Tyrion Lannister looked at the towering granite mass of the Twins, and for the first time in his life, he felt the true, suffocating weight of being a Lannister.
The fortress sat astride the Green Fork like a jagged stone collar, a vital transportation hub connecting the North and the Riverlands. Now, it was the seat of House Karstark, the Starks' most fanatical and lethal vassals. To Tyrion, it felt less like a diplomatic destination and more like a tiger's den.
A lamb entering the slaughterhouse, he thought, shifting uncomfortably in his saddle.
He wondered why his father hadn't insisted on Duskendale for this parley. Or even a neutral tent near the ruins of Harrenhal. To force him to ride into the heart of the enemy's new territory felt like a deliberate test or a dismissal.
"How little does my father care for his 'imp' son?" Tyrion muttered to the wind, his breath hitching. "Or did he simply guess that Eddard Karstark would value a Stark princess's freedom more than a dwarf's head?"
"How long does this 'Wizard' intend to keep us waiting in the mud?" Bronn asked, his voice sharp with irritation.
The sellsword tugged on his reins, settling his restless mount. They had been sitting at the edge of the drawbridge for nearly two hours. The morning's meager breakfast had long since vanished, replaced by a gnawing hunger and the cold dampness of the Riverlands' autumn. Bronn's hand hovered near his sword hilt, his eyes scanning the battlements with a professional's wariness.
"Bronn, keep your tongue behind your teeth," Tyrion whispered. "Northerners aren't like the peacocks in King's Landing. They don't trade insults for sport; they trade them for blood. The man running this castle killed Gregor Clegane on a riverbank. If you provoke him, I doubt I'll be able to talk your head back onto your shoulders."
Tyrion glanced back at his escort, a small squad of Lannister red-cloaks and a few dozen of his "loyal" mountain clansmen. Tywin had sent them along, ostensibly for protection, but Tyrion knew better. Shagga and Chella were useful, but they had no concept of honor. If a Karstark offered them more steel and meat, they'd likely hand Tyrion over in a sack.
"You think I couldn't take a brute like the Mountain?" Bronn snorted, though he lowered his voice. "Speed beats size every day of the week. I'd have worn him down and finished him while he was still gasping for air."
"Of course you would, my captain," Tyrion sighed. "But there are four thousand spears behind those walls. Unless you can fight an entire garrison, let's stick to the script."
Fifteen minutes later, the massive iron-studded gates finally groaned open. A troop of riders emerged, led by a tall man in a black robe embroidered with a golden sun. A five-foot-long greatsword was secured to his horse's back, the hilt shimmering with a dull, smoke-patterned light.
Tyrion felt a pang of intimidation. He urged his horse forward as the Lannister lion banner met the Black Tower and Golden Sun in the center of the bridge.
He noticed the details immediately. The leader, Eddard Karstark had dark specks of dried blood on his surcoat. Beside him, a guard named Karas carried a massive, gold-carved axe, its blade still bearing a fresh, crimson stain.
A show of force, Tyrion noted. Or he's just a very messy eater.
"Lord Karstark," Tyrion called out, forcing a cordial smile. "It seems we've arrived at an inconvenient time. Are you... in the middle of chores?"
Eddard turned to glance at the bloody axe in Karas's hand, then looked back at Tyrion with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "You could say that, Lord Lannister. If you'd arrived two hours ago, you could have enjoyed a Northern tradition: the Lord personally cleaning the rot out of his own hall. I've just finished beheading a few vassals who forgot who owns the bridge."
Tyrion's eyelid twitched. The "Wizard" was already marking his territory. "You should consider an executioner, My Lord. In the South, a Lord's hands are far too valuable to be soiled by the blood of common traitors."
"Northern tradition is a hard thing to break, Lord Tyrion," Eddard replied, pulling his horse around. "We believe the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. It keeps the mind sharp. Now... should I arrange for salt and bread? Or are we past the formalities?"
