Tyrion sat before the hearth, a wolfskin draped across his lap, Ice resting on his knees.
Not long after returning to Darry, a scout reported that Thoros of Myr from the Brotherhood Without Banners was willing to meet him at dawn.
He recalled how Bronn would constantly sharpen his sword—each clash of steel left notches along the blade. Yet this Valyrian steel sword remained perfectly sharp, untouched by wear. He thought of Brightroar. It was said that during the reign of Lancel IV, at the Battle of the Horn of Lann's Point, he wielded that sword to decapitate the Ironborn king, "the Half-Drowned" Harrald, and his heir with a single blow.
He gazed at the blade, tempted to reach out and touch the gleaming edge.
"My lord, the blade is sharp. Please, be careful."
The voice came from behind him. Sansa Stark stood there, her red hair shimmering like firelight in the glow of the hearth.
"Why are you still awake, my lady?" Tyrion asked. "Where is Brienne? Shouldn't she be watching over you?"
"Brienne worked all day. She's sleeping soundly," Sansa replied softly. "I rose quietly."
Tyrion studied her for a moment. "You'll need new clothes soon. Girls your age grow quickly." He set the sword on the table beside him and gestured for her to sit. "It's hard to find a tailor near Harrenhal, but perhaps Riverrun will have one."
Sansa looked down at herself. She truly did need a new dress. Over the past year, she'd grown three inches, and most of her old clothes were either ruined by Joffrey or now far too small.
"Thank you for thinking of me, my lord," she said politely. "You are very kind."
"Aren't you afraid?" Tyrion asked quietly. "Your sister doesn't like me. Your mother didn't like me. Your aunt, Lysa Tully, didn't like me either."
"Queen Margaery likes you," Sansa said. "Princess Arianne likes you too. They both do. You can't be a bad man."
"Perhaps they like me for my name... or my looks," Tyrion said, staring into the fire. "But strip a man of his name and his face, and what's left? Would the girl of House Westerling have climbed into Robb Stark's bed if he wasn't King of the North?"
"If I weren't my father's daughter, you wouldn't have married me," Sansa said.
"I should have sent you to Casterly Rock," Tyrion murmured, lifting Ice again to study it under the firelight. "The Riverlands are too dangerous, too harsh."
"You promised to let me and my sister see Mother," Sansa said quietly. "I know she's gone... but could we see Uncle? He's one of the few family we have left. Could you spare his life?"
"I swore an oath to let you see your mother," Tyrion said, his voice as cold as the blade in his hands. "Otherwise..."
"Arya is a foolish girl," Sansa interrupted softly. "Whatever the oath, I would marry you willingly—if only you would..."
"Killing is only a means, not an end," Tyrion said, sheathing the sword. "Rest easy, my lady. Allow me to escort you to your room. You should sleep early—I must rise before dawn."
Sansa's heart trembled with fear. What if the Lust Demon truly slaughtered her whole family? She didn't even dare to mention Lysa Tully—her thoughts were only of begging mercy for Edmure Tully.
...
Morning mist drifted over the shores of the Gods Eye as Tyrion rode along the water's edge. A hemp rope hung from his saddle, tied to a naked man whose only covering was a black hood over his head.
Modesty only required hiding the face.
Twenty Lannister light horsemen waited at a distance, under orders not to approach.
Through the fog, a flicker of light appeared—fire, drawing closer. A small boat glided through the mist, a figure standing at its bow, the glow of flame in his hand.
Tall, stout, and bald, dressed in a loose red robe, it was Thoros of Myr, wielding his famous flaming sword. He had long used the wildfire-coated blade to frighten horses and disarm opponents, winning countless tourney victories. During the Greyjoy Rebellion, he was the first to scale the walls of Pyke.
He was a brave man, if nothing else.
"Red priest," Tyrion called out from horseback.
"Lust Demon," Thoros grunted, leaping from the boat onto the muddy bank. "Seven hells, of all people to meet, it had to be you."
"That's what I should be saying," Tyrion replied, dismounting. "How do I know you won't kidnap me?"
"You should be glad you found me and not my commander," Thoros said, waving the burning sword, its heat pushing the mist aside. "I see your soldiers over there. I'm not blind."
"Your commander?" Tyrion glanced toward the boat. "I don't see Dondarrion. Where's the Lightning Lord?" Only the boatman and a dark-haired man whose face was hidden stood aboard.
"Beric is dead."
"But you can bring him back, can't you?" Tyrion said with a crooked smile. "If I die, I'd hope you'd do the same for me."
"Enough talk," Thoros snapped, shaking the flaming blade. His tattered armor clattered loosely against him. "Tell me what you're here for."
"Peace."
"Ha!" Thoros spat into the mud. "That's rich coming from you. From Tywin to the Kingslayer, to the Mountain and Amory Lorch—every Lannister hand is drenched in blood. And now you speak of peace?"
"My father served as Hand of the King at twenty, bringing twenty years of peace and prosperity to the realm. My brother slew the Mad King and saved every soul in King's Landing," Tyrion said evenly. "Everyone has done wrong, but that doesn't mean we refuse to talk. We can't stay prisoners to prejudice, can we?"
Thoros gave a short laugh. "You'd make a better preacher than I ever was. Fine, then—what do you actually want?"
"First," Tyrion said, "I want to pardon you."
"Pardon?" Thoros laughed aloud. "Tywin named us traitors, and now you wish to pardon us? Sorry, we only recognize Eddard Stark's authority."
"Eddard Stark is dead. Your war with the Lannisters is over," Tyrion said. "Sansa Stark is betrothed to me, and I am now Lord of Harrenhal and Warden of the Riverlands."
"And then what?" Thoros asked. "Shall we drink together in celebration? Where—House Frey's great hall?"
"That's the second matter," Tyrion replied. "Walder Frey broke the sacred laws of guest right. As Warden of the Riverlands, I will see him punished. Every man who took part in the Red Wedding will answer for it."
"Clever plan," Thoros said with a mocking grin. "Use the Freys like a rag—wipe your hands and toss them aside? Do you take us all for fools?"
"Judge a man by his deeds, not his thoughts," Tyrion answered calmly. "A noble man is known by his actions, not his heart—for in the heart, no one is perfect. Would your Lord of Light disagree?"
For a moment, Thoros's flaming sword flared violently. Startled, he dropped it; the brittle, half-melted blade split in two as it hit the ground.
"You certainly have a silver tongue," Thoros said, picking up the broken half. "Show me the deeds to match it, then we'll talk."
"I brought you a gift," Tyrion said, pulling the hood from the captive's head. "This is Petyr Frey, Lord Walder's great-grandson—third in line for inheritance, if I recall correctly."
Petyr, gagged and trembling, stared in terror at the red priest.
"Well, well," Thoros muttered, turning to shout over his shoulder. "Gendry! Come help me get Lord Frey on the boat!"
Then he looked back at Tyrion and nodded. "Seems our cooperation can begin, Lust Demon."