Tyrion Lannister
They had come at night, the banners of the falcon of the Arryns and the moon of the Vale had come streaming down the hills in the dead of night. Horns had sounded, and the men at arms had begun the frenetic process of trying to prepare for a battle they knew they were going to lose. Tyrion had put his armour on, and done what he could to make sure everything went accordingly, but nothing in life ever went accordingly, Joffrey was dead, his army broken, and now the northmen were advancing toward them as well. Like a predator they smelt blood and they had come to take full advantage of that. Tyrion did not know whether or not they could survive the fighting to come, but he was not going to go down without a fight.
Tommen and Cersei were hiding somewhere, where he did not know, but they were hiding and so long as Tommen was alive, they could keep fighting, some spark of resistance could keep going. If they were captured, then this was all over, for Tyrion did not think that whoever sat the Iron Throne now would want the boy alive and well. A grim thought, but a true one, Jaime was dead, and Tyrion mourned his brother's death, Joffrey was dead, and though Tyrion did not mourn the loss of such a mad man, the boy had been their King and his death was a serious blow. Now pain was on the approach, Tyrion could hear drums, and men, beating in time to a rhythm only death knew the tune to. Harrenhal loomed behind them, they had advanced forward so as not to be penned in, something that Lord Tywin had been deeply concerned about, but Tyrion did feel as though it was a mistake. A mistake that was too late to change now, the armies were mashing together, beating out some sort of horrifying beat.
Somewhere his father is out there, fighting, commanding, doing all the things a commander is supposed to do, everything a Lord Paramount is supposed to do, and Tyrion knows that even if they come out of this alive and victorious, they will not see eye to eye. Tyrion has resigned himself to never getting what is his, Casterly Rock will likely be taken from their family at the end of this, or given to a weaker cadet line, as a means of ensuring complete loyalty from the gold mines of Westeros. It is a bitter thought, but one that makes sense, something that he would do, and something he would criticise anyone else if they did not do. And so he fights, swinging an axe, his horse long dead by now, fighting and culling at ankles, armour bears no pressure now, and they keep going. His head hurts, the wine he drank the night before a bad idea now, but still he keeps going, fighting, always fighting. He was not made for this, he was made for reading and drinking, nothing else. But now he fights, and his arms hurt, his brain hurts, everything hurts.
A big bear of a man comes toward him, and Tyrion braces himself for pain. He feels it shoot through his arms and his legs as he blocks and dances against the swinging of the man's sword or axe or mace, whatever weapon the man is using it causes a lot of hurt to Tyrion. He can feel the ill-fitting armour on his body caving in, denting in places where it should not dent. A knock comes to his head, and he goes flying, he does not know how, the armour should be weighing him down, stopping him from moving so freely, and yet that blow has defied such logic and sent him flying through the air, as he flies, he throws up everything he drank the night before, his helm flying off as he does so, so that the vomit comes and lands everywhere on him and everyone else. There is pain in his arms, and his legs, his head spins, he lands with a thump, and stars come to his eyes.
Tyrion sways, feels more vomit coming, and leans over, some poor soul who wanted nothing more to tend to his land and fuck the local milk maid is lying next to him, gets covered in his vomit. Tyrion mumbles an apology, takes a moment to take stock of the situation he is facing. The Lannister men are burning through themselves, the Vale men seem as if they are fighting on energy and pure adrenaline alone. The Lannister men look tired, and broken, they have no strength, nothing, they have nothing left to give. Tyrion struggles to his feet, sways a little more, vomits some, and then moves out. His axe disappeared when he went flying through the air, and so he ducks and dodges the blows that come his way, he cries out for some form of release, and finds that he does not know where his father is. Someone comes to try and kill him, luckily, Tyrion is small and he still has enough of his wits about him to knock the man to the floor with a kick at his feet.
His head feels as though it aches with the pounding of elephant feet, he wants to sit down and sleep, but he keeps going. He takes a man's water flask and drinks, jugs the drink more aptly, and spits out more than he keeps down. Then from there he moves slowly through the crowd, breaking into a sweat, as he moves, keeping a look out for where he could go, where he could leave, he does not know what he is thinking anymore all he knows is that he wants sleep, he wants rest. The pain in his head does not stop, nothing stops anymore, it just keeps going. The blade comes from nowhere, there is blinding pain, and then nothing. He feels relief and laughs; he falls to his knees and dies there and then.