ASOIAF: King of Winter

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Chapter 31

Brynden Tully

He took out his trusty far-eye, glancing through it at the distant, hidden camp within the forest.

It was a small thing, only enough to hold some fifteen people, maybe twenty if they pushed it.

"Why are there Lannister men so deep within our territory?" He questioned loudly.

His aide, one Smalljon Umber, shrugged.

Brynden grunts. "Then we have to find out."

In order to channel his heated emotions, his grandnephew wisely ordered him to lead scouting teams to rid the Riverlands of what may remain of the Lannister forces, and bandits and/or outlaws, of course.

He was grateful for that, to be honest. Brynden always prided himself for his emotional control, when he was younger, he'd fallen to the whims of sentiment and youth, often acting out on his base impulses, much to devastating results.

It'd taken years of experience and discipline to learn to sharpen his emotions, to turn his greatest weakness into his greatest strength, to channel them constructively, guided by nothing but logic and pragmatism.

But he'd felt himself slipping, he'd always felt deeper than others, and when that fucking prissy cunt killed his nephew, he'd snapped. That whole execution debacle may have taken out the edge off of his rage, but it still laid deep in his heart, simmering, waiting for any excuse to be let out.

'Anymore, and I'd have killed that honor-less cur.' He thought.

He turned toward one of his men, mentioning for them to come closer with a gesture. "Fall back to the camp, call up another fifteen men."

"At once, Ser." The man quickly bows and leaves for his task.

They were roughly twenty scouting this part of the riverlands, some leagues off Raventree Hall toward Harrenhall. He'd need fifteen more to make sure he'd outnumber the camp two to one, anything else and they'd risk casualties.

To the man's merit, it only took less than an hour for the reinforcements to sneakily walk up to them.

"I counted roughly 18 men, with some additional prisoners." Brynden says to Smalljon. "You'll lead 20 down the west slope, using the high ground to push them away. Don't get too close, the rest and I will be perched on the other side with bows and arrows, understood?"

Smalljon nods swiftly and turns to the others, gathering the men and horses for the attack.

As usual, Brynden's forces were lightly armored cavalry, since their numbers were kept small, he also made sure that most of his men were also skilled archers, either knights, second sons, veteran hunters, or longbowmen who have experience ahorse.

It made for a very flexible force, capable of easily chasing smaller forces and harassing larger ones.

'A permanent unit would be mighty useful.' He thinks. 'I should advise Robb to build on these men.'

He'd then gone back to watching through his far eye, he could notice through the far shrubbery the Umber heir and his men moving slowly across the small forest, if only barely. Were he unaware of their presence, he doubted he'd be able to spot them.

'The boy takes to advice well.' Brynden closes the far eye, turning toward the other men. 'He's letting the hunters lead, as I'd told him.'

He gestures with his arm, as they swiftly approach toward a more advantageous spot.

Brynden stills behind one of the far trees, right next to a clearing that would lead directly out of the woods and to safe distance for the campers.

He lifts his hand and encloses it into a fist, indicating that this is to be the point for their ambush.

The silence was unnatural for a while, their presence clearly spooking any beasts and ants that would usually make for ambient sound, yet before long, he heard a loud horn echo to the other side.

Taking his far-eye once he again, he spies on the camp. Their night sentries were clearly alert –as being amidst enemy ground tends to encourage- and have swiftly warned the rest.

Yet it is to no avail. Their men had gotten too close with too many men to defend, and whoever commanded their men knew it too.

The Lannister dogs were clearly prepared for an ambush, as they reacted quickly to the threat. He saw a large man full of muscle order some 10 men to defend, whilst the rest took to their horses.

"Prepare yourselves." Brynden orders, he predicted that their enemies would panic and fully attempt to escape toward them, or they'd attempt to fight, and only once they'd found themselves at a loss would they attempt to flee.

'Instead, they sacrifice some of their men to make time.' He comments. 'Typical, from their ilk.'

The last thing he glimpses from his far-eye before putting it down is Smalljon skillfully dodging a pike to his shoulder and crushing a man's head with his mace.

Brynden takes his trusty bow and holds it aloft. He could clearly see the men approaching toward them, with the muscular commander at their head.

He nocks an arrow, squinting, he shifts his aim toward the man's head.

