Ser Gregor Clegane's face was like carved stone, the firelight washing his skin in a sinister orange glow, casting deep shadows beneath his eyes.
He stood. "I'll take the watch."
Tyrion studied the mountain of a man. Clever—an excuse to keep his armor on.
Beside him, Vargo Hoat's face looked even more grotesque in the firelight, more unsettling than Ser Gregor's own.
The Mountain disliked him—because Lord Tywin Lannister despised that mercenary captain from across the Narrow Sea, a man who served only coin.
Yoren disliked him too. The weathered crow could see plainly: this man was more dangerous, more wicked than any criminal he had ever marched to Castle Black.
Tyrion disliked him as well. He had taken Jaime's hand.
The thought made him bite down harder on his hard bread.
"Yoren, where did you gather these men?" he asked.
The ranger's lined face turned toward Tyrion across the flames. "I'm no lord, Lord Tyrion. Half are prisoners from King's Landing. The rest are starving poor folk and orphans."
"Gods above." Tyrion glanced around. A few of the Bloody Mummers were already leering at Shae, but he paid them no mind—his interest lay elsewhere. "All thanks to King Joffrey. Under his brilliant rule, so many go hungry."
Yoren gave a dry, cold laugh, offering no reply. Vargo Hoat, however, let out a booming laugh.
Tyrion noticed the sellsword captain's eyes never strayed far from the pouch of coins he'd given Yoren—three or four glances each minute.
"Brother of the Night's Watch," Tyrion asked, "may I speak with your prisoners?"
"You may," Yoren said. "But they're no longer prisoners—they're my brothers now. Speak as you like. Their tongues are rough, though, and they may offend you."
"Don't worry. I'm rough myself—and hardly handsome." Tyrion smiled. "You three over there—come here. I've questions for you."
Yoren stiffened for a moment, then the expression passed.
Tyrion had called to three boys sitting at the edge of the trees. They had tried to keep themselves unnoticed, but Tyrion had spotted them anyway. Truth was, they were the ones he'd been watching for.
The three shuffled toward the fire: a plump, pale-faced boy; a tall, muscular youth; and a thin, horse-faced lad.
"What's your name?" Tyrion asked the chubby one first, motioning the others to sit.
"Hot Pie," the boy answered. His face was round, his hair a dull yellow.
"Hot Pie, good, Hot Pie." Tyrion studied him, while the boy kept his eyes down. "You're from King's Landing? What did you do there?"
"I... I was a baker's apprentice, m'lord," Hot Pie stammered, rubbing his hands together.
"A baker's apprentice, excellent. The brothers of the Night's Watch need good cooks." Tyrion lifted the hard bread Yoren had given him—only a few bites eaten, the rest wasted. "What can you make?"
"Bread, pies, pastries... anything they sell in the King's Landing bakeries, or at the inns along the roads, m'lord."
"Not bad." Tyrion nodded, feigning thought. "As it happens, I'm in need of a baker... Yoren?"
Yoren gave no reply.
Tyrion forced a smile. "Let me see your hand."
Hot Pie obediently held it out—plump, pale, with a healthy flush. Tyrion took his wrist, turned it this way and that, then gave it a sudden slap that made the boy jump.
"Not bad, lad. Thank you for serving the realm!"
Vargo Hoat burst into raucous laughter. "That plump white arse of his will keep my brothers well pleased!" The Bloody Mummers howled along with him.
"Th-thank you, my lord," Hot Pie stammered, face miserable, before sinking back down.
"And you?" Tyrion turned to the tall youth.
The boy rose—broad shoulders, thick back, strong arms. Tyrion saw the fear in his eyes, though he tried to hide it beneath a mask of calm.
"Gendry, my lord."
"Gendry," Tyrion repeated, locking eyes with him. Blue eyes, dark thick hair. Gendry met the stare boldly, but after a moment he dropped his gaze.
"What's that under your arm?" Tyrion asked.
"A helmet." Gendry lifted it for him to see—a bull's helm, its horns sharp as daggers.
"Fine work. Seems you want to be the bull-man," Tyrion said with a grin. "Made it yourself?"
Gendry nodded.
"Let me see your hands."
The boy held them out.
"Calloused. Rough. Good hands," Tyrion said loudly, glancing at Yoren. "Only such hands can make good craft. And it just so happens—I'm in need of a smith."
"Don't jest, my lord," Yoren replied. "The Lannisters want for no smiths."
"You mean goldsmiths. I mean a blacksmith," Tyrion countered. "I'll give you ten gold dragons. I'll take this lad with me. He'll forge me a lion helm finer than my father's."
"Ten dragons?" Vargo Hoat broke in. "Name your number, I'll snatch you as many smiths as you please."
"When a man joins the Watch, he takes a sacred vow," Yoren said, frowning. "I'm sorry, Lord Tyrion. Not ten dragons, not a hundred."
"I could go to five hundred." Tyrion's tone was mocking, though Yoren's face gave nothing away. Still, Tyrion felt the stir run through the Bloody Mummers.
Yoren leaned back against a post, refusing to meet his eyes.
"And you?" Tyrion called the last of the three as Gendry sat again. "What's your name?"
"Arry," the boy said.
"You from King's Landing as well?" Tyrion asked. The boy nodded. "And what's your trade?"
"A thief," Yoren answered for him. "I caught him myself. Brought him straight along. I doubt you've much use for thieves, Lord Tyrion."
"And what's that?" Tyrion pointed to the short sword at the boy's hip. "Draw it for me."
Arry pulled the blade free. Shagga and Timett sprang up at once, but Tyrion waved them down and took the weapon.
A slim, single-handed sword of fine steel.
"I'd wager a lad like Gendry couldn't forge something this delicate," Tyrion said with a laugh, turning the blade idly.
"My lord, give me the chance and I could prove otherwise," Gendry said.
"And how did you come by this?" Tyrion asked the boy.
"It's not 'this.' It has a name—Needle," Ary said. "I stole it."
Quick, smooth—no hesitation. Tyrion gave a small nod. "And even named it, did you? Needle." Vargo Hoat snorted derisively.
Tyrion pinched the blade by its tip and held the hilt back to the boy. "A fine 'Needle.' Here, take it."
Arry reached for it, but Tyrion caught the wrist instead.
She lifted her head—and found herself staring into one green eye and one violet.
"You're no Arry. You're Arya Stark of Winterfell."