"At this pace, it'll take us half a month to reach the Green Fork," Bronn said from horseback, eyeing the straggling column. The mountain clans looked more like a horde of beggars than an army.
Tyrion studied his ragtag host.
Over six hundred men from the Stone Crows, Moon Brothers, Black Ears, and Burned Men—just the bare beginning of the army he was trying to raise.
Shagga spoke for the Stone Crows, Ulf for the Moon Brothers, Chella daughter of Cheyk for the Black Ears, and Timett son of Timett for the Burned Men.
Gunthor son of Gurn was off gathering other clans. Tyrion wondered what Tywin would make of these men in hides, carrying rusted scraps of stolen steel. In truth, even he was unsure what to make of them.
Was he their leader, or their captive? Likely both.
"We must move faster," Tyrion called. The clan leaders rode close behind his horse.
Chella kept near Ulf. The Moon Brothers and Black Ears had always been close—they raided together, intermarried, and shared spoils when times were lean.
Timett son of Timett rode alone, a one-eyed youth.
Every clan in the Mountains of the Moon feared the Burned Men, for they proved their courage with fire. Some claimed they even roasted men for feasts—though Tyrion suspected that was rumor.
Timett, though, was feared not only by others but by his own. At his coming of age, he had gouged out his own left eye with a white-hot dagger.
Tyrion had heard that most Burned Men boys merely burned off a finger, and only the boldest—or the maddest—an ear.
Timett's act had awed his kin so deeply they named him Redhand, war chief of the clan.
Many clansmen still lingered in the mountains, preparing their households to move to the ruins of Tarbeck Hall. Some would refuse to go, but for those who agreed, Tyrion had left his own letters, hoping to prevent clashes with Lannister forces in the Riverlands.
"We need to move faster!" Tyrion shouted again, his voice cutting through the din of the march. The chieftains turned to him.
"I don't trust you!" Chella snapped. She was small and wiry, her chest flat as a boy's, but she was no fool. "The lords of the lowlands have cheated the mountain tribes before."
"Did I ask you to swear to me?" Tyrion shot back. "Or to lay down your weapons?"
Religion and force gave men their sense of safety.
Timett shook his head. "Indeed, you did not."
"More than that," Tyrion said, "I've given you places to fight, where you may plunder freely. And a place to live—Tarbeck Hall is a hundred times better than damp caves. Hey Bronn, if I offered you a castle…"
Before Tyrion could finish, Bronn cut in. "So long as it doesn't mean sucking your cock, I'll take it."
The jest sent Shagga into booming laughter.
"Including someone like Mord?" Tyrion asked with a grin.
Mord could barely walk anymore, dragging along at the rear of the column with the clan's baggage. The only good news was that in a single night, he'd managed to strip Tyrion of every last silver stag.
"But the chieftain is your father, not you," said Chella.
"Trust me, Chella daughter of Cheyk," Tyrion said gravely from horseback. "If your son looked like me, you wouldn't deny him a single thing he asked of you."
"I don't doubt it," Bronn said with a nod.
"The mother of his child went cross-eyed staring at him," Shagga bellowed. "I had to tell her his cock was as thin as a twig before she'd look away."
The chieftains broke into laughter again.
...
The Trident flowed through the Riverlands, splitting into three branches: the Red Fork, the Green Fork, and the Blue Fork. In peacetime, its waters were the fastest way to move men and supplies.
But in war... Tyrion had already passed blackened fields and burned-out villages. They galloped across scorched farmland and past charred cottages as they entered the Riverlands, nearing the Green Fork.
He hadn't seen any corpses, but the air stank of carrion crows. Battle had been here, and not long ago.
From the mountain clans, Tyrion had chosen three hundred men to march at double time, reaching the crossroads several days ahead of schedule.
North of the Inn at the Crossroads, past fertile valleys and woodlands, lay thriving towns and Riverrun. A stretch of the Kingsroad followed the Green Fork there. It was at the Trident, just north of the Ruby Ford, that Robert Baratheon had won his crown.
"Remember this place, Lust Demon?" Bronn asked with a smirk, recalling the inn where he'd helped Catelyn Stark seize Tyrion.
"I don't." Tyrion had no wish to dwell on the past. His mind was fixed on his father's host—and his brother.
He needed to reach the army, not to celebrate its first victory, but to find the ravens. He had to send word to Jaime at once. If his reckoning was right, his dear brother was even now besieging Riverrun.
As for his beautiful, "wise" sister and his "kind" nephew—they hardly mattered. His brother did.
Hoofbeats sounded ahead. Chella daughter of Cheyk, who had gone to scout, now returned with her riders.
"By the campfires, I'd count twenty thousand," she reported. "Red banners, with a golden lion."
"Your father's?" Bronn asked.
"Nine times in ten," Tyrion replied. "Could be Jaime, though he doesn't usually command so many."
He ordered the bulk of the clans to advance slowly, while he and several chiefs rode on ahead.
Before long, a Lannister patrol appeared. The captain took one look at Tyrion's pale gold hair and mismatched green-and-purple eyes and knew him for the lord's son. He sent men racing to escort him forward.
Half a league from the crossroads, a barricade of sharpened stakes stretched across the road, manned by spearmen and archers.
Beyond it, the Lannister camp sprawled across the fields. Thin columns of smoke rose from hundreds of fires. Men in full arms and armor sat sharpening their blades beneath the trees. Familiar crimson banners whipped in the wind, their poles driven deep into the mud.
As Tyrion and his companions neared the palisade, a troop of horsemen came riding to meet them.
The knight at their head wore silver armor studded with amethysts, a purple-and-silver cloak flowing from his shoulders. A unicorn was painted on his shield, and the visor of his helm curved into a spiraled horn.
He raised his hand to halt his men. The riders before him were far too easily recognized.
Tyrion drew rein and called out in greeting. "Ser Flement."