Chella daughter of Cheyk of the Black Ears had
gone ahead to scout, and it was she who brought back word of the
army at the crossroads. “By their fires I call them twenty
thousand strong,” she said. “Their banners are red,
with a golden lion.”
“Your father?” Bronn asked.
“Or my brother Jaime,” Tyrion said. “We shall
know soon enough.” He surveyed his ragged band of brigands:
near three hundred Stone Crows, Moon Brothers, Black Ears, and
Burned Men, and those just the seed of the army he hoped to grow.
Gunthor son of Gurn was raising the other clans even now. He
wondered what his lord father would make of them in their skins and
bits of stolen steel. If truth be told, he did not know what to
make of them himself. Was he their commander or their captive? Most
of the time, it seemed to be a little of both. “It might be
best if I rode down alone,” he suggested.
“Best for Tyrion son of Tywin,” said Ulf, who spoke
for the Moon Brothers.
Shagga glowered, a fearsome sight to see. “Shagga son of
Dolf likes this not. Shagga will go with the boyman, and if the
boyman lies, Shagga will chop off his manhood—”
“—and feed it to the goats, yes,” Tyrion said wearily.
“Shagga, I give you my word as a Lannister, I will
return.”
“Why should we trust your word?” Chella was a small
hard woman, flat as a boy, and no fool. “Lowland lords have
lied to the clans before.”
“You wound me, Chella,” Tyrion said. “Here I
thought we had become such friends. But as you will. You shall ride
with me, and Shagga and Conn for the Stone Crows, Ulf for the Moon
Brothers, and Timett son of Timett for the Burned Men.” The
clansmen exchanged wary looks as he named them. “The rest
shall wait here until I send for you. Try not to kill and maim each
other while I’m gone.”
He put his heels to his horse and trotted off, giving them no
choice but to follow or be left behind. Either was fine with him,
so long as they did not sit down to talk for a day and a night.
That was the trouble with the clans; they had an absurd notion that
every man’s voice should be heard in council, so they argued
about everything, endlessly. Even their women were allowed to
speak. Small wonder that it had been hundreds of years since they
last threatened the Vale with anything beyond an occasional raid.
Tyrion meant to change that.
Brorm rode with him. Behind them—after a quick bit of
grumbling—the five clansmen followed on their undersize garrons,
scrawny things that looked like ponies and scrambled up rock walls
like goats.
The Stone Crows rode together, and Chella and Ulf stayed close
as well, as the Moon Brothers and Black Ears had strong bonds
between them. Timett son of Timett rode alone. Every clan in the
Mountains of the Moon feared the Burned Men, who mortified their
flesh with fire to prove their courage and (the others said)
roasted babies at their feasts. And even the other Burned Men
feared Timett, who had put out his own left eye with a white-hot
knife when he reached the age of manhood. Tyrion gathered that it
was more customary for a boy to burn off a nipple, a finger, or (if
he was truly brave, or truly mad) an ear. Timett’s fellow
Burned Men were so awed by his choice of an eye that they promptly
named him a red hand, which seemed to be some sort of a war
chief.
“I wonder what their king burned off,” Tyrion said
to Bronn when he heard the tale. Grinning, the sellsword had tugged
at his crotch . . . but even Bronn kept a respectful tongue around
Timett. If a man was mad enough to put out his own eye, he was
unlikely to be gentle to his enemies.
Distant watchers peered down from towers of unmortared stone as
the party descended through the foothills, and once Tyrion saw a
raven take wing. Where the high road twisted between two rocky
outcrops, they came to the first strong point. A low earthen wall
four feet high closed off the road, and a dozen crossbowmen manned
the heights. Tyrion halted his followers out of range and rode to the wall
alone. “Who commands here?” he shouted up.
The captain was quick to appear, and even quicker to give them
an escort when he recognized his lord’s son. They trotted
past blackened fields and burned holdfasts, down to the riverlands
and the Green Fork of the Trident. Tyrion saw no bodies, but the
air was full of ravens and carrion crows; there had been fighting
here, and recently.
Half a league from the crossroads, a barricade of sharpened
stakes had been erected, manned by pikemen and archers. Behind the
line, the camp spread out to the far distance. Thin fingers of
smoke rose from hundreds of cookfires, mailed men sat under trees
and honed their blades, and familiar banners fluttered from staffs
thrust into the muddy ground.
A party of mounted horsemen rode forward to challenge them as
they approached the stakes. The knight who led them wore silver
armor inlaid with amethysts and a striped purple-and-silver cloak.
His shield bore a unicorn sigil, and a spiral horn two feet long
jutted up from the brow of his horsehead helm. Tyrion reined up to
greet him. “Ser Flement.”
