Chapter 13 – He Fell Asleep
Before the roast pork could even be set onto his plate, Tyrion had assumed the council would begin after everyone had eaten their fill.
Lord Tywin clearly did not share that belief.
"Father, have mercy—I'm just about to start eating."
Tyrion pleaded in half-earnest.
"So the mere thought of facing that Stark boy scares you this badly?" Tywin's brow tightened, his voice cold. "If it were your brother Jaime, he would be eager for the chance to distinguish himself."
Tyrion had no desire to compare himself to Jaime.
Who in the Seven Kingdoms could measure up to Jaime Lannister?
He tapped the slice of pork just placed on his wooden plate, set down his now-empty wine cup, and said:
"I'd much rather distinguish myself against this pig. Robb Stark is neither as tender nor as appetizing."
Before Tywin could respond, a voice chimed in from down the table.
"Let's hope your savages aren't as useless as you are, or all our fine equipment will be wasted."
Tyrion turned—predictably, it was Lord Leo Lefford, craning his neck forward like a vulture.
Boring man, Tyrion cursed inwardly.
Out loud, he replied mildly,
"My lord, I assure you—my savages will put your equipment to excellent use."
But Lord Lefford wasn't about to let him off so easily.
"I saw that hairy giant today—insisted on taking two battle-axes! And not just any axes—black steel, double-moon blades, top-grade work!"
"Those two alone are worth half the gear on your squire's back!"
"Shagga has a fondness for wielding something in both hands," Tyrion said, eyes locked on the steaming platter as the servant set it before him. He reached into the salt dish and sprinkled a generous handful over the meat.
A meal deserved flavor.
"He still has his wooden axe on his back!"
"Clearly, Shagga believes three axes are better than two."
Ser Kevan finally intervened, leaning forward between them.
"We've had a thought. When the battle begins, we intend to place you and your mountain men… on the vanguard."
And when Ser Kevan Lannister used the word "we," it usually meant Lord Tywin's will.
Tyrion knew that too well.
The knife holding his long-awaited morsel of pork froze mid-air.
"The vanguard?!"
Either his father had suddenly developed great confidence in him…
or Tywin intended to rid himself of the son who embarrassed him most.
Between the two, Tyrion had little trouble guessing.
A cold premonition settled in his stomach—stronger than hunger.
---
Elsewhere, Podrick watched Tyrion wobble away from the feast—legs trembling, steps uneven, like a drunken marionette.
He turned to Bronn.
"I saw fish in the river earlier. If we hurry, we might still catch some big ones."
Servants nearby were busy erecting Tyrion's tent.
As a squire, Podrick wasn't required to do the manual labor.
Bronn shrugged, his gaze pulling away from something he'd been watching in the camp.
"Good idea—but I've got a better one. Your lord gave me a task when the march ended today."
Podrick blinked, surprised.
"What task?"
Bronn smirked, clapped his hands, rose to his feet, one hand resting on his sword hilt.
"Come on. I just spotted our target."
He slipped into the flow of soldiers and camp-folk, weaving forward with Podrick on his heels.
Podrick had no idea what Bronn was planning, but he still followed. He had seen a large trout in the shallows earlier—if they hurried, they might still catch it.
But then he watched Bronn step in front of a young man, blocking his path.
Podrick: "...?"
If he wasn't mistaken, the young soldier had been about to duck into a tent—hand in hand with a slender, dark-haired girl who looked no older than eighteen.
Life in the army always found… recreational outlets. No matter where a camp was pitched, certain people always appeared.
Seeing the girl jogged Podrick's memory, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
Before he could get close, Bronn already had a dagger pressed to the young man's throat—so fast Podrick barely saw it happen.
The two exchanged a few quiet words. A heartbeat later, the young man released the girl's hand. Bronn sheathed the dagger and casually led the girl away.
"You said there was a big fish? My business is done," Bronn said as if nothing unusual had happened.
---
By the time Tyrion returned, the sky was fully dark.
Lines of campfires glimmered along the Kingsroad like a trail of stars stretching for miles.
"What did you all eat?" Tyrion asked, scanning the faces gathered around one of the fires—his servant, the groom, Bronn… and a black-haired girl he didn't recognize.
"A trout, my lord," the groom replied quickly. "Master Bronn and Lord Podrick fetched it."
Only then did Tyrion notice the charred fish bones in the ashes.
Trout and roast suckling pig, he thought bitterly. Damn my father…
His stomach growled as he stared mournfully at the remains.
And then, as if the gods themselves took pity on him, a voice spoke—sweet as a song.
"Podrick insisted on saving the tenderest portion for you. I don't know why."
Bronn used a stick to scrape aside glowing embers, revealing a lump of ash-coated something hidden beneath.
Under Tyrion's puzzled gaze, he tapped the hardened crust—cracks split open, and a wave of irresistible aroma escaped, slithering straight into Tyrion's nostrils.
His stomach roared even louder.
"What is that?"
"Trout," Bronn said. "The boy cooked it in some strange way… made it taste incredible. Odd kid. Full of surprises." He licked his lips at the memory.
"You said—Pod left it for me?"
The moment the scent hit him, Tyrion forgot the insults, the humiliation, the pain in his legs—he flopped down beside Bronn as if gravity had claimed him.
Bronn pushed the food toward him. Only then did Tyrion notice the trout had been baked in a shell of mud, with leaves wrapped around it inside to seal the flavor.
Too hungry to care about heat, Tyrion drew his dagger, stabbed into the fish, and shoved the first steaming bite into his mouth.
"I thought you were dining like a king."
Hsst—ahh…
"Sadly, no. And gods… this tastes better than that roast pig!"
He chewed desperately, swallowed, wiped his mouth, and only then remembered to ask:
"Where's Podrick?"
Bronn pointed toward Tyrion's tent.
"There. He fell asleep."
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