Chapter 59

The Small Council meeting had been hastily arranged, he could see. Even Joffrey was in attendance this time, with a barely disguised look of joy on his face. A nice change from his usual looks of confusion or hatred, Tyrion supposed. Though he was immediately on guard about what it meant. Was something about to happen to him? Had his father finally decided to exile him somewhere? The smile on Cersei's face did little to ease his concerns.

Just what had happened to make the boy king so happy?

"Killed a few puppies today?" Tyrion asked as he took a seat. He'd meant it sarcastically, but there was a part of him who thought that Joffrey seriously might have. Especially after what he had done to Ros.

"Show him." Joffrey said excitedly. Pycelle made to hand Tyrion a scroll before dropping it, no doubt on purpose. He shot the man a look of pure contempt as he picked it up. Pycelle's pettiness was something that could only be matched by Cersei.

Tyrion unfolded the scroll. "'Roslin caught a fine fat trout. Her brothers gave her a trio of wolf pelts and a pair of antlers for her wedding. Signed, Walder Frey'." He arched an eyebrow as he finished reading. Walder Frey? Something had happened at the Twins, no doubt, but sometimes the Westerosi obsession with sigils went too far "Is any of that supposed to mean something to me?"

Joffrey's eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his head with glee. "Steffon is dead!" He exlaimed. "So is his whore wife. And Robb Stark and their bitch mother." He turned to Pycelle. "Send word to Walder Frey; thank him for his service and command him to send Robb Stark's head." An evil smile crossed his face. "I'm going to have it served to Sansa at my wedding feast."

"Your Grace, Lady Sansa is your aunt by marriage." Varys reminded him. Tyrion could've told him that this was going to end badly; the boy never listened to advice.

"A joke." Cersei added. "He did not mean it."

Oh yes he did.

"Yes I did."

There it is.

"I'm going to have it served to Sansa at the wedding feast." He repeated in that insistent yet whiny voice of his.

"No." Tyrion said, prompting a stunned look from Joffrey. "She is no longer yours to torment." And she never would be again, if he had anything to say about it. The poor girl had suffered enough at their hands.

"EVERYONE IS MINE TO TORMENT!" Joffrey shouted. "You'd do well to remember that, you little monster."

"Monster? Well, best be careful. Monsters are dangerous, and it seems that kings are dying like flies."

It was a veiled threat, to be sure. Tyrion was not a man accustomed to having strict moral lines given his background with whores, but there was only so much he could stomach, and Sansa was still a girl in her teenage years. Not to mention the fact that she had been ruthlessly tortured by his sister and nephew for several years; he had no desire to force her into anything.

Joffrey proceeded to make some idle threat about cutting Tyrion's tongue out, and of course Cersei was immediately by his side, along with the lickspittle Pycelle saying the exact words he needed to get into her good graces.

"I AM THE KING!" Joffrey shouted suddenly. Tyrion couldn't help but notice that Vary had jerked his head back; perhaps spittle had flown from Joffrey's mouth in his rage. It certainly wouldn't be the first time. "I will punish you."

"Any man who must say 'I am the king' is no true king." Tywin said, rolling his eyes. "I'll make sure you understand that when I've won your war for you."

"My father won the real war!" Joffrey retorted, before carrying on about Robert's Rebellion

Part of Tyrion was frightened of what his father's next action might be, but part of him was amused as well. With a bit of luck, the boy might finally get what had been coming to him.

"The King is tired. See him to his chambers." Tywin ordered. "And perhaps some Essence of Nightshade to help him sleep." There was always an implicit threat whenever Tywin Lannister spoke that deliberately.

"I'M NOT TIRED!" Joffrey yelled. Tyrion was right; the whole thing had been rather amusing. Humiliatingly, Joffrey was escorted from the chamber moments later by Cersei. Varys, Pycelle and Baelish followed them, though they would soon be off to scheme or plot.

He turned to his father "You just sent the most powerful man in Westeros to bed without his supper."

"You're a fool if you think he's the most powerful man in Westeros." Tywin replied.