He hesitates, he knew that he must keep someone alive to interrogate, but something within him rebels at the thought, wishing to kill each and every single one of them.

Brynden lets the arrow fly, and as it does, he swiftly turns his bow to the side, changing its direction.

'Not this time.'

The arrow lodges itself in another man's chest, killing him instantly.

The others took his own shot as an indication to do the same, so it was quickly followed by the sounds of flying arrows.

Eight men is a low number of men, as without any fanfare they'd mostly lay bare.

The commander was clearly experienced, as he reacted the fastest and hid behind a horse's corpse, shielding away from the arrows.

Brynden walks up to the scene, another arrow idly notched on his bow.

"Name and affiliation, now!" He screams. "Or I'll fill you with so many arrows and use you as a club!"

Two hands extend from the leader's side. "Peace! Peace milord!"

"That's not what I asked for!"

"Ser Brynden Hill, that's my name! Milord, I'm a man-at-arms with Lord Crakehall!"

Brynden lowers his bow ever so slightly.

"You sound well-spoken for a bastard, Brynden." The irony of their shared name doesn't escape him, but he wasn't in the mood for japes.

The man slowly stands up from his perch; his hands still up in surrender.

Brynden noticed he was larger than most, with many scars dotting his arms and chest. He wore simple leather armor with chainmail, which didn't do much for protection.

"I've been squired to Ser Joffrey Dogget, learned my speech from him, milord."

"And where's Ser Dogget?"

The man winces. "Died on the battles of the Crossings, at your hand, Ser."

The Blackfish tilts his head. "Really?" He says. "Can't remember."

Brynden hangs his bow to his side as Smalljon and the men catch up, two of the newcomers dismounts and capture the man, forcing him to kneel as they put shackles to his arms.

He approaches, half-sitting down to be face to face with the man.

"You seem like a reasonable man, Brynden." The name was spoken with barely hidden mirth. "A good man, even. So, believe me when I say that it would be a shame to put you to the sword. Of course, that can be avoided if you answer my questions."

The man nods solemnly. "I'll try my best, Ser."

"Good." Brynden stands up, dusting off his knees with his hands. "First question then, why are Lannister forces stationed into enemy lines?"

The other Brynden gulps nervously, whatever his answer, it was clear that he thought it to be sensitive.

"Our orders… Our orders were to chase a girl."

The mention of a girl made Brynden feel a sense of urgency all of a sudden, and slowly, an unbidden theory came to mind.

It would be too soon to put it to words without proof, however.

"What girl?"

"The girl with the wolf." There it was, confirmation. "Arya Stark."

It wasn't just him, but everyone accompanying him stood taut. If Arya Stark was here, in the Riverlands, and the Lannisters didn't have her…

The Blackfish -I guess it is the Red now, but he digresses- finds himself eye to eye with the other Brynden once again.

"Where?!" He growled

"W-we last saw her west!" The man almost screams, eager to stay alive. "She's with a fat boy and one of Robert's bastards, and they've escaped Harrenhall!"

"How can we be sure it's her?" Smalljon remarks, a serious look on his face.

The hostage looks at the Umber heir. "We didn't know either, at first we just thought they were escapees trying to escape the massacre, but then she was found with a direwolf and its pack, killing the men sent to pursue them. Only then we knew." He then turns back to Brynden. "That's all I know, I swear!"

Brynden believed him.

It is why he swiftly unsheathed his sword and sliced his throat.

Smalljon steps back from a spurt of blood, a look of disgust on his face. "Why kill him? He may have been useful."

"He's with the Lannisters" Brynden's reply was swift, and spoken like a decree from the seven. "He doesn't deserve to live."

Smalljon looks at him with a slightly disturbed expression, yet he wisely stays silent.

Brynden stands up and looks at his men. "Gather the corpses and burn them posthaste." He orders. "And have a runner rush back to camp, tell them about Lady Arya."

"Where to next, Ser?" Jon asks.

"Obviously west." He replies. "The Lannisters cannot find the girl first. Or Robb will surely be furious." He turns to the giant man. "Can you imagine it? Your lord, apoplectic with rage?"

Jon blanches, and he swiftly rushes back to the others in order to make them rush.

'The boy has a hold over these men.' Brynden thinks. 'But then, he does over me too…'

He turns back, staring at his men being busy.

'To think of it, I should probably help them too.'