munebox | The Valonqar

Blood rushed to the poor lad's cheek and he seemed terribly panicked. "Us? Together? B-but... my lord, surely she won't be--"

Tyrion raised a hand to keep the poor squire's head from exploding. "Take the bed. We'll be staying the night. Until I've seen your injury heal, I'll not have you riding about on it. More importantly, all the sleep I've had was entirely against my will. I should like to sleep a bit more peacefully before we continue to our doom."

Oh, Podrick. He was like Jonathan: sweet, but ultimately the sort of person who could be led. Wasn't that how he'd gotten mucked up with Warren? Buffy only hoped an association with Tyrion wouldn't see this boy killed. Or worse, an association with her. But it was a comfort to know she could fluster him in ways she couldn't fluster Tyrion.

"I hope you don't find it ungentlemanly if I ask you to take the chair this time, my lord." Unfortunately, flippancy was all she could muster to meet his honest concern. It didn't help that she didn't fret over her wound the way he seemed to.

Tyrion graced her with a sarcastic smile and wondered why it was he decided to save her. But he took a chair, uncomfortable as it was, and sat by the window. With the two hired swords outside his door, he felt no shame in eventually drifting to sleep. As evening came, they had their supper brought up to them, though it was hardly a happy affair. Night came and went and when Tyrion was at last convinced his lady wife was healing more than adequately, they took to the road again.

Five horses left the small village, newly provisioned and with a northerly destination. Tyrion had taken time the previous evening to plot out the safest course for them on the map.

"The real trouble shall be passing through the North. My nephew cut the head off of their liege a year ago and there has been war ever since. Their boy king was recently killed and though the Lannisters were not involved directly, we certainly benefited from his loss. Should they discover who we are, they would take great joy in visiting vengeance upon us."

She had the dream, again. The one she'd been avoiding: a word written in blood on snow, and a forest that seemed cloaked in incense. Incense, of all things. Heavy and fragrant, it left her head muddled when she woke. Even after they'd saddled up and left town, Buffy was still feeling out of sorts. She should never have given in to the temptation of sleep. But at least her side had closed over, however red and tender it still seemed to be. It was now hidden under Podrick's borrowed clothing.

The Slayer could already tell that the mercenaries were not fooled. And why would they be? A woman had walked into the room; they expected a woman to walk out. But Tyrion's promise of riches must have been a believable one, because they didn't say a word to her.

One hand sat against the saddle's pommel, while the other tried clumsily to tug at the reins and pull her horse nearer to Tyrion's. "Upon you, you mean."

"The Paynes are sworn bannermen of House Lannister. You, too, are a part of House Lannister as well."

For the moment, only as a vassal. But if they were captured and she was discovered to be a woman, it would soon become apparently she was Lady Buffy Summers- no, Lady Buffy Lannister.

"There is a simple kind of justice in this world, Ned. It is large, blind, and destroys more than just its target."

She liked it better when she was the law. Still, she did not count on being captured. Preparing for defeat was only a modest leap from defeat itself.

"So how do you propose we sneak through the North? The road we're on kinda already looks like the road less travelled."

"We shall first head to the Inn of the Kneeling Man. Not only is the brew reportedly good, hopefully much better than Lord Brewmore's, but it will be an excellent place to gather news. From there, we will travel to White Harbour. With a little gold, we might buy our passage to Eastwatch at the Wall."

Lord manderly was a fat man that Tyrion knew of by reputation only. His companions would be able to get on the ship with ease. It was him, the dwarf, that was going to be more difficult to avoid suspicious eyes.

"God, do you even know what you'd do if you didn't have the money to fall back on?"

All of his problems seemed to be solved with gold.

Edited 2013-12-12 13:59 (UTC)

For the moment, Tyrion considered correcting her. He preferred to use his wits, when he could. His name was as valuable as gold. But he doubted she would care to hear it. She would be as impressed with it as his own brother would be. They were both warriors, who saw the world only from the tip of a blade.

"I tried hitting my problems once. I'm afraid it did not work as well for me as it does you."

"You just gotta know where to hit them."