Ser Flement Brax lifted his visor. “Tyrion,” he said
in astonishment. “My lord, we all feared you dead, or . . . ” He looked at the clansmen uncertainly. “These . . . companions of yours . . . ”
“Bosom friends and loyal retainers,” Tyrion said.
“Where will I find my lord father?”
“He has taken the inn at the crossroads for his
quarters.”
Tyrion laughed. The inn at the crossroads! Perhaps the gods were
just after all. “I will see him at once.”
“As you say, my lord.” Ser Flement wheeled his horse
about and shouted commands. Three rows of stakes were pulled from
the ground to make a hole in the line. Tyrion led his party
through.
Lord Tywin’s camp spread over leagues. Chella’s
estimate of twenty thousand men could not be far wrong. The common
men camped out in the open, but the knights had thrown up tents,
and some of the high lords had erected pavilions as large as
houses. Tyrion spied the red ox of the Presters, Lord
Crakehall’s brindled boar, the burning tree of Marbrand, the
badger of Lydden. Knights called out to him as he cantered past,
and men-at-arms gaped at the clansmen in open astonishment.
Shagga was gaping back; beyond a certainty, he had never seen so
many men, horses, and weapons in all his days. The rest of the
mountain brigands did a better job of guarding their faces, but
Tyrion had no doubts that they were full as much in awe. Better and
better. The more impressed they were with the power of the
Lannisters, the easier they would be to command.
The inn and its stables were much as he remembered, though
little more than tumbled stones and blackened foundations remained
where the rest of the village had stood. A gibbet had been erected
in the yard, and the body that swung there was covered with ravens.
At Tyrion’s approach they took to the air, squawking and
flapping their black wings. He dismounted and glanced up at what
remained of the corpse. The birds had eaten her lips and eyes and
most of her cheeks, baring her stained red teeth in a hideous
smile. “A room, a meal, and a flagon of wine, that was all I
asked,” he reminded her with a sigh of reproach.
Boys emerged hesitantly from the stables to see to their horses.
Shagga did not want to give his up. “The lad won’t
steal your mare,” Tyrion assured him. “He only wants to
give her some oats and water and brush out her coat.”
Shagga’s coat could have used a good brushing too, but it
would have been less than tactful to mention it. “You have my
word, the horse will not be harmed.”
Glaring, Shagga let go his grip on the reins. “This is the
horse of Shagga son of Dolf,” he roared at the stableboy.
“If he doesn’t give her back, chop off his manhood
and feed it to the goats,” Tyrion promised. “Provided
you can find some.”
A pair of house guards in crimson cloaks and lion-crested helms
stood under the inn’s sign, on either side of the door.
Tyrion recognized their captain. “My father?”
“In the common room, m’lord.”
“My men will want meat and mead,” Tyrion told him.
“See that they get it.” He entered the inn, and there
was Father.
Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West,
was in his middle fifties, yet hard as a man of twenty. Even
seated, he was tall, with long legs, broad shoulders, a flat
stomach. His thin arms were corded with muscle. When his once-thick
golden hair had begun to recede, he had commanded his barber to
shave his head; Lord Tywin did not believe in half measures. He
razored his lip and chin as well, but kept his side-whiskers, two
great thickets of wiry golden hair that covered most of his cheeks
from ear to jaw. His eyes were a pale green, flecked with gold. A
fool more foolish than most had once jested that even Lord
Tywin’s shit was flecked with gold. Some said the man was
still alive, deep in the bowels of Casterly Rock.
Ser Kevan Lannister, his father’s only surviving brother,
was sharing a flagon of ale with Lord Tywin when Tyrion entered the
common room. His uncle was portly and balding, with a close-cropped
yellow beard that followed the line of his massive jaw. Ser Kevan
saw him first. “Tyrion,” he said in surprise.
“Uncle,” Tyrion said, bowing. “And my lord
father. What a pleasure to find you here.”
Lord Tywin did not stir from his chair, but he did give his
dwarf son a long, searching look. “I see that the rumors of
your demise were unfounded.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Father,” Tyrion said.
“No need to leap up and embrace me, I wouldn’t want you
to strain yourself.” He crossed the room to their table,
acutely conscious of the way his stunted legs made him waddle with
every step. Whenever his father’s eyes were on him, he became
uncomfortably aware of all his deformities and shortcomings.
“Kind of you to go to war for me,” he said as he
climbed into a chair and helped himself to a cup of his
father’s ale.
“By my lights, it was you who started this,” Lord
Tywin replied. “Your brother Jaime would never have meekly
submitted to capture at the hands of a woman.”
“That’s one way we differ, Jaime and I. He’s
taller as well, you may have noticed.”
His father ignored the sally. “The honor of our House was
at stake. I had no choice but to ride. No man sheds Lannister blood
with impunity.”
