"Lancel, you'll stay here in King's Landing and help my dear nephew defend the walls."
It was just before dawn, the sky pale and heavy with mist. Outside, a fine rain fell in a steady whisper, the air damp and chill.
Inside the Tower of the Hand, Lancel rubbed his eyes and winced at the ache in his neck. He had risen too early. "So I'm to stay here and die, then?"
"Of course not," Tyrion replied. "My sister and nephew are here too. You think I'd run off and leave them?"
"Lord Tyrion will surely return with victory," Grand Maester Pycelle declared. He looked rather pleased with himself—delighted to be included in the Hand's inner circle. Glancing around the room, he fancied his own status the highest among them.
"The list?" Tyrion asked, turning not to Pycelle but to Qyburn.
Qyburn handed over a parchment filled with names. Tyrion skimmed it, then passed it to the Grand Maester.
"Maester Pycelle, this one's yours," Tyrion said. "First column is the position, second the current holder, third the replacement."
"These posts need to be changed gradually. How many names are there?"
"Twelve," Qyburn answered. "Interrogations are still underway."
"Replace three or four a day," Tyrion instructed. "That's my father's order. Keep this list absolutely secret—not even my sister is to see it."
"My lord, Qyburn is not to be trusted..." Pycelle began, but Tyrion cut him off.
"Of course, Grand Maester. My father speaks of you often," Tyrion said smoothly. "Lord Tywin has always said you're the Lannisters' most loyal friend. That's why I'm entrusting this important matter to you."
He stuffed the parchment into Pycelle's hands. "Off you go."
Pycelle rose shakily and shuffled toward the door. The pride he'd worn moments earlier faded into reluctant resignation. He cast one last look over his shoulder before creaking the door open and tottering out.
When his footsteps finally receded, Tyrion asked, "That list was just for minor posts?"
Qyburn nodded and produced two more. "This one's for the army—Lannister guards and the Gold Cloaks." He handed it to Bronn.
"This one covers key court positions," he added, passing the second list to Tyrion.
"Let Pycelle deal with the useless ones first," Tyrion said. "We'll take our time with these."
A knock came at the door. Podrick's voice sounded from outside. "My lord, everything's ready."
Tyrion stood. "Don't forget the plan—especially you, Qyburn. Make sure the pyromancer Hallyne has everything prepared."
"Of course, my lord."
Tyrion opened the door. Sansa and Arya were peeking at him from around the corner, while Shae waited outside.
"My lord, you should take me with you," Shae said.
"No." Tyrion's voice was curt. He'd never held much affection for her. The only reason he'd brought her to King's Landing at all was for her connection to magic—Shae was a key he might someday need. But not today.
"I'll see you well rewarded when all this is over," he said, dismissing her. "For now, your duty is to watch over those two girls. Make sure nothing happens to them."
Shae could only nod.
As Tyrion turned to leave, a voice called softly after him.
"My lord, may your journey be smooth."
He glanced back. It was Sansa. Arya pinched her sister's arm—the horse-faced little wolf still saw him as an enemy.
Tyrion shook his head and started down the spiral stair.
Below, in the courtyard of the Tower of the Hand, the army had assembled—one thousand Gold Cloaks, four hundred mountain clansmen, and a hundred Lannister knights. Nearly a third of the capital's strength.
He had no choice. He needed numbers for the Tyrells to take him seriously.
Bitterbridge lay southwest of the city, the Roseroad running clear all the way.
Under the light drizzle, Tyrion rode near the front of the column on a small white mare. She was spirited and hard to handle, but he only needed her for the march, not for battle.
Scouts returned every twenty minutes with reports. If they spotted Tyrell forces, they were not to draw swords but to fall back at once and send messengers instead.
Podrick rode beside him, and the chieftains surrounded them—Timett, Chella, and Shagga, all out in full force.
"Have you ever heard of Bitterbridge?" Tyrion asked Podrick.
"No, my lord," Podrick replied. Though timid at times, he never lied. "Is it… an actual bridge?"
"Not quite," Tyrion explained. "Before the Faith Militant uprising, it was called Stone Bridge. The Battle of Stone Bridge was fought here—six noble-led armies ambushed and butchered nine thousand Poor Fellows under a man called Wat "the Hewer". They say the Mander ran red with blood for twenty leagues, and so Stone Bridge became Bitterbridge."
"How awful," Podrick murmured, shivering a little, while Shagga and the others burst out laughing.
"During the Dance of the Dragons, the bastard dragonknight Ser Ulf White-Hair was made Lord of Bitterbridge by Prince Daemon for his valor at the Battle of the Gullet," Tyrion continued. "Podrick, have you ever seen the dragon skulls in the Dragonpit?"
"I have, my lord."
"Ah, I've dreamed of riding a dragon," Tyrion sighed.
"Why not just rename one of your women 'Dragon' and ride her instead?" Shagga said, laughing even harder.
"After King's Landing fell," Tyrion went on, ignoring him, "the Greens sent Ser Rickard Thorne of the Kingsguard to escort Prince Maelor to Oldtown for safety. But when they reached Bitterbridge, they were attacked by a mob. Ser Rickard was slain, and the prince was torn apart."
He paused only long enough to breathe before continuing. "Later, when Lord Manfred Hightower marched north and passed Bitterbridge, he was so enraged he ordered his men to sack the town. Prince Daeron the Bold, Maelor's uncle, set it ablaze with his dragon Tessarion. Lady Caswell, granted mercy for the sake of her children, took her own life before her castle gates."
"So Bitterbridge is a castle?" Bronn asked suddenly.
"Exactly. They call it a bridge, but it's a castle," Tyrion said. "Much like the Twins of House Frey—both fortress and crossing."
The column pressed on, banners of the lion fluttering high above them, rippling in the wind and rain like the march's very spirit.
No one could say how long they had traveled before the sky began to darken. A scout soon rode back to report.
"My lord, there's a camp ahead—around twenty thousand strong. Their banners bear the sigil of Highgarden."
Tyrion reined in his horse. "So soon," he muttered, pulling a folded letter from inside his cloak.
"Podrick," he said, handing it over, "take this letter to them. Carry a white flag, and don't be afraid—you'll be safe."
Podrick nodded and accepted the letter with both hands.
"Remember," Tyrion added, his tone firm, "you are to give it only to Mace Tyrell."