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你看着眼前的人，分明还是以前的模样，可心里终究不是以前那般澄清透明了。
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Chapter 62
TYRION
On a hill overlooking the kingsroad, a long trestle table of rough-hewn pine had been erected beneath an elm tree and covered with a golden cloth. There, beside his pavilion, Lord Tywin took his evening meal with his chief knights and lords bannermen, his great crimson-and-gold standard waving overhead from a lofty pike.
Tyrion arrived late, saddlesore, and sour, all too vividly aware of how amusing he must look as he waddled up the slope to his father. The day’s march had been long and tiring. He thought he might get quite drunk tonight. It was twilight, and the air was alive with drifting fireflies.
The cooks were serving the meat course: five suckling pigs, skin seared and crackling, a different fruit in every mouth. The smell made his mouth water. “My pardons,” he began, taking his place on the bench beside his uncle.
“Perhaps I’d best charge you with burying our dead, Tyrion,” Lord Tywin said. “If you are as late to battle as you are to table, the fighting will all be done by the time you arrive.”
“Oh, surely you can save me a peasant or two, Father,” Tyrion replied. “Not too many, I wouldn’t want to be greedy.” He filled his wine cup and watched a serving man carve into the pig. The crisp skin crackled under his knife, and hot juice ran from the meat. It was the loveliest sight Tyrion had seen in ages.
“Ser Addam’s outriders say the Stark host has moved south from the Twins,” his father reported as his trencher was filled with slices of pork. “Lord Frey’s levies have joined them. They are likely no more than a day’s march north of us.”
“Please, Father,” Tyrion said. “I’m about to eat.”
“Does the thought of facing the Stark boy unman you, Tyrion? Your brother Jaime would be eager to come to grips with him.”
“I’d sooner come to grips with that pig. Robb Stark is not half so tender, and he never smelled as good.”
Lord Lefford, the sour bird who had charge of their stores and supplies, leaned forward. “I hope your savages do not share your reluctance, else we’ve wasted our good steel on them.”
“My savages will put your steel to excellent use, my lord,” Tyrion replied. When he had told Lefford he needed arms and armor to equip the three hundred men Ulf had fetched down out of the foothills, you would have thought he’d asked the man to turn his virgin daughters over to their pleasure.
Lord Lefford frowned. “I saw that great hairy one today, the one who insisted that he must have two battle-axes, the heavy black steel ones with twin crescent blades.”
“Shagga likes to kill with either hand,” Tyrion said as a trencher of steaming pork was laid in front of him.
“He still had that wood-axe of his strapped to his back.”
“Shagga is of the opinion that three axes are even better than two.” Tyrion reached a thumb and forefinger into the salt dish, and sprinkled a healthy pinch over his meat.
Ser Kevan leaned forward. “We had a thought to put you and your wildlings in the vanguard when we come to battle.”
Ser Kevan seldom “had a thought” that Lord Tywin had not had first. Tyrion had skewered a chunk of meat on the point of his dagger and brought it to his mouth. Now he lowered it. “The vanguard?” he repeated dubiously. Either his lord father had a new respect for Tyrion’s abilities, or he’d decided to rid himself of his embarrassing get for good. Tyrion had the gloomy feeling he knew which.
“They seem ferocious enough,” Ser Kevan said.
“Ferocious?” Tyrion realized he was echoing his uncle like a trained bird. His father watched, judging him, weighing every word. “Let me tell you how ferocious they are. Last night, a Moon Brother stabbed a Stone Crow over a sausage. So today as we made camp three Stone Crows seized the man and opened his throat for him. Perhaps they were hoping to get the sausage back, I couldn’t say. Bronn managed to keep Shagga from chopping off the dead man’s cock, which was fortunate, but even so Ulf is demanding blood money, which Conn and Shagga refuse to pay.”
“When soldiers lack discipline, the fault lies with their lord commander,” his father said.
His brother Jaime had always been able to make men follow him eagerly, and die for him if need be. Tyrion lacked that gift. He bought loyalty with gold, and compelled obedience with his name. “A bigger man would be able to put the fear in them, is that what you’re saying, my lord?”
Lord Tywin Lannister turned to his brother. “If my son’s men will not obey his commands, perhaps the vanguard is not the place for him. No doubt he would be more comfortable in the rear, guarding our baggage train.”
“Do me no kindnesses, Father,” he said angrily. “If you have no other command to offer me, I’ll lead your van.”
Lord Tywin studied his dwarf son. “I said nothing about command. You will serve under Ser Gregor.”
Tyrion took one bite of pork, chewed a moment, and spit it out angrily. “I find I am not hungry after all,” he said, climbing awkwardly off the bench. “Pray excuse me, my lords.”
Lord Tywin inclined his head, dismissing him. Tyrion turned and walked away. He was conscious of their eyes on his back as he waddled down the hill. A great gust of laughter went up from behind him, but he did not look back. He hoped they all choked on their suckling pigs.
Dusk had settled, turning all the banners black. The Lannister camp sprawled for miles between the river and the kingsroad. In amongst the men and the horses and the trees, it was easy to get lost, and Tyrion did. He passed a dozen great pavilions and a hundred cookfires. Fireflies drifted amongst the tents like wandering stars. He caught the scent of garlic sausage, spiced and savory, so tempting it made his empty stomach growl. Away in the distance, he heard voices raised in some bawdy song. A giggling woman raced past him, naked beneath a dark cloak, her drunken pursuer stumbling over tree roots. Farther on, two spearmen faced each other across a little trickle of a stream, practicing their thrust-and-parry in the fading light, their chests bare and slick with sweat.
No one looked at him. No one spoke to him. No one paid him any mind. He was surrounded by men sworn to House Lannister, a vast host twenty thousand strong, and yet he was alone.
When he heard the deep rumble of Shagga’s laughter booming through the dark, he followed it to the Stone Crows in their small corner of the night. Conn son of Coratt waved a tankard of ale. “Tyrion Halfman! Come, sit by our fire, share meat with the Stone Crows. We have an ox.”
“I can see that, Conn son of Coratt.” The huge red carcass was suspended over a roaring fire, skewered on a spit the size of a small tree. No doubt it was a small tree. Blood and grease dripped down into the flames as two Stone Crows turned the meat. “I thank you. Send for me when the ox is cooked.” From the look of it, that might even be before the battle. He walked on.
Each clan had its own cookfire; Black Ears did not eat with Stone Crows, Stone Crows did not eat with Moon Brothers, and no one ate with Burned Men. The modest tent he had coaxed out of Lord Lefford’s stores had been erected in the center of the four fires. Tyrion found Bronn sharing a skin of wine with the new servants. Lord Tywin had sent him a groom and a body servant to see to his needs, and even insisted he take a squire. They were seated around the embers of a small cookfire. A girl was with them; slim, dark-haired, no more than eighteen by the look of her. Tyrion studied her face for a moment, before he spied fishbones in the ashes. “What did you eat?”
“Trout, m’lord,” said his groom. “Bronn caught them.”
Trout, he thought. Suckling pig. Damn my father. He stared mournfully at the bones, his belly rumbling.
His squire, a boy with the unfortunate name of Podrick Payne, swallowed whatever he had been about to say. The lad was a distant cousin to Ser Ilyn Payne, the king’s headsman?.?.?.?and almost as quiet, although not for want of a tongue. Tyrion had made him stick it out once, just to be certain. “Definitely a tongue,” he had said. “Someday you must learn to use it.”
At the moment, he did not have the patience to try and coax a thought out of the lad, whom he suspected had been inflicted on him as a cruel jape. Tyrion turned his attention back to the girl. “Is this her?” he asked Bronn.
She rose gracefully and looked down at him from the lofty height of five feet or more. “It is, m’lord, and she can speak for herself, if it please you.”
He cocked his head to one side. “I am Tyrion, of House Lannister. Men call me the Imp.”
“My mother named me Shae. Men call me?.?.?.?often.”
Bronn laughed, and Tyrion had to smile. “Into the tent, Shae, if you would be so kind.” He lifted the flap and held it for her. Inside, he knelt to light a candle.
The life of a soldier was not without certain compensations. Wherever you have a camp, you are certain to have camp followers. At the end of the day’s march, Tyrion had sent Bronn back to find him a likely whore. “I would prefer one who is reasonably young, with as pretty a face as you can find,” he had said. “If she has washed sometime this year, I shall be glad. If she hasn’t, wash her. Be certain that you tell her who I am, and warn her of what I am.” Jyck had not always troubled to do that. There was a look the girls got in their eyes sometimes when they first beheld the lordling they’d been hired to pleasure?.?.?.?a took that Tyrion Lannister did not ever care to see again.
He lifted the candle and looked her over. Bronn had done well enough; she was doe-eyed and slim, with small firm breasts and a smile that was by turns shy, insolent, and wicked. He liked that. “Shall I take my gown off, m’lord?” she asked.
“In good time. Are you a maiden, Shae?”
“If it please you, m’lord,” she said demurely.
“What would please me would be the truth of you, girl.”
“Aye, but that will cost you double.”
Tyrion decided they would get along splendidly. “I am a Lannister. Gold I have in plenty, and you’ll find me generous ?.?.?.?but I’ll want more from you than what you’ve got between your legs, though I’ll want that too. You’ll share my tent, pour my wine, laugh at my jests, rub the ache from my legs after each day’s ride?.?.?.?and whether I keep you a day or a year, for so long as we are together you will take no other men into your bed.”
