"Was it like that in the old days, Will? Everybody riding out,
shooting, smoke everywhere, people yelling, bullets whizzing by?
"I guess so.
"Were you ever scared in those days?
"I can't remember. I was drunk most of the time.
Unforgiven
Tyrion correctly reasoned that old Frey would not pursue him if he ran away with his daughter, especially the one he was betrothed to. Moreover, Frey was only too happy with this outcome: it was one thing to have a wedding ceremony attended only by the numerous members of the Frey family, and then shake the parish registers if the angry Tywin refused to recognise his son's marriage, but it was quite another to have a scandalous elopement that would reverberate throughout the Riverlands. Old Frey understood perfectly well that his fertility, which he boasted about maliciously, only divided his inheritance, that he himself was growing old, and that his heir would not be able to keep the family together, holding it in unity like a tightly clenched fist. Within a generation, or two at most, the Freys risked becoming either an army of beggars, with whom the cruel owner of the Twins did not want to have anything to do, or a crowd of petty lords like the Flints, and the salvation of the family lay in hooking up with other families: marriages, military alliances, sending their wards there. The old Frey understood this, and he needed the Lannisters, and the Starks, and any powerful relatives. He would have sent a couple of his granddaughters to the dying Baratheon family, even as third wives or concubines, just to guarantee a long-term alliance. But Lord Tywin understood this too, and he certainly did not want the Freys solving their family problems at his expense. So let the young Lannister wander around Westeros with my latest foolish daughter, thought old Frey. Let him cause a scandal so that Tywin has no way back. Let Tywin even use the scandal to remove his son, who is guilty of it, from his presence," the Freys would gladly welcome the future heir of Casterly Rock into their home so that the future Lord Lannister would consider their family his own.
"Off to White Harbour, heh heh heh," predicted old Frey upon receiving word that Tyrion and Arvin had headed north. "The North is the only place with septs."
In this prediction, old Frey was wrong, because Tyrion passed the turn to White Harbor and headed further north to Winterfell, where he was well received and where there was also a sept.
Tom Seven, riding alongside Tyrion and Arvin, finally pieced together the fragments of legends clinging to her name, combined them with his own inventions and ravings, and amused the two with tales of heroic halflings who triumphed over ancient evils, over superior forces of pies and sausages, and over greedy relatives.
"It's dangerous to step outside: once you set foot on the road and let your legs carry you, there's no telling where you'll end up," said Tom, and, as luck would have it, he was right: several shabby men appeared on the road ahead, who considered the dwarf, the richly dressed girl, and the aging commoner to be easy prey.
"Oh well," said Tom Seven, cursing loudly, and young Arvin was offended not so much by his swearing as by the fact that he was going to spoil a wonderful deed and, instead of heroic exploits, wanted to beat someone up, not quite sure where, but very indecently. "Half-pint, I bet you have a foot soldier's sword, too?"
"No, I have a huge battle axe and a heavy shield," Tyrion snapped back. "Like in your fairy tales about dwarves who are as wide as they are tall.
"Then let's do this," Tom Seven-Fingers advised Tyrion. "We'll ride up to them, and you'll rear your horse up so it can kick them with its hooves.
"And if one of them stabs her in the belly, I'll have to walk?" asked Tyrion doubtfully.
"If any of them has enough self-control and experience to do that, we're all dead anyway..." And Tom Seven used another concise and accurate word that offended women's ears and other organs.
"Shut your mouth!" Arvin demanded. "And what you're suggesting is not at all knightly!
But several more men of the same bandit-like appearance appeared on the road, and Tom Seven was no longer in the mood for polite conversation.
"Shut up yourself!" Tom waved her away. "Because of you, we can't run away or surrender. We'd sing and drink, and then they'd kill them in their sleep at night. But they won't leave you alone in the evening.
"Don't swear, Tom," suggested Tyrion. "There are already nine of them. How will you face the gods with curses on your lips and the grievances of strangers in your heart?"
"All right," agreed Tom Seven, handing Arvin one of his throwing knives. "There must be two or three more behind us, near the road. If we fight well, they'll run there," Tom waved his hand towards where the robbers were standing. "Then you ride back and don't look back."
