Game of Thrones: I Created the Magic Web.

Sorry, I thought it was just a common cold, but it's been getting worse these past two days. I can't write much. Please bear with me. I'll try my best to make it up before the end of the month. Thank you.

“My son is in their hands,” Tywin Lannister said.

“Yes, my lord.” The messenger's voice was dull with exhaustion. On the breast of his torn, sleeveless surcoat, dried blood obscured the spotted boar of House Crakehall.

One of your two sons, Tyrion thought. He sipped his wine, saying nothing, thinking of Jaime. As he raised his hand, a sharp pain shot from his elbow to his brain, reminding him of the taste of battle. He loved his brother, but he wouldn't want to be with him in the Whispering Wood for all the gold in Casterly Rock.

The lords and generals summoned by his father quieted down, listening to the messenger recount the events. In the spacious and airy hall of the inn, only the firewood in the hearth crackled.

After a long, hurried march south, the thought of resting at the inn, even for just one night, greatly cheered Tyrion… though he secretly hoped it wouldn't be this inn full of memories again. His father had strictly ordered them to travel at a breakneck pace, resulting in heavy losses. Wounded soldiers in war who couldn't keep up were left to fend for themselves. Every morning when they set off, some people would collapse by the roadside, falling asleep never to wake up again; in the afternoon, others would collapse exhausted by the roadside; and by night, even more would desert, disappearing into the darkness, and Tyrion himself wanted to go with them.

Moments before, he had been upstairs, lying on a soft and comfortable feather bed, embracing Shae's warm body. But his squire had rushed in to shake him awake, reporting that someone had ridden in with important news from Riverrun. He immediately realized they had made a wasted trip. Rushing south, endless forced marches and corpses abandoned by the roadside… all for nothing. Robb Stark had lifted the siege of Riverrun days ago.

“How could this be?” Ser Harys Swyft groaned. “How could this be? Even after the battle in the Whispering Wood, Riverrun was still completely surrounded by a large army… What on earth was Ser Jaime thinking, dividing his forces into three separate camps? Surely he knew the risks involved?”

He knows more than you, you chinless coward, Tyrion thought. Even though Jaime had lost Riverrun, hearing his brother slandered by someone like Swyft still filled him with anger. Swyft was a shameless sycophant whose greatest achievement in life was marrying his equally chinless daughter to Ser Kevan, thereby becoming related to the Lannister family.

“I would have done the same,” his uncle replied, with a calmness Tyrion knew he himself could not have mustered. “Ser Harys, you haven't seen Riverrun, or you would know that Jaime had no choice. Riverrun sits at the point of the delta where the Tumblestone flows into the Red Fork, a tributary of the Trident. The rivers form two sides of the triangle, and when danger threatens, the Tullys open the sluice gates upstream, creating a wide moat on the third side, turning Riverrun into an island in the river. The walls rise high out of the water, and the defenders can see for leagues from the towers. To cut off all support, a besieger would have to place an army north of the Tumblestone, south of the Red Fork, and west of the moat, between the two rivers. There is no other way.”

“My lords, Ser Kevan speaks truly,” the messenger said. “Our men had ringed the camp with sharpened stakes, but such preparations proved woefully inadequate when the rivers rose without warning to cut our camps off from one another. They struck first at the northern camp, taking us completely by surprise. Ser Marq Piper had been harassing our supply trains, but he only had fifty or sixty men. The night before the attack, Ser Jaime himself led a force to deal with them… alas, we thought Piper's band was the objective. We had heard that the Stark forces were still east of the Green Fork, heading south…”

“Where were your scouts?” Ser Gregor Clegane's face was like a stone carving, the firelight giving his skin a sinister orange hue, casting deep shadows under his eye sockets. “Did they see nothing? Give you no warning?”

The blood-soaked messenger shook his head. “Our scouting parties have been disappearing of late. We thought it was Marq Piper's doing. Those who returned claimed they had seen nothing.”

“To see nothing means he has no need of eyes,” the Mountain declared. “Tear out their eyes, and give them to the replacement scouts, and tell them: hopefully four eyes can see better than two… and if he still fails, the next man will have six.”

Lord Tywin Lannister turned to scrutinize Ser Gregor, and Tyrion saw a flash of gold in his father's pupils, but he couldn't tell if it was approval or disgust. Lord Tywin usually remained silent at meetings, preferring to listen to others before speaking his mind, a habit Tyrion had always wanted to emulate. However, even for his father, such silence was unusual; he hadn't even touched his wine.

“You say they launched a night attack?” Ser Kevan asked.

The man nodded wearily. “The vanguard was led by the Blackfish, who cut down our guards, cleared the stakes to allow the main force to attack. By the time our men realized what was happening, enemy cavalry had already jumped the ditch, charging into the camp with swords and torches. I was sleeping in the west camp, the one between the two rivers. When our men heard the fighting and saw the tents on fire, Lord Brax led everyone onto rafts, wanting to row across to help. However, the current was strong, carrying us downstream, and when the Tully garrison saw us, they bombarded us with catapults from the walls. I saw one raft smashed to pieces, and three others overturned, the people on them swept into the river and drowned… and those who managed to cross the river found the Stark forces waiting for them on the other side.”

Ser Flement Brax, wearing a surcoat of silver and purple, wore an expression of disbelief. “My father, my lord father—?”

“My lord, I am sorry,” the messenger said. “Lord Brax was wearing full plate and mail when his raft capsized. He was a brave man.”

“Afterwards, the camp between the two rivers was also captured by the enemy,” the messenger continued. “While we were busy crossing the river, Stark's heavy cavalry formed two columns and charged out from the west. I saw the Broken Chain giant sigil of House Umber and the eagle sigil of House Mallister, but the most terrifying was the little imp leading the charge, with a monstrous wolf by his side. I didn't fight them, but I heard that the monster killed four living men and bit a dozen horses to death. Later, our pikemen formed a shield wall, stopping their first charge, but when the Tullys saw we were preoccupied, they opened the gates of Riverrun, and Titus Blackwood led a force across the drawbridge to attack our rear.”

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