Food supplies had already run out in the first month of the siege.
Caravans from Seagard still passed with some regularity, but those from Riverrun and Darry had appeared only twice all month.
The weather grew colder by the day. Each morning, Tyrion could see his breath turning