Tyrion inclined his head. "After twelve days in the saddle, I'd prefer rich wine and a thick cut of roast beef to the symbolic comfort of bread. My hunger is far more pressing than my piety."
Guest right, Tyrion thought. It was a shield, but a flimsy one. He knew Eddard held the Twins by force, and in this house, the only law was the one the Karstark wrote.
"The Twins may not be the Red Keep, but we can manage a lunch," Eddard said, leading the way across the drawbridge.
As they rode through the courtyard, Tyrion leaned in, his voice low and testing. "I hear that King Robb Stark has returned to the North. Dealing with the Boltons and the Ironborn, is he? A heavy burden for a young man."
Eddard raised an eyebrow. "It's the King of the North and the Trident, Lord of Winterfell, Robb Stark. I'll remind you once, Lord Tyrion. Try not to make me repeat it."
"Of course," Tyrion shrugged, his expression neutral. "And the war? I trust the reclamation is going well?"
"Excellently," Eddard lied smoothly. "Roose Bolton is isolated in the Dreadfort, cowering behind his walls while his allies melt away. He's a man without a future. As for the Ironborn? They're pirates, not conquerors. The moment the Northern infantry reached the coast, the squids scrambled back to their boats. They're lingering in the shallows now, too afraid to set foot on dry land."
In truth, Eddard knew Asha Greyjoy still held Deepwood Motte and the North was a mess of internal bickering over the Ryswell and Dustin inheritances. But in a negotiation, a stable North was a dangerous North.
Tyrion frowned, searching for a crack in the story. "Is that so? Balon Greyjoy wrote to my father claiming he had taken a third of your kingdom. He seemed quite... convinced of his victory."
Eddard let out a bark of mocking laughter. "Balon thinks because he stole a few sheep and burned a fishing village, he owns the horizon. He is a clown, Lord Tyrion. The North belongs to the Starks, and it always will."
Eddard shifted the momentum. "But what of your own troubles? I hear Stannis Baratheon has grown weary of Storm's End. My scouts tell me the 'Fiery Heart' has appeared at Haystack Hall. Ten thousand Stormlanders are marching through the Kingswood as we speak."
Tyrion's jaw tightened. Eddard had information on the Reach invasion. "A minor nuisance. Lord Mace Tyrell is already handling it."
"With what?" Eddard countered. "The Tyrells are in King's Landing, aren't they? Protecting Joffrey? I doubt Mace wants to leave his daughter in a city surrounded by Baratheons just to save a few wheat fields in the Reach."
Tyrion gritted his teeth. "We have new allies. Prince Oberyn Martell is in the capital. Dorne and the Iron Throne are bound by blood now. The Reach will be protected by the sun and the spear."
Eddard laughed again, a loud, uninhibited sound that echoed off the stone walls. "Dornishmen protecting the Reach? Lord Tyrion, I took you for a clever man. How can you expect me to believe such a farce? The Martells would sooner watch Highgarden burn than lift a finger to save a Tyrell."
"They have Myrcella," Tyrion insisted. "They are loyal."
"Yes, and you promised them justice for Elia," Eddard said, pulling his horse to a stop at the entrance of the Banquet Hall. "But Gregor Clegane is dead by my hand. What 'justice' can you offer Oberyn now? A bag of gold? Or another dead cousin?"
Tyrion's face showed a perfectly timed mask of confusion. "Gregor Clegane? What does he have to do with this? The man who harmed Princess Elia was Ser Adam of House Lothston. He died in Harrenhal, fed to a bear by his own men. The gods have already settled that debt."
Eddard chuckled, dismounting his horse with a fluid grace. "I hope Prince Oberyn is as easily fooled by that lie as you hope I am."
He extended a hand toward the heavy oak doors. "But enough of the world's miseries. Let us eat. We can discuss the price of your family's survival after the soup."
[System Notification: Negotiation Phase Initiated.]
[Target: Tyrion Lannister.]
[Observation: The 'Adam Lothston' Lie detected.]
[Reputation with Tyrion: Wary Respect.]
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