"Walder Frey is not the sort of man who would act on his own. He would've needed assurances." Tyrion said. He already had an idea of what had happened.

"Which he got." Tywin replied.

"The Northerners will never forget."

"Good. Let them remember the price of treason." Tywin read over the raven's message again.

"Something else?" Tyrion asked.

"It's Steffon." Tywin said. "We know Robb Stark and Catelyn Stark are dead; we were sent their cloaks as proof."

Tyrion supposed that was reasonable. The cloaks of the Lord of Winterfell and his Lady Mother would no doubt be of a finer quality. 'And Steffon?"

"No such proof." He admitted. "Which means we have to assume that he is still alive."

That was a dangerous possibility, Tyrion had to admit. Steffon, completely unshackled, could turn out to be a disaster for the crown and every other noble family in Westeros. "And if he decides he has nothing left to lose . . ."

"Precisely." Tywin replied. "I said some time back that I might've declared for Steffon if you hadn't been taken prisoner by Catelyn Stark. He possesses far better qualities than that boy." He said, referring to Joffrey. "And without proof of his death, we must assume that he is alive, as I said."

"Which means we now have an enemy who will never surrender." Tyrion added.

Tywin gave him a dark look.

Sansa has received word of the massacre via overheard chatter from Shae. Robb, her mother, her sister . . . all dead. Murdered by that treacherous bastard Walder Frey. She stared out of the window of the chamber she shared with Tyrion, trying to force herself to think that there was no way Robb or Arya would have died without a fight. Deep down though, she knew that they had been taken by surprise; if the entire Northern army had been present at the Twins then they were likely too drunk to draw their swords and were cut open without mercy.

Then it hit her like a warhammer. She was the only Stark left. Robb was dead. Her father was dead. Bran and Rickon were dead. Arya was dead and so was her mother. The last scion of the ancient family that had ruled the North since Bran the Builder was her; a stupid little girl with stupid dreams of a rosy future that would never have happened.

She cursed herself for her stupidity. She knew she had been responsible for all of this by sending that damn letter. If she hadn't sent it, the war might never have happened and her family would still be alive. Joffrey and Steffon never would've been forced onto opposite sides of the war.

Steffon was likely dead as well, just for some more agony for her.

She looked out the window. They were up high enough, surely. All it would take was a couple of steps and that would be the end of it all. There were no guards around either; none of them would be allowed in the chambers, no doubt. It wasn't as if Tywin Lannister cared about his dwarf son.

She knew her life was forfeit now. Her only function was her name. The Lannisters would be able to use her claim to Winterfell as their right to rule the North when the time came to move there. No doubt the Northern houses that betrayed Robb would also be given a reward for murdering her brother as well. Violation of guest right . . . it was a sin that could not be forgiven under any circumstances; she had heard the story of the Rat Cook when she was younger, just like each of her siblings. It was one of the laws that had been held so dear in the North . . .

Perhaps she could kill him. Tyrion. It wouldn't take much. A letter opener slid across his throat while he slept. She'd have to take her own life immediately afterwards, of course, and it was unlikely that it was a blow that any of the other cruel people would care about, but she knew that it would deny Winterfell to them. That was worth her life. It was worth it to be reunited with her family again. The first thing she would do when she met them on the other side would be to fall on her knees and beg their forgiveness for every foolish thing that she had done that had resulted in this.

And at least she'd have killed a Lannister.

She was interrupted at that moment by the door opening.

"Sansa . . ." It was Tyrion. Among the last people she wanted to see right now.

She merely fixed him with a look before turning back to look out the window. She could step off the ledge right now. A split second of pain when she hit the ground, and then it would all be over. Anything had to be better than this. Anything.

I was so stupid . . . this is all my fault . . .

It would be better if I were dead.

The trek through the North had been a long one, and Gendry knew he had to take a chance to get away soon, otherwise he wouldn't get the opportunity. The others were watching him like hawks, waiting for any sign of disloyalty. Living among them had changed things for him. After all, the Night's Watch swore to guard the realms of men. Weren't the Wildlings men and women, like them? It seemed to Gendry like the Watch had failed to uphold its oath.

