munebox | The Valonqar

"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.

By the time the battle was over, the others had fled. Three corpses littered the ground, but the others were injured parties. Greech was looting the dead ones and seemed keen to continue with the dead ones. Rock, however, was availing himself of his remaining brew.

Podrick, however, was catching his breath. I should have done some sort of trick. If I had, Lord Tyrion wouldn't have turned around and been spotted...

Then he realized that his lord was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly concerned more about the Lannister's life than his own small cuts, he began to look around the tavern. "Lord Tyrion?"

Her skin itched. Buffy tried to tell herself that it wasn't her fault -- that she didn't kill anyone -- but there were bodies at her feet and at least one of them had been skewered straight through while he'd been reeling from the Slayer's punch. So, of course her skin itched. Of course her tongue felt a little thick. She was biting down on an avalanche of emotion. This isn't what you're supposed to be.

The bloodbath left such a look on her face that not even Rock protested when she stole a flagon from his elbow and gulped down a foul-tasting spirit. She didn't care; she just wanted something else to supplant this feeling. She was still busy chugging when she heard Podrick's voice.

She turned her head and dragged the back of her hand across her mouth. Someone had hit her quite fiercely, and her jaw still felt like it was jangling. "Good; you're alive. Where is he?"

Buffy vaulted her way over a cracked bench and started searching at thigh-height for Tyrion.

The more Podrick searched, the more desperate he became.

I've done it again. I've lost another lord.

He question the innkeeper and his wife. When he found the still-yielding baker boy, he learned the truth. A truth he now had to relay to his lady.. brother... person.

"My lad-- Buf-- Ned, ser. They took him. They took Lord Tyrion."

"Bloody hell," Greech muttered. "The imp is as good as dead. These weren't no outlaws. They're the godsdamned Brotherhood."

She held up a hand: a blood-smudged empty palm, pushed forward towards Podrick almost as if to touch him on the chest but ultimately only to try and quiet his rambling report. This hand stayed in place, even as she watched Greech instead.

"There's a Brotherhood? How come no one told me there was a Brotherhood?

A Brotherhood of what?"

"Brotherhood without Banners," Rock answered. "A lot of farmers and sheepherders turned knights. The bastards claim to be trying to save the countryside from the warring lords, but they're little better than outlaws."

"They hate Lannisters," Podrick said pleadingly. "We have to go after him.'

Greech stood up and scowled. "Who's we, boy? If the Brotherhood has your master, he's good and bloody dead by now. There's no coin to be had plunging in after this lot."

"So blow," she told Greech. "Get the hell outta here. If you don't wanna be part of our we, then we don't want you either. It's mutual un-want."

Podrick was panicking. She supposed he needed some sense of solidarity, and so she tossed a careful arm around his shoulder. "Just point us in their direction."

This last statement was opened up to more than just the sellswords. After all, the inn's staff were untouched. Clearly, these outlaws-gone-vigilantes had a prior arrangement. Their compliance upon the Brotherhood's entrance had been downright eerie.

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