Back in Darry Castle, half a month had passed since they headed south. Greatjon Umber, Brienne the Beauty, Sansa, and Arya were all waiting for Tyrion to return.
"We made a bet on whether you'd die in King's Landing."
Gathered around the hearth in the hall, Jon Umber drank as he spoke. "I dreamt that Cersei's knight—two heads taller than me, twice as broad, wearing armor three men couldn't lift—took half your skull off with one swing."
"Such a vivid dream?" Only the Red Viper had ever lost his head to the Mountain. Tyrion drank his ale, feeling wholly recovered. "I can't see faces clearly in my dreams. But if I dream of myself, remembering this handsome face shouldn't be a challenge."
"I didn't see your face, but I knew the sword." Greatjon pointed at Ice. "You were probably using that stolen blade to duel the knight of the whore queen."
"Impossible. My specialty is the sword between my legs," Tyrion said. "Besides, I didn't steal it. So, who bet that I'd die?"
"I did!" Arya Stark said quickly.
The girl never missed a chance to curse him.
"Sansa?" Tyrion asked.
"Of course my lord would return safely," Sansa said.
"Of course he would—he still has vows to keep. I believe my lord is a man of his word. Lannisters always pay their debts." Arya scrunched up her face, mimicking her sister.
Greatjon burst into laughter.
"Yes, vows." Tyrion set down his cup. "Lyonel, what of the arrangements I made before I left?"
Aunt Genna's son rose and bowed. "All settled, my lord. If you wish, I can send someone to make contact immediately."
"Go ahead. Arrange a meeting for tomorrow morning." Tyrion stood. "I'm turning in early. Stay as you like." After all, this is my war.
...
Before dawn the next day, Tyrion was already awake. Podrick helped him dress in his outer garments and armor: first the fine silk shirt—his favored layer—then the leather, then the chainmail.
Pod fastened the breastplate and tightened the straps.
"My lord, the crown—shall you wear it?"
"No," Tyrion said. "It isn't mine. It belongs to Robb Stark, the King in the North. Hang it on the saddle, with the lobster gloves."
"Yes, my lord."
They went downstairs one after another. In the clearing outside the farmstead, Lyonel Frey had readied his horse, along with twenty mounted scouts.
And one familiar figure.
"Why are you here?" Tyrion asked.
"I'm going with you," Brienne said. She stood fully armored, looking twice Tyrion's size—almost as big as the Hound.
"Who helped you into your armor?"
"Lady Sansa and Lady Arya."
"Very nice," Tiaryon said with a nod. "Podrick, take notes."
"Perhaps you'll have the same treatment one day," Brienne said. "Lady Sansa sent me to accompany you… Lady Arya hopes I'll send you to hell."
"Thanks for the warning. Otherwise I'd think both Starks were falling for me," Tyrion said. "Does she know what I'm doing?"
"No. But she's worried about you," Brienne said. "If you die—what then? Greatjon's joke frightened her. She's not as strong as you think. She just hides her fear. And that sword…"
Ice hung across Tyrion's back.
"She watched her father die beneath that blade," Brienne said. "She doesn't want the same for you."
"I am not Eddard Stark. Pod, help me up."
...
The forest was still drowned in mist as they rode through the shadowed woods—damp, dark, and silent, the pines packed tightly together. The soft ground thudded under their horses' hooves, blending with the distant, low cries of unseen birds.
The four rode close, no more than an arm's length apart, careful not to lose each other in the fog. The deeper they went, the heavier the air grew, until even breathing felt burdened. Dew clung to pine needles and dropped onto their cloaks. Every so often, a hoof kicked a stone hidden beneath the fallen leaves, sending small creatures scrambling deeper into the brush, leaving only rustling trails behind.
Gods Eye.
The sun failed to break through the morning mist, leaving the lake black as ink. A small boat waited near the shore.
"Who comes?" a figure on the boat called out.
"Tyrion Lannister."
A sword burst into flame on the boat, its light revealing a blurred silhouette.
Brienne asked, "Who are you?"
"We were the king's men once," the man said, "but king's men must have a king, and we no longer do. We were brothers too, but those bonds have fallen apart. I don't know what we are now. I only know our road is dark, and the Holy Fire has not shown me what waits at its end."
"The Holy Fire…" Brienne murmured. Then it clicked. "You're the Myr priest. The red Sorcerer. You were with Dondarrion, the Lord of Lightning."
"Lightning flashes and is gone, never to be seen again. Men are the same. I fear Lord Beric's flame has left this world. A darker Shadow leads us now."
"The Lightning Lord is dead." Tyrion dismounted. "Thoros, we won't get on the boat."
"Our place is in the cave."
"And justice? You think justice hides in a cave?" Tyrion scoffed. "I dislike caves. Since you won't enter the castle, we'll speak here on the shore."
"Justice." Thoros let out a faint, hollow laugh. "I remember justice. It once tasted so sweet. Under Beric's lead, we avenged the innocent. We were justice itself—at least that's what we told ourselves. We were the king's men, knights, heroes... But the night is dark, and full of terrors, my lord. War has made monsters of us all."
"I am doing what is right." Tyrion took the crown from his saddle. Bronze-forged, etched with runes of the First Men, nine black iron sword-shaped spikes rising from it. Lighter than a golden crown, yet no less commanding. "The Long Night is coming."
"Night falls," Thoros said with a nod, raising his flaming sword as other boats drifted out of the mist like ghosts.
"The Brotherhood Without Banners," Brienne said. "They're here."
"Do not draw your sword," Tyrion warned softly. "Whatever happens, don't draw it. And don't let fear show. Not even if you see a ghost."
...
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