“Hear Me Roar,” Tyrion said, grinning. The
Lannister words. “Truth be told, none of my blood was
actually shed, although it was a close thing once or twice. Morrec
and Jyck were killed.”
“I suppose you will be wanting some new men.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Father, I’ve acquired
a few of my own.” He tried a swallow of the ale. It was brown
and yeasty, so thick you could almost chew it. Very fine, in truth.
A pity his father had hanged the innkeep. “How is your war
going?”
His uncle answered. “Well enough, for the nonce. Ser
Edmure had scattered small troops of men along his borders to stop
our raiding, and your lord father and I were able to destroy most
of them piecemeal before they could regroup.”
“Your brother has been covering himself with glory,”
his father said. “He smashed the Lords Vance and Piper at the
Golden Tooth, and met the massed power of the Tullys under the
walls of Riverrun. The lords of the Trident have been put to rout.
Ser Edmure Tully was taken captive, with many of his knights and
bannermen. Lord Blackwood led a few survivors back to Riverrun,
where Jaime has them under siege. The rest fled to their own
strongholds.”
“Your father and I have been marching on each in
turn,” Ser Kevan said. “With Lord Blackwood gone,
Raventree fell at once, and Lady Whent yielded Harrenhal for want
of men to defend it. Ser Gregor burnt out the Pipers and the
Brackens . . . ”
“Leaving you unopposed?” Tyrion said.
“Not wholly,” Ser Kevan said. “The Mallisters
still hold Seagard and Walder Frey is marshaling his levies at the
Twins.”
“No matter,” Lord Tywin said. “Frey only takes
the field when the scent of victory is in the air, and all he
smells now is ruin. And Jason Mallister lacks the strength to fight
alone. Once Jaime takes Riverrun, they will both be quick enough to
bend the knee. Unless the Starks and the Arryns come forth to
oppose us, this war is good as won.”
“I would not fret overmuch about the Arryns if I were
you,” Tyrion said. “The Starks are another matter. Lord
Eddard—”
“—is our hostage,” his father said. “He will
lead no armies while he rots in a dungeon under the Red
Keep.”
“No,” Ser Kevan agreed, “but his son has
called the banners and sits at Moat Cailin with a strong host
around him.”
“No sword is strong until it’s been tempered,”
Lord Tywin declared. “The Stark boy is a child. No doubt he
likes the sound of warhorns well enough, and the sight of his
banners fluttering in the wind, but in the end it comes down to
butcher’s work. I doubt he has the stomach for it.”
Things had gotten interesting while he’d been away, Tyrion
reflected. “And what is our fearless monarch doing whilst all
this ‘butcher’s work’ is being done?” he
wondered. “How has my lovely and persuasive sister gotten
Robert to agree to the imprisonment of his dear friend
Ned?”
“Robert Baratheon is dead,” his father told him.
“Your nephew reigns in King’s Landing.”
That did take Tyrion aback. “My sister, you mean.”
He took another gulp of ale. The realm would be a much different
place with Cersei ruling in place of her husband.
“If you have a mind to make yourself of use, I will give
you a command,” his father said. “Marq Piper and Karyl
Vance are loose in our rear, raiding our lands across the Red
Fork.”
Tyrion made a tsking sound. “The gall of them, fighting
back. Ordinarily I’d be glad to punish such rudeness, Father,
but the truth is, I have pressing business elsewhere.”
“Do you?” Lord Tywin did not seem awed. “We
also have a pair of Ned Stark’s afterthoughts making a
nuisance of themselves by harassing my foraging parties. Beric
Dondarrion, some young lordling with delusions of valor. He has
that fat jape of a priest with him, the one who likes to set his
sword on fire. Do you think you might be able to deal with them as
you scamper off? Without making too much a botch of it?”
Tyrion wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled.
“Father, it warms my heart to think that you might entrust me
with . . . what, twenty men? Fifty? Are you sure you can spare so
many? Well, no matter. If I should come across Thoros and Lord
Beric, I shall spank them both.” He climbed down from his
chair and waddled to the sideboard, where a wheel of veined white
cheese sat surrounded by fruit. “First, though, I have some
promises of my own to keep,” he said as he sliced off a
wedge. “I shall require three thousand helms and as many
hauberks, plus swords, pikes, steel spearheads, maces, battleaxes,
gauntlets, gorgets, greaves, breastplates, wagons to carry all
this—”
The door behind him opened with a crash, so violently that
Tyrion almost dropped his cheese. Ser Kevan leapt up swearing as
the captain of the guard went flying across the room to smash
against the hearth. As he tumbled down into the cold ashes, his
lion helm askew, Shagga snapped the man’s sword in two over a
knee thick as a tree trunk, threw down the pieces, and lumbered
into the common room. He was preceded by his stench, riper than the
cheese and overpowering in the closed space. “Little
redcape,” he snarled, “when next you bare steel on
Shagga son of Dolf, I will chop off your manhood and roast it in
the fire.”
