Game of Thrones: I Created the Magic Web

Please bear with me, everyone. I will try my best to make up for the delays before 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 exhaustion. On the breast of his torn, sleeveless surcoat, dried blood obscured the spotted boar of House Crakehall.

One of your two sons, Tyrion thought. He sipped his wine and said nothing, thinking of Jaime. The pain that shot up his arm from his elbow reminded him of the taste of battle as he raised his hand. Though he loved his brother, he would not wish to be with him in the Whispering Wood again, not for all the gold in Casterly Rock.

The lords and commanders Father had summoned quieted to hear the messenger’s account. In the wide, airy common room of the inn, only the firewood crackling in the hearth could be heard.

After a long, forced march south, the thought of resting at an inn, even for only one night, had greatly heartened Tyrion… though he had secretly hoped it would not be this same inn, filled with memories. Father had ordered them to travel at a pace that exhausted them, resulting in heavy losses. The wounded in war who could not keep up were left to fend for themselves. Each morning when they set out, some were always left by the roadside, falling asleep never to wake again; in the afternoon, others collapsed on the road, utterly exhausted; and by night, still others deserted, disappearing into the darkness, and Tyrion himself had been tempted to join them.

Moments before, he had been upstairs, lying on a soft, comfortable feather bed, embracing Shae’s warm body. But his squire had rushed in to shake him awake, reporting that someone had ridden in with important news from Riverrun. He immediately understood that they had made a wasted journey. A frantic rush south, an endless march, and corpses left by the roadside… all for nothing. Robb Stark had lifted the siege of Riverrun days ago.

“How could this be?” Ser Harys Swyft groaned. “How could this be? Even after the battle in the Whispering Wood, Riverrun was still completely surrounded by our forces… What in the world was Ser Jaime thinking, dividing his forces into three separate encampments? Surely he knew the risks involved?”

He knows more than you, you chinless craven, Tyrion thought. Even though Jaime had lost Riverrun, hearing his brother slandered by the likes of Swyft filled him with anger. Swyft was a shameless sycophant whose greatest achievement in life was marrying his own chinless daughter to Ser Kevan, thereby becoming related to the Lannisters.

“I would have done the same,” his uncle replied, with a calmness Tyrion knew he could never have mustered. “Ser Harys, you have not seen Riverrun, or you would understand that Jaime had no choice. Riverrun sits at the point of a triangle where the Tumblestone flows into the Red Fork, a tributary of the Trident. The rivers form two sides of the triangle, and when danger threatens, the Tullys open the sluice gates upstream to create a wide moat on the third side, turning Riverrun into an island in the river. The walls rise high from the water, and the defenders can see for leagues in every direction from the towers. To cut off all support, a besieger must place one army north of the Tumblestone, one south of the Red Fork, and one west of the moat, between the two rivers. There is no other way.”

“My lords, Ser Kevan speaks truly,” the messenger said. “Our men had ringed the camps with sharpened stakes, but it was not enough, not when the river rose without warning and cut our camps off from each other. They struck the northern camp first, catching us completely unawares. Previously, Marq Piper had been harassing our supply trains, but he only had fifty or sixty men. The night before the attack, Ser Jaime himself led a force to deal with them… Alas, we thought Piper was the target. We had heard that the Stark host was still south, east of the Green Fork, marching south…”

“What of your scouts?” Ser Gregor Clegane’s face was like a stone carving, the firelight giving his skin a lurid orange cast and throwing deep shadows into the hollows of his eyes. “Did they see nothing? Give you no warning?”

The blood-spattered messenger shook his head. “Our scouting parties have been disappearing of late. We thought it was the work of Marq Piper. Those few who returned said they saw nothing.”

“Seeing nothing means he has no need of eyes,” the Mountain declared. “Dig them out and give them to the next scout, tell him: I hope four eyes can see better than two… and if he still fails, the one after will have six.”

Lord Tywin Lannister turned to study Ser Gregor, and Tyrion saw a glint of gold in his father’s eyes, but he could not tell whether it was approval or disgust. Lord Tywin usually kept silent at meetings, preferring to listen to others before speaking, a habit Tyrion had always tried to emulate. But even for Father, this silence was unusual; he had not even touched his wine.

“You say they attacked at night?” Ser Kevan asked.

The messenger nodded wearily. “The vanguard was led by the Blackfish. They cut down our sentries and cleared the stakes to allow the main force to attack. By the time our men realized what was happening, their cavalry had already crossed the ditches and were charging into the camp with swords and torches. I was sleeping in the western camp, between the two rivers. When our men heard the fighting and saw the tents ablaze, Lord Brax led them onto rafts to try to cross over and help. But the current was swift, and it swept us downstream. The Tully men spotted us and opened fire with the trebuchets on the walls. I saw one raft smashed to pieces, and three others overturned, the men swept into the river and drowned… And those who did manage to cross found the Stark men waiting for them on the other side.”

Ser Flement Brax, wearing a surcoat of silver and purple, looked incredulous. “My father, my lord father—?”

“My lord, I am sorry,” the messenger said. “Lord Brax was in full plate and mail when his raft capsized. He was a brave man.”

He was a fool, Tyrion thought, swirling the wine in his goblet and staring into the vortex. Fully armored, crossing a swift river on a flimsy raft in the middle of the night to attack an enemy waiting on the other side—if that was bravery, he would rather be a coward every time. He wondered if Lord Brax had felt particularly brave as his heavy armor dragged him down into the black depths?

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