"I'll bring help," Arvin promised, forgetting all about the idea of settling the matter with a duel, as the heroic King Lionel had done. Neither Tyrion nor Tom, with his peasant's axe behind his back, were any good at fighting, although Arvin was greatly mistaken about Tom.
"You won't bring anyone," Tom Seven answered harshly. "The nearest castle is a day and a half away. Hide the dagger. You know what they'll do to you if they pull you off your horse. Don't resist at first, but decide whether you're keeping the knife for yourself or for him."
Tom and Tyrion rode ahead, and little Arvin stayed behind, feeling goose bumps running down her back, where she was sure the eyes of several bandits were fixed on her, just as Tom had promised. All this was nothing like the battles described in books, or the fight between Barristan the Brave and the noble bandit Simon Toyn, or the duel between Arthur Dayne and the Smiling Knight, or even the exploits of the halflings in Tom Seven's tall tales. "The halfling's heart was filled with pity and admiration, and the slowly smouldering courage of his tribe awoke in him..." No courage awoke in her, and even if it had, what good would it have done? How could she help them with just a short knife?
Ahead, Tom and Tyrion had almost reached the mockingly smiling bandits when Tom suddenly let out a yell, the horses reared up, and, except for two trampled by hooves, two more fell to the grass between the tracks, stabbed in the stomach by Tom. Tyrion struck someone on the head with his short sword, and a second man awkwardly grabbed his leg from behind, but Tyrion struck back with his sword, falling on his wounded enemy. Tom, meanwhile, was holding his own much better: he was spinning his horse in place, and all the blows were landing on the horse. One of the opponents was already lying on the ground, clutching his pierced head with his hands, the second had almost lost his arm, and Arwin did not see what had become of the third because she herself had been pulled from the saddle.
Probably, a noble lady, finding herself in the arms of a stinking robber, should have spat in his face and turned away proudly, but Arvin jerked, clamped her teeth into his cheek, and her attacker lost his balance, landing them both in a puddle on the side of the road. Arvin beat the robber with her hands, taking advantage of the fact that they were both covered by her lush dress, and it was probably here that the courage of her tribe came into play, because Arvin remembered the dagger and managed to stab him twice, though she didn't know where, before she was dragged away by her hair.
If Arvin could hope for help, it was from the seasoned minstrel, but when she was pulled to her feet, she saw Tyrion riding towards her. He was without a sword, and his right arm hung down along his body, but he used his body as a projectile, flying out of the saddle straight at the bandit holding Arvin and crying out in pain from his broken arm. The next second, Arvin was lying on the ground next to Tyrion and the bandit. Tyrion clutched his throat with his left hand, giving Arwin a chance to escape. The bandit beat him in the face, and Arwin, luckily for Tyrion, thought to poke her opponent in the eyes with her fingers, then remembered the dagger she had not dropped.
Tom Seven's horse, wounded several times, did not allow Tom to reach them quickly enough to help, but they held out long enough for Tom Seven to kill the third of Arwin's guards with another thrown dagger before he could draw his bow, and then finish off the other two, whom Arwin had just wounded, with blows from his axe.
Tyrion and Arwin, whom he had saved, dirty and dishevelled, looked at each other, half-lying in the grass, and laughed hysterically. Arwin was only fifteen, and for Tyrion, it was the first fight of his life, in which he had not expected to survive.
"I bet my royal nephew looked about the same after his glorious battle with the Mountain's men, even if they don't write about it in the books," Tyrion finally said, pulling himself together.
"About the same," agreed Tom Seven. "Except he wasn't wounded, even though he was fighting soldiers, not this rabble, but then again, he was wearing armour."
"What do we do?" Tyrion asked Tom as he got to his feet, and Tom thought with respect that the dwarf had a weak body but a strong will.
"The same thing he did," replied Tom Seven, slinging his axe over his shoulder. "We'll finish off the wounded so the wolves don't eat them alive tonight. And then, alas, my friends, it looks like we'll have to put our wounded horses out of their misery.
The inspection of the horses ended with only Arvin's horse remaining alive," a small horse ridden by Tyrion, which one of the bandits had managed to strike in the side with a sword, and Tyrion said a touching farewell to it. "He's no knight," thought Arvin, watching Tyrion limp away, turning away from his horse and wiping away tears. "But he has a kind and selfless heart." And perhaps it was then that Arvin first realised that true heroism does not lie in saving a lady by rushing headlong into enemies who are your equals in strength, armour, and skill, but in throwing yourself from your horse onto your attacker with a broken arm, unable to do anything else but willing to trade your life for theirs.
