Chapter 21 – Spoils of War
Tyrion gave a few quick orders—
to have the living gather the dead,
to bind the wounded and burn the horses—
then turned to Podrick.
"Keep an eye on our prisoner," he told him.
"If he tries to run, kill him."
Leaving the boy to his task, Tyrion trudged off toward the riverbank.
There, seated upon a folding chair of gilded oak,
Lord Tywin Lannister drank calmly from a jeweled cup.
The sunlight turned his armor to fire.
Steam rose from the river behind him,
the air thick with the stench of blood and iron.
His squires worked silently at his side,
unbuckling the clasps of his crimson-plated war armor.
Ser Kevan Lannister noticed Tyrion first.
A faint smile curved his lips.
"A fine victory," Kevan said warmly.
"Your wild tribesmen fought well, Tyrion."
But Tywin said nothing.
He merely watched his son with those pale, green-gold eyes—
the eyes of a lion that measured everything and forgave nothing.
Cold.
Unblinking.
Tyrion limped closer, his movements stiff, his arm still aching.
He could feel his father's silence like a weight pressing against his ribs.
"Surprised to see me alive, Father?" he asked lightly, voice thick with irony.
"Didn't go quite as you planned, did it? We were supposed to die out there, weren't we?"
He stood before Tywin,
mud-streaked and blood-smeared,
a grotesque reflection of the golden lion.
He smiled—but there was no humor in it.
"Come now. Tell me—did we ruin your grand design?"
Of course Tyrion already knew the answer.
He'd known it even before the battle began.
He'd seen where his company was placed—
on the exposed left flank,
with no heavy cavalry, no support,
just three hundred half-savage clansmen and a dwarf for their "commander."
It hadn't been strategy.
It had been disposal.
And yet… somehow… he was still alive.
He was alive because of Podrick Payne,
the silent boy his father had foisted upon him like an afterthought.
The boy had saved his life more than once—
and the price had been paid by the mountain clans,
half of whom now lay cold upon the field.
Tywin drained his cup in a single swallow.
When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, distant—
as if reciting the terms of a trade.
"Yes," he said simply.
"I placed the undisciplined elements on the left.
I expected them to break."
He set the jeweled cup aside and looked to the battlefield,
where the river ran red and bodies clogged the shallows.
"Robb Stark is a boy—brave perhaps, but young.
I had hoped that once he saw my left flank collapse,
he would do exactly as I wished:
drive forward, overextend,
and commit his full strength to a flanking maneuver."
A faint smile—not of pride, but of cold satisfaction—
touched Tywin's lips.
"At that moment, Kevan's pikemen would have wheeled about,
striking his exposed side,
driving him into the river.
And then, with my reserves,
I would close the trap."
He paused.
The wind carried the smell of death.
Tyrion's fists clenched at his sides.
So it was true.
He had been nothing but bait.
Expendable.
A pawn offered in sacrifice—
and by his own father's hand.
Tywin Lannister made no effort to disguise his thoughts.
He spoke of his plan openly,
with the same calm detachment a man might use when describing a hunt—
utterly unbothered that his own son had been among the bait.
"You threw me into that slaughter," Tyrion said quietly,
"and you didn't even think to tell me the plan?"
His face showed no rage,
but his voice trembled with a tight, caged fury.
"Deception requires truth to be hidden," Tywin replied coolly.
"And why would I share my strategy with a man who surrounds himself with mercenaries and savages?"
Tyrion stared down at his steel gauntlet,
turning it over in his palm until the sight of it disgusted him.
Then, with a grunt, he tore it off and flung it to the ground.
"What a pity, then," he said with a crooked grin.
"My savages seem to have spoiled your perfect plan."
He tried to lift his arm again, but pain shot up from his elbow,
forcing him to wince.
Tywin's expression remained unreadable.
"In truth," the old lion said,
"the boy commanded better than I expected.
Robb Stark was cautious for one so young—
more cautious than I gave him credit for."
A pause.
Then, flatly:
"Still. A victory is a victory."