Especially with the White Walkers out there.

Their small party had been more or less walking the distance to Castle Black, and it was now that the brilliance of Mance's plan became apparent. Castle Black had few to no defences to the south. After all, the Night's Watch had no enemies to the south, so why would they need to defend it? They had the Wall to keep them protected from Wildlings; why bother building heavy defences facing southwards? Gendry found himself cursing the man who thought up that brilliant idea. That little stroke of genius might end up costing them everything.

"You said Castle Black has no defences facing south?" Tormund asked, as if he could read his mind

"No." Gendry shook his head. "The Night's Watch is neutral in anything occurring south of it, so it has no reason to defend from the south."

"Until now." Ygritte chimed in. Not if he had anything to say about it, that was.

The small party eventually came upon a windmill. At the base was a small hut, and as Gendry noticed, an elderly man with a wagon. Two Wildlings had gone ahead of the main group to do some scouting, and had evidently come upon the man. He was already knocked to the ground, spitting out his teeth.

"We don't kill him, he'll go straight to the crows." Orrell said. Tormund nodded. Gendry suppressed what he was feeling. He knew that was how things worked out, but . . . to kill a man based on what he might do?

"Gendry, you do it." Tormund said. No doubt some sort of test to prove whether he was truly capable of doing what was necessary to be a Wildling.

"Let me stand at least." The man said to Tormund. "Let me die with some dignity." The red-bearded Wildling nodded as the man stood up. Gendry drew his sword and placed it against the man's neck. "She looks sharp." He said. Gendry nodded.

"Do it!" Ygritte said. Gendry drew back his sword but couldn't bring himself to swing it forward. It was now or never, as far as he was concerned. He'd have no better chance than this, and with a bit of luck, the rain would conceal him once he got enough distance between them. Besides, even with his own limited horse riding skills, he had the Wildlings outmatched. His eyes darted around quickly, then he made his move.

He knocked Ygritte to the ground, kicking her bow away. Two other Wildlings charged at him; Gendry sidestepped one of them and simply thrust his blade through the chest of the other. The longsword he was using gave him the advantage over the much shorter weapons used by the Wildlings. He managed to kill another Wildling before managing to turn his blade on Orrell, breaking through the man's defence quickly and slashing his throat. Tormund by now was closing in, and Gendry had decided to leave.

He ran to the nearby stables and quickly mounted one of the horses. There was no saddle or stirrups, so he would have to make do. As he mounted the horse however, a blinding pain took over in his leg. He looked down to see that an arrow was sticking out of his calf. He then turned to look over his shoulder to see Ygritte readying another arrow. Gnedry kicked his heels into the horse and held on for dear life as a second arrow struck him, this time in the shoulder. He managed to be moving fast enough to dodge the third arrow as he turned in the direction of Castle Black.

"ARSTAN! SHORE UP THE LEFT FLANK!" Selwyn Tarth shouted as he cleaved his sword through another Tyrell soldier. They had been taken completely unaware in a surprise night attack by a joint Lannister-Tyrell force that was no doubt commanded by Randyll Tarly and Ser Addam Marbrand. It was eerily like the story of Robb Stark's victory at Oxcross, only this time, they were on the receiving end.

He noticed Arstan Selmy signal a few soldiers behind him to charge and cover the flank. Most of the army had routed during the first hours of the attack, and now the two of them were leading a few thousand men in a rearguard action, trying to cover the retreat in the hope that they would be able to sort out the mess in a few days or so. With Stannis gone, the two of them were the highest ranking lords left; Connington was busy trying to organise the retreat, but failing miserably. That wasn't an indictment on his abilities either; the road was clogged with men and horses and wagons of varying sizes as they tried to escape the opposing army.