“Fair enough.” She reached down to the hem of her thin roughspun gown and pulled it up over her head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. There was nothing underneath but Shae. “If he don’t put down that candle, m’lord will burn his fingers.”
Tyrion put down the candle, took her hand in his, and pulled her gently to him. She bent to kiss him. Her mouth tasted of honey and cloves, and her fingers were deft and practiced as they found the fastenings of his clothes.
When he entered her, she welcomed him with whispered endearments and small, shuddering gasps of pleasure. Tyrion suspected her delight was feigned, but she did it so well that it did not matter. That much truth he did not crave.
He had needed her, Tyrion realized afterward, as she lay quietly in his arms. Her or someone like her. It had been nigh on a year since he’d lain with a woman, since before he had set out for Winterfell in company with his brother and King Robert. He could well die on the morrow or the day after, and if he did, he would sooner go to his grave thinking of Shae than of his lord father, Lysa Arryn, or the Lady Catelyn Stark.
He could feel the softness of her breasts pressed against his arm as she lay beside him. That was a good feeling. A song filled his head. Softly, quietly, he began to whistle.
“What’s that, m’lord?” Shae murmured against him.
“Nothing,” he told her. “A song I learned as a boy, that’s all. Go to sleep, sweetling.”
When her eyes were closed and her breathing deep and steady, Tyrion slid out from beneath her, gently, so as not to disturb her sleep. Naked, he crawled outside, stepped over his squire, and walked around behind his tent to make water.
Bronn was seated cross-legged under a chestnut tree, near where they’d tied the horses. He was honing the edge of his sword, wide awake; the sellsword did not seem to sleep like other men. “Where did you find her?” Tyrion asked him as he pissed.
“I took her from a knight. The man was loath to give her up, but your name changed his thinking somewhat?.?.?.?that, and my dirk at his throat.”
“Splendid,” Tyrion said dryly, shaking off the last drops. “I seem to recall saying find me a whore, not make me an enemy.”
“The pretty ones were all claimed,” Bronn said. “I’ll be pleased to take her back if you’d prefer a toothless drab.”
Tyrion limped closer to where he sat. “My lord father would call that insolence, and send you to the mines for impertinence.”
“Good for me you’re not your father,” Bronn replied. “I saw one with boils all over her nose. Would you like her?”
“What, and break your heart?” Tyrion shot back. “I shall keep Shae. Did you perchance note the name of this knight you took her from? I’d rather not have him beside me in the battle.”
Bronn rose, cat-quick and cat-graceful, turning his sword in his hand. “You’ll have me beside you in the battle, dwarf.”
Tyrion nodded. The night air was warm on his bare skin. “See that I survive this battle, and you can name your reward.”
Bronn tossed the longsword from his right hand to his left, and tried a cut. “Who’d want to kill the likes of you?”
“My lord father, for one. He’s put me in the van.”
“I’d do the same. A small man with a big shield. You’ll give the archers fits.”
“I find you oddly cheering,” Tyrion said. “I must be mad.”
Bronn sheathed his sword. “Beyond a doubt.”
When Tyrion returned to his tent, Shae rolled onto her elbow and murmured sleepily, “I woke and m’lord was gone.”
“M’lord is back now.” He slid in beside her.
Her hand went between his stunted legs, and found him hard. “Yes he is,” she whispered, stroking him.
He asked her about the man Bronn had taken her from, and she named the minor retainer of an insignificant lordling. “You need not fear his like, m’lord,” the girl said, her fingers busy at his cock. “He is a small man.”
“And what am I, pray?” Tyrion asked her. “A giant?”
“Oh, yes,” she purred, “my giant of Lannister.” She mounted him then, and for a time, she almost made him believe it. Tyrion went to sleep smiling?.?.?.?
?.?.?.?and woke in darkness to the blare of trumpets. Shae was shaking him by the shoulder. “M’lord,” she whispered. “Wake up, m’lord. I’m frightened.”
Groggy, he sat up and threw back the blanket. The horns called through the night, wild and urgent, a cry that said hurry hurry hurry. He heard shouts, the clatter of spears, the whicker of horses, though nothing yet that spoke to him of fighting. “My lord father’s trumpets,” he said. “Battle assembly. I thought Stark was yet a day’s march away.”
Shae shook her head, lost. Her eyes were wide and white.
Groaning, Tyrion lurched to his feet and pushed his way outside, shouting for his squire. Wisps of pale fog drifted through the night, long white fingers off the river. Men and horses blundered through the predawn chill; saddles were being cinched, wagons loaded, fires extinguished. The trumpets blew again: hurry hurry hurry. Knights vaulted onto snorting coursers while men-at-arms buckled their sword belts as they ran. When he found Pod, the boy was snoring softly. Tyrion gave him a sharp poke in the ribs with his toe. “My armor,” he said, “and be quick about it.” Bronn came trotting out of the mists, already armored and ahorse, wearing his battered halfhelm. “Do you know what’s happened?” Tyrion asked him.
“The Stark boy stole a march on us,” Bronn said. “He crept down the kingsroad in the night, and now his host is less than a mile north of here, forming up in battle array.”
Hurry, the trumpets called, hurry hurry hurry.
“See that the clansmen are ready to ride.” Tyrion ducked back inside his tent. “Where are my clothes?” he barked at Shae. “There. No, the leather, damn it. Yes. Bring me my boots.”
By the time he was dressed, his squire had laid out his armor, such that it was. Tyrion owned a fine suit of heavy plate, expertly crafted to fit his misshapen body. Alas, it was safe at Casterly Rock, and he was not. He had to make do with oddments assembled from Lord Lefford’s wagons: mail hauberk and coif, a dead knight’s gorget, lobstered greaves and gauntlets and pointed steel boots. Some of it was ornate, some plain; not a bit of it matched, or fit as it should. His breastplate was meant for a bigger man; for his oversize head, they found a huge bucket-shaped greathelm topped with a foot-long triangular spike.
Shae helped Pod with the buckles and clasps. “If I die, weep for me,” Tyrion told the whore.
“How will you know? You’ll be dead.”
“I’ll know.”
“I believe you would.” Shae lowered the greathelm down over his head, and Pod fastened it to his gorget. Tyrion buckled on his belt, heavy with the weight of shortsword and dirk. By then his groom had brought up his mount, a formidable brown courser armored as heavily as he was. He needed help to mount; he felt as though he weighed a thousand stone. Pod handed him up his shield, a massive slab of heavy ironwood banded with steel. Lastly they gave him his battle-axe. Shae stepped back and looked him over. “M’lord looks fearsome.”
“M’lord looks a dwarf in mismatched armor,” Tyrion answered sourly, “but I thank you for the kindness. Podrick, should the battle go against us, see the lady safely home.” He saluted her with his axe, wheeled his horse about, and trotted off. His stomach was a hard knot, so tight it pained him. Behind, his servants hurriedly began to strike his tent. Pale crimson fingers fanned out to the east as the first rays of the sun broke over the horizon. The western sky was a deep purple, speckled with stars. Tyrion wondered whether this was the last sunrise he would ever see?.?.?.?and whether wondering was a mark of cowardice. Did his brother Jaime ever contemplate death before a battle?
A warhorn sounded in the far distance, a deep mournful note that chilled the soul. The clansmen climbed onto their scrawny mountain horses, shouting curses and rude jokes. Several appeared to be drunk. The rising sun was burning off the drifting tendrils of fog as Tyrion led them off. What grass the horses had left was heavy with dew, as if some passing god had scattered a bag of diamonds over the earth. The mountain men fell in behind him, each clan arrayed behind its own leaders.
In the dawn light, the army of Lord Tywin Lannister unfolded like an iron rose, thorns gleaming.
His uncle would lead the center. Ser Kevan had raised his standards above the kingsroad. Quivers hanging from their belts, the foot archers arrayed themselves into three long lines, to east and west of the road, and stood calmly stringing their bows. Between them, pikemen formed squares; behind were rank on rank of men-at-arms with spear and sword and axe. Three hundred heavy horse surrounded Ser Kevan and the lords bannermen Lefford, Lydden, and Serrett with all their sworn retainers.
The right wing was all cavalry, some four thousand men, heavy with the weight of their armor. More than three quarters of the knights were there, massed together like a great steel fist. Ser Addam Marbrand had the command. Tyrion saw his banner unfurl as his standardbearer shook it out; a burning tree, orange and smoke. Behind him flew Ser Flement’s purple unicorn, the brindled boar of Crakehall, the bantam rooster of Swyft, and more.
His lord father took his place on the hill where he had slept. Around him, the reserve assembled; a huge force, half mounted and half foot, five thousand strong. Lord Tywin almost always chose to command the reserve; he would take the high ground and watch the battle unfold below him, committing his forces when and where they were needed most.
Even from afar, his lord father was resplendent. Tywin Lannister’s battle armor put his son Jaime’s gilded suit to shame. His greatcloak was sewn from countless layers of cloth-of-gold, so heavy that it barely stirred even when he charged, so large that its drape covered most of his stallion’s hindquarters when he took the saddle. No ordinary clasp would suffice for such a weight, so the greatcloak was held in place by a matched pair of miniature lionesses crouching on his shoulders, as if poised to spring. Their mate, a male with a magnificent mane, reclined atop Lord Tywin’s greathelm, one paw raking the air as he roared. All three lions were wrought in gold, with ruby eyes. His armor was heavy steel plate, enameled in a dark crimson, greaves and gauntlets inlaid with ornate gold scrollwork. His rondels were golden sunbursts, all his fastenings were gilded, and the red steel was burnished to such a high sheen that it shone like fire in the light of the rising sun.
