Bronze Yohn's army arrived first, taking control of the key passage down the mountain.
He had mobilized more quickly than any other Vale lord, widely seen as the one who had thrown his support behind Littlefinger the latest, thus all the more eager to prove his sincerity.
"Tyrion Lannister." Bronze Yohn's beard glowed orange in the firelight. "Why are you still here? Why won't you return to the Riverlands? Give up the Bloody Gate and leave."
He sat inside the command tent, facing Tyrion. Those eyes made his heart tighten with unease.
A Lust Demon, and a devil. What he had done in the Riverlands—his reckoning with House Frey—was officially punishment for Walder Frey's violation of guest right. But every lord here knew perfectly well he had helped Genna Lannister seize Pinkmaiden.
To Yohn, Tyrion was far more dangerous than Littlefinger. Littlefinger was merely an ambitious schemer. Tyrion felt like Stannis and Littlefinger rolled into one.
"Lord Janos, didn't you try to persuade your liege?" he asked, turning to the Bracken Head of House.
"I did, but my lord refused," Janos Bracken's brown beard trembled. "But you know how Lord Lannister is—his tricks, his stratagems… I can never guess what he's thinking."
Bronze Yohn studied the bearded Earl of Bracken. The man's reputation was poor—not just because of his scandalous private life, but because among the Riverlands lords he was second only to Frey in his eagerness to bend the knee to a Lannister. His claim of not wanting further bloodshed in a war long over fooled no one. Everyone knew his real aim: kneel early and carve more land away from House Blackwood.
"I noticed Lord Horton Redfort's men aren't at the foot of the mountain," Tyrion said. "I take it your alliance has ended?"
"Hmph." Bronze lowered his eyes. "Lord Horton sent me several letters of apology. His son—who was betrothed to my daughter—ran off with that bastard girl from Gates of the Moon, Mya Stone."
As expected, Tyrion felt quietly pleased. "So Lord Horton has chosen to support Petyr Baelish?"
"He values honor as much as I do," Yohn Royce said, face reddening. "He simply… well, I didn't stand up to Littlefinger either, did I? We must give our fealty to the rightful Lord of The Eyrie."
"How many of you are willing to support Ser Harrold Hardyng?" Tyrion asked. "So far, you're the only one I've seen arrive."
"As long as I hold this pass, no one can get past my camp to strike at you," Bronze said.
"So you're protecting me?"
Bronze did not deny it.
"I need your help," Tyrion said. "Summon the lords of the Vale—the Lords Declarant, the small lords, Ser Harrold Hardyng, even Littlefinger."
"What do you plan to do? Persuade them?" Bronze frowned. "At this point, is there any struggle left?"
"Patience. You'll understand soon." Tyrion stood. "Ser Brynden, are you ready?"
Brynden Tully stepped into the tent, followed by two figures. One was Timett of the Red Hand of the Burned Men. The other was a white-haired elder wearing a strange crown and multicolored robes, holding a staff tipped with live flame—the priest of the Burned Men.
"Barbarians?!" Bronze Yohn shot to his feet. "You're in league with them? What are they doing here?"
"Calm yourself, my lord," the Blackfish said gently. "With me here, you needn't worry about the mountain clans doing anything improper. You are guests."
"Quite right. As host, I'll ensure your safety." Tyrion rose. "This is Timett, Red Hand of the Burned Men—soon to be their Head of House."
Yohn Royce stared at them, suspicion thick in his eyes. "What are you trying to do?"
"Tonight, I, Tyrion Lannister—heir to the Great Lion of Casterly Rock, Lord of Harrenhal, Warden of the Riverlands," Tyrion declared, "will take an oath with Timett of the Red Hand of the Burned Men, and we will become blood brothers."
What? Bronze Royce's eyes nearly bulged out. "Blood brothers? What is that supposed to mean?"
"It is a ritual of the Burned Men Tribe," the priest said slowly. "A tradition of the Burned Men. Two men swear an oath: though not bound by blood, they become as true brothers, never to betray one another."
Madmen, Bronze muttered under his breath.
Even Lord Bracken had not expected this. He stared at the Blackfish in shock, while Brynden remained calm as still water—clearly he had known all along.
The priest extended the fire tongs, their dragon-shaped tips glowing a fierce red.
"Words are like wind. Take the fire oath and seal the blood bond," the priest said. "Be burned to prove your courage, to prove your loyalty."
"Madness," Janos Bracken growled, rising to his feet. "What are you trying to do—scar the lord?" He reached out, wanting to snatch the tongs away.
Tyrion quickly stopped him. "When in Rome," he said. "If taking a fire oath with Timett requires me to burn myself, then I'll try it." He extended his left hand toward the tongs. There was no scorching heat at all—the tongs felt almost fake.
He drew a steady breath, shut his eyes, and wrapped his hand around them. A true dragon need not fear fire, though he wasn't entirely certain any Dragonblood ran in his veins.
No pain. No sizzle. No burning smell.
Tyrion pulled his hand back and looked at his palm. Smooth and unmarked, just as before.
"This…"
Timett burst out laughing. "Everyone says you're full of tricks, but I say you're a fool. Did you truly think we'd burn your hand?"
Tyrion took the tongs and saw the truth: the red-hot tips were only glowing glass. Glass that shone like flame, but held no heat.
"Fake," Timett said, taking the tongs back. "A priest's magic. True Burned Men use real fire, but you only need to swear the oath to prove your courage."
Tyrion let out a long breath, cold sweat soaking his back. Magic—like a burning glass candle. He had never seen its like before. And yet, the Citadel's obsidian glass candles were said to have never burned again.
"What exactly do you want?" Bronze demanded. "Putting on these barbarian tricks in front of me?"
"No. They are not barbarians." Tyrion sat down once more, looking at his palm. "Timett of the Burned Men is of noble blood. Lord Royce, now please listen while I explain everything… and don't forget to summon the lords of the Vale."
...
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