Saltpans, where the gentle flow of the Trident emptied into the Bay of Crabs through a wide estuary. Even through the branches of the trees, one could glimpse the wealth of the land: terraced fields climbing the slopes, fish ponds below, and windmills above, their wooden and canvas blades turning slowly in the breeze from the bay.
Tyrion saw the farmland across the river, crimson cloaks fluttering in the wind, sheep grazing on the hillsides, and storks wading through the shallows near the ferry landing. The war had not yet touched this place, and he was thankful he had destroyed the Brave Companions in time—otherwise, the flames of war would have reached here sooner or later.
"Saltpans lies ahead," Brienne said, pointing toward the bay. "That island in the water is the Quiet Isle."
The tide was out, retreating quickly. The water that separated the island from the mainland was pulling back, revealing a vast brown expanse of glistening mudflats. Countless tidal pools dotted the surface, each one shimmering like a gold coin under the afternoon sun.
Greatjon had remained at Darry; Tyrion feared his presence in broad daylight would only alert the enemy. They moved along the riverbank and the shore—a party of about twenty. Tyrion doubted Whalen Frey's men would outnumber those of Petyr Frey.
The mudflats shimmered with moisture, reflecting a hundred shades of color. The sludge was dark brown, nearly black, but patches of golden sand, streaks of gray and red rock, and tufts of green and black seaweed broke the monotony. Storks waded through the tidal pools, leaving prints in the soft earth, while crabs darted across the shallow water. The air was heavy with the smell of salt and rot. Mud clung to their boots and only released them with a reluctant "snap," followed by a low, sucking groan.
Then they saw the first corpse.
It leaned against the roots of a large, leafy tree. Carrion crows were pecking at its face, and something—wolf or wild dog, perhaps—had already torn into its calf.
Tyrion frowned, trying not to look. Fresh corpses he could stomach, but those that had lain for days… the smell was harder to bear.
"Bury them on the way back," Tyrion said. "Or throw them into the sea."
Fifty yards farther, they found another body. Scavenging crows had dragged its entrails out, scattering them across the ground like earthworms shriveled on sunbaked stone after rain.
Beyond that, every hundred yards brought another corpse. They lay beneath every kind of tree—sycamore, alder, beech, birch, larch, elm, willow, chestnut. All had been slit open. Their gray and brown robes were faded and tattered, the cloth so worn by sun and rain that Tyrion couldn't tell if it had once been coarse linen or roughspun.
Some were bald, some bearded; some young, some old; short, tall, fat, thin—it made no difference. Every face was bloated and gnawed, every body swollen and torn.
"A tanner," Bronn said, pointing to one corpse. "Or a smith—he's wearing a leather apron."
Brienne finally said what they all already knew. "Saltpans has been sacked."
Ahead, the trees grew sparse, yet the corpses remained. The forest gave way to a muddy plain where gallows stood in place of branches. Clouds of crows screamed as they rose from the dead, only to settle again once the riders passed.
At the edge of Saltpans, a group of soldiers—perhaps twenty in all—had gathered. The twin-towered banner of the Twins stood planted on a mound by the road, horses tethered to its base. The men were crowded together, laughing and cheering over something. Only when Tyrion's party drew near did one of them notice.
Tyrion dismounted, with Bronn close behind.
"Who's in charge here?" he shouted.
The Frey soldiers parted, revealing a table at their center. Something pale and white lay sprawled across it. Only when Tyrion stepped closer did he see that it was a woman.
"Are you bandits?"
"And what sort of creature are you?" A middle-aged knight stepped out from the crowd. His armor was half removed, especially the lower part, and his pointed face lacked a chin—a perfect weasel's visage.
He froze when he saw Tyrion. Such striking features usually meant noble birth, and uncertain of who this man was, he dared not act rashly.
"This is Lord Tyrion Lannister," Bronn announced. "Heir to Casterly Rock, Lord of Harrenhal, and Warden of the Riverlands."
"Ah, my lord," the knight said, as if waking from a daze. "My lord, well met. I am Whalen Frey." He extended a hand stained with blood—was it the woman's?
"What are you doing here?" Tyrion pushed through the gathered men and draped his crimson-and-gold cloak over the woman. "Ravaging the smallfolk?"
"Foraging, my lord," Whalen Frey replied quickly. "These peasants were unruly, so we gave them a lesson."
"Including the corpses along the road?"
"Yes, my lord. We draw lots each day. The men are killed, the women given to the brothers for sport. If they're too old, they're killed as well," Whalen Frey said. "Until the peasants have nothing left to give."
"Peasants' wealth?" Tyrion frowned as the Lannister soldiers dismounted behind him. "I thought you said your orders were to collect grain?"
"Yes, my lord. That's what I meant—grain." Whalen held out his palm. His fingers glittered with rings—gold and silver, narrow bands without gemstones.
"These are the farmers' grain?"
"Rabble," Whalen corrected. "My kinsman Petyr went missing in Harroway Town a few days ago—likely the work of the Brotherhood Without Banners. We're questioning these peasants to learn where those outlaws are hiding. Ah... that short cloak of yours, I recognize it."
He meant the wolfskin cloak of Grey Wind.
"You were at the wedding?"
"Indeed, my lord." Whalen twisted the thin rings around his fingers as he spoke, recalling the scene. "I remember it well. Raynald Westerling pretended to surrender to me, but tried to grab my axe to smash the cage lock and set that beast loose."
"Westerling—Robb's brother-in-law?"
"Yes, the traitor," Whalen said. "He took a few arrows, fell into the river, and drowned. A fitting end for a traitor."
""Honor, not Honors" Tyrion said suddenly.
"What?" Whalen blinked.
"That's the motto of House Westerling," Tyrion said, shifting his shoulders slightly. The Valyrian steel greatsword, Ice, weighed heavily on his back.
"A fine sword, my lord," Whalen Frey said with a forced smile. "I've never seen a two-handed blade that large. Perhaps Ser Gregor wielded it well. Can you?"
"It's not as heavy as you think," Tyrion replied. "Valyrian steel is far lighter than ordinary steel."
"Valyrian steel?" Whalen's voice turned sharp.
"The dead in Harroway... ordinary iron blades couldn't make wounds like those, my lord..."
Tyrion stared at him. He stared back. Their eyes met for several tense seconds before Whalen Frey suddenly drew his sword.
"It was you!"
...
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