"Uncle."
Beneath the gallows, the Lord of Riverrun stood staring blankly at the noose. His bare feet were black with mud, his legs clad only in shorts, and the red-and-blue silks of House Tully on his body were filthy with grime. At the sound of footsteps, he slowly lifted his head and licked his cracked lips.
"Are you... Lust Demon?" Edmure Tully's eyes were vacant. "Sansa?"
Tyrion's betrothed and her sister followed behind him, with Brienne and Bronn close at their sides. He had left Greatjon in the tent—no need to frighten the Freys further.
"Brienne, would you kindly chop the rope?"
The Maid of Tarth raised her great axe. Though forged from common steel, it was long, heavy, and sharp as a razor.
Edmure's parched lips moved in a silent prayer. Eyes shut, he seemed to beg not to be struck by mistake. Brienne swung with all her strength—
"No! Stop, no!" Edwyn Frey came running, panting for breath—but too late. "My father's coming—he'll be here any moment! Tyrion, you can't—"
"You'll address me as 'my lord,' Frey," Tyrion said coolly, "and I don't ever want to hear you tell me 'no.'"
Ser Ryman Frey appeared soon after, staggering up the scaffold steps, a straw-haired prostitute hanging off his arm, as drunk as he was.
She wore a bronze crown engraved with runes, askew upon her head, small black swords jutting up from it like spikes. Seeing Tyrion, she giggled. "Seven hells, and who's this handsome lord?"
"Tyrion Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock, Lord of Harrenhal, Warden of the Riverlands." Tyrion stepped in front of the two Stark girls, blocking her view. "And who might you be, my lady?"
"Lady? I'm no lady—I'm the queen!"
"My sister would love to hear that," Tyrion said dryly.
"Lord Ryman crowned me himself," she said, shaking her ample hips. "I'm the Queen Dowager."
No, Tyrion thought. That title belongs to my sister too.
Ser Ryman finally found his tongue. "Shut your mouth, whore! Don't spout nonsense before Lord Tyrion."
The heir to House Frey had a broad, bloated face, small beady eyes, and a chin that hung in soft folds of trembling flesh. His breath stank of wine and onions—enough to make Tyrion gag.
"Well, Ser Ryman, so you're crowning queens now?" Tyrion sneered. "A fine bit of foolishness—just like the way you've handled Lord Edmure."
"I was warning the Blackfish!" Ryman protested. "I told him if he didn't surrender, I'd hang Edmure. I built the gallows to show that Ser Ryman Frey keeps his word. At Seagard, my son Walder threatened Patrek Mallister, and Lord Jason bent the knee. But... but that Blackfish is a cold-blooded beast—he refused to yield, so..."
"So you thought you'd hang Lord Edmure?" Tyrion said. You're no Black Walder.
Ryman flushed. "My grandfather said if we hang him, we lose our hostage. Have you thought of that, my lord?"
"Only a fool makes threats he can't carry out," Tyrion replied. "If I told you to shut your mouth or I'd strike you, what would you do?"
"My lord, you don't understand—"
Tyrion's whip cracked through the air. The blow wasn't hard, but it was enough to make Ser Ryman cry out and stumble backward, collapsing into the arms of his drunken queen.
"Brienne, drag him up. I think this execution block could use a wash of his blood."
Bronn's hand fell to his sword hilt. Ser Ryman Frey dropped to his knees with a thud. "I didn't violate any orders..."
"...apart from getting drunk and whoring, right?"
"I am heir to the Lord of the Crossing! You can't—"
"I already warned you." Tyrion watched with satisfaction as the man's face went pale and his body trembled like a leaf. Drunkard. Fool. Coward. If Lord Walder didn't outlive him, House Frey would be doomed without Tyrion needing to lift a finger. "You're dismissed, ser."
"Dismissed?"
"You heard me. Get out."
"But... but where am I supposed to go?"
"Go home or go to hell—it's all the same to me. But if you're still in this camp when the sun rises tomorrow, don't blame me for what happens next." Tyrion's voice was cold. "Take your so-called Queen Dowager with you. Leave the crown behind."
He turned his gaze on Ser Ryman's son. "Edwyn, your father's command is yours now. Try not to be as stupid as he is."
"Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord." Edwyn had started to speak in his father's defense, but the new command silenced him quickly.
"Lastly, send word to Lord Walder. As Warden of the Riverlands, I command him to deliver all prisoners to Riverrun." Tyrion waved a hand. "Brienne, would you release Lady Sansa's uncle?"
Brienne swung her blade and cut the rope. Edmure Tully collapsed face-first onto the gallows, the noose still hanging from his neck. The tall knight caught the rope and pulled him upright.
"A fish with a collar," Bronn chuckled. "Now there's a sigil I've never seen before."
The Frey men moved aside to let them pass. A crowd had gathered beneath the scaffold—among them at least a dozen camp prostitutes, half-dressed and watching with idle curiosity.
"None of you follow us!" Tyrion shouted. "You're forbidden from entering the Lannister camp!"
...
On the way back to the boat, no one spoke. Tyrion felt Sansa beside him, her hand gripping his. But once they'd left the Frey encampment and were rowing toward the Tumblestone's south bank, Edmure Tully caught his arm.
"Why?" he demanded.
Because a Lannister always pays his debts, Tyrion thought. And I made Sansa a promise. "Consider it my wedding gift to you."
Edmure blinked in confusion. "A... wedding gift?"
"Your wife must be quite the beauty. Everyone says so. Otherwise, how could you have slept through the night so soundly you didn't even notice your sister and the king being slaughtered?"
"I truly didn't know," Edmure muttered, licking his cracked lips. "There were violins playing outside the bedchamber..."
"And inside was Lady Roslin."
"She... she's innocent. Lord Walder and the others forced her. It wasn't her will. She kept crying, but I thought..."
"You thought she was terrified of your manhood?" Tyrion said dryly. "Speaking of bridal chambers—Sansa is now my betrothed."
"You two?" Edmure turned to stare at them in disbelief.
"Indeed." Tyrion nodded. "Surprised? Now you understand why I came to fetch you."
"Lady Sansa, you'll sit beside me tonight," he said, issuing orders as they reached the camp. "Pod, bring clean clothes—no lions on them. Arya, pour your Uncle Tully a cup of wine to steady him. Brienne, fetch Greatjon. We'll all dine together. Hungry, my lord?"
Edmure nodded hesitantly, suspicion still clouding his eyes.
"Good. Let's feast tonight," Tyrion said. "Bronn, have the men reinforce the camp. I don't want any Frey eyes prowling nearby."