“What, no goats?” Tyrion said, taking a bite of
cheese.
The other clansmen followed Shagga into the common room, Bronn
with them. The sellsword gave Tyrion a rueful shrug.
“Who might you be?” Lord Tywin asked, cool as
snow.
“They followed me home, Father,” Tyrion explained.
“May I keep them? They don’t eat much.”
No one was smiling. “By what right do you savages intrude
on our councils?” demanded Ser Kevan.
“Savages, lowlander?” Conn might have been handsome
if you washed him. “We are free men, and free men by rights
sit on all war councils.”
“Which one is the lion lord?” Chella asked.
“They are both old men,” announced Timett son of
Timett, who had yet to see his twentieth year.
Ser Kevan’s hand went to his sword hilt, but his brother
placed two fingers on his wrist and held him fast. Lord Tywin
seemed unperturbed. “Tyrion, have you forgotten your
courtesies? Kindly acquaint us with our . . . honored
guests.”
Tyrion licked his fingers. “With pleasure,” he said.
“The fair maid is Chella daughter of Cheyk of the Black
Ears.”
“I’m no maid,” Chella protested. “My
sons have taken fifty ears among them.”
“May they take fifty more.” Tyrion waddled away from
her. “This is Conn son of Coratt. Shagga son of Dolf is the
one who looks like Casterly Rock with hair. They are Stone Crows.
Here is Ulf son of Umar of the Moon Brothers, and here Timett son
of Timett, a red hand of the Burned Men. And this is Bronn, a
sellsword of no particular allegiance. He has already changed sides
twice in the short time I’ve known him, you and he ought to
get on famously, Father.” To Bronn and the clansmen he said,
“May I present my lord father, Tywin son of Tytos of House
Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, Shield of
Lannisport, and once and future Hand of the King.”
Lord Tywin rose, dignified and correct. “Even in the west,
we know the prowess of the warrior clans of the Mountains of the
Moon. What brings you down from your strongholds, my
lords?”
“Horses,” said Shagga.
“A promise of silk and steel,” said Timett son of
Timett.
Tyrion was about to tell his lord father how he proposed to
reduce the Vale of Arryn to a smoking wasteland, but he was never
given the chance. The door banged open again. The messenger gave
Tyrion’s clansmen a quick, queer look as he dropped to one
knee before Lord Tywin. “My lord,” he said, “Ser
Addam bid me tell you that the Stark host is moving down the
causeway.”
Lord Tywin Lannister did not smile. Lord Tywin never smiled, but
Tyrion had learned to read his father’s pleasure all the
same, and it was there on his face. “So the wolfling is
leaving his den to play among the lions,” he said in a voice
of quiet satisfaction. “Splendid. Return to Ser Addam and
tell him to fall back. He is not to engage the northerners until we
arrive, but I want him to harass their flanks and draw them farther
south.”
“It will be as you command.” The rider took his
leave.
“We are well situated here,” Ser Kevan pointed out.
“Close to the ford and ringed by pits and spikes. If they are
coming south, I say let them come, and break themselves against
us.”
“The boy may hang back or lose his courage when he sees
our numbers,” Lord Tywin replied. “The sooner the
Starks are broken, the sooner I shall be free to deal with Stannis
Baratheon. Tell the drummers to beat assembly, and send word to
Jaime that I am marching against Robb Stark.”
“As you will,” Ser Kevan said.
Tyrion watched with a grim fascination as his lord father turned
next to the half-wild clansmen. “It is said that the men of
the mountain clans are warriors without fear.”
“It is said truly,” Conn of the Stone Crows
answered.
“And the women,” Chella added.
“Ride with me against my enemies, and you shall have all
my son promised you, and more,” Lord Tywin told them.
“Would you pay us with our own coin?” Ulf son of
Umar said. “Why should we need the father’s promise,
when we have the son’s?”
“I said nothing of need,” Lord Tywin replied.
“My words were courtesy, nothing more. You need not join us.
The men of the winterlands are made of iron and ice, and even my
boldest knights fear to face them.” Oh, deftly done, Tyrion thought, smiling crookedly.
“The Burned Men fear nothing. Timett son of Timett will
ride with the lions.”
“Wherever the Burned Men go, the Stone Crows have been
there first,” Conn declared hotly. “We ride as
well.”
“Shagga son of Dolf will chop off their manhoods and feed
them to the crows.”
“We will ride with you, lion lord,” Chella daughter
of Cheyk agreed, “but only if your halfman son goes with us.
He has bought his breath with promises. Until we hold the steel he
has pledged us, his life is ours.”
Lord Tywin turned his gold-flecked eyes on his son.
“Joy,” Tyrion said with a resigned smile.
