in the wind.
Bronn swallowed hard, clutching the hilt of his sword.
The mountain clansmen on the wall gaped in mute terror.
And then—
The young man in the black cloak raised a hand to his own throat and traced a slow, meaningful slash across it.
He smiled pleasantly.
Turned around.
And walked away.
---
A long, suffocating stillness settled over the walls. The faint sounds of the river and the distant murmur of the city seemed unbearably far away.
Shagga swallowed loudly. His massive frame trembled.
"D–Dolf's son Shagga… k-kinda wants to pee."