Tyrion remained true to the noble courtesy that dictates that in such a situation, a lady should ride the only horse.
"Get on," Arvin said unexpectedly. "You are wounded, and I am not."
Arwyn had only a broken finger, which Tyrion, who happened to be skilled in healing, easily set, while he himself spent a long time, sighing, tying straight branches to his broken arm to set the fracture, and Arwin had to help him, during which she began to feel his pain, and Tyrion's jokes that if the arm healed incorrectly, it would simply be as crooked as everything else, no longer seemed funny to Arwin.
"It'll be easier on the arm if I shake it myself instead of the horse," Tyrion replied, but Tom Seven intervened and categorically interrupted this display of nobility, which he considered inappropriate.
"If you hobble along yourself, we'll be dragging ourselves to the inn for three days," Tom said rudely but truthfully to Tyrion. "You can't sit on a horse without your saddle, and it's not a good idea to change horses now. We'll be lucky if it's wolves that come out here, not the convicts' friends. So get on, both of you, you in front, and you hold him tight under the saddle, and no courtly manners, he can't brace himself with his feet or hold on with his knees.
"Does it hurt a lot?"" Arvin asked after a few minutes, hugging Tyrion around the waist and leaning towards his golden hair.
"No," Tyrion replied through clenched teeth: his hand was aching and twitching, and felt as if it were filled with molten metal. "I'm in exactly as much pain as I should be.
"I wish I knew how to make poppy milk," Arvin whispered.
"No, you're not," Tyrion disagreed. "After poppy milk, I'd fall off my horse, and if you managed to hold me, I wouldn't want to sleep through it.
"Now I don't have to worry about that," Tyrion finished his sentence in his mind, gradually overcoming his embarrassment at the fact that the girl he had saved was supposed to be riding in the arms of her saviour, and not the other way around — he liked riding in this position too, he couldn't even believe that he was being hugged by his future wife and not just another whore.
"You know, if all battles and victories look like this, I'll be glad if you have fewer of them," Arwin admitted half an hour later, noticing the cold sweat on Tyrion's forehead and how his small, tense body trembled every time the horse stumbled or lost its footing.
"I completely agree with you on that," replied the undaunted Tyrion. "I would much rather perform the other feats of dwarves that old Tom told us about: for example, I am ready to bravely deal with pies and ale or heroically win a quarrel with those, what are they called, Sackville-Bagginses.
They did not reach the inn until nightfall, but they were given a warm welcome: the old innkeepers had not forgotten the generous and cheerful little Tyrion who had passed through not long before.
"Well, you got here little by little," said the innkeeper, coming out with a lantern to meet them. "Let me take another look at your wonderful saddle, little lord.
The host shone the lantern on his guests and even whistled.
"Who did this to you?" the host asked sadly. "And your horses are ruined. But the main thing is that you rescued the girl from those villains, that's the most important thing."
The innkeeper helped Tirion and Arwin dismount, greeted Tom Seven, who had stayed with him many times before, in a friendly manner, and then even managed to have a quiet chat with his old wife in the hallway. The old woman took a keen interest in Arwin, gently half-hinting that Arvin had not been in the hands of the robbers and that what unfortunately happens to young, pretty girls who fall into their captivity had not happened to her. Breathing a sigh of relief, the old woman helped Arvin clean herself up and comb her hair, cheerfully wrapping a colourful shawl around her torn skirt and leading her to the clean half of the room, where the master had already seated Tirion at the table, while Tom Seven was drinking milk from a jug and washing his knives and axe in a small tub to remove the blood.
"Well, maybe it's just as well that the boy cut the rest of them down," said the innkeeper to his old wife. "Whatever you say, it would have been better if he'd taken the ones the boys put to rest today.
"Forgive me, little lord, for not warning you the first time," the innkeeper said to Tyrion. "I thought they had all been killed then, there were so many of them, chopped up and mangled, I still can't bear to think about it. My old wife and I went to bury them, and our boy, the one in the stable, was with us. A couple of months before you arrived, a healthy young knight rode through here on his way north. He had black hair, blue eyes, and hands as broad and hairy as a bear's. He was accompanied by two girls, one red-haired and one dark-haired.