Chella daughter of Cheyk of the Black Ears had
gone ahead to scout, and it was she who brought back word of the
army at the crossroads. “By their fires I call them twenty
thousand strong,” she said. “Their banners are red,
with a golden lion.”
“Your father?” Bronn asked.
“Or my brother Jaime,” Tyrion said. “We shall
know soon enough.” He surveyed his ragged band of brigands:
near three hundred Stone Crows, Moon Brothers, Black Ears, and
Burned Men, and those just the seed of the army he hoped to grow.
Gunthor son of Gurn was raising the other clans even now. He
wondered what his lord father would make of them in their skins and
bits of stolen steel. If truth be told, he did not know what to
make of them himself. Was he their commander or their captive? Most
of the time, it seemed to be a little of both. “It might be
best if I rode down alone,” he suggested.
“Best for Tyrion son of Tywin,” said Ulf, who spoke
for the Moon Brothers.
Shagga glowered, a fearsome sight to see. “Shagga son of
Dolf likes this not. Shagga will go with the boyman, and if the
boyman lies, Shagga will chop off his manhood—”
“—and feed it to the goats, yes,” Tyrion said wearily.
“Shagga, I give you my word as a Lannister, I will
return.”
“Why should we trust your word?” Chella was a small
hard woman, flat as a boy, and no fool. “Lowland lords have
lied to the clans before.”
“You wound me, Chella,” Tyrion said. “Here I
thought we had become such friends. But as you will. You shall ride
with me, and Shagga and Conn for the Stone Crows, Ulf for the Moon
Brothers, and Timett son of Timett for the Burned Men.” The
clansmen exchanged wary looks as he named them. “The rest
shall wait here until I send for you. Try not to kill and maim each
other while I’m gone.”
He put his heels to his horse and trotted off, giving them no
choice but to follow or be left behind. Either was fine with him,
so long as they did not sit down to talk for a day and a night.
That was the trouble with the clans; they had an absurd notion that
every man’s voice should be heard in council, so they argued
about everything, endlessly. Even their women were allowed to
speak. Small wonder that it had been hundreds of years since they
last threatened the Vale with anything beyond an occasional raid.
Tyrion meant to change that.
Brorm rode with him. Behind them—after a quick bit of
grumbling—the five clansmen followed on their undersize garrons,
scrawny things that looked like ponies and scrambled up rock walls
like goats.
The Stone Crows rode together, and Chella and Ulf stayed close
as well, as the Moon Brothers and Black Ears had strong bonds
between them. Timett son of Timett rode alone. Every clan in the
Mountains of the Moon feared the Burned Men, who mortified their
flesh with fire to prove their courage and (the others said)
roasted babies at their feasts. And even the other Burned Men
feared Timett, who had put out his own left eye with a white-hot
knife when he reached the age of manhood. Tyrion gathered that it
was more customary for a boy to burn off a nipple, a finger, or (if
he was truly brave, or truly mad) an ear. Timett’s fellow
Burned Men were so awed by his choice of an eye that they promptly
named him a red hand, which seemed to be some sort of a war
chief.
“I wonder what their king burned off,” Tyrion said
to Bronn when he heard the tale. Grinning, the sellsword had tugged
at his crotch . . . but even Bronn kept a respectful tongue around
Timett. If a man was mad enough to put out his own eye, he was
unlikely to be gentle to his enemies.
Distant watchers peered down from towers of unmortared stone as
the party descended through the foothills, and once Tyrion saw a
raven take wing. Where the high road twisted between two rocky
outcrops, they came to the first strong point. A low earthen wall
four feet high closed off the road, and a dozen crossbowmen manned
the heights. Tyrion halted his followers out of range and rode to the wall
alone. “Who commands here?” he shouted up.
The captain was quick to appear, and even quicker to give them
an escort when he recognized his lord’s son. They trotted
past blackened fields and burned holdfasts, down to the riverlands
and the Green Fork of the Trident. Tyrion saw no bodies, but the
air was full of ravens and carrion crows; there had been fighting
here, and recently.
Half a league from the crossroads, a barricade of sharpened
stakes had been erected, manned by pikemen and archers. Behind the
line, the camp spread out to the far distance. Thin fingers of
smoke rose from hundreds of cookfires, mailed men sat under trees
and honed their blades, and familiar banners fluttered from staffs
thrust into the muddy ground.
A party of mounted horsemen rode forward to challenge them as
they approached the stakes. The knight who led them wore silver
armor inlaid with amethysts and a striped purple-and-silver cloak.
His shield bore a unicorn sigil, and a spiral horn two feet long
jutted up from the brow of his horsehead helm. Tyrion reined up to
greet him. “Ser Flement.”
