"When you dropped that old knight, the whole hall went mad."
They paused to rest under a stand of mountain poplars by the trail.
Bronn watered the horses from a spring and drank himself while chatting with Tyrion.
"They all thought your fists were soft, but only I know what really happened."
"The Seven saw it well enough. They said nothing, which is as good as approval." Tyrion, still in his leather armor, bent to gather dry branches from the ground.
The plaster, hardened with sweat, had turned his hands into hammers—that was the secret of his victory.
"That old man was never my match, not even with real swords... Mord, fetch more branches."
Yes, Mord had come too.
As soon as the duel ended, Ser Vardis, grim-faced, marched them out through the Bloody Gate and forbade their return. Mord had gone with them.
Since then, the three had been spurring their horses without pause, leaving Tyrion aching in every joint.
"Forget cutting our way through," Bronn said. "Traveling light keeps us quicker than an army and less likely to draw eyes. The less time we spend in the mountains, the better our chances of reaching the Riverlands. So I say we press on—hide by day, move by night, keep off the roads, make no noise, and never light a fire."
Tyrion Lannister sighed. "Bronn, a splendid plan. Just don't blame me when you freeze to death tonight and I don't stop to dig your grave."
"You dying is one thing. But if Mord drops, he'll just rot where he lies. Too big for me to bury alone, eh, Mord?"
Mord bared a mouthful of rotten teeth in a foolish grin and gathered branches with more zeal.
From the moment the trial ended, Mord had become the prisoner and Tyrion the jailer.
"I still don't know why you brought him," Bronn grumbled. "His meat would be tough and sour—hardly worth chewing... Idiot, stop picking branches! A fire will bring the mountain clans down on us!"
Tyrion shrugged. "You want to force a march at night? That's begging to crack your skull open. I'd rather go slow and comfortable. Bronn, I know you've a taste for horseflesh, but if my horse dies, I can always ride Mord. You'll be walking. Truth be told, I don't think it matters what we do. The clans will find us anyway. Their scouts are everywhere."
He waved a gloved hand toward the towering, wind-scoured cliffs around them.
"As for Mord, I promised him a post. Isn't that what you're after too? A sellsword works for coin. Did you truly think Lady Catelyn would reward you, or give you a place in her service?"
Tyrion scraped fuzz from bark with his knife to use as tinder.
"Got a flint?"
Bronn slid two fingers into the pouch at his belt and tossed him one.
Tyrion caught it in midair. Knife struck stone, sparks flew, and the curled bark began to smoke.
"Thanks. You may be a sellsword, but you're damned useful. With a sword in hand, you're nearly as good as my brother Jaime. Tell me, Bronn—what do you want? Gold? Land? Women? Keep me alive and help me see things through, and you can have it all."
Bronn bent and blew on the embers until flames leapt high. "And if you die?"
"Die? That's not in the cards," Tyrion said. "I was born to make my mark. Why else would I be a Lannister, Tywin's son? By the Seven, you must agree."
Bronn dismissed it as arrogance. "Sounds like the talk of a warlord. My sword is yours—but don't think I'll bow or call you lord. I don't serve."
"Nor do you make friends," Tyrion replied. "I know well enough—you'll sell me out the moment the price is right. If that day comes, remember this: whatever they offer, I'll pay more. I've only this one life, and I mean to keep it."
Mord shuffled up, laying branches carefully on the fire. "Don't forget, m'lord."
"Don't worry. I'll see you set up properly," Tyrion said, his face twisting with open disgust.
"The kind of job where I get paid to lie down," Mord said, bowing eagerly.
"Take care of the horses," Bronn said, unstrapping the hunting knife from his back. He strode into the trees. "I'll fetch some meat."
An hour later, the horses were fed, watered, and tethered. The fire crackled, a spit turning slowly above it. A skinned mountain goat dripped fat into the flames, filling the grove with rich, savory smoke.
"All we're missing is a bottle of good wine," Tyrion said, loosening his armor without removing it.
"And a woman. Plus ten men to guard us," Bronn added. He sat cross-legged at the fire, grinding his longsword on a whetstone. The rasp of stone on steel gave off a strange sense of security.
Mord curled up nearby, already snoring softly.
"It'll be dark soon," the sellsword muttered. "I'll take first watch… not that it'll help. At least then I might die in my sleep."
"Oh, I doubt you'll make it to sleep. They'll be here soon enough—they always come." The smell of roasting meat made Tyrion's mouth water.
Bronn eyed him across the fire. His dark gaze was as deep as the night sky, the whetstone rasping against his blade again. "You've got a plan."
"I've got plenty of plans," Tyrion said. "I'm the Lust Demon."
Bronn slid out a dagger and carved blackened chunks of meat from the spit. Tyrion laid out two flat stones he'd pulled from the stream to use as plates.
"If we actually make it back to the Riverlands, what then?" Bronn asked as he cut.
"Find my father, win a few battles, then go to King's Landing or Casterly Rock and secure myself a fine post." Tyrion held out a plate, and Bronn heaped it with meat.
The sellsword chewed and swallowed, grease slick on his chin. "So you weren't lying? None of the charges they threw at you—you didn't do any of it?"
"Of course not," Tyrion said around a mouthful. "Not only was it not me, I already know who did it."
"If anyone framed me like that—at three, thirteen, or thirty—I'd gut the bastard," Bronn said flatly.
Tyrion turned his head toward him. "Maybe you'll have that chance one day. Remember what I told you: a Lannister always pays his debts. And repays his grudges."
He stretched out with a groan. "I'll try to catch a nap. Wake me when we're about to die."
He couldn't say how long he slept before—
"Tyrion." Bronn's voice, low and urgent.
Tyrion snapped awake.
The fire was down to glowing embers. Dark shapes were closing in from every side.