Tyrion could hear the rumble of the foemen’s drums now. He remembered Robb Stark as he had last seen him, in his father’s high seat in the Great Hall of Winterfell, a sword naked and shining in his hands. He remembered how the direwolves had come at him out of the shadows, and suddenly he could see them again, snarling and snapping, teeth bared in his face. Would the boy bring his wolves to war with him? The thought made him uneasy.
The northerners would be exhausted after their long sleepless march. Tyrion wondered what the boy had been thinking. Did he think to take them unawares while they slept? Small chance of that; whatever else might be said of him, Tywin Lannister was no man’s fool.
The van was massing on the left. He saw the standard first, three black dogs on a yellow field. Ser Gregor sat beneath it, mounted on the biggest horse Tyrion had ever seen. Bronn took one look at him and grinned. “Always follow a big man into battle.”
Tyrion threw him a hard look. “And why is that?”
“They make such splendid targets. That one, he’ll draw the eyes of every bowman on the field.”
Laughing, Tyrion regarded the Mountain with fresh eyes. “I confess, I had not considered it in that light.”
Clegane had no splendor about him; his armor was steel plate, dull grey, scarred by hard use and showing neither sigil nor ornament. He was pointing men into position with his blade, a two-handed greatsword that Ser Gregor waved about with one hand as a lesser man might wave a dagger. “Any man runs, I’ll cut him down myself,” he was roaring when he caught sight of Tyrion. “Imp! Take the left. Hold the river. If you can.”
The left of the left. To turn their flank, the Starks would need horses that could run on water. Tyrion led his men toward the riverbank. “Look,” he shouted, pointing with his axe. “The river.” A blanket of pale mist still clung to the surface of the water, the murky green current swirling past underneath. The shallows were muddy and choked with reeds. “That river is ours. Whatever happens, keep close to the water. Never lose sight of it. Let no enemy come between us and our river. If they dirty our waters, hack off their cocks and feed them to the fishes.”
Shagga had an axe in either hand. He smashed them together and made them ring. “Halfman!” he shouted. Other Stone Crows picked up the cry, and the Black Ears and Moon Brothers as well. The Burned Men did not shout, but they rattled their swords and spears. “Halfman! Halfman! Halfman!”
Tyrion turned his courser in a circle to look over the field. The ground was rolling and uneven here; soft and muddy near the river, rising in a gentle slope toward the kingsroad, stony and broken beyond it, to the cast. A few trees spotted the hillsides, but most of the land had been cleared and planted. His heart pounded in his chest in time to the drums, and under his layers of leather and steel his brow was cold with sweat. He watched Ser Gregor as the Mountain rode up and down the line, shouting and gesticulating. This wing too was all cavalry, but where the right was a mailed fist of knights and heavy lancers, the vanguard was made up of the sweepings of the west: mounted archers in leather jerkins, a swarming mass of undisciplined freeriders and sellswords, fieldhands on plow horses armed with scythes and their fathers’ rusted swords, half-trained boys from the stews of Lannisport?.?.?.?and Tyrion and his mountain clansmen.
“Crow food,” Bronn muttered beside him, giving voice to what Tyrion had left unsaid. He could only nod. Had his lord father taken leave of his senses? No pikes, too few bowmen, a bare handful of knights, the ill-armed and unarmored, commanded by an unthinking brute who led with his rage?.?.?.?how could his father expect this travesty of a battle to hold his left?
He had no time to think about it. The drums were so near that the beat crept under his skin and set his hands to twitching. Bronn drew his longsword, and suddenly the enemy was there before them, boiling over the tops of the hills, advancing with measured tread behind a wall of shields and pikes.
Gods be damned, look at them all, Tyrion thought, though he knew his father had more men on the field. Their captains led them on armored warhorses, standard-bearers riding alongside with their banners. He glimpsed the bull moose of the Hornwoods, the Karstark sunburst, Lord Cerwyn’s battle-axe, and the mailed fist of the Glovers?.?.?.?and the twin towers of Frey, blue on grey. So much for his father’s certainty that Lord Walder would not bestir himself. The white of House Stark was seen everywhere, the grey direwolves seeming to run and leap as the banners swirled and streamed from the high staffs. Where is the boy? Tyrion wondered.
A warhorn blew. Haroooooooooooooooooooooooo, it cried, its voice as long and low and chilling as a cold wind from the north. The Lannister trumpets answered, da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAAAA, brazen and defiant, yet it seemed to Tyrion that they sounded somehow smaller, more anxious. He could feel a fluttering in his bowels, a queasy liquid feeling; he hoped he was not going to die sick.
As the horns died away, a hissing filled the air; a vast flight of arrows arched up from his right, where the archers stood flanking the road. The northerners broke into a run, shouting as they came, but the Lannister arrows fell on them like hail, hundreds of arrows, thousands, and shouts turned to screams as men stumbled and went down. By then a second flight was in the air, and the archers were fitting a third arrow to their bowstrings.
The trumpets blared again, da-DAAA da-DAAA da-DA da-DA da-DAAAAAAA. Ser Gregor waved his huge sword and bellowed a command, and a thousand other voices screamed back at him. Tyrion put his spurs to his horse and added one more voice to the cacophony, and the van surged forward. “The river!” he shouted at his clansmen as they rode. “Remember, hew to the river.” He was still leading when they broke a canter, until Chella gave a bloodcurdling shriek and galloped past him, and Shagga howled and followed. The clansmen charged after them, leaving Tyrion in their dust.
A crescent of enemy spearmen had formed ahead, a double hedgehog bristling with steel, waiting behind tall oaken shields marked with the sunburst of Karstark. Gregor Clegane was the first to reach them, leading a wedge of armored veterans. Half the horses shied at the last second, breaking their charge before the row of spears. The others died, sharp steel points ripping through their chests. Tyrion saw a dozen men go down. The Mountain’s stallion reared, lashing out with iron-shod hooves as a barbed spearhead raked across his neck. Maddened, the beast lunged into the ranks. Spears thrust at him from every side, but the shield wall broke beneath his weight. The northerners stumbled away from the animal’s death throes. As his horse fell, snorting blood and biting with his last red breath, the Mountain rose untouched, laying about him with his two-handed greatsword.
Shagga went bursting through the gap before the shields could close, other Stone Crows hard behind him. Tyrion shouted, “Burned Men! Moon Brothers! After me!” but most of them were ahead of him. He glimpsed Timett son of Timett vault free as his mount died under him in full stride, saw a Moon Brother impaled on a Karstark spear, watched Conn’s horse shatter a man’s ribs with a kick. A flight of arrows descended on them; where they came from he could not say, but they fell on Stark and Lannister alike, rattling off armor or finding flesh. Tyrion lifted his shield and hid beneath it.
The hedgehog was crumbling, the northerners reeling back under the impact of the mounted assault. Tyrion saw Shagga catch a spearman full in the chest as the fool came on at a run, saw his axe shear through mail and leather and muscle and lungs. The man was dead on his feet, the axehead lodged in his breast, yet Shagga rode on, cleaving a shield in two with his left-hand battle-axe while the corpse was bouncing and stumbling bonelessly along on his right. Finally the dead man slid off. Shagga smashed the two axes together and roared.
By then the enemy was on him, and Tyrion’s battle shrunk to the few feet of ground around his horse. A man-at-arms thrust at his chest and his axe lashed out, knocking the spear aside. The man danced back for another try, but Tyrion spurred his horse and rode right over him. Bronn was surrounded by three foes, but he lopped the head off the first spear that came at him, and raked his blade across a second man’s face on his backslash.
A thrown spear came hurtling at Tyrion from the left and lodged in his shield with a woody chunk. He wheeled and raced after the thrower, but the man raised his own shield over his head. Tyrion circled around him, raining axe blows down on the wood. Chips of oak went flying, until the northerner lost his feet and slipped, failing flat on his back with his shield on top of him. He was below the reach of Tyrion’s axe and it was too much bother to dismount, so he left him there and rode after another man, taking him from behind with a sweeping downcut that sent a jolt of impact up his arm. That won him a moment’s respite. Reining up, he looked for the river. There it was, off to the right. Somehow he had gotten turned around.
A Burned Man rode past, slumped against his horse. A spear had entered his belly and come out through his back. He was past any help, but when Tyrion saw one of the northerners run up and make a grab for his reins, he charged.
His quarry met him sword in hand. He was tall and spare, wearing a long chainmail hauberk and gauntlets of lobstered steel, but he’d lost his helm and blood ran down into his eyes from a gash across his forehead. Tyrion aimed a swipe at his face, but the tall man slammed it aside. “Dwarf,” he screamed. “Die.” He turned in a circle as Tyrion rode around him, hacking at his head and shoulders. Steel rang on steel, and Tyrion soon realized that the tall man was quicker and stronger than he was. Where in the seven hells was Bronn? “Die,” the man grunted, chopping at him savagely. Tyrion barely got his shield up in time, and the wood seemed to explode inward under the force of the blow. The shattered pieces fell away from his arm. “Die!” the swordsman bellowed, shoving in close and whanging Tyrion across the temple so hard his head rang. The blade made a hideous scraping sound as he drew it back over the steel. The tall man grinned?.?.?.?until Tyrion’s destrier bit, quick as a snake, laying his cheek bare to the bone. Then he screamed. Tyrion buried his axe in his head. “You die,” he told him, and he did.