Ser Flement Brax lifted his visor. “Tyrion,” he said
in astonishment. “My lord, we all feared you dead, or . . . ” He looked at the clansmen uncertainly. “These . . . companions of yours . . . ”
“Bosom friends and loyal retainers,” Tyrion said.
“Where will I find my lord father?”
“He has taken the inn at the crossroads for his
quarters.”
Tyrion laughed. The inn at the crossroads! Perhaps the gods were
just after all. “I will see him at once.”
“As you say, my lord.” Ser Flement wheeled his horse
about and shouted commands. Three rows of stakes were pulled from
the ground to make a hole in the line. Tyrion led his party
through.
Lord Tywin’s camp spread over leagues. Chella’s
estimate of twenty thousand men could not be far wrong. The common
men camped out in the open, but the knights had thrown up tents,
and some of the high lords had erected pavilions as large as
houses. Tyrion spied the red ox of the Presters, Lord
Crakehall’s brindled boar, the burning tree of Marbrand, the
badger of Lydden. Knights called out to him as he cantered past,
and men-at-arms gaped at the clansmen in open astonishment.
Shagga was gaping back; beyond a certainty, he had never seen so
many men, horses, and weapons in all his days. The rest of the
mountain brigands did a better job of guarding their faces, but
Tyrion had no doubts that they were full as much in awe. Better and
better. The more impressed they were with the power of the
Lannisters, the easier they would be to command.
The inn and its stables were much as he remembered, though
little more than tumbled stones and blackened foundations remained
where the rest of the village had stood. A gibbet had been erected
in the yard, and the body that swung there was covered with ravens.
At Tyrion’s approach they took to the air, squawking and
flapping their black wings. He dismounted and glanced up at what
remained of the corpse. The birds had eaten her lips and eyes and
most of her cheeks, baring her stained red teeth in a hideous
smile. “A room, a meal, and a flagon of wine, that was all I
asked,” he reminded her with a sigh of reproach.
Boys emerged hesitantly from the stables to see to their horses.
Shagga did not want to give his up. “The lad won’t
steal your mare,” Tyrion assured him. “He only wants to
give her some oats and water and brush out her coat.”
Shagga’s coat could have used a good brushing too, but it
would have been less than tactful to mention it. “You have my
word, the horse will not be harmed.”
Glaring, Shagga let go his grip on the reins. “This is the
horse of Shagga son of Dolf,” he roared at the stableboy.
“If he doesn’t give her back, chop off his manhood
and feed it to the goats,” Tyrion promised. “Provided
you can find some.”
A pair of house guards in crimson cloaks and lion-crested helms
stood under the inn’s sign, on either side of the door.
Tyrion recognized their captain. “My father?”
“In the common room, m’lord.”
“My men will want meat and mead,” Tyrion told him.
“See that they get it.” He entered the inn, and there
was Father.
Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West,
was in his middle fifties, yet hard as a man of twenty. Even
seated, he was tall, with long legs, broad shoulders, a flat
stomach. His thin arms were corded with muscle. When his once-thick
golden hair had begun to recede, he had commanded his barber to
shave his head; Lord Tywin did not believe in half measures. He
razored his lip and chin as well, but kept his side-whiskers, two
great thickets of wiry golden hair that covered most of his cheeks
from ear to jaw. His eyes were a pale green, flecked with gold. A
fool more foolish than most had once jested that even Lord
Tywin’s shit was flecked with gold. Some said the man was
still alive, deep in the bowels of Casterly Rock.
Ser Kevan Lannister, his father’s only surviving brother,
was sharing a flagon of ale with Lord Tywin when Tyrion entered the
common room. His uncle was portly and balding, with a close-cropped
yellow beard that followed the line of his massive jaw. Ser Kevan
saw him first. “Tyrion,” he said in surprise.
“Uncle,” Tyrion said, bowing. “And my lord
father. What a pleasure to find you here.”
Lord Tywin did not stir from his chair, but he did give his
dwarf son a long, searching look. “I see that the rumors of
your demise were unfounded.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Father,” Tyrion said.
“No need to leap up and embrace me, I wouldn’t want you
to strain yourself.” He crossed the room to their table,
acutely conscious of the way his stunted legs made him waddle with
every step. Whenever his father’s eyes were on him, he became
uncomfortably aware of all his deformities and shortcomings.
“Kind of you to go to war for me,” he said as he
climbed into a chair and helped himself to a cup of his
father’s ale.
“By my lights, it was you who started this,” Lord
Tywin replied. “Your brother Jaime would never have meekly
submitted to capture at the hands of a woman.”
“That’s one way we differ, Jaime and I. He’s
taller as well, you may have noticed.”
His father ignored the sally. “The honor of our House was
at stake. I had no choice but to ride. No man sheds Lannister blood
with impunity.”
