Whalen Frey's sword wasn't particularly fast. Tyrion tried to dodge, but the blade struck his shoulder guard with a sharp metallic clang, leaving a deep scratch.
He staggered back several steps, fumbling to unstrap Ice from his back.
Damn it—he should've brought a dagger. Or a short sword.
Whalen's second swing came crashing down, forcing Tyrion to retreat again. The blow was heavier this time, slicing into his breastplate and tearing through the gilded layer, exposing the pale steel beneath.
"Whore! Lust Demon! Treacherous bastard!" Whalen Frey roared. "Black Walder told me—it was you all along!"
He really dares to attack me? Tyrion thought. Even if I get a scratch, Father and Jaime will burn the Twins to the ground.
But he had no time to think. The blade flashed toward him again. He tried to back away but found himself pressed against a tree. He twisted aside, but not far enough.
The steel edge bit through the gap at his shoulder and into his upper arm. The sound was crisp—metal tearing through mail and leather—but there was no pain.
He would not die like the corpses lying under the trees.
At last, he freed the greatsword from his back. Ice howled like a wolf, hungry for blood.
The blade was almost the height of a man. Whalen Frey couldn't move fast enough to escape its reach. All he could do was lift his sword in defense.
It did no good. His iron blade snapped like a twig, and Ice tore through his scaled armor—not leaving a scratch, but scattering fragments and blood in every direction.
"My lord!" Whalen Frey cried, voice breaking as he saw his own blood. "Spare me, my lord!"
Tyrion glanced around. Bronn was finishing off a Frey soldier, while Brienne pursued another. Her long strides closed the distance quickly, and she cut him down from behind.
The numbers were even, but with Brienne and Bronn on their side, the Frey men were sheep to the slaughter. They were nothing but peasant-bullies, third-rate soldiers. Once their commander fell, the rest scattered in terror.
Tyrion struck down two more, freeing his men from the melee. They cheered as though they'd wiped out a band of brigands.
He walked back to the weasel-faced Frey, kicked his sword aside, and found the man lying on the ground, trying to stuff his guts back into his belly while babbling for mercy.
"My lord, please—spare me! I lost my head!"
"He won't last long," Bronn said. "We could do him a kindness and make it quick."
Tyrion grabbed Whalen Frey by the hair and dragged him toward the riverbank. The weasel screamed, clutching his belly as if afraid something else might spill out.
"He's insane—attacking me?" Tyrion said, hauling him along.
"If I knew you were coming to kill us, I'd have killed you first," Bronn said dryly as he stripped the armor from Whalen's body to make the job easier. "Everything else can wait."
"I… I didn't mean to harm you, my lord…" Whalen whimpered. "My lord, please, show mercy."
"What about Raynald Westerling?" Tyrion asked. "Did you show him mercy?"
"He was a traitor," the weasel sobbed. His intestines began to spill out again, writhing pink coils pushing their way from his abdomen. "I'm your friend, my lord—I punished the traitors for you!"
"Raynald was heir to the Crag, a vassal of the Westerlands," Tyrion said, breathing hard, his arm heavy and aching. "It's not your place to punish him. Who do you think you are?"
He dragged Whalen to the edge of the river and shoved his head into the water. The Frey thrashed violently, screaming into the current.
"Lord—cough—Lord, spare me! I swear, I swear I'll be loyal to you!"
"What use do I have for a weasel's loyalty?" Tyrion pushed his head back underwater. Bubbles rose to the surface as he silently counted to sixty before pulling Whalen's head out again.
"Tell me," Tyrion said, "how was the wedding planned?"
Whalen Frey could only cough and nod, unable to speak.
"Bronn, can you read?"
"What kind of question is that, my lord?" Bronn said with a grin, glancing toward the woman. "What about the lady knight? Surely noble ladies know their letters?"
"My fingers are thick as sausages," Brienne said. "I can read, but don't ask me to write."
"Fine then. Bronn, hold this bastard's head," Tyrion said, standing. "Who's got paper and ink?"
Podrick hurried forward and handed them over.
"Whalen Frey, I'm going to begin your interrogation. Normally, you'd get a good beating before the real questioning, but looking at you now, that hardly seems necessary. So start talking—who planned the wedding?"
Whalen hesitated, but Bronn gave his head a rough shake, and that hesitation disappeared.
"Roose Bolton! Roose Bolton!"
"I know that," Tyrion said. "I'm asking about the Freys." He kicked him.
"Lothar! Lothar!" Whalen screamed, his hands failing to hold his intestines in. "My brother, Lame Lothar! He's the steward of the Twins—he planned it all!"
"And then?"
"Merrett—he drank with Greatjon."
"Say who gave the fucking order to kill."
"Ryman, Aenys, Hosteen, Raymund!" Whalen began to cry. "I... I didn't kill anyone!"
"Slow down, I write slowly. Who killed Lady Catelyn?"
"Raymund!"
"Raymund. Good. I'll see he gets a fine grave," Tyrion said. "Who attacked Robb's camp?"
"Black Walder."
"Ah, Black Walder. Always him," Tyrion muttered, pressing the name harder into the page. "What about Edwyn—Ser Stevron's eldest son? What was his part in it?"
"My lord, I... I don't know."
"And your father, Walder Frey? Why haven't you mentioned him?"
"He..."
"Bronn, wake him up again," Tyrion said, straightening. "Seems he's forgotten Lord Walder's part in all this." He handed the paper and quill to Bronn. "When he remembers, have him sign it."
He turned back toward the battlefield, now cleared. Several Frey soldiers hung from the trees—the ropes, of course, provided by the villagers.
The rest of the prisoners knelt nearby, stripped of their armor and weapons.
"What should we do with them, my lord?" Podrick asked.
"What should we do? Give them food, drink, and fine wine. Then pay them and send them home."
"Huh?" Podrick blinked. "Really...?"
"Hang them!" Tyrion snapped, wincing as pain flared through his left arm. "Hang them, Pod!"
"Yes, my lord, at once!" Podrick stammered. "But... you're hurt."