As he wrenched the blade free, he heard a shout. ‘Eddard!” a voice rang out. “For Eddard and Winterfell!” The knight came thundering down on him, swinging the spiked ball of a morningstar around his head. Their warhorses slammed together before Tyrion could so much as open his mouth to shout for Bronn. His right elbow exploded with pain as the spikes punched through the thin metal around the joint. His axe was gone, as fast as that. He clawed for his sword, but the morningstar was circling again, coming at his face. A sickening crunch, and he was falling. He did not recall hitting the ground, but when he looked up there was only sky above him. He rolled onto his side and tried to find his feet, but pain shuddered through him and the world throbbed. The knight who had felled him drew up above him. “Tyrion the Imp,” he boomed down. “You are mine. Do you yield, Lannister?”
Yes, Tyrion thought, but the word caught in his throat. He made a croaking sound and fought his way to his knees, fumbling for a weapon. His sword, his dirk, anything?.?.?.?
“Do you yield?” The knight loomed overhead on his armored warhorse. Man and horse both seemed immense. The spiked ball swung in a lazy circle. Tyrion’s hands were numb, his vision blurred, his scabbard empty. “Yield or die,” the knight declared, his flail whirling faster and faster.
Tyrion lurched to his feet, driving his head into the horse’s belly. The animal gave a hideous scream and reared. It tried to twist away from the agony, a shower of blood and viscera poured down over Tyrion’s face, and the horse fell like an avalanche. The next he knew, his visor was packed with mud and something was crushing his foot. He wriggled free, his throat so tight he could scarce talk. “?.?.?.?yield?.?.?.?” he managed to croak faintly.
“Yes,” a voice moaned, thick with pain.
Tyrion scraped the mud off his helm so he could see again. The horse had fallen away from him, onto its rider. The knight’s leg was trapped, the arm he’d used to break his fall twisted at a grotesque angle. “Yield,” he repeated. Fumbling at his belt with his good hand, he drew a sword and flung it at Tyrion’s feet. “I yield, my lord.”
Dazed, the dwarf knelt and lifted the blade. Pain hammered through his elbow when he moved his arm. The battle seemed to have moved beyond him. No one remained on his part of the field save a large number of corpses. Ravens were already circling and landing to feed. He saw that Ser Kevan had brought up his center in support of the van; his huge mass of pikemen had pushed the northerners back against the hills. They were struggling on the slopes, pikes thrusting against another wall of shields, these oval and reinforced with iron studs. As he watched, the air filled with arrows again, and the men behind the oak wall crumbled beneath the murderous fire. “I believe you are losing, ser,” he told the knight under the horse. The man made no reply.
The sound of hooves coming up behind him made him whirl, though he could scarcely lift the sword he held for the agony in his elbow. Brorm reined up and looked down on him.
“Small use you turned out to be,” Tyrion told him.
“It would seem you did well enough on your own,” Bronn answered. “You’ve lost the spike off your helm, though.”
Tyrion groped at the top of the greathelm. The spike had snapped off clean. “I haven’t lost it. I know just where it is. Do you see my horse?”
By the time they found it, the trumpets had sounded again and Lord Tywin’s reserve came sweeping up along the river. Tyrion watched his father fly past, the crimson-and-gold banner of Lannister rippling over his head as he thundered across the field. Five hundred knights surrounded him, sunlight flashing off the points of their lances. The remnants of the Stark lines shattered like glass beneath the hammer of their charge.
With his elbow swollen and throbbing inside his armor, Tyrion made no attempt to join the slaughter. He and Bronn went looking for his men. Many he found among the dead. Ulf son of Umar lay in a pool of congealing blood, his arm gone at the elbow, a dozen of his Moon Brothers sprawled around him. Shagga was slumped beneath a tree, riddled with arrows, Conn’s head in his lap. Tyrion thought they were both dead, but as he dismounted, Shagga opened his eyes and said, “They have killed Conn son of Coratt.” Handsome Conn had no mark but for the red stain over his breast, where the spear thrust had killed him. When Bronn pulled Shagga to his feet, the big man seemed to notice the arrows for the first time. He plucked them out one by one, cursing the holes they had made in his layers of mail and leather, and yowling like a babe at the few that had buried themselves in his flesh. Chella daughter of Cheyk rode up as they were yanking arrows out of Shagga, and showed them four ears she had taken. Timett they discovered looting the bodies of the slain with his Burned Men. Of the three hundred clansmen who had ridden to battle behind Tyrion Lannister, perhaps half had survived.
He left the living to look after the dead, sent Bronn to take charge of his captive knight, and went alone in search of his father. Lord Tywin was seated by the river, sipping wine from a jeweled cup as his squire undid the fastenings on his breastplate. “A fine victory,” Ser Kevan said when he saw Tyrion. “Your wild men fought well.”
His father’s eyes were on him, pale green flecked with gold, so cool they gave Tyrion a chill. “Did that surprise you, Father?” he asked. “Did it upset your plans? We were supposed to be butchered, were we not?”
Lord Tywin drained his cup, his face expressionless. “I put the least disciplined men on the left, yes. I anticipated that they would break. Robb Stark is a green boy, more like to be brave than wise. I’d hoped that if he saw our left collapse, he might plunge into the gap, eager for a rout. Once he was fully committed, Ser Kevan’s pikes would wheel and take him in the flank, driving him into the river while I brought up the reserve.”
“And you thought it best to place me in the midst of this carnage, yet keep me ignorant of your plans.”
“A feigned rout is less convincing,” his father said, “and I am not inclined to trust my plans to a man who consorts with sellswords and savages.”
“A pity my savages ruined your dance.” Tyrion pulled off his steel gauntlet and let it fall to the ground, wincing at the pain that stabbed up his arm.
“The Stark boy proved more cautious than I expected for one of his years,” Lord Tywin admitted, “but a victory is a victory. You appear to be wounded.”
Tyrion’s right arm was soaked with blood. “Good of you to notice, Father,” he said through clenched teeth. “Might I trouble you to send for your maesters? Unless you relish the notion of having a one-armed dwarf for a son?.?.?.?”
An urgent shout of “Lord Tywin!” turned his father’s head before he could reply. Tywin Lannister rose to his feet as Ser Addam Marbrand leapt down off his courser. The horse was lathered and bleeding from the mouth. Ser Addam dropped to one knee, a rangy man with dark copper hair that fell to his shoulders, armored in burnished bronzed steel with the fiery tree of his House etched black on his breastplate. “My liege, we have taken some of their commanders. Lord Cerwyn, Ser Wylis Manderly, Harrion Karstark, four Freys. Lord Hornwood is dead, and I fear Roose Bolton has escaped us.”
“And the boy?” Lord Tywin asked.
Ser Addam hesitated. “The Stark boy was not with them, my lord. They say he crossed at the Twins with the great part of his horse, riding hard for Riverrun.”
A green boy, Tyrion remembered, more like to be brave than wise. He would have laughed, if he hadn’t hurt so much.
