Harroway's Town was the fief of House Roote, whose sigil bore a brown two-headed horse upon a green wave.
Such a design likely dated back to the old kings of Andalos, for the ferry of Harroway's Town was once described as the king's two-headed water horse.
Alas, Ser Lucas Roote was most likely dead, and his town had been swept away by the Trident. Was this what the end of a house looked like?
Tyrion's horse slogged through the mud. There were no sentries in sight, no patrols on watch—only a few broken houses spilling firelight and the raucous shouts of men drinking and gambling.
"Is that all?" Greatjon scoffed. "If not for their treacherous betrayal, these fools wouldn't have won a single battle."
"A man can win every battle and still lose the war," Tyrion replied, slowing his horse as he scanned the crooked street. "We should look for the biggest, brightest, and loudest house."
It wasn't hard to find. Petyr Frey was never one to hide his excess. Perhaps he felt safe, with Darry Castle so near and the Brotherhood Without Banners so far away—distance had a way of creating the illusion of safety.
"You, check behind the house—see if there's another way in." Tyrion dismounted, his boots squelching in the mud. "I'll go first. Lord Umber follows me. If I shout, five of you come inside. If I stay quiet, wait outside."
The door was still in decent shape. Tyrion pushed it open, and warm firelight flooded over him. Meat roasted on the hearth, and men sat about drinking and laughing over their games.
No one noticed his entrance. They were too lost in their drunken revelry.
Two men sat by the table—one had passed out, the other slumped in a corner. Before the fire stood a large sofa. On it sat a man with his back to the door, a woman astride him—no, not a woman, a camp whore.
"Petyr?"
Tyrion called out. The man turned his head—it was Petyr Pimple, his scarred face flushed crimson like a peeled pomegranate, eyes bloodshot and glassy with drink.
"Who?"
He didn't recognize him? Tyrion almost laughed. Should have taken his hand too, he thought. That might've left a stronger impression.
Just then, Greatjon stepped through the doorway, his head nearly brushing the ceiling—like a giant among men.
"Ah!" Petyr's mouth opened, but the sound caught in his throat, strangled by fear and drink.
"What's wrong, my lord?" the whore asked, still wearing that painted mask of pleasure—until she noticed the intruders.
Before she could scream, Greatjon strode forward, the floorboards thudding beneath his heavy boots. The drunk slumped over the table began to stir, but before he could lift his head, Tyrion drew Ice, gripped it in both hands, and brought it down—clean and swift.
The first head I take with Ice belongs to a nameless drunk, Tyrion thought. The poor wretch's skull, hard as bone, parted like butter beneath Valyrian steel. The body hit the ground with a heavy thud, blood gushing from the torn artery.
The floor beneath them creaked and squelched, slick with blood and mud.
Before the whore could scream, Greatjon struck her across the face, knocking her unconscious. He then slung Petyr over his shoulder like a suckling pig. The pockmarked man hung limp and naked, his manhood shriveled and unseen—much like his courage.
Another drunk staggered upright, his limbs trembling, mouth slack. He fumbled for his sword but couldn't draw it.
Tyrion swung Ice again. The blade split his skull with such force that Tyrion's wrist ached from the shock.
"Clean work," Greatjon said, unhooking the war pick from his belt with one hand. He swung it down, crushing another drunk's head like a melon.
The man huddled in the corner tried to crawl away, but one of the soldiers lunged forward and drove a short spear through his chest. He writhed longer than the others. Tyrion almost granted him mercy with Ice—but the man had already fouled himself, and Tyrion had no wish to step in his filth.
"Three minutes. Search again. Leave no survivors," Tyrion ordered. "Don't spare the whore either—she might recognize Greatjon."
"We should burn this house down," Greatjon suggested.
"Destroy the evidence? No need. We're here to spread fear." Tyrion shook his head, picking up Petyr's trousers to wipe the blood from his sword. "Would Thoros of Myr burn houses after killing his foes? I doubt it. He may enjoy playing with fire, but I don't think he'd burn down a peasant's home."
When he finished wiping the blade clean, he realized he was trembling. So this was what they called battle fever. He had struck Rodrik at the Eyrie, fought at the Green Fork, commanded at the Blackwater—but cutting a man down himself, this was his first time. Jaime had described it often, but Tyrion had never imagined truly feeling it.
"You feel no pain from your wounds, no weight from your armor, no sweat in your eyes. In that moment, you stop feeling altogether. You stop thinking. You're no longer yourself. There's only the fight—only your enemies. One, then the next, then the next. They grow tired and afraid, while you feel alive and strong. Even with death at your shoulder, you fear neither their slow blades nor their shouts. You move lightly, laugh, and dance among them."
Better to swing the sword now than on the battlefield.
"Lord Umber, would you take a look at me? See if I'm hurt?" Tyrion asked. "Sometimes adrenaline makes me feel no pain." He, of course, had no idea what adrenaline was.
Greatjon stared at him like he was some kind of monster, his glare saying everything.
What nonsense are you spouting?
Five minutes later, they began their ride back to Darry. Greatjon wanted to drag the pockmarked man behind his horse, but Tyrion stopped him. Petyr held a high place in the line of succession for the Twins—he would make a fine piece of bait.
At Darry's gate, Lyonel stood waiting with a torch in hand, flanked by soldiers.
"Lyonel, well done," Tyrion said as he dismounted.
"Mother ordered me to serve you faithfully, my lord," Lyonel Frey said, taking the reins. "All went well?"
"All went well," Tyrion replied. "Tomorrow at dawn, take your men to Harroway's Town. Take command of Petyr's troops and supplies. As for Lord Petyr, pretend to inspect his wounds carefully, then say it was the work of the Brotherhood Without Banners."
"As you command, my lord."
"Lord Jon Umber," Tyrion said, turning to him, "what shall we do with the prisoner? Do you want to torture him?"
"No. I'll give him a quick death—to ease the hatred in my heart."
Greatjon hurled the pitiful captive to the ground. The pockmarked man landed hard, twisting and writhing as though his spine had snapped.
"But I can tell you still have a use for him."
"Quite right." Tyrion kicked Petyr lightly. "He's a good bargaining chip—but not for Walder Frey."
...
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