Please bear with me, I will try to catch up by the end of the month. Thank you.
"My son is in their hands," Tywin Lannister said.
"Yes, my lord," the messenger's voice was dull with fatigue. On the chest of his torn surcoat, dried bloodstains covered the spotted boar of the Craheh family.
One of your two sons, Tyrion thought. He took a sip of wine, saying nothing, thinking of Jaime. As he raised his hand, a sharp pain shot from his elbow to his brain, reminding him of the taste of battle. Though he loved his brother, he wouldn't want to be in the Whispering Wood with him, not even for all the gold in Casterly Rock.
The lords and generals summoned by his father fell silent, listening to the messenger recount the events. In the spacious, airy great hall of the inn, only the logs in the fireplace crackled.
After the long forced march south, the thought of a brief rest at the inn, even if only for one night, greatly cheered Tyrion... though he secretly hoped it wouldn't be this inn, full of memories. His father had ordered them to march at an exhausting pace, resulting in heavy losses. Wounded soldiers who couldn't keep up were left behind to fend for themselves. Every morning when they set off, some people lay by the roadside, having fallen asleep never to wake again; in the afternoon, others collapsed by the road, exhausted; and by nightfall, some had deserted, vanishing into the darkness, and even Tyrion himself had wanted to go with them.
A moment ago, he had been upstairs, lying in a soft, comfortable feather bed, holding Shae's warm body. But his attendant had rushed in and shaken him awake, reporting that someone had arrived on horseback with important news from Riverrun. He immediately understood that they had marched for nothing. The frantic dash south, the endless forced marches and the corpses left by the roadside... all for naught. Robb Stark had lifted the siege of Riverrun several days ago.
"How is that possible?" Ser Harys Swyft groaned. "How is that possible? Even after the battle of the Whispering Wood, Riverrun was still surrounded by a large army... What was Ser Jaime thinking, to divide his troops into three separate camps? Surely he knew the risks?"
He knew far more than you, you chinless coward, Tyrion thought. Even though Jaime had lost Riverrun, hearing his brother slandered by someone like Swyft still made him furious. Swyft was a shameless sycophant whose greatest achievement in life was marrying his equally chinless daughter to Ser Kevan, thus gaining kinship with the Lannister family.
"I would have done the same," his uncle replied, not with the calmness Tyrion would have used if he had spoken. "Ser Harys, you haven't seen Riverrun, or you would understand that Jaime had no choice. Riverrun sits on the delta point where the Tumblestone River flows into the Red Fork, a tributary of the Trident River. The rivers form two sides of a triangle, and when in danger, the Tully family opens the upstream gates, creating a wide moat on the third side, turning Riverrun into an island in the river. The city walls rise high from the water, and the defenders from the towers can see everything for leagues around on the opposite banks. To cut off all support, the besieging force must place an army on the north bank of the Tumblestone, the south bank of the Red Fork, and the west bank of the moat, that is, between the two rivers. There is no other way.
"My lords, Ser Kevan is right," the messenger said. "Our army had sharpened wooden palisades all around the camps, but with no warning and the river cutting off our camps from each other, such preparations were far from enough. They first attacked the northern camp, at a time we completely did not expect. Before that, Malkor Piper had been constantly harassing our supply train, but he only had fifty or sixty men. The night before the attack, Ser Jaime personally led troops to deal with them... Alas, at the time we thought the target was Piper's group. We heard that the Stark army was still on the east bank of the Green Fork, heading south..."
"Where were your scouts?" Ser Gregor Clegane's face was like a stone sculpture, the firelight casting an eerie orange glow on his skin, creating deep shadows beneath his eyes. "Did they see nothing? Give you no warning?"
The blood-stained messenger shook his head. "Our reconnaissance units had been disappearing recently, and we thought Malkor Piper was responsible. And those who occasionally returned said they found nothing."
"Finding nothing means he doesn't need eyes," The Mountain declared. "Dig out their eyes and give them to the replacement scout. Tell him: hopefully four eyes can see more clearly than two... If he still fails, then the next man will have six eyes."
Lord Tywin Lannister turned to examine Ser Gregor, and Tyrion saw a golden light flash in his father's pupils, but he couldn't tell if it was approval or disgust. Lord Tywin usually remained silent in council, preferring to listen to others before speaking, a habit Tyrion had always wanted to emulate. However, even for his father, such silence was unusual; he hadn't even touched his wine.
"You said they launched a night raid?" Ser Kevan asked.
The weary man nodded. "The vanguard, led by the Blackfish, cut down our guards and cleared the palisades to allow the main force to attack. By the time our men realized what was happening, the enemy cavalry had leaped over the ditches and were charging into the camps with swords and torches. I was sleeping in the west camp, the area between the two rivers. Our men there heard the fighting and saw the tents on fire, so Lord Brax led everyone onto rafts, intending to paddle across to provide assistance. However, the current was swift and carried us downstream, and when the Tully defenders saw us, they began bombarding us with trebuchets from the city walls. I saw one raft smashed to pieces with my own eyes, and three others capsized, the people on them swept into the river and drowned... And those who managed to cross the river found the Stark army waiting for them on the other side."
Ser Flement Brax, wearing a silver and purple surcoat, had a look of disbelief on his face. "My father, my lord father he—"
"My lord, I am sorry," the messenger said. "Lord Brax was wearing full plate and chainmail when his raft capsized. He was a warrior."
He was a fool, Tyrion thought, swirling his wine and gazing into the vortex in the cup. In the middle of the night, fully armored, crossing a swift current on makeshift rafts to charge at an enemy waiting in formation on the opposite bank—if that was being a warrior, he preferred to be a coward every time. He wondered if Earl Brax felt particularly brave as he was dragged into the pitch-black deep water by his heavy armor.
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