Ⅰ 权力的游戏 Chapter63 提利昂
在一座俯瞰国王大道的丘陵上，搭起了一张原松木做成的折叠长桌，其上铺好了金黄桌布。泰温公爵的大帐就在桌旁，红金相间的大旗飘扬于长竿之上，而他本人便是在此与手下重要骑士和诸侯共进晚餐。
提利昂到得有些迟，他骑了一整天马，此刻浑身酸痛，摇摇摆摆地爬上缓坡，朝父亲走去，心里十分清楚自己是何等滑稽模样。这天的行军路途漫长，令人筋疲力竭。今晚他打算喝个酩酊大醉。时间已是黄昏，空中满是流萤，仿佛有了生命。
厨子正端上当晚的主菜：五只烤得金黄酥脆，嘴里含着不同水果的乳猪。闻到香味，他口水都流了出来。“不好意思，我迟到了。”他一边说，一边在叔叔身边的板凳上坐下。
“提利昂，我看还是让你去埋葬死者好了。”泰温公爵说，“要是你上战场也跟上餐桌一般慢，等你光临，仗都已经打完了。”
“哎，父亲，留一两个农民给我对付总行吧？”提利昂回答，“不用太多，我这个人向来不贪心。”他自顾自地斟满酒，一边看着仆人切猪肉，松脆的皮在刀子下哔啪作响，滚烫的油汁流下来。提利昂已经很久没见过如此美丽的景象了。
“据亚当爵士的斥候报告，史塔克军已从孪河城南下，”父亲一边看着仆人把肉片放进他的木盘，一边说，“佛雷大人的部队加入了他们。此刻敌军就在北边，离我们大概一日行程。”
“父亲，您行行好，”提利昂说，“我正要开始吃呢。”
“提利昂，一想到面对史塔克家那小鬼，你就吓成这样？换成你哥哥詹姆，他只怕会迫不及待想大显身手。”
“我宁可对这头猪大显身手，罗柏·史塔克既没这么嫩，更没这么香。”
负责辎重补给的莱佛德伯爵——一个无趣的家伙——向前一靠：“希望你那群野蛮人不像你一样没用，否则我们精良的装备就白白浪费了。”
“大人，我保证我那群野蛮人会让你的装备物尽其用。”提利昂回答。之前，当他告诉莱佛德需要武器和护甲，用来装备乌尔夫从山上找来那三百人时，莱佛德的表情活像是别人要他交出自己的闺女。
莱佛德伯爵皱起眉头。“我今天碰见了那个浑身是毛的高个子，那家伙坚持要拿两把战斧。他挑的可都是黑色重钢打造，两面月刃的上等货色。”
“夏嘎喜欢双手操家伙。”提利昂看着侍者把一盘冒烟的烤猪肉放在面前，一边说。
“他自己那柄木斧还挂在背后。”
“我想夏嘎的意思是，三把斧头肯定比两把好。”提利昂伸出拇指和食指探进盐碟，在肉上洒了一大把。
这时凯冯爵士倾身向前：“我们有个想法，开战的时候，打算把你和你那群野人放在前锋。”
凯冯爵士的“想法”通常都是泰温公爵的主意。提利昂原本已拿匕首刺好一块肉，正往嘴边送，一听此言连忙放下。“前锋？”他有些怀疑地重复。若不是父亲大人对他的能力突然产生了敬意，就是打算彻底除掉这个老让他出丑的儿子。至于是前者，还是后者，提利昂有种不祥的预感。
“他们看起来很威猛。”凯冯爵士道。
“威猛？”提利昂突然惊觉自己像只训练有素的鸟儿一样不断重复叔叔的话。父亲则在旁观看，严加审度，仔细衡量他所说的每一个字。“让我告诉你他们有多威猛。昨天晚上，有个月人部的家伙为了一根香肠，捅死了一个石鸦部的人。所以呢，今天我们扎营时，三个石鸦部的人抓住凶手，割开他的喉咙为同伴报仇。或许他们想拿回香肠，我不确定。波隆好不容易才阻止夏嘎剁掉那死人的老二，算是不幸中的大幸。即便如此，乌尔夫还坚决要求对方为这个血债付出赔偿金，可康恩和夏嘎不肯。”
“士兵缺乏纪律，表示指挥官领导无方。”父亲说。
哥哥詹姆总有办法使人忠心追随，甚至赔上性命都在所不惜，提利昂可没这本领。他拿黄金换取忠诚，用姓氏使人服从。“您的意思是，换成个子高点的人，可以多些威严，吓他们不敢乱来，对吧，大人？”
泰温·兰尼斯特公爵转向弟弟。“若我儿子的手下不愿服从他的命令，那么前锋显然不适合他。毫无疑问，应该让他殿后，负责保护辎重货车。”
“父亲，不需要这么替我着想。”他怒道，“如果您没别的地方给我指挥，就让我来率领前锋。”
泰温公爵打量着他的侏儒儿子。“我可没说让你指挥，你是格雷果爵士的部属。”
提利昂咬了口猪肉，嚼了两下，然后愤怒地吐出来。“我发现自己一点也不饿。”说着他别扭地爬下长凳。“诸位大人，我先告退了。”
泰温公爵点头同意。提利昂转身一跛一跛地走下山丘，心里很清楚身后众人的目光。一阵哄笑传来，但他没有回头，只暗自希望他们最好都被乳猪噎死。
夜幕已然低垂，将所有旗帜染成黑色。兰尼斯特军的营地位于河流和国王大道之间，绵延数里。在众多人马和树林之中，非常容易迷路。果不其然，提利昂茫然地走过十几个大帐篷和百余座营火，忽然迷失了方向。萤火虫在营帐间窜动，有如游荡的星星。他闻到蒜肠的香味，辛辣又可口，令他空空的肚腹饥肠辘辘。他听见远处有人唱起情色小曲，一个女人咯咯笑着从身边跑过，身上只盖了件深色斗篷，一个醉酒的人追在她后面，没两步就被树根绊倒。更远的地方，两名长矛兵隔着小溪，就着渐渐黯淡的天光，练习格挡和突刺的技巧，赤裸的胸膛上大汗淋漓。
无人看他一眼，无人与他交谈，无人注意到他。在他周围，全是宣誓效忠兰尼斯特家族的部属，一共多达两万人的庞大军团。然而他，却孤独无依。
后来，他总算听到夏嘎低沉浑厚的笑声透过夜色轰隆传来，便循着笑声，找到石鸦部过夜的小角落。科拉特之子康恩朝他挥挥一大杯麦酒。“半人提利昂！过来，来我们火边坐坐，跟石鸦部一起吃肉，我们弄到一头牛。”
“我看到了，科拉特之子康恩。”巨大的血红牛尸被架在熊熊营火之上，用一根粗如小树的烤肉叉串起——恐怕那根叉子原本就是一棵小树罢。鲜血和油汁滴落火焰中，两个石鸦部的人合力转着牛。“谢谢你，等牛烤好后叫我一声。”依目前的情形看来，或许能赶在开战前吃到。他继续往前走。
每个部落都生了自己的营火；黑耳部不和石鸦部共食，石鸦部不和月人部共食，而任何部落都不和灼人部共食。他好不容易才从莱佛德伯爵那儿弄来的帐篷，就位于四部营火中间。来到帐前，提利昂发现波隆正和他新来的仆人们喝酒。泰温公爵派来一个马夫和一个贴身仆人照料他起居，甚至还坚持他应该带个侍从。他们围坐在小营火的灰烬旁，在场的还有个女孩；纤细、黑发，看来不超过十八岁。提利昂打量了她一会儿，这才瞥见火烬里的鱼骨头。“你们吃了什么？”
“大人，是鳟鱼。”他的马夫说，“波隆抓的。”
鳟鱼，他心想，烤乳猪。父亲真该死。他有些哀怨地望着鱼骨，肚子咕噜叫。
他的侍从把原本要说的话吞了下去，这孩子很不幸地姓了派恩，波德瑞克·派恩，是御前执法官伊林·派恩爵士的远亲……几乎和他一样沉默寡言，虽然并非没有舌头。某一天，提利昂叫他把舌头吐出来，确定一下。“的确是舌头，”他评说，“哪天你总得学着用。”
今天这种时候，他可没耐性去套那孩子的话。他更怀疑父亲派这小鬼来当侍从，根本是个恶意的玩笑。于是提利昂把注意力转移到女孩身上。“就是她？”他问波隆。
她优雅地起身，从五尺多的高度俯瞰他。“是的，大人，而且她自己会说话，如果您高兴的话。”
他歪歪头。“我是兰尼斯特家族的提利昂，别人叫我小恶魔。”
“我母亲为我取名雪伊，别人也常这样叫……我。”
波隆哈哈大笑，提利昂也不禁扬起嘴角。“那么，就请进帐罢，雪伊。”他为她掀起帷幕，进去之后，燃起一支蜡烛。
军旅生活多少有些补偿，无论在何处扎营，必定有人循踪而至。今天行军结束时，提利昂叫波隆去给他找个像样的营妓。“最好年轻一点的，当然，越漂亮越好。”他说，“如果她今年洗过澡，那最好，如果没有，把她先洗干净。务必告诉她我的身份，以及我是什么德行。”杰克以前通常懒得说明，于是许多女孩初次见到这位她们受雇服侍的贵族少爷时，眼底的神情便油然而生……那是一种提利昂·兰尼斯特这辈子难以忍受的神情。
他拿起蜡烛，把她仔细打量一番。波隆眼光不错：她生得一双雌鹿般的眸子，身形纤细，乳房小而结实，脸上的笑容时而羞怯、时而傲慢、时而邪恶。他挺满意。“大人，要我脱衣服吗？”她问。
“稍等，雪伊，你是处女吗？”
“大人，您高兴的话，就这样想吧。”她故作庄重地说。