He turned slightly, eyes flicking to Tyrion's arm.
"You're injured."
Only then did Tyrion glance down and notice the blood soaking through his sleeve.
The morningstar's spikes had punched through the steel plate—
no wonder he hadn't been able to draw his sword.
"How observant of you, Father," Tyrion muttered.
"Though I should tell you—Robb Stark isn't the only remarkable youth on this field today.
That boy you saddled me with—Payne, the squire—he saved my life twice,
killed four men,
and even took a knight prisoner."
Tywin's eyes flicked to him,
the faintest shadow of interest stirring behind the gold-green irises.
"He's twelve years old," Tyrion continued,
his tone somewhere between awe and disbelief.
"I've never seen anyone his age do what he did—
not in life, nor in the lies of poets."
He gave a short, bitter laugh.
"So yes, Father.
For that, I suppose I should thank you.
He's the reason I'm still breathing."
He paused, his smile sharpening like glass.
"Now, if it isn't too much trouble,
might I have a maester look at this arm—
unless, of course, you'd prefer a one-armed dwarf for a son?"
For once, Tywin, Kevan, and even the squires tending the armor all froze.
Kevan blinked, momentarily at a loss.
He had been the one to bring that Payne boy from the Reach—
a quiet, forgettable child from a fading noble line.
Tywin had passed him along to Tyrion with little thought.
But now Tyrion was claiming…
A twelve-year-old boy had killed four men—
and captured a knight?
Before either of them could speak, a shout tore through the air.
"Lord Tywin!"
They turned.
Ser Addam Marbrand came galloping toward them,
his copper-colored hair plastered to his face with sweat and dust.
He barely had time to throw himself from the saddle before dropping to one knee before his lord.
The horse collapsed moments later,
foam dripping from its mouth,
blood at its nostrils.
"My lord," Ser Addam gasped.
"We've taken several enemy commanders captive—
Lord Cerwyn, Ser Wylis Manderly,
Ser Harrion Karstark,
and four Freys."
He hesitated, voice lowering.
"Lord Hornwood was slain.
As for Roose Bolton… he escaped."
Tywin gave a small, indifferent nod.
Losses and victories were expected;
his mind was already several moves ahead.
But there was one name missing.
He raised his gaze.
"And the boy?"
Ser Addam faltered.
For a heartbeat, the only sound was the wind.
Then he clenched his jaw.
"My lord… the Stark boy was not among them.
The prisoners say he never came south.
He crossed at the Twins with his horsemen—
and he's marching on Riverrun."
A long silence followed.
Even the river seemed to hold its breath.
Tywin Lannister's face didn't change—
but a shadow passed through his eyes.
---
On the Battlefield
Podrick Payne didn't join the looting.
He didn't strip corpses for armor, or drag the wounded back to camp.
Instead, he sat beneath the same tree where Shagga had rested hours before—
the same blood-soaked roots—
and stared out across the field.
The wind carried the stench of death,
but his expression was calm, almost serene.
As if he were watching waves roll across a field of grain,
not the aftermath of slaughter.
Beside him lay his prisoner—
the knight he'd captured—
along with the man's gleaming armor and torn surcoat.
By Westerosi law, the man and everything on him now belonged to Podrick Payne.
His armor, his weapons, his horse—all were spoils of war.
Even the man himself,
until ransom was paid.
Pod remembered something he'd once read—
a line that now echoed strangely in his mind.
"A knight is worth at least three hundred gold dragons,"
Ser Jaime Lannister had once said.
He didn't know how much that truly was,
but it sounded like a fortune.
Enough to change his life.
He looked at the knight's armor—silver chased with blue enamel,
the steel bright even under blood.
It gleamed like a promise.
Then, for no reason he could name,
he thought of Jaime again.
And it hit him.
After this battle—
the Green Fork—
Ser Jaime Lannister would soon become Robb Stark's prisoner.
Podrick blinked,
his gaze drifting to the river's glinting current.
The wheel was already turning.
---