Selwyn felt a clang on his helmet, and immediately turned to thrust through the neck of another soldier. It was a losing fight, that much he knew, but they had to make sure enough people got away for the King to take command of when he returned from Riverrun. He picked up a shield from a downed soldier, not bothering to look at the sigil, and signalled for the few men around him to reform. A shieldwall was a formidable obstacle, even in the age of plate armour and heavy maces and axes. With their shields up, they braced to receive another infantry charge just as a wave of Lannister soldiers crashed into them. Selwyn beat the man back with his shield, following it up with a thrust to the neck. There wasn't much to do but hold the line, brace, and thrust his sword at anyone who got close enough.

Their only hopes were to cause so many casualties that the attackers fell back, or to create a gap and force the Lannisters and Tyrells to break off the attacks as a whole. Neither task would be easy, and he was almost certain they would die. Nonetheless, the men around him, with shields bearing the quartered moon-and-sun of tarth, the lightning bolt of Donadarrion, the wheat stalks of Selmy and the nightingales of Caron, held their line. They were mainly household guardsmen; elite soldiers that were kept as part of a lord's retinue, and unlike the Lannister or Tyrell soldiers facing them, were veterans of several battles at this point. The Tyrells hadn;t even committed the bulk of their forces during Renly's campaign, and the Lannisters had been forced to raise thousands of new men after their losses in the Riverlands.

Arstan Selmy ran up to him as another man took his place in the line. "Selwyn, it's no use. Our left flank is gone." He said briefly. "We can't do much else but withdraw."

"Damn it, if we withdraw now, the army will be destroyed!" Selwyn replied. Despite his defiance though, he knew it was the truth. The enemy would just keep coming until sheer weight of numbers overwhelmed them. Continuing the fight wouldn't accomplish much other than delay the inevitable. He turned to Selmy.

"Take whatever levies we have left and withdraw from the field. I will hold the line." He ordered.

"Selwyn, you'll be slaughtered!"

"Then I die fighting. And so does anyone who stays with me. Withdraw and cover Connington; make sure we have an army left to fight another day." He said. He could see that Arstan was torn between wanting to obey the orders and a desire to stay. "Arstan, our King still needs an army when he gets back from the Twins. Get out of here, reform the army, and make these cunts pay for what they've done."

Arstan gulped, but nodded, turning around to gather up the levies and form a defensive line. Selwyn turned back to his men and barked orders to stand and die where they stood. Each of them nodded grimly, raising their shields for one final effort.

Again, it was an infantry charge. The Stomlanders faced down the wave of Tyrell soldiers with spears and swords thrusting wildly as they did what they could. They felt themselves being forced into a square, which was pretty much the last defence they had. Selwyn knew that the enemy wouldn't risk sending in their knights against such a small formation, and would rely on their dismounted men-at-arms and archers to deal with them.

"No retreat! No mercy!" Shouted Selwyn, trying to rally the men again Dawn was breaking now, and perhaps if they held on just a little longer, they might be able to force a lull in the fighting and still escape, but it was doubtful. He looked over his shoulder again and saw that Selmy and the remaining levies were beginning to fade away off the battlefield.

They live to fight another day.

He was caught unawares as a crossbow bolt penetrated his armour under the armpit. It was a lethal wound, he knew. Bloody Lannisters had bought new crossbows from the Myrish and just started deploying them with their armies. It was a bolt from one of those that had sunk into his flesh.

He looked back over the shieldwall. The infantry had fallen back, replaced by a line of crossbowmen. It was a field test for the Myrish crossbows, that much was apparent. Their shields and armour wouldn't be much use against these new weapons, and he knew it.

Fuck it, we go down fighting.

He raised his sword. "Ours is the fury!" He shouted, reciting the words of House Baratheon. The men around him let out a roar and charged forward with him. The crossbowmen let fly their first volley, and another bolt penetrated his body at the waist. The other soldiers fell to the ground as well, bolts sticking out of their armpits, legs, heads and one or two out of their chests.

Selwyn Tarth, Lord of Evenfall Hall, fell to his knees. He had run a good race and lost. No use cursing the Gods for this one.

A single crossbowman loosed his weapon, and the bolt flew into the centre of Selwyn's face.

Season 3 done.