Bronn accompanied Tyrion to the dungeons, where the air was as cold and oppressive as ever. He came seeking Qyburn.
The disgraced maester had become completely consumed by his grotesque human experiments. His world was filled with blood, bone, and forbidden mysteries. To most, Qyburn might as well have vanished from existence—apart from the interrogation reports that occasionally reached Tyrion's desk, few ever glimpsed him, let alone spoke to him face to face.
Tyrion pushed open the iron door to the chamber. A stench of mold and blood rushed out to meet him, making him wrinkle his brow. In the dim light, Qyburn was bent over his desk. Time had carved deep lines across his face, yet his eyes gleamed with the feverish light of curiosity.
"Qyburn," Tyrion's voice echoed in the empty room, carrying a faint note of authority. "I need your help."
"Oh, Lord Tyrion." Qyburn looked up with a smile. "How may I be of service?"
"Do you have friends in Essos?" Tyrion asked. "I need intelligence from across the Narrow Sea."
"I believe such matters are best handled by Lord Varys," Qyburn said lightly. "His friends across the Narrow Sea far outnumber mine."
"You've met Varys?" Tyrion asked, his tone sharp.
"Of course, my lord," Qyburn said honestly, showing no hint of deceit. "Lord Varys knows everything that happens in the Red Keep."
"Best to keep your distance from him," Tyrion said. "Is our prisoner still alive?"
"He is, my lord. But his mind grows ever more clouded. His confessions are confused, and he sometimes suffers bouts of memory loss," Qyburn replied. "It might be a side effect of the medicines I've given him."
"How you treat him is none of my concern. Just make sure you don't lose him," Tyrion said. "So, do you have any sources or not?"
"My apologies, my lord. I do not," Qyburn said, bowing.
Qyburn was useless. Reliable informants were hard to come by. Tyrion left the deepest cells, climbing toward the upper passages where the echo of footsteps grew louder.
A crowd was pouring into the dungeons. Had most of them not been in chains, Tyrion might have thought Littlefinger had sent a rescue party for him.
"I'd keep my distance," Bronn muttered. "One of those lunatics might decide to smash your skull in with his shackles."
"No need to worry, my lord." A figure stepped out from the shadows—a man with long blond hair and a thick, tangled beard, almost unrecognizable.
"Daven? What in the hells happened to you?"
"My father, Stafford, was slain at Oxcross by Rickard Karstark. I won't shave my beard or cut my hair until I've avenged him," Daven said, his brown eyes dark in the dungeon's gloom.
"That wild mane makes you look like a lion," Tyrion said. "If your eyes were green, you'd fit the part perfectly. If I recall, Lord Rickard is already dead."
"Traitor!" one of the prisoners spat. The others joined in, glaring at the Lannisters with hatred and scorn.
"Thank you for the reminder, Lord Wylis. I wonder which traitor you speak of—the Rickard who was beheaded by the Young Wolf, or someone else?" Daven called back, then leaned closer to whisper, "That was Wylis Manderly, eldest son and heir of Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor."
"The one captured at the wedding?"
"No, that was Wendel Manderly, his younger brother," Daven said. "Took a crossbow bolt through the mouth. Dead."
"The gods be good," Tyrion sighed. "Find Lord Wylis a decent cell—and give him a fresh chamber pot."
"Spare me your false kindness, Lust Demon," Wylis Manderly sneered. The man was massively fat, bald, and bearded like a walrus. Tyrion doubted any horse alive could carry him. "The gods will curse you all."
"That's enough, Lord Wylis," Daven said. "Take him away before Frey hears and decides to slap you again."
"Frey's men are abusing prisoners?" Tyrion frowned.
"Except that one," Daven said, pointing toward the end of the line. A man nearly seven feet tall stood there, his body packed with muscle. "Greatjon Umber. Black Walder's nothing but a butter knife—only brave when he's bullying someone weaker."
"Dacey Mormont—the she-bear—Ryman Frey cut off one of her legs, and Black Walder tried to rape her."
"Damn it," Tyrion hissed. "Where is she? Does she need treatment?"
"The Maester couldn't help her," Daven said. "Poor mother bear died from infection. May the gods grant her mercy and spare her further suffering on the road."
"What about Black Walder? Did he come?"
"Of course. He never misses a good assignment." The line of prisoners had already passed through, with Daven bringing up the rear. Tyrion and Bronn followed close behind.
"But once they entered the city, they disappeared. Probably off to the brothels. That weasel pup's just as fond of breeding as Walder Frey himself. They didn't want to escort the prisoners to the dungeons. Tell me, why would a weasel fear the dark?"
"Because he's hiding something," Tyrion said. "Once the wedding's over, we'll drive the lot of them out."
"No need," Daven replied. "When the wedding's done, we'll all return to the Riverlands—to clean up the mess. Lords still loyal to Tully and Stark, guerrilla bands crawling like cockroaches, scorched fields, and corpses as far as the eye can see."
He sighed. "No idea where the grain will come from. Should we eat Frey bread instead? Gods know if eating their bread and salt will earn me an arrow in the back."
"The war will end," Tyrion said, trying to reassure him. "Once the wedding's over, most men will be sent to the Riverlands."
"Yeah. Wedding over, war over—and then I'll marry a weasel."
"What?" Tyrion couldn't believe his ears. "Whose idea was that? My father's?"
"Yes, Lord Tywin's orders." Daven watched the prisoners shuffling past one by one. "When my father was alive, he once proposed a match for me with House Redwyne, but..."
He shook his head.
"From what Edwyn told me, I'd better pick a girl who hasn't had her flowering yet. Otherwise, I'll end up with Black Walder's leftovers sooner or later," Daven said with a bitter smile.
"And you're willing?" Tyrion asked. "The Redwynes are a fine house. The Weasels are beneath you..."
"I know well what became of Robb Stark," Daven said, patting Tyrion on the shoulder. "I'll do my duty. I'll marry that Frey girl."