Dusk had fallen again.
Gregor Clegane rode at the head of the column on his massive black warhorse.
Tywin had ordered him to escort his son first to Harrenhal, after which Tyrion was to make his own way to King's Landing.
Though his father had assured him this would be his most loyal hound, Tyrion found little comfort in the Mountain's company.
The night before, Ser Gregor had told a scout: "If you come back with nothing, I'll dig out your eyes and hand them to your replacement. Then I'll tell him, 'Four eyes see better than two.'"
The boy had pissed himself on the spot.
More than half of Tyrion's mountain clans had stayed with his father's host under Ulf's command. Yet every chieftain had abandoned their own people, declaring they wished to follow Tyrion to King's Landing.
The small party now riding together was made up of about fifty men—half the Mountain's raiders, half his mountain clansmen. Even should they cross paths with the Brotherhood Without Banners, they had little cause to fear.
The Brotherhood was an outlaw band sworn to fight the Lannisters in King Robert Baratheon's name.
It had been formed of soldiers and knights dispatched by the Hand of the King, Eddard Stark, to bring Gregor Clegane to justice. Ambushed at a ford, they had been nearly destroyed, but survived to wage a guerrilla war against Lannister forces. Over time, their numbers swelled with stragglers from other battles and smallfolk fleeing the fires of war.
"The Gods Eye's just ahead, beside Harrenhal," Bronn murmured at Tyrion's side. The air was already thick with the lake's damp breath.
"Who commands Harrenhal now?" Tyrion asked.
"Amory Lorch," the Mountain answered coldly.
The Mountain knew him well, Tyrion thought.
When King's Landing fell, Gregor had stormed into the royal nursery and dashed Prince Rhaegar's son against the wall. Amory Lorch had murdered Rhaegar's daughter, Princess Rhaenys.
In front of a dozen Lannister men, he had dragged the girl from beneath her father's bed and stabbed her to death.
Afterward, Father had asked him why he stabbed her. Later, he remarked that had Lorch the wit of a turnip, he would have soothed the child and smothered her with a silken pillow instead.
A man who couldn't even wipe his own arse properly.
The scout returned from ahead with news: a band was camped near the Gods Eye—Brave Companions.
It seemed this scout would keep his eyes.
"These sellswords are not to be trusted," Gregor Clegane warned. "If they've heard what befell Riverrun, it could turn against us."
Then he ordered the scout, "Ride to Harrenhal. Tell Amory Lorch we'll make camp by the Gods Eye tonight."
The scout departed, and the column pressed on until they came upon the Brave Companions—two dozen or so.
The Riverlords called them the "Bloody Mummers" for their cruelty and their grotesque garb, though the sellswords themselves considered the name an insult. Others called them "Footmen," for Vargo enjoyed lopping off his captives' hands and feet.
Vargo Hoat, a tall, gaunt Qohorik with a goat's beard and a slurred tongue, rode a black-and-white zebra. He was the captain of the company. Tyrion knew him—this was the man who had hacked off Jaime's right hand.
It seemed wise to deal with them here and now. With that thought, he glanced at the Mountain.
"Is that Ser Gregor Clegane ahead?" asked Vargo Hoat.
"Gregor Clegane," the Mountain replied.
Vargo's eyes shifted to Tyrion, and the he caught the greed glinting there. The sellsword had recognized him.
"And this lord must be Tyrion Lannister?" Vargo masked his hunger with a sycophantic smile, but Tyrion knew well enough—if not for the Mountain at his side, he would already be this man's captive.
"I am escorting Lord Tyrion to King's Landing," the Mountain said. It was a lie—he'd omitted their true destination of Harrenhal. Tyrion realized with unease that this brute was more than a butcher; at times, his cunning was frightening.
"Then allow me to escort you," Vargo offered.
It was not an offer Tyrion could refuse. On paper, the Brave Companions were still sworn sellswords in Lannister service, and this was no place to break with them.
Even with the Mountain beside him, Tyrion's band was half their number, padded with attendants and non-combatants like Shae.
There would be time enough. Plenty of chances to strike when they least expected it. Tyrion thought grimly. And with scouts already sent to Harrenhal, if Amory Lorch had even half a brain, he'd come with thirty or fifty men eager to flatter, and that would shift the odds.
So they moved on together. Tyrion studied the Brave Companions: a maester, surely cast out from the Citadel; a septon; a jester; and even a fat Dothraki. No wonder the Riverlords called them the Bloody Mummers.
As the sun sank, they began looking for a place to camp, but up ahead torches flickered—someone had already set up there.
The Mountain and Tyrion led their men forward, only to find not soldiers but a band of black-cloaked brothers of the Night's Watch. Rarely did they appear so far south.
"Who commands here?" Tyrion asked. He did not send the Mountain forward—better to keep him back. The Night's Watch took no part in the wars of the Seven Kingdoms, and he had no wish for Ser Gregor to cause offense. "Who are you?"
"My name is Yoren, a sworn brother in black," the man by the fire answered. "I'm a wandering crow, charged with traveling the Seven Kingdoms to take recruits for the Watch."
"Would you mind if we shared your camp?"
"I fear my camp won't hold so many," Yoren said, his wary eyes never leaving Vargo Hoat and Gregor Clegane. Thirty years a wandering crow had taught him well who bore the strongest stench of blood.
"Have no fear of us," Tyrion said, swinging down from his horse. He unfastened his purse and tossed it to Yoren. "I know the hardships the Watch endures. Let me do my part."
Yoren weighed the pouch, glanced at the silver stags and golden dragons inside, and said nothing—but his silence was assent.
"My good brothers in black," Tyrion said, taking a seat by the fire. "The realm owes you thanks for your service." Behind him Bronn sat, then Shagga and Timett, and Podrick Payne, the squire Kevan Lannister had pressed on him before his departure. Further off, Chella and Shae found their places.
Yes, Tyrion thought, he needed Shae. He needed her magic.
Yoren eyed his pale golden hair and strange mismatched eyes with little fondness. "By the Old Gods," he muttered.
Then he drew out bread and salt and offered them to Tyrion and Vargo Hoat.
"May we both honor guest right."
...
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