Tyrek Lannister
He never learned who stood behind the Pepper Crab, though he hoped that sooner or later—if they did not kill him first—he would find out. Nor did he ever identify the place of his imprisonment. From the scant hints dropped by his tormentors, he had only managed to gather that he was still in Westeros, and most likely somewhere along the coast, north of King's Landing. But the coastline was long and winding, and trying to guess where he had ended up was clearly a useless exercise. Though, really—what else was there for him to do?
Thus his days passed in such bleak and monotonous thoughts. Months replaced one another. He slept through most of the hours—for there was nothing else to be done.
***
He was awakened by the sounds of a fight. Someone upstairs was shouting hoarsely; curses rang out, and the clash of steel on steel echoed through the building. A battle was underway, and Tyrek tensed involuntarily. Whoever was fighting his captors, the mere fact that something new was happening gave him hope.
Just in case, the Lannister moved to the farthest corner, positioning himself so that the chain slackened, then wound it around his arm—poor protection, perhaps, but protection all the same.
The noise died down. Several agonizing minutes passed. Then the door opened, and two men entered the cellar with torches.
"Fuck, it stinks like hell in here," one of them muttered coarsely, covering his nose with the edge of his cloak.
They looked around cautiously and noticed Tyrek standing frozen against the wall.
"Who are you?" one of them—a broad-shouldered man with a mustache and beard—raised his torch higher and took several steps toward the Lannister.
"And who are you?" Tyrek tried to restrain the tremor of hope rising in him and ran his tongue over lips that had suddenly gone dry.
"I am the commander of this detachment, hedge knight Lothar Eskel, in the service of Harald Orm."
"And who is Orm?"
"A man of the king." Lothar caught the question in his eyes and added, "King Joffrey the First."
"I am Tyrek Lannister," the young man said, striving to keep his voice from shaking.
"You're the one we've been looking for, my lord," the second man stepped forward and bowed. "I am Ser Nekos, and we are glad to see you."
"You were in no great hurry, as I can see."
"That was not our fault, Ser Tyrek. Littlefinger hid you so well that we were lucky even to pick up the trail and be standing here now."
"Littlefinger? Petyr Baelish?" Tyrek's head spun at the unexpected name. He had anticipated many things, but not to hear that name. To him, Littlefinger had always seemed sly, slippery, yet keenly aware of his own interests and exits—a bastard who knew how to look after himself. And he had always held with the Lannisters—after all, no one could pay him more.
"Yes, ser, the damned Littlefinger took you captive. Here, drink—this rum will help you steady yourself." Eskel unclipped a flask in a cloth sleeve from his belt and handed it to him. Tyrek hastily took several deep swallows.
Unaccustomed to alcohol and weakened by hunger, the drink went to his head almost at once. He sank down onto the pallet and waited impatiently for his rescuers to bring tools and free him from his chains.
Meanwhile, Nekos brought him up to date, recounting all that had happened over the past months. The news was so plentiful and it was so unexpected that Tyrek's head spun. It was hard to believe that so much could have occurred in so little time.
"Our Crown Guard service was formed not long ago, and Ser Orm commands us," Lothar said. "Almost at once he ordered us to find you. Oh, if you only knew where we searched: from Flea Bottom to Gulltown, and from Westeros to Essos."
"I won't forget this, lads."
"No need for thanks, Your Grace," Lothar replied with a grin beneath his mustache. "We are in service, and believe me, that's where we'll be rewarded."
Then they helped him outside. The fresh, salty air and the bright sunlight overwhelmed him, and he lost consciousness.
Tyrek came to as someone carefully poured water over him from a bucket. He opened his eyes and jerked upright on the ground. The first thing he demanded was water, and he drank for a long time, with immense pleasure.
"Where are we?" the Lannister asked the knights.
They were in the yard of a small estate. The house itself was two stories, old-built, its wood darkened with age. Beyond the tall fence, trees rose high. Near the porch lay a large dog, pierced by a pair of arrows.
Several men were efficiently dragging bodies toward one of the walls—there were seven in all. Among them, to his immense satisfaction, he recognized Noggin, Raspy, and the Pepper Crab.
Lothar's men—by his rough count, there were around twenty of them—were searching the house and hauling out everything of value.
"This is one of Littlefinger's estates on Crackclaw Point," Nekos answered. "And forgive my boldness, but you are fortunate he did not have time to give the order to cut your throat."
"And where is that bitch now?" Cold fury began to coil in his heart. The desire to destroy Littlefinger—to torture him, then kill him, and along with him annihilate everything he held dear—flooded the Lannister completely.
(End of Chapter)
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