“Hear Me Roar,” Tyrion said, grinning. The
Lannister words. “Truth be told, none of my blood was
actually shed, although it was a close thing once or twice. Morrec
and Jyck were killed.”
“I suppose you will be wanting some new men.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Father, I’ve acquired
a few of my own.” He tried a swallow of the ale. It was brown
and yeasty, so thick you could almost chew it. Very fine, in truth.
A pity his father had hanged the innkeep. “How is your war
going?”
His uncle answered. “Well enough, for the nonce. Ser
Edmure had scattered small troops of men along his borders to stop
our raiding, and your lord father and I were able to destroy most
of them piecemeal before they could regroup.”
“Your brother has been covering himself with glory,”
his father said. “He smashed the Lords Vance and Piper at the
Golden Tooth, and met the massed power of the Tullys under the
walls of Riverrun. The lords of the Trident have been put to rout.
Ser Edmure Tully was taken captive, with many of his knights and
bannermen. Lord Blackwood led a few survivors back to Riverrun,
where Jaime has them under siege. The rest fled to their own
strongholds.”
“Your father and I have been marching on each in
turn,” Ser Kevan said. “With Lord Blackwood gone,
Raventree fell at once, and Lady Whent yielded Harrenhal for want
of men to defend it. Ser Gregor burnt out the Pipers and the
Brackens . . . ”
“Leaving you unopposed?” Tyrion said.
“Not wholly,” Ser Kevan said. “The Mallisters
still hold Seagard and Walder Frey is marshaling his levies at the
Twins.”
“No matter,” Lord Tywin said. “Frey only takes
the field when the scent of victory is in the air, and all he
smells now is ruin. And Jason Mallister lacks the strength to fight
alone. Once Jaime takes Riverrun, they will both be quick enough to
bend the knee. Unless the Starks and the Arryns come forth to
oppose us, this war is good as won.”
“I would not fret overmuch about the Arryns if I were
you,” Tyrion said. “The Starks are another matter. Lord
Eddard—”
“—is our hostage,” his father said. “He will
lead no armies while he rots in a dungeon under the Red
Keep.”
“No,” Ser Kevan agreed, “but his son has
called the banners and sits at Moat Cailin with a strong host
around him.”
“No sword is strong until it’s been tempered,”
Lord Tywin declared. “The Stark boy is a child. No doubt he
likes the sound of warhorns well enough, and the sight of his
banners fluttering in the wind, but in the end it comes down to
butcher’s work. I doubt he has the stomach for it.”
Things had gotten interesting while he’d been away, Tyrion
reflected. “And what is our fearless monarch doing whilst all
this ‘butcher’s work’ is being done?” he
wondered. “How has my lovely and persuasive sister gotten
Robert to agree to the imprisonment of his dear friend
Ned?”
“Robert Baratheon is dead,” his father told him.
“Your nephew reigns in King’s Landing.”
That did take Tyrion aback. “My sister, you mean.”
He took another gulp of ale. The realm would be a much different
place with Cersei ruling in place of her husband.
“If you have a mind to make yourself of use, I will give
you a command,” his father said. “Marq Piper and Karyl
Vance are loose in our rear, raiding our lands across the Red
Fork.”
Tyrion made a tsking sound. “The gall of them, fighting
back. Ordinarily I’d be glad to punish such rudeness, Father,
but the truth is, I have pressing business elsewhere.”
“Do you?” Lord Tywin did not seem awed. “We
also have a pair of Ned Stark’s afterthoughts making a
nuisance of themselves by harassing my foraging parties. Beric
Dondarrion, some young lordling with delusions of valor. He has
that fat jape of a priest with him, the one who likes to set his
sword on fire. Do you think you might be able to deal with them as
you scamper off? Without making too much a botch of it?”
Tyrion wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled.
“Father, it warms my heart to think that you might entrust me
with . . . what, twenty men? Fifty? Are you sure you can spare so
many? Well, no matter. If I should come across Thoros and Lord
Beric, I shall spank them both.” He climbed down from his
chair and waddled to the sideboard, where a wheel of veined white
cheese sat surrounded by fruit. “First, though, I have some
promises of my own to keep,” he said as he sliced off a
wedge. “I shall require three thousand helms and as many
hauberks, plus swords, pikes, steel spearheads, maces, battleaxes,
gauntlets, gorgets, greaves, breastplates, wagons to carry all
this—”
The door behind him opened with a crash, so violently that
Tyrion almost dropped his cheese. Ser Kevan leapt up swearing as
the captain of the guard went flying across the room to smash
against the hearth. As he tumbled down into the cold ashes, his
lion helm askew, Shagga snapped the man’s sword in two over a
knee thick as a tree trunk, threw down the pieces, and lumbered
into the common room. He was preceded by his stench, riper than the
cheese and overpowering in the closed space. “Little
redcape,” he snarled, “when next you bare steel on
Shagga son of Dolf, I will chop off your manhood and roast it in
the fire.”