Tyrion and Arvin exchanged glances, because each recognized the description of the young king and the Stark sisters, about whom stories were already circulating, and Tom grunted, wiping his weapon and anticipating a good story about the king travelling incognito.
"They slept here, where we'll make up your beds, the girls on the bed and him on the floor," continued the host, "what really happened there is none of our business. I just told him last night that things were a bit unsettled around here and that they should wait for more travellers. It's not about the money, but these villains were really too much, they even took money from us and said, 'We're not taking everything, but don't tell anyone about us. What sin is there in that? He's just one guy, and the girls, even if they're fierce and armed, what can they do? But he just said to me, "I'll sort it out."
The next day, I didn't even have time to get up, and he was already on his feet, in full armour, drinking wine from a skin like water. His face was pale, his eyes icy, his lips a thin line: "I told you: I'll sort it out." He mounted his horse and rode off into the forest, and it seemed to me that two wolves followed him. That's when I was stunned: should I wake the girls, or ride to the village and raise all the men, because he had gone alone against such a gang, and I couldn't even imagine such a thing. Half an hour later, there was a wolf's howl from the forest — I sat down on a bench and felt that I was too late. When the girls woke up, they cursed me, but I didn't hear half of it, I blamed myself for his fate. And when I looked at them, I thought, just keep them here, don't let them run after him, then I thought, I'd rather live alone than have such a fierce little girl. An hour later, thank God, he came back, and I saw clearly that there were two wolves with him. The older one rushed to him, deftly dug her toes into his leggings so that their heads were level, kissed him, looked into his eyes, and I just thought: how can she not be afraid of him, he's covered in blood.
"We took a sin upon our souls, but not the one we thought," confirmed the mistress. "When we went to clean them up, every last one of them was still alive, my eyes went blurry: how many had he killed! He trampled the sleepy ones with his horse, and those he found without trousers, he hacked to pieces. Two are lying face down in the fire, the smell of burnt flesh fills the forest, and they lie so neatly, as if he had arranged them himself. Or maybe he did arrange them that way. He tied the chieftain to two birch trees by his feet, and he was torn in two, the murderer, right down the middle. Others lie with their throats torn out, either from fighting with wolves or from his own hands. What a terrible man. I saw his eyes only once in the morning, but I will never forget them until the day I die.
"Our villains, young and old, met a cruel, cruel death at his hands," confirmed the owner, seeing that it was difficult for his wife to remember the battlefield, which by the standards of Tom Seven or Toros would have been worthy of legends and songs. "What about the boys who joined them? He didn't spare them either, didn't take a single one prisoner. He would have sent them to the lord, to the Wall. Then there were traces of his spurs in the clearing and nearby in the forest. So he walked there through pools of blood, chasing after those who were crawling away, interrogating a few, giving some a quick death and feeding others to the wolves.
"He did not kill for you, but for his companions," Tyrion reassured the hosts, who were apparently still remorseful for having sent even bandits against such a demon, whom his nephew had driven to such deeds against simple, peaceful people. "The three of them needed to pass, and he attacked the bandits before they attacked him.
Tyrion himself, who was too young to have known Lionel in his prime, let alone seen him in action, somehow thought that perhaps the titles "Demon of the Trident, fiercest warrior in the realm" bestowed upon Robert Baratheon by rumour were not entirely exaggerated. Perhaps he was just that: a fierce demon, uncontrollable, merciless and terrifying in bloody battle. Perhaps Robert's son had inherited his animal blood, which came out in battle and under the influence of wine.
"That's what I'm afraid of, little lord," admitted the host. "I didn't tell him how many people that gang had killed, how many women they had tortured, he had no quarrel with them. So why did he slaughter them like that? Or take you, for example: they had you up against the wall, it was either them or you. But he was just in a hurry to get through, and nearly thirty people had to die because of it. And he had been calm and quiet all evening, and then the girl begged him with her kisses, and he left a man. No, he's a terrible man, I don't know how we'll meet him when he comes back, unless he sails away from Dreadfort.
"I think a man with his combat experience knows what to expect from bandits," Tyrion interjected on his nephew's behalf. "And why they all deserve to die."