"I prefer to hit them in the empty recesses of their coinpurses, where men both high and low are always the most vulnerable. You would be wise to do the same, given your reluctance to ever finish your job once you've begun hitting somebody."

Edited 2013-12-12 14:13 (UTC)

Fine. Time to say it: "I don't kill humans. I'm not a killer. I'll end just about anything else that needs ending -- barring adorable puppies. But my law isn't the law that governs regular people. I won't interfere there."

"I don't know the laws of your land, but in this land, you'll find that people take the law into their own hands with great frequency. You should be careful that there might be some, Northerners particularly, who might take the law into their own hand against you specifically. The North remembers."

If I have to, I'll tell them the truth.

"This is some real Hatfield and McCoy crap, isn't it?" But she knew by now that her reference would garner her no real intelligence, just maybe a glare for her troubles. And she knew herself to be so terribly quick and clever at times like this, but it was a genius doomed to be unrecognised by her liege-lord-husband-charge. He'd gained so many hyphens, now, that she didn't really know what to think of him.

She earned an annoyed look and Tyrion proceeded to ignore her. The sellswords, Rock and Greech, provided him far more amiable conversation. It took only a few jests before the two were sharing their own stories. One of them had sold his sword to Renly and turned it over to Stannis. He'd fought at Blackwater and admitted that when he saw Tyrion, he was near tempted to 'shave his balls, seein' as you nearly burned me own off.'

Tyrion liked that one. Greech was an amiable sellsword who held no grudges. He worshipped only the golden coin and as he was quick to tell them both, 'I will always be able to pay more than anyone else'.

Rock was less forthcoming, but what Tyrion did learn was that he was the bastard son of some noble from Casterly Rock. He wouldn't say which one, however. This was the more dangerous of the two, though. Tyrion would need to be wary of this one. And yet he'd be all the more valuable. More than gold appealed to this one, he decided. But he could easily be split between trying to earn his favor or the favor of his sister.

And throughout the day's ride, Tyrion found a way to never speak another word to his wife-turned-squire. It suited him just fine.

It suited her just as fine. After all, it gave her the freedom to ride at Podrick's side instead. She quickly coaxed him into a game of anywhere but here -- and, being in a rarely charitable mood, she gave clear explanations for all of her choice. "N-no. See, Hawaii is like an island where it's always sunny and the girls where coconut shells for bras. S-sorry, what's a bra? That's -- oh, sweet brother of mine, that's not my lesson to give."

Okay. So she didn't clearly explain everything. But she'd soon learned that Podrick would love to see a desert, some day. She had described the wide expanse of heat and flat land common to her native geography, and he had naively associated it with an unending summer. She and he were still discussing the merits of who to take along to an anywhere but here session in the Mojave when yet another quaint inn came into view: The Kneeling Man.

Buffy liked the name.

The brew was good, though not as good as purported. The innkeeper and his wife were a shifty pair and Tyrion had the distinct suspicion they'd not been in this business long. The rolls, however, were delicious. Surprised to find so good a bread in an inn, Tyrion paid for a second basket to be brought out. They were expensive, of course, but it was no surprise. Grain was becoming increasingly difficult to obtain. Once winter came, a sack of grain would be worth more than a bag of gold in many parts of Westeros.

A singer was in attendance and he sang many a merry tunes. His current song was an old one of two friends named Dunk and Egg and the adventures they went in. Tyrion knew well this song had invented many adventures that never truly happened. But they did make the song far more entertaining. Especially the invented part that involves whores with extra nipples.

When the boy from the kitchen arrived with a basket of rolls, Tyrion took note of him. It was an odd thing to see. A fat peasant boy. When he mumbled his thanks for the compliments, Tyrion took note of his accent.

"Boy, where did you learn to bake bread like this?"

"Pardon me, m'lord, but I learned it in King's Landing. I was a baker's apprentice."

"When I return to King's Landing, I must find this baker and put him in my own employ. How did you come to be all the way out here?"

That made the boy stammer. "I... well, there was... but..."

