Tyrek Lannister
But everything that followed was designed to test his endurance—and the strength of his spirit.
They threw him into a wagon, drove him to some estate, and shoved him into a deep stone cellar. Light seeped in through a narrow, barred window set high beneath the ceiling. Morning did not reach this place until nearly noon, and darkness began creeping in again only a couple of hours later.
An iron ring had been set into the wall, and they chained him to it with a heavy length of iron. The other end was fastened around his right wrist.
There was also a crude wooden pallet and a slimy barrel that served for his needs. No one ever emptied it, and within a few days it stank beyond imagining.
At first, they interrogated him. Three men would descend into the cellar. Two of them were ordinary, dull-witted brutes. Over time, from the way they addressed each other, he learned that the biggest and stupidest was called Noggin, and his younger "brother" bore the illustrious name of Raspy.
Those bastards knew nothing and asked nothing. They were merely muscle, and they relished tormenting others and inflicting pain. In such moments, a feverish spark of excitement would flare in their small, stupid eyes.
Their leader—a thin, wrinkled man named Pepper Crab, and he came to ask the questions. When Tyrek was slow to answer, Noggin and Raspy would tie him to the pallet and begin their work.
They seared his skin with torches, wrapped a rope around his head and twisted it tight with a stick, and sometimes simply beat him with their massive fists.
After they tore out several of his fingernails, Tyrek broke and began answering everything they asked.
The questions were not varied and concerned a specific circle of people: Jaime, Cersei, Tyrion, Tywin, Joffrey, Daven, and the rest of his kin… their habits, their strengths and weaknesses, their goals, the peculiarities of their relationships…
The Westerlands and Casterly Rock were frequent topics—how much gold the Lannisters had amassed, how much remained in the mines and shafts, how many soldiers they could field, how their bannermen and the other houses regarded them.
These and similar questions poured down in an endless stream. The Pepper Crab asked them in a quiet, deceptively gentle voice. If Tyrek hesitated too long, the two brutes would promptly assist him in refreshing his memory.
He told them everything he knew, everything he had heard, and everything he guessed.
What does King Joffrey fear? Is it true that he delights in torture and loves to make others suffer? Is Lancel fucking the queen? How does Tyrion regard the rest of his kin? Do the mountain clans of the Vale still remain loyal to the dwarf? How does Tywin deal with Kevan, and is everything truly as smooth between them as it seems? How much coin do the Lannisters spend on their army?
These—and dozens of other questions—were put to him in those days…
It went on for a long, very long time. Perfectly calm, the Pepper Crab would stick out the tip of his tongue in concentration and diligently record everything by the light of the smoking, crackling torches.
Tyrek was no fool and understood that sooner or later, once they had learned all they could, they would kill him. After a time, he himself began to await death with great relief. During this time, he had grown gaunt, and he reeked like a filthy pigsty. The endless torment had driven him to the very brink, beyond which lay only madness. His mind was ready to slip into that abyss at any moment, and death no longer seemed the worst of fates.
And then the torture stopped. Something changed, and they ceased questioning him. Once a day, Raspy still came down, bringing a mug of water and a crust of moldy bread.
Apparently, they still had some plans for him. They were waiting for something, and he was granted a reprieve.
Once, he began to shout, hoping someone might come to his aid. Then he heard noise outside, a horse whinnied, and for a fleeting instant hope surged within him. Almost at once, Noggin came down into the cellar.
"Shut up, little lord," he said, kicking him in the stomach. Then, when Tyrek fell to the floor, he pummeled him for a long while with fists and boots. "No one will hear you here. And if you don't quiet down, I'll cut your balls off. Understand?"
Noggin leaned closer, and the stench of rot and garlic washed over Tyrek from his mouth.
"What's the matter, you little bastard? Did you understand me?"
Only after Tyrek nodded did Noggin seem satisfied and leave the cellar.
After that, the Lannister did not shout again. He found a splinter on the floor and, clearing a small patch of the clay, began scratching lines there, marking each day he survived.
He recalled his former life—his good deeds and his failings—and dreamed of how he would take revenge on his captors.
In half-delirium, he saw the fair Westerlands, where the air was fresh and life was so good. He dreamed of the Lion's Mouth—the great gate of the castle on the landward side—and the other fortifications of their ancestral seat. Tyrek remembered his chamber there, his stern tutor Ser Marbrand, his childhood companions, and the laughing ladies-in-waiting whom it had been such delight to kiss and to slip his hands beneath their full skirts. In his waking visions, he wandered the cellars, passages, armories, and battlements of their castle, and then his thoughts would drift to the greening meadows where apple trees bloomed in flowers and from the earth burst springs so cold they made one's teeth ache.
(End of Chapter)
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