“小妹妹，知道真相我才会高兴。”
“是吗？那您得付双倍的钱。”
提利昂认为他们简直是绝配。“我是兰尼斯特家的人，有的是黄金，你会发现我是个很慷慨的人……但我要的不只是你两腿间的东西——当然那个我肯定要。我要你和我一起住，为我倒酒，陪我说笑，每天在我奔波之后替我按摩双脚……而且，不管我留你一天还是一年，只要我们在一起，你就不许跟其他男人上床。”
“很公道。”她伸手向下，抓住自己粗布薄衫的裙摆，流畅地上拉过头，丢到一边。底下除了裸体，空无一物。“大人不把蜡烛放下来，可是会烧到手的。”
提利昂放下蜡烛，牵起她的手，轻轻拉拢。她俯身亲吻他，嘴里有蜂蜜和苜蓿的味道，她的手指灵活熟练地找到他衣服的绳结。
当他进入她体内的时候，她用低回的亲密话语和颤抖的喜乐喘息来迎接他。提利昂怀疑她的愉悦是装出来的，但由于她装得非常逼真，他也就不以为意，毕竟这背后的真相他可不想知道。
完事后，当她静静地躺在他的怀里，提利昂才明白自己真的很需要她，或者像她这样的人。自他随哥哥及劳勃国王一行前往临冬城至今，已经快一年没和女人睡过了。而明天，或者后天，他就可能战死，果真如此，他死的时候宁可想着雪伊，也不要想着父亲大人、莱莎·艾林或凯特琳·史塔克夫人。
他感觉到她柔软的胸部靠上自己臂膀，那是一种无比美妙的感觉，在他脑海里突然浮现出那首歌。静静地，轻轻地，他哼唱起来。
“大人，唱什么哪？”雪伊靠着他呢喃道。
“没什么，”他告诉她，“只是我小时候学的一首曲儿罢了。快睡罢，小宝贝。”
待她闭上双眼，呼吸变得深沉而规律，提利昂轻轻地从她体下抽身离去，惟恐打扰她好梦。他浑身赤裸地下床，跨过他的侍从，走到帐篷后去撒尿。
波隆盘腿坐在一棵栗子树下，靠近拴马的地方，睡意全无地磨着利剑；这佣兵似乎不像别人那般需要睡眠。“你在哪儿找到她的？”提利昂一边尿，一边问他。
“从一个骑士手上抢的，那家伙根本不愿放弃她，是你的名字让他改变了主意……当然，还有我架在他脖子上的匕首。”
“好极了，”提利昂苦涩地说，一边甩干最后几滴尿液。“我记得我说的是‘帮我找个妓女’，不是‘帮我造个敌人’。”
“漂亮的早抢光了，”波隆道，“你要想换个没牙的丑婆娘，我很乐意帮你把她送回去。”
提利昂跛着脚走到他身边坐下。“你这话要给我老爸听到，必定被加上无礼放肆的罪名，发配去挖矿。”
“好在你不是你老爸，”波隆回答，“还有一个鼻子长满疱子的，你要么？”
“那岂不伤了你的心？”提利昂回敬，“我就留着雪伊。你不会刚巧注意到那骑士叫什么名字吧？打仗的时候，我可不想让他在我身边。”
波隆霍地起身，动作如灵猫一般迅捷优雅，手心转着剑。“侏儒，打仗时我会在你身边。”
提利昂点点头，他的皮肤裸露在外，觉得夜晚的空气十分温暖。“保我这场仗活下来，要什么奖赏随你挑。”
波隆将长剑从右手抛到左手，然后试着挥了一下。“谁想杀你这种人？”
“我老爸就是一个。他派我打前锋。”
“是我也会这么安排。小矮人举个大盾牌，教他们的箭手头痛死。”
“听你这么一说，我的心情竟大为振奋，”提利昂道，“我一定是疯了。”
波隆收剑入鞘。“毫无疑问。”
提利昂回到帐篷，发现雪伊已经翻身用手肘枕着脸，睡意未消地喃喃说：“我一醒来，大人就不见了。”
“大人这不就回来了么。”他钻进被窝，在她身边躺下。
她探手伸到他畸形的双腿之间，发现他硬了起来。“的确是回来了哟。”她悄声说，同时抚弄他。
他问她是被波隆从谁手上带来的，她说出一个小贵族的随从的名字。“大人，您用不着担心他。”女孩说，手指忙个不休。“他是个不起眼的小家伙。”
“那你倒是说说看，我又是什么？”提利昂问她，“难不成我是个巨人？”
“哎哟，可不是嘛，”她愉悦地说，“我的兰尼斯特巨人。”说完她骑到他身上，一时之间，几乎就让他相信她的话。提利昂微笑着睡去……
……直到被黑暗中震耳欲聋的喇叭声吵醒，雪伊摇着他的肩膀。“大人，”她悄声道，“大人您醒醒，我好怕。”
他有气无力地坐起来，掀开毛毯，号音响彻夜空，狂野而急促，仿佛在喊着：快啊，快啊，快啊。他听见人们的叫喊、熗矛的撞击、马儿的嘶鸣，好在没有打斗。“是我父亲的喇叭，”他说，“这是作战集合令。史塔克军离我们不是还有一天路程么？”
雪伊摇摇头，眼睛睁得老大，面色苍白。
提利昂呻吟着下床，摸索着走到帐外，一边叫唤他的侍从。苍白的迷雾自夜幕中飘浮过来，宛如河面上悠长的白手指。人和马在黎明前的寒气里跌跌撞撞，他们忙着系紧马鞍，将货物运上马车，并熄灭营火。号角再度吹响：快啊，快啊，快啊。骑士们纷纷跃上不住吐气的战马，步兵则边跑边扣上剑带。当他找到波德①时，那孩子正轻声打着鼾。提利昂扬腿狠狠地踢了他肋骨一脚。“快把我盔甲拿来，”他说，“动作快。”波隆从雾中跑来，已然全副武装，骑在马上，戴着那顶饱经击打的半罩头盔。“发生什么事了？”提利昂问。
“史塔克那小鬼抢先一步，”波隆道，“他趁夜色沿国王大道南下，就在我们北方不到一里，全军成战斗阵形。”
快啊，号角仿佛在喊，快啊，快啊，快啊。
“叫原住民准备出动。”提利昂缩回帐篷。“我的衣服上哪儿去了？”他朝雪伊叫道。“就那件，不对，是那件皮衣，该死，对对，把我靴子拿来。”
等他穿好衣服，侍从已把他的盔甲排好。这身盔甲实在不起眼。提利昂本有一套上好的重铠，特别精心打造，适合他畸形的身体，只可惜而今好端端放在凯岩城，与他相隔千里。他只好将就一下，在莱佛德伯爵的辎重车辆上东拼西凑：锁甲和头套，一名战死骑士的护喉，圆盘护膝，铁手套和尖角钢靴。其中某几件有装饰，有的则样式普通，通通都不成套，颇不合身。他的胸甲原本是要给个子更大的人穿的；为了对付他那颗不合比例的大头，他们找来一个水桶状的大盔，顶端有根一尺长的三角尖刺。
雪伊协助波德为他扣上扣环和系带。“如果我死了，记得要为我掉眼泪。”提利昂告诉妓女。
“你人都死了，怎么会知道？”
“我就是知道。”
“我相信你会。”雪伊为他戴上巨盔，波德随即将之与护喉相连。提利昂扣上腰带，挂好短剑和匕首，沉甸甸的。这时马夫牵来他的坐骑，那是一头结实的棕色大马，身上的护甲和他一样厚实。他得别人帮忙才上得了马，只觉自己如有千石重。波德递上他的铁木镶钢边大盾，然后是他的战斧。雪伊退开一步，上下打量他一番。“大人您看起来很威武。”
“大人我看起来像个穿着滑稽盔甲的侏儒。”提利昂酸酸地说，“不过我谢谢你的好意。波德瑞克，倘若战事对我方不利，请护送这位小姐平安回家。”他举起战斧向她致意，然后调转马头，飞奔而去。他的肚子里好似打了一个结，绞得很紧，痛得厉害。在他身后，他的仆人连忙开始拔营。朝阳自地平线升起，一根根淡红的手指从东方伸出。西边的天空是一片深紫，缀着几颗星星。提利昂不知这是否会是他今生所见最后一次日出……也不知思索这类事情是否就是怯懦的表现。哥哥詹姆在出战前想过死亡么？
远处响起军号，低沉哀怨，令人灵魂不寒而栗。原住民纷纷爬上骨瘦如柴的山地坐骑，高声咒骂、彼此嘲弄，其中几个明显是醉了。提利昂领军出发时，空气中游移的雾丝正逐渐被东升旭日所蒸发，马儿吃剩的青草上凝满露水，仿佛有位天神刚巧路过，洒下整袋钻石。高山氏族紧跟在他身后，各个部落的人各自追随自己的领袖。
黎明的晨光中，泰温·兰尼斯特公爵的军队有如一朵缓缓绽开的钢铁玫瑰，尖刺闪闪发光。
中军由叔叔指挥，凯冯爵士已在国王大道上竖起旗帜。步弓手排成三列，分立道路东西，冷静地调试弓弦，箭枝在腰间晃动。成方阵队形的长熗兵站在弓箭手中间，后方则是一排接一排手持矛、剑和斧头的步兵。三百名重骑兵围绕着凯冯爵士、莱佛德伯爵、莱顿伯爵和沙略特伯爵等诸侯及其随从。
右翼全为骑兵，共约四千人，装甲厚重。超过四分之三的骑士齐聚于此，有如一只巨大钢拳。该队由亚当·马尔布兰爵士指挥。提利昂看到他的掌旗官展开旗帜，家徽立即显露：一棵燃烧之树，橙色与烟灰相间。在他身后有佛列蒙爵士的紫色独角兽，克雷赫家族的斑纹野猪，以及史威佛家族的矮脚公鸡等旗号。