Tyrion's questions were interrupted as a band of travelers entered the inn. They laughed, they joked, and they were far too familiar with the inn's owners. The baking boy fled and Tyrion turned his head in sudden concern. Podrick was oblivious, but the two sellswords seemed to catch onto Tyrion's concern and they ceased their drinking.

Ned Payne -- who had been experimenting with lowering the pitch of her voice much to Podrick's embarrassed entertainment -- was a little late to the realization that something had changed. Silence settled over their small band. Silence except for Pod, who was taking a flying leap in boldness and trying to instruct his new 'brother' how to produce a manly grumble. She had to reach out and drop a hand on his elbow in order to stall his act, hissing a soft advisory to pay attention. So Pod sank into wordless penance.

She looked at Tyrion -- a quirk of her brow asking him whether he knew these newcomers.

"What a piss poor sad bunch this is," the leader of the company declared as he made his way to their table. He was a crooked sort of man, with yellow teeth, a scraggly beard, and a scarred face. His hand rested on a sword whose pommel was far too decorated to belong to any peasant outlaw. It likely belonged to some lord, now long dead.

"Move along, ya blighter." Rock raised his eyes to look up at the man, not bothering to raise his head with them. It was a careless motion that spoke volumes. He didn't think this other man was worth the effort.

"A blighter, am I? And who are you to speak? These are a fine three children you've collected here. Though this one..." The man set his hand on Tyrion's shoulder. "Is no child, is he?"

Tyrion sneered and did not dare turn around. They needed a lie, but he could not be the one to tell it. As a mute, he had a chance to evade trouble. But the moment he opened his mouth...

Ned Payne cleared 'his' throat, raised 'his' hand, and addressed the thugs with the quickest lie she could come up with. It wasn't a terribly good one: "You're a clever clog. That's no child. That's...a runaway. From...the circus."

Dear lord, she hoped they had circuses in Westeros.

"We're on our way back with him and his accomplice, Houdini, here," Buffy elbowed Podrick in the ribs. "Escape artists. Always gotta keep your eye on them."

By some miracle, they seemed to recognize the term. The leader of the bunch looked back at his band, then turned back round with a toothy grin.

"That right? Well, lessee it, then. I want to see the little bugger disappear."

Tyrion cringed. You are an awful liar. Podrick might have done better.

But Tyrion turned back around and smile. "I'd be glad to oblige, m'lords, but my captors might take poorly to my vanishing."

"What can I say? We can't afford to lose him. Either of them."

She felt for her stolen sword's hilt, expecting it to be tucked somewhere beneath the table. She'd casually tossed it below like one might a purse.

"Do us another trick, then." Steel was drawn from the the man's fellow party. "You bought all the good brew. So entertain us."

Tyrion knew well his sellswords were no entertainers. Podrick would be useless. And Buffy...

He turned around and stood, ready to subject himself to humiliation for the sake of saving themselves from battle.

Until a man that Tyrion thought he recognized suddenly exclaimed. "Forget the mummery, lads. That's Tyrion Lannister. The little lion."

All hell broke loose.

Four-three-two-one. It took only a full four seconds for Buffy to squirm her way free from bench and table. Another half-second to retrieve her sword. Her feet were nimble and she didn't fear them, but she was at very very least concerned about putting her body between their steel and her companions. Such as they were.

She may not be liable to kill, nor was she often the sort of Slayer who struck first when her opponent was so carelessly human. But she was slowly coming to realize that life was different in Westeros. You could not divide the men from the monsters; they were part and parcel of each other.

So she threw a punch, square towards the nose of the stranger who had identified Tyrion for who he was. "Didn't your mother ever teach you it's impolite to impersonate the paparazzi."

The two sellswords quickly showed their skill in a display of steel and blood. The leader of the company was cut through only moments after Buffy had knocked him down. The others in the group would soon join the fray, whilst the innkeeper and his wife ducked to safety. The fat baker boy immediately yielded and found somewhere to hide.

Tyrion, knowing better than to try to fight, evaded the battle and tried to stay out of the way of his hired help. Podrick was handling himself remarkably well, though not nearly as well as his three protectors. But bless the boy for trying. Tyrion only wished he had a sword of some kind. Even as he was reaching for his knife, he looked up and saw a fist.

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