Ser Brynden Tully fastened his cloak with a black fish wrought from gold and obsidian. His chainmail was dark gray, and his gauntlets, gorget, greaves, pauldrons, and knee guards were all forged of black iron—yet none of it was as dark as his face.
And the black fish upon his breast.
He waited at the end of the drawbridge, mounted on a chestnut warhorse dressed in crimson and azure.
He hates me, Tyrion thought. Tully's face was sharply cut, the features of a man weathered by years of wind and frost, deep lines etched beneath a tangle of coarse gray hair. But the fire in him was still there, the same that had once made him more dangerous—and far cleverer—than all of Lysa's knights at the Eyrie combined.
The horse's hooves clattered restlessly on the drawbridge planks. Tyrion shared a mount with Sansa, at Aunt Genna's insistence.
"So Brynden won't make a move on you," Aunt Genna had said. "With her beside you, he won't dare."
"If you two could act a bit more affectionate, it might soften the Blackfish's view of you," Daven had added. "If you ask me, you'd best take her soon—follow Lord Edmure's example."
Tyrion had shaken his head, trying to drive those words away. A libertine he might be, but he had his own rule: if it wasn't freely given, he would never take it by force.
Sansa sat behind him, arms wrapped lightly around his breastplate. "My lord, are you all right? Your face still looks terribly flushed."
"Nothing to worry about."
He reined in the horse a yard before Ser Brynden and gave the old knight a courteous nod.
"The Lust Demon," said Tully.
"Show me the respect I'm due in front of my betrothed," Tyrion replied. "And thank you for agreeing to this meeting."
"She is not your wife," the Blackfish said through gritted teeth. "Her father did not consent, her mother did not consent, and I will not consent."
"That's not for you to decide," Tyrion said, a faint smile curling at his lips. "We are both willing..."
"Bullshit," Blackfish snapped. "I could ride you down right now and drag you back. I promise you the dungeons of Riverrun are far more comfortable than those of the Eyrie."
"I wouldn't advise that. You might hurt the lady," Tyrion said calmly. "Thank you for your concern, Ser, but I must decline your invitation. My own tent is far more comfortable." He gave the sword hanging from his saddle a light pat—Ice.
"That's not your sword, you thief."
"I never claimed it was," Tyrion said. "I'm keeping it safe for my wife."
"You thief," the Blackfish growled. "You forced her daughter, stole her husband's sword. You sleep easy in your tent while Catelyn sleeps easy in her grave."
"I had nothing to do with Lady Catelyn's death," Tyrion replied evenly. "I came to negotiate for the living, not the dead. I came to save those who still can be saved—you, me, Sansa, Arya..."
He needed to remind the Blackfish that Arya was also in his custody.
"...and Edmure. Though that depends on me handing Riverrun over to you." Beneath those thick brows, the Blackfish's eyes were hard as stone. "No matter what I do, my nephew is doomed to die. So go on—hang him already. I imagine Edmure's grown tired of standing beneath that gallows, just as I've grown tired of watching him."
That was Ryman Frey's folly. The farce of Edmure and the gallows would only make the Blackfish more unyielding.
"I promised my wife..."
"She's not your wife!"
"My betrothed," Tyrion corrected, pausing before continuing when Blackfish didn't interrupt. "I promised her I'd spare Edmure."
"Why? You think the old Weasel would allow that?" Blackfish sneered. "Once the child is born—boy or girl—both Edmure and I are as good as dead. If it's a boy, the old weasel will rule Riverrun through him. If it's a girl, he'll marry her off to the young weasel."
"The Freys won't prevail," Tyrion said. "They broke the sacred laws of hospitality. As Warden of the Trident, it's my duty not only to restore peace but to uphold justice." Even as he spoke, he knew the words rang hollow.
"The Lannisters and the Freys already hold the Riverlands," Blackfish said coldly. "Why stage this farce? Do you really expect me to believe you?"
"I swear it on my honor."
"Your honor?" Ser Brynden raised an eyebrow. "Do you even know what honor is?"
"If you don't believe me, I'll swear it before everyone."
"Spare me, Lust Demon." Blackfish turned to Sansa. "This man's oaths are worth nothing. At your wedding, he'll swear before the gods to love you forever, then crawl into bed with the first lady who opens her legs for him."
The words struck Tyrion like a blade.
"I'll spare you," Tyrion said evenly. "Lower your banners, open your gates, and I'll spare every soul in Riverrun. If you recognize my title as Warden of the Rivers and obey my command, Edmure may remain Lord of Riverrun. We are kin, are we not?"
"Open the gates, and you'll storm in and butcher everyone. Edmure will hang, and I'll hang beside him. Lust Demon, my men would sooner die with swords in hand than kneel before an executioner."
"Don't be rash, Ser. The war is over. Your Young Wolf is dead."
"Dead?" Blackfish's voice hardened. "He was murdered by faithless traitors. You who trampled the laws of gods and guests alike will face divine judgment."
"The Freys did it, not me."
"Say what you like, but Tywin Lannister's stink is all over it."
Damn it. As expected.
"If you won't open the gates, my forces will keep this siege. Seagard and Maidenpool have already changed allegiance. House Bracken has bent the knee and sent men to besiege Tytos Blackwood's Raventree Hall. House Piper, House Vance, House Mooton—every vassal of House Tully has turned against you. Riverrun alone resists, and the army beneath your walls outnumbers your garrison twenty to one."
"Twenty times the army means twenty times the food. How long can your men last, Lord?"
"Until the end of the world—until every last one of you inside starves to death." Or until they eat through all of Frey's grain, Tyrion thought.
"Believe that, will I?" Blackfish scoffed. "You'll be attacking by tomorrow."
"I won't."
"Why not, Lord? You're the rising star of the Seven Kingdoms. The Battle of the Blackwater crushed Stannis. I've long looked forward to facing you," Blackfish said. "Tell me—five hundred against five hundred, could you beat the Freys in open field? Ha!"
"What are your terms?" Tyrion demanded.
"For you?" Ser Brynden shrugged. "I don't negotiate with you."
"Then why come to the table?"
"I wanted to see my niece's daughter." Brynden turned his gaze to Sansa. "Sansa, has he mistreated you?"
"No!" Tyrion felt the arms around his chestplate tighten.
"Ha! Did he tell you to say that?"
"I don't force women," Tyrion said. "If you wish, I can arrange for you to meet in private."
"You've finally done something manly—something other than bedding girls," Blackfish said, turning his horse. "I'll tie my answer to an arrow and shoot it into your camp. Pray the gods guide my aim so it doesn't strike you dead."