Harrenhal, the King's castle.
Stepping inside once more, Tyrion recalled what Jaqen had once told him—that he had the makings of a king.
Nonsense, he thought, shaking his head.
The mountain clansmen moved in and out freely; they were the only ones who could endure these dark, damp stone halls. Tyrion suspected it was the towering walls and high towers that blocked the sunlight, leaving the entire castle shrouded in gloom. Its closeness to the Gods Eye made it all the more damp.
What kind of king wouldn't open a few more windows in his own castle?
Arya Stark had once prattled on about Harrenhal being a cursed place, haunted by ghosts. Every lord who ruled it met a bad end. Tywin Lannister clearly hadn't cared about such stories, and Tyrion cared even less.
To him, one of the reasons for Harrenhal's wretched reputation was its location in the Riverlands—a place easy to attack but hard to defend. The land around it was fertile, but no lord had ever managed to hold it long enough to turn that fertility into real military strength.
After inspecting the grounds, Tyrion noted that although Shagga had cleared away the weeds and rubble and rebuilt not even a tenth of the ruined walls, he still had no intention of staying long.
Five hundred men could hold Darry securely, but for Harrenhal, that was nothing.
...
Back at Darry, the troops from Stokeworth had arrived. Bronn sat proudly on horseback, the former sellsword now dressed in a silver-studded jacket, a heavy riding cloak draped over his shoulders, a fine pair of leather gloves tucked into his strap. Times had changed; he carried himself with swagger now.
"You look like you've already made yourself lord of the castle."
"Give it time."
"How many men did you bring?" Tyrion asked, glancing at the line behind him. It wasn't long. Their weapons and armor were mismatched, and the farther back he looked, the worse the quality became—tattered gear, rusted blades, and makeshift weapons that looked more like beggars' sticks and clay pots than arms of war.
"One hundred and twenty," Bronn said. "A hundred came from Flea Bottom. I told them there'd be fighting, pay, and land when the war's done. More wanted to come, but I remembered your orders and cut some loose."
"Too few," Tyrion said, shaking his head. "Stokeworth is a wealthy seat. Why only this many?"
"As you said, my wife isn't the heir to Stokeworth yet," Bronn replied. "She's got an older sister, Falyse. Her husband won't touch her, spends his time whoring around, and after more than ten years, still no children. But even if he bedded goats, that wouldn't change the line of succession. The castle's still under her husband, Balman Byrch."
"Is he against me?"
"Most likely your sister's doing."
"Then the fact you came at all is touching," Tyrion said.
"Lollys is my wife," Bronn said. "She's simple, but she does whatever I tell her. As for Balman Byrch, I hear he was capable in his youth, but I'll deal with him sooner or later."
Sansa's my wife too, Tyrion thought. Does she do whatever I tell her?
He didn't allow the Beggar's Army to enter the city. Instead, he had them camp outside the walls. Inside, supplies were being stockpiled. Darry was now Tyrion's forward command post.
"Didn't you send crows to the lords of the Riverlands?" Bronn asked. The great hall served as their command center.
"What good would it do?" said Tyrion, standing before the long table where a vast map of the Riverlands was spread out, densely marked with castles, rivers, and roads. "If a letter could make them submit, there'd be no need for war."
"They're gathering forces to besiege Riverrun," Lyonel Frey said. "House Tully has been declared traitors, and Lord Walder Frey is summoning the other lords..."
"He wants to rule Riverrun," Tyrion said. "His great-granddaughter is Edmure's wife."
"Why can this Walder Frey summon others with a single letter?" Bronn asked.
"Because they have food," Tyrion sighed. "It's a siege anyway. The lords send their men, and even if they just freeload, they won't lose out. Do you think they'll actually fight when the real assault begins?"
"A direct assault on Riverrun would be unwise," said Greatjon Umber, seated nearby. He was one of the few present with any real command experience, though his main talent was charging headlong into battle as a vanguard.
"If you wish to storm it, I won't stop you," Greatjon went on. "Let the Blackfish pierce your eye socket with an arrow—green eyes for green arrows, purple eyes for black."
Tyrion ignored him, tracing a finger across the map. "Riverrun isn't my target. I'll wager the Freys will besiege it like Lord Mace besieged Storm's End—two years, maybe three. The Blackfish could die of old age behind those walls."
"When will my aunt's forces arrive?" he asked his cousin.
"The messenger arrived this morning. They should be here in a day and a half," Lyonel Frey answered honestly. He sounded nothing like a Frey, lacking their usual sly tone. "Two hundred men, well-equipped, with a good variety of food."
Two hundred men. Tyrion couldn't care less about the variety of food. Aunt Genna was a true Lannister—far more particular about comfort and quality than either her father or uncle. What did it matter if she brought ten kinds of wine, from Arbor or Dorne?
"Your aunt is far more capable than I," Bronn muttered. "What should we do, my lord? Shouldn't we have tens of thousands of men by now, ready to reclaim the glory of the Blackwater Rush at the Trident?"
"Harrenhal has two hundred savage warriors under Shagga, but only a hundred are fit for deployment," Tyrion began calculating. "Your hundred and twenty can all go, but considering the combat strength of the Beggar's Army..."
"I've given them basic training," Bronn said.
"Thank you." Tyrion kept counting. "I have five hundred men, but I need to keep a hundred at Darry."
"Darry has its own garrison, Lord," Lyonel Frey replied.
Tyrion studied him for a moment, unsure if he was worried about their limited strength or simply distrustful. "Your soldiers are barely better than the Beggar's Army. I'll keep a hundred here to help maintain order on the Kingsroad, though I've already contacted Thoros."
"Next, I'm heading to Saltpans," Tyrion said. "It's the only trading port around here, and relying solely on the supply lines along the road isn't dependable."
"Whalen Frey is in Saltpans," Lyonel said. "Our scouts spotted him there three days ago."
"The Freys spread like devil's weed across every corner of the Riverlands," Greatjon said, rising to his feet. "When do we move?"
...
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