A dwarf could be Warden of the West too!

Tyrion Lannister stood on the hill, the cold wind stirring his blood-red cloak.

His misshapen legs spasmed violently after the long march, and searing pain climbed his spine to the back of his skull.

He clenched his teeth, refusing to let out anything resembling a groan.

In the distance, Oxford Town lay like a stubborn stain burned into the land of the Westerlands.

The Faith Militant's Seven-Pointed Star banners flew above its walls, a naked act of defiance.

The Blackwater Rush, his father Tywin Lannister's intended destination, was now far beyond his reach.

A sudden storm had shattered their plans.

A band of septons, lowly men who should have been praying and copying scripture in their septs, had stirred up unrest in the heart of the Westerlands.

That unrest had swiftly become a wildfire, an armed rebellion.

A septon named Anthony had been preaching everywhere like a madman.

He told everyone that the army of the Westerlands had been annihilated on the Goldroad, that the great Tywin Lannister was dead.

Lies flourished in the soil of panic.

The common folk answered his call, and an uprising erupted before anyone could react.

While the army of the Westerlands was still licking its wounds at the Golden Tooth, trying to regroup, the flood of rebels had already swept across the land.

Whether it was a lie could no longer be established, for his father had indeed vanished.

Uncle Kevan had fallen in battle, and his kinsman Stafford Lannister was hardly a capable commander. News of the rebels had left him in a constant state of terror.

Tyrion had had no choice but to invoke his position as heir to the Westerlands and wrest command of the army from Stafford Lannister.

He had defied his father's orders to advance on the Blackwater Rush