“What, no goats?” Tyrion said, taking a bite of
cheese.
The other clansmen followed Shagga into the common room, Bronn
with them. The sellsword gave Tyrion a rueful shrug.
“Who might you be?” Lord Tywin asked, cool as
snow.
“They followed me home, Father,” Tyrion explained.
“May I keep them? They don’t eat much.”
No one was smiling. “By what right do you savages intrude
on our councils?” demanded Ser Kevan.
“Savages, lowlander?” Conn might have been handsome
if you washed him. “We are free men, and free men by rights
sit on all war councils.”
“Which one is the lion lord?” Chella asked.
“They are both old men,” announced Timett son of
Timett, who had yet to see his twentieth year.
Ser Kevan’s hand went to his sword hilt, but his brother
placed two fingers on his wrist and held him fast. Lord Tywin
seemed unperturbed. “Tyrion, have you forgotten your
courtesies? Kindly acquaint us with our . . . honored
guests.”
Tyrion licked his fingers. “With pleasure,” he said.
“The fair maid is Chella daughter of Cheyk of the Black
Ears.”
“I’m no maid,” Chella protested. “My
sons have taken fifty ears among them.”
“May they take fifty more.” Tyrion waddled away from
her. “This is Conn son of Coratt. Shagga son of Dolf is the
one who looks like Casterly Rock with hair. They are Stone Crows.
Here is Ulf son of Umar of the Moon Brothers, and here Timett son
of Timett, a red hand of the Burned Men. And this is Bronn, a
sellsword of no particular allegiance. He has already changed sides
twice in the short time I’ve known him, you and he ought to
get on famously, Father.” To Bronn and the clansmen he said,
“May I present my lord father, Tywin son of Tytos of House
Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, Shield of
Lannisport, and once and future Hand of the King.”
Lord Tywin rose, dignified and correct. “Even in the west,
we know the prowess of the warrior clans of the Mountains of the
Moon. What brings you down from your strongholds, my
lords?”
“Horses,” said Shagga.
“A promise of silk and steel,” said Timett son of
Timett.
Tyrion was about to tell his lord father how he proposed to
reduce the Vale of Arryn to a smoking wasteland, but he was never
given the chance. The door banged open again. The messenger gave
Tyrion’s clansmen a quick, queer look as he dropped to one
knee before Lord Tywin. “My lord,” he said, “Ser
Addam bid me tell you that the Stark host is moving down the
causeway.”
Lord Tywin Lannister did not smile. Lord Tywin never smiled, but
Tyrion had learned to read his father’s pleasure all the
same, and it was there on his face. “So the wolfling is
leaving his den to play among the lions,” he said in a voice
of quiet satisfaction. “Splendid. Return to Ser Addam and
tell him to fall back. He is not to engage the northerners until we
arrive, but I want him to harass their flanks and draw them farther
south.”
“It will be as you command.” The rider took his
leave.
“We are well situated here,” Ser Kevan pointed out.
“Close to the ford and ringed by pits and spikes. If they are
coming south, I say let them come, and break themselves against
us.”
“The boy may hang back or lose his courage when he sees
our numbers,” Lord Tywin replied. “The sooner the
Starks are broken, the sooner I shall be free to deal with Stannis
Baratheon. Tell the drummers to beat assembly, and send word to
Jaime that I am marching against Robb Stark.”
“As you will,” Ser Kevan said.
Tyrion watched with a grim fascination as his lord father turned
next to the half-wild clansmen. “It is said that the men of
the mountain clans are warriors without fear.”
“It is said truly,” Conn of the Stone Crows
answered.
“And the women,” Chella added.
“Ride with me against my enemies, and you shall have all
my son promised you, and more,” Lord Tywin told them.
“Would you pay us with our own coin?” Ulf son of
Umar said. “Why should we need the father’s promise,
when we have the son’s?”
“I said nothing of need,” Lord Tywin replied.
“My words were courtesy, nothing more. You need not join us.
The men of the winterlands are made of iron and ice, and even my
boldest knights fear to face them.” Oh, deftly done, Tyrion thought, smiling crookedly.
“The Burned Men fear nothing. Timett son of Timett will
ride with the lions.”
“Wherever the Burned Men go, the Stone Crows have been
there first,” Conn declared hotly. “We ride as
well.”
“Shagga son of Dolf will chop off their manhoods and feed
them to the crows.”
“We will ride with you, lion lord,” Chella daughter
of Cheyk agreed, “but only if your halfman son goes with us.
He has bought his breath with promises. Until we hold the steel he
has pledged us, his life is ours.”
Lord Tywin turned his gold-flecked eyes on his son.
“Joy,” Tyrion said with a resigned smile.