"Perhaps, my lord, that is so," agreed the old woman. "But I would not only refuse to share a bed with such a man, I would not even want him as a neighbour. It would be like living under the same roof as a bear.
"Yes, yes, a true bear," the master agreed with his wife. "He had eyes like a bear when he was drunk. Small, but attentive. He stares and stares, and then he swipes his paw unnoticed, and half your head is gone. But what does it matter to us? We don't live with him. He'll spend one more night here, and then, God willing, we'll never see him again. Who knows what his girls are like? Even the oldest one looked at me angrily a couple of times, as if she too was one of those who would feed a living person to the wolves out of spite. And the younger one won't be afraid of him at all, I've already seen it. At first she just shrugged her shoulders at him, as if to say, you promised you wouldn't drink, and then, when he started telling us what happened in the forest, I moved away, but I saw her eyes light up. If he were ten years older, I would have thought she was his daughter, he sat there like a wild beast with his cub, both of them strangers to each other.
Tyrion and Tom lay down on the floor, leaving Arvin the bed, but in the middle of the night Arvin woke up, heard Tyrion tossing and turning, in pain from his broken arm and unable to find a comfortable position, and took him to her bed.
"It will be easier for you," Arvin whispered, her feminine care beginning to show. "And you are safe now."
"Today, definitely," Tyrion admitted with a smile.
Sleep would not come to his head, which was ringing with pain, and the bed quickly became hot, so Tyrion was very glad that Arwin had not fallen back asleep. Tyrion loved talking in the dark: his voice sounded like that of a normal person, and his conversation partner, or rather conversation partners, might have thought they were talking to someone who was not a freak.
"Did they talk about the king?" Arwin asked. "About your nephew?"
"Yes," Tyrion replied briefly, sensing that Arwin liked the fact that he was the king's uncle, and disliking the fact that she seemed to want to use him to get into the royal family. "He's actually a good and kind boy when he's not angry or drunk. He's just not a tournament knight; he's been trained to fight and kill since he was a child."
Arvin thought about Tyrion's words for a while: what were the shining knights of the Kingsguard like, such as Aemon the Dragon, Arthur Dayne or Barristan Selmy? Were they like in the songs, or scary and cruel, as the old masters told about Lionel? After all, they were chosen for the guard as those who would best protect the king's life. That is, as those who would kill best for him. "Woe would have befallen the Usurper if we had been at the Trident," rumour has it that Sir Gerold, nicknamed the White Bull, said proudly. He said this standing next to Arthur Dayne and Oswell Wenth before falling in battle against Lord Eddard Stark and his six friends, and it apparently meant that in order to tip the battle in Rhaegar's favour, Sir Gerold, Sir Arthur and Sir Oswell would kill as many men-at-arms and soldiers as King Lionel had killed the robbers in the clearing. But in the battle with Eddard's friends, they killed only five and all three were killed, and the harsh Guardian of the North, who personally cut off the heads of those he had sentenced to death, returned to Winterfell, where Tyrion is now taking her.
"Is that what happens to you when you drink?" Arvin asked Tyrion naively, remembering how he had tried to drown the pain in his arm by emptying one mug of beer after another that evening.
"No," Tyrion smiled in the darkness. "I'm funny when I'm sober and when I'm drunk."
"That's good," Arwin sighed with relief. "The old people are right, I couldn't live with someone like the king either. The Starks have wolf blood, they know neither fear nor mercy. The Tullys have fire running through their veins instead of blood, their love is not rational..."
"Let's skip the people's opinion on where the Lannisters get their gold," suggested Tyrion, cheered up.
"And they say that we Freys are hot-tempered," Arwyn shared. "You know, it's a good thing you're not a knight. I'll stay away from the king, too. I'll say something rash in front of him and wake up with my head in my hands."
"I don't think it will come to that," Arwin reassured Tyrion, silently picturing the vivid image of "his own head in outstretched hands." "Lionel knows how to laugh at the nonsense women talk. But I'm more interested in something else: is your tongue only hot when you're swearing?
Tyrion, who was in love, was even ready to do something a little unsightly: lean slightly on Arvin, taking advantage of the fact that she couldn't push him away, afraid of hurting his arm, and steal a few kisses from her, which he had long dreamed of," but Arvin herself found his lips in the darkness.
***
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