父亲大人则坐镇大帐所在的丘陵之上，四周是预备队，一半骑兵一半步兵，多达五千人。泰温公爵向来指挥预备队，身处可将战况尽收眼底的高地，视情形将部队投入最需要的地方。
即便从远处观之，父亲也依旧辉煌耀眼。泰温·兰尼斯特的战甲，连他儿子詹姆的镀金套装与之相比，都会黯然失色，他的大披风由难以计数的金缕丝线织成，重到连冲锋都鲜少飘起，一旦上马则几乎将坐骑后腿完全遮住。普通的披风钩扣无法承受如此重量，取而代之的是一对趴在肩头，相互对应的小母狮，仿佛随时准备一跃而出。她们的配偶是一只鬃毛壮伟的雄狮，昂首立于泰温公爵的巨盔顶，一爪探空，张口怒吼。三头狮子都是纯金打造，镶了红宝石眼睛。他的盔甲则是厚重的钢板铠，上了暗红色瓷釉，护膝和铁手套均有繁复的黄金涡形装饰。护手圆盘是黄金日芒，每一个钩扣都镀上了金。红钢铠甲经过一再打磨，在旭日光芒中鲜亮如火。
这时，提利昂已可听见敌军的隆隆战鼓。他记起上次在临冬城大厅，看见罗柏·史塔克坐在他父亲的高位上，手中未入鞘的长剑闪闪发光。他记得冰原狼自暗处攻来的景象，突然间仿佛又看到它们咆哮着向他扑来，咧嘴露出尖牙利齿。那小鬼会带狼上战场吗？这念头令他大感不安。
经过整夜无休的长途行军，北方人此刻一定筋疲力竭。提利昂不明白那小鬼究竟打的是什么主意，难道想趁对方熟睡时攻其不备？这样的机会实在不大，抛开其他方面不谈，泰温·兰尼斯特对战争可是精明之极。
前锋军在左方集结。当先便是黄底的三黑狗旗，格雷果爵士正在旗下，骑着提利昂平生所见最大的马。波隆看了他一眼，嘻嘻笑道：“打仗时，记住跟着大个子。”
提利昂严厉地看了他一眼。“这是为什么？”
“他们是最棒的箭靶，瞧那家伙，他会吸引全战场弓箭手的目光。”
提利昂笑笑，转用全新的观点审视魔山。“我得承认，我还从没这么想过。”
克里冈的装备半点也称不上华丽：盔甲是深灰色的厚重钢板，其上只有长期剧烈使用的痕迹，没有任何纹章或装饰。他的佩剑是一把双手巨剑，然而格雷果爵士单手提起浑如常人拿匕首一般轻松。此刻，他正以剑尖戳指，喝令众人就位。“谁要敢逃跑，我就亲手宰了他！”他咆哮道，转头看到了提利昂。“小恶魔！你守左边，看你有没有能耐守住河流。”
那是左军的最左翼，只要守住这里，史塔克军便无法从侧面包抄——除非他们的马能在水上跑。提利昂领军朝河岸行去。“你们看！”他以斧指河，叫道。“就是这条河。”一层白雾依然如毯子般笼罩水面，暗绿河水奔流其下。浅滩满布泥泞，遍生芦苇。“我们负责防守此地。无论发生什么，保持靠近河流，决不要让它离开视线，决不能让任何敌人进到河流和我们之间。他们要玷污我们的河水，我们就剁掉他们的命根子，丢进河里喂鱼吃。”
夏嘎双手各持一斧，这时他两斧用力一敲，发出巨响。“半人万岁！”他叫道。石鸦部的人立刻跟进，黑耳部和月人部也照样呼喊。灼人部虽然没叫，但他们拿起熗剑互击。“半人万岁！半人万岁！”
提利昂骑马绕圈，检视战场。周围的土地崎岖不平：岸边是滑软泥泞，低缓上坡，升向国王大道，再往东去，则是多石的破碎地形。丘陵有些许林木点缀，不过此间树木多半已被伐尽，辟作农田。他听着战鼓，心脏在胸口随着节奏怦怦跳动，在层层的皮衣钢甲下，他的额际冷汗直流。他看着魔山格雷果爵士策马在战线上来来去去．高声喊话，指手画脚。左军的组成也多是骑兵，然而并不若右翼那样是由骑士和重装熗骑兵组成的钢拳，而是西境的杂牌部队：仅穿皮甲的弓骑兵、大批毫无纪律的自由骑手和流浪武士，骑着犁马、手持镰刀和祖父辈遗留的生锈刀剑的庄稼汉，兰尼斯港小巷中找来、并未完成训练的男孩……以及提利昂和他的高山氏族。
“等着喂乌鸦吧。”波隆在他身边低声呢喃，说出了提利昂没说的话，他不由得点头同意。父亲大人难道失却了理智？左翼不仅没有矛兵，弓箭手很少，骑士更是稀罕，尽是些装备低劣、未加防护的人，况且还是由一个行事不经大脑、全凭意气用事的残暴粗汉所率领……如此可笑的一支军队，父亲竟期望他们守住左翼？
他没有时间仔细思考，鼓声愈来愈近，咚咚咚咚，潜进他的皮肤之下，令他双手抽搐。波隆拔出长剑，刹那间，敌人已出现在前方，从丘陵顶端漫山遍野地冒出来，他们躲在盾牌和长矛构成的壁垒之后，整齐划一地迈步前进。
诸神该死，瞧瞧他们有多少人，提利昂心想，不过他明白父亲的总兵力比较多。敌军的首领们骑着披甲战马，领导士兵前进，掌旗官举起家族旗帜与之并肩而行。他瞥见霍伍德家族的驼鹿旗帜、卡史塔克家族的日芒旗、赛文伯爵的战斧旗、葛洛佛家族的盔甲铁拳……其间更有佛雷家族的灰底蓝色双塔旗，前几天父亲还信誓旦旦地说瓦德大人不会出兵。史塔克家族的白色旗帜四处可见，旌旗在风中飘荡，翻飞于长竿之上，灰色的冰原狼仿佛也在旗帜上奔跃。那小鬼在哪里？提利昂纳闷。
军号响起，呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜呜，低沉而悠长，有如来自北方的冷风，令人不寒而栗。兰尼斯特的喇叭随即回应，嘟——嘟、嘟——嘟、嘟——嘟嘟嘟嘟嘟嘟嘟嘟嘟嘟，宏亮而不驯，只是提利昂的心中却觉得比较小声，且有些不安。他的五脏六腑一阵翻搅，涌起一股恶心，眩然欲呕；他暗暗希望自己可别因反胃而死。
当号声渐息，嘶嘶声填满了空缺。在他右边，道路两侧的弓箭手洒出一阵箭雨，北方人开步快跑，边跑边吼。兰尼斯特的弓箭如冰雹一般朝他们身上招呼，百枝，千枝，刹那间不可胜数。不少人中箭倒地，呐喊转为哀嚎。这时第二波攻击已从空中落下，弓箭手们纷纷将第三枝箭搭上弓弦。
喇叭再度响起，嘟——嘟、嘟——嘟、嘟——嘟、嘟——嘟嘟嘟嘟嘟嘟嘟嘟。格雷果爵士挥动巨剑，吼出一声命令，几千个人的声音随即回应。提利昂一踢马肚，放声加入这个嘈杂的大合唱，随后前锋军便向前冲去。“河岸！”当他们策马开跑，他对原住民吼道，“记住！守住河岸！”开始冲刺时，他还在前方带头，但齐拉随即发出一声毛骨悚然的凄厉呐喊，从他身边向前窜去，夏嘎狂吼一声，也跟了上去，原住民们纷纷跟进，把提利昂留在他们扬起的烟尘中。
正前方，一群敌军熗兵组成半月阵形，有如一只两面生刺的钢剌猬，躲在绘有卡史塔克家族日芒纹章的高大橡木盾后方，严阵以待。格雷果·克里冈率领一队精锐的重装骑兵，成楔形阵势，率先与之接战。面对大排长熗，半数的马在最后一刻停止冲刺，闪避开去。有的则是横冲直撞，熗尖贯胸而出，当场死亡，提利昂看到十来个人因此倒地。魔山的坐骑被一根带刺熗尖刮过脖颈，它人立起来，伸出镶蹄铁的双脚便往外踢。发狂的战马跃入敌阵，长熗自四面八方向它捅来，但盾墙也同时在它的重压之下瓦解，北方人脚步踉跄地闪避这只动物的垂死挣扎。战马轰然倒下，吐血身亡，魔山却毫发无伤地起身，高擎双手巨剑，展开疯狂攻击。
夏嘎趁敌方的盾墙上的裂缝还来不及合拢，也冲了进去，石鸦部的人众紧跟在后。提利昂高叫：“灼人部！月人部！跟我来！”不过他们大都已冲到他前面去了。他瞥见提魅之子提魅的坐骑倒地而死，人则跳开脱身；有个月人部民被钉死在卡史塔克家的长矛上；康恩的马则扬腿踢断敌人的肋骨。这时，一阵箭雨洒在他们头上，究竟从何而来，他说不准，总之对史塔克军和兰尼斯特军一视同仁。它们或从盔甲上弹开，或找到暴露的血肉。提利昂举起盾牌，躲在下面。
在骑兵的冲击下，刺猬逐渐崩解，北方人纷纷后退。提利昂看见有个矛兵愚蠢地朝夏嘎直冲过去，结果被夏嘎战斧一挥正中胸膛，穿透盔甲、皮革、肌肉和肺，顿时毙命。斧刃卡在对手胸膛里，但夏嘎马不停蹄，又用左手的战斧将另一个敌人的盾牌劈成两半，右手的尸体则绵软无力地随马弹跳颠簸。最后，死尸滑落地面，夏嘎高举双斧，交互撞击，发出慑人的呐喊。
这时他自己也冲入了敌阵，战场瞬间缩小到坐骑周围几尺。一个步兵手持长矛朝他胸膛戳来，他战斧一挥，将矛格开，那人向后跳去，打算再试一次，但提利昂调转马头，把他踩在马下。波隆被三个敌兵团团围住，但他砍断第一支向他刺去的矛头，反手一剑又正中另一个人面门。
