Bronn rose to one knee, sword in his right hand, dagger in his left.
Tyrion waved him down. "Steady. Don't make any sudden moves."
"The night wind is cold. Why not come share our fire?" he called to the shadows circling them. "We've no wine, but you're welcome to taste the roast."
All movement stilled.
By moonlight, Tyrion caught the gleam of metal—armor and blades.
"The mountain is ours," came a deep, rough, unfriendly voice from the brush. "The meat is ours too."
"All yours, of course," Tyrion agreed. "But who are you?"
"When you go up to meet your gods," another voice answered, "tell them it was Gunthor son of Gurn, of the Stone Crows, who sent you."
A lean man stepped from the thicket into the firelight, a horned helm on his head, a hunting knife flashing in his hand.
"And Shagga son of Dolf," rumbled the first voice, heavy and lethal.
A boulder to their left seemed to shift, then stood. It was a man—huge, broad as a bull, hide-clad, slow but fearsome, a club in one hand and an axe in the other. As he lumbered forward, he smashed the two weapons together with a resounding crack.
Other voices followed, shouting names—Conn, Torrek, Jaggot, and more Tyrion couldn't catch. There were at least ten. Some bore swords and daggers, others pitchforks, scythes, and long spears carved from trees.
Only once the roll call had ended did Tyrion speak. "I am Tyrion, son of Tywin of House Lannister. My father is the Lion of Casterly Rock. I came here seeking you."
"Tyrion son of Tywin," said Shagga, who seemed the leader, "what do you have to give us?"
"I carry gold and silver in my purse," Tyrion said. "I am raising men. The Lion of Casterly Rock is raising men. I need the mountain clans at my side, and I can pay well."
"You're a pretty little whelp," Shagga said. "But you mean to cheat us."
"Shagga speaks true," said Gunthor. "Your gold and silver are ours. Your horses, your armor, your weapons, your packs—they're ours too. You've only one life left to give, Tyrion son of Tywin. How do you choose to die?"
"Conn, take the horses," Shagga ordered. "Kill the other one. The pretty lion cub we'll keep—he'll fetch a fat ransom."
Bronn sprang to his feet. "Who's first to die?"
"Stop!" Tyrion barked. "I sought you out, and this is how the mountain clans greet me?"
He pressed on quickly. "Shagga son of Dolf, Gunthor son of Gurn—I know you. It was you I came for. And Chella, daughter of Cheyk, of the Black Ears.
Timett, son of Timett, of the Red Hand, Burned Men.
Ulf son of Umar, of the Moon Brothers.
The Milk Snakes, the Painted Dogs, the Sons of the Mist, the Sons of the Tree, the Howlers, the Redsmiths…"
Bronn gaped at him, astonished at how well Tyrion knew the mountain clans.
"The pretty lion speaks true," Shagga said. "He's done his homework. Seems you really did come here for us. So tell me—what do you want of us?"
"The mountain clans are famed far and wide," Tyrion said, "yet you spend your strength fighting one another, or else being harried by knights of the Vale. The Lion Chieftain offers better terms—gold, silver, plunder, women, even lands and castles—if you'll fight for us."
"Lies," Shagga growled. "The pretty lion's no good man. Every castle already has a lord…"
"No," Tyrion cut him off, firm as stone. "You've heard the tale of Castamere… or perhaps not. But Bronn has."
Bronn gave a curt nod. "Who in the Seven Kingdoms hasn't heard the Rains of Castamere?"
"Castamere was once the seat of House Reyne. They defied House Lannister, and my father, Tywin Lannister, wiped them from the earth," Tyrion said evenly. He saw more than one clansman swallow hard at that.
Perhaps it was greed. Perhaps fear. To clansmen who had known nothing but flight before the knights of the Vale, the idea that a man could destroy a great lord's house was nearly beyond imagining.
"The Lannisters always pay their debts," Tyrion pressed on. "Help me, and you will be rewarded. Defy me…"
"One castle's too small. It couldn't hold us all," Shagga interrupted.
"Castamere is vast, with endless tunnels beneath. You like caves, don't you?" Tyrion said. "And if that's too big, there was also Tarbeck Hall. My father destroyed both."
The clansmen drew sharp breaths. Two castles, wiped away at once—was the father of this little lion the most powerful man in all the realm?
"If your numbers are great, you could have both castles," Tyrion went on. "Perhaps even the Vale itself."
He had no love for Lysa Arryn or her sickly, fretful son.
"Of course, it all depends on what you contribute."
"Sounds fair," Shagga said with a nod. "Maybe we gather our people, talk it over. Some might follow in bands, some all at once."
It hardly mattered how many they brought. What worried Tyrion was that their "talk" might drag on for three days and nights.
That was the trouble with these clans. They held to some odd belief that every soul had a voice in council—even women. So whatever the issue, great or small, they argued endlessly. No wonder that for centuries, save for the odd raid, they had never posed any true threat to the Vale.
"Talk as long as you like," Tyrion said, careful not to posture as their leader lest he prick their pride. "But since we are to be allies, I'll give you a task first—to show you that a Lannister always pays his debts."
He pointed at Mord, still curled up in sleep. "That fat oaf there—every time one of you takes him from behind, I'll pay two silver coins. One for him, one for the man who does it."
Shagga and Gunthor exchanged baffled looks.
"If drawing out his little brother is too much work, a stick will do," Tyrion added. "Be gentle if you can. Tonight only."
The clansmen stirred, eager now.
"Form a line." Tyrion picked up a stone and flung it at Mord. "Stupid Mord, wake up! That 'job where you make money lying down' you wanted—it's here!"
Across the fire, Bronn studied Tyrion. The green eye still glittered, but the violet one was darker, deeper, nothing like the pale lilac of daylight.
"You devil with two-colored eyes," Bronn muttered. "Now I see why they call you the Lust Demon."