一枝飞矛从左方朝提利昂射来，“咚”地一声插在木盾上。他转身追击掷矛者，但对方举盾过头，于是提利昂策马绕着他转，战斧如雨般落在盾上。橡木碎屑四溅，最后北方人终于脚底一滑，仰面摔倒在地，盾牌却刚好挡在身体上。提利昂的战斧够不到他，下马又太麻烦，所以他抛下此人，策马攻击另一目标。这次他从对方后背偷袭成功，战斧向下一劈，正中敌人，却也震得自己手臂酸麻。这时，他获得了短暂的喘息机会，便勒住缰绳，寻找河岸，猛然发现河流竟在右手，看来乱军中他不知不觉调转了方向。
一位灼人部民骑马从他身边跑过，软绵绵地趴在马脖子上，一枝长矛插进肚腹，从背后穿出。虽然人是没救了，但当提利昂看见一名北方士兵跑过去要拉住那匹马的缰绳时，他也冲锋过去。
对方持剑迎战，他生得高大精瘦，穿着一件长衫锁子甲以及龙虾铁手套，不过掉了头盔，鲜血从额头的伤口直流进眼里。提利昂瞄准他的脸，奋力砍去，却被那高个子挥剑格开。“侏儒！”他尖叫，“去死！”提利昂骑马绕着他转，他也跟着旋身，不断挥剑朝他的头颅和肩膀砍劈。刀斧相交，提利昂立时明白高个子不仅动作比他快，力气也比他大上许多。天杀的七层地狱，波隆跑哪儿去了？“去死！”那人咕哝着发动猛烈攻击。提利昂勉强及时举盾，挨下这一记猛击，盾牌仿佛要向内爆开，碎裂的木片从手边落下。“去死！”剑士咆哮着再度进逼，一剑当头劈下，打得提利昂头昏眼花。那人抽回长剑，在他头盔上拉出可怕的金属摩擦，高个子不由得嘿嘿一笑……谁料提利昂的战马突然张口，如蛇一般迅捷地咬掉他一边脸颊，伤口深可见骨。那人厉声尖叫，提利昂一斧劈进他的脑袋。“去死的是你！”他告诉他，对方果然死了。
他正要抽回战斧，却听有人大喊。“为艾德大人而战！”对方声音宏亮，“为临冬城的艾德大人而战！”这名骑士马蹄奔腾，朝他冲来，带刺的流星锤在他头顶挥舞。提利昂还来不及叫唤波隆，两匹战马便轰地撞在一起，流星锤的尖刺穿透右手肘关节处薄弱的金属防护，一阵剧痛顿时炸裂开来，斧头也立刻脱手。他伸手想拔剑，但流星锤呼啦啦转了个圈，又朝他迎面扑来。一声令人作呕的碰撞，他从马上摔了下去。他不记得自己撞到地面，然而待他抬头，上方只有天空。他连忙翻身，想要站起，却痛得浑身发抖，仿佛整个世界都在颤动。将他击落的骑士靠过来，高高在上。“小恶魔提利昂，”他声如洪钟地向下喊，“你是我的俘虏了。投不投降，兰尼斯特？”
我投降，提利昂心想，但话却卡在喉咙里。他发出沙哑的声音，挣扎着跪起来，胡乱地摸索武器：剑、匕首、什么都好……
“投不投降？”骑士高高地坐在披甲的战马上，人和马都活像庞然大物。带刺流星锤慵懒地转着圈。提利昂双手麻木，视觉模糊，剑鞘竟是空的。“不投降就得死。”骑士高声宣布，链锤越转越快。
提利昂踉跄着起身，不觉一头撞上马肚子。马儿发出凄厉的嘶喊，前脚跃起，想要挣开剧痛。鲜血和肉块如雨般喷洒在提利昂脸上，接着，马儿以山崩之势轰然倒地。等他回过神来，面罩里已塞满了泥巴，有东西正在撞击他的脚。他挣脱开来，喉咙紧绷得几乎无法言语。“……投降……”他好不容易挤出声来。
“是，我投降。”一个人呻吟道，声音充满痛苦。
提利昂拨开头盔的泥土，发现那匹马朝另一方向倒下，正好压在骑士身上。骑士的一只脚被马困住，用来缓冲撞击的手则扭曲成怪异的角度。“我投降。”他继续说，同时用另一只没被折断的手在腰际摸索，抽出佩剑丢在提利昂脚下。“大人，我投降。”
侏儒头晕目眩地弯身拾起那把剑，手稍微一动，阵阵剧痛便自肘部直冲脑际。战事似乎已经转移到别的地方，他所在的位置除了大批尸体，没有活人留下来。乌鸦在上空盘旋、落地啄食。他看到凯冯爵士派出中军支援前锋，大批长熗兵将北方人逼回丘陵，两军正在缓坡上作殊死搏斗，长熗方阵碰上了又一堵由椭圆铁钉盾构成的墙垒。他一边看，只见空中又洒下一阵箭雨，盾墙后的士兵在无情的炮火下纷纷倒地。“爵士先生，我想你们快输了。”他对被马压住的骑士说。对方没有答话。
背后忽然传来蹄声，他急忙旋身，但由于手肘的剧痛，他已无法举剑作战。幸好来的是波隆，他勒住缰绳，往下看着他。
“看来，你还真帮不了什么忙。”提利昂告诉他。
“我看你靠自己也就够了。”波隆回答，“你只把头盔上的刺弄丢了。”
提利昂伸手一摸，巨盔上的尖剌已然整个儿折断。“我没弄丢，我知道它在哪里。看到我的马了吗？”
等他们找到马，喇叭又再度响起，泰温公爵的预备队倾巢而出，沿着河岸朝敌军冲去。提利昂看着父亲急驰而过，身边围绕着五百名骑士，阳光在熗尖闪耀，兰尼斯特家族的红金旗帜在头顶飞扬。史塔克家的残余部队在冲击下彻底溃散，有如被铁锤敲打的玻璃。
提利昂盔甲下的手肘又肿又痛，他也就没参加最后的屠杀，转而和波隆前去寻找他的手下。许多人都是在死人堆里找到的。乌玛尔之子乌尔夫倒在一滩渐渐凝固的血泊里，右手肘以下全部不见，身旁还倒卧了十几个月人部的同胞。夏嘎颓然靠坐在一棵树下，全身插满了箭，康恩的头枕在他膝上。提利昂本以为他俩都死了，但当他下马时，夏嘎却睁开了眼睛：“他们杀了科拉特之子康恩。”英俊的康恩身上没有任何伤痕，只有长熗贯穿胸膛的一个红点。波隆扶夏嘎站起来，大个子仿佛这才注意到身上的箭，便一枝枝拔出来，一边抱怨弓箭把他的盔甲和皮革插出一堆窟窿。有几枝箭射进体内，拔得他像个婴儿似喊痛。当他们为夏嘎拔箭时，齐克之女齐拉骑马过来，向他们展示她割取的四只耳朵。提魅则率领灼人部众掠夺被他们杀掉的死人。跟随提利昂·兰尼斯特上战场的三百名原住民，大约只有半数幸存。
他让生者打理死者，派波隆去处置被他俘虏的骑士，然后独自去找父亲。泰温公爵坐在河边，正拿一个镶珠宝的杯子喝酒，并让他的侍从为他解开战甲的环扣。“一场漂亮的胜仗。”凯冯爵士看到提利昂，便对他说，“你的野人打得很好。”
父亲那双淡绿金瞳看着他，冷酷得令他打颤。“父亲，是不是教您很吃惊啊？”他问，“有没有破坏您的计划啊？我们本该被敌人屠杀的，是不是这样？”
泰温公爵一饮而尽，脸上毫无表情。“是的，我把无纪律的部队安排在左翼，预期他们会溃败。罗柏·史塔克是个毛头小鬼，想必勇气多于睿智，我原本希望他一见我左军崩溃，便全力突进，企图侧面包抄。等他进了圈套，凯冯爵士的长熗兵便会转身攻他侧翼，把他逼进河里，这时我再派出预备队。”
“您把我丢进这场大屠杀，却不肯把计划告诉我。”
“佯攻难以让人信服，”父亲回答，“何况我不能把计划透漏给与雇佣兵和野蛮人为伍的人。”
“真可惜我的野蛮人坏了您的大好兴致。”提利昂脱下钢护手，任它落地，因手肘的剧痛皱起眉头。
“以史塔克那小鬼的年纪来说，他的用兵超乎预期地谨慎，”泰温公爵承认，“但胜利就是胜利。你似乎受伤了。”
提利昂的右臂染满鲜血。“父亲，谢谢您的关心，”他咬牙道，“可否麻烦你派个学士来帮我看看？莫非您觉得有个独臂的侏儒儿子也不赖……”
父亲还不及回答，只听一声急切的喊叫：“泰温大人！”，他便转过头去。亚当·马尔布兰爵士翻身下马，泰温公爵起立迎接。那匹马则口吐白沫，嘴流鲜血。亚当爵士生得高瘦，一头暗铜色及肩长发，穿着发亮的镀铜钢铠，胸甲中央有一棵象征家徽的燃烧之树。他在父亲面前单膝跪下，“公爵阁下，我们俘虏了部分敌方头目，包括赛文伯爵、威里斯·曼德勒爵士、哈利昂·卡史塔克和四个佛雷家的人。霍伍德伯爵战死。至于卢斯·波顿，恐怕已经逃了。”
“那小鬼呢？”泰温公爵问。
亚当爵士迟疑片刻。“大人，史塔克那小鬼没和他们一道，他们说他已从孪河城渡河，带着骑兵主力，赶赴奔流城。”
好个毛头小鬼，提利昂想起父亲刚才的话，想必勇气多于睿智。若不是手痛得厉害，他一定会哈哈大笑。
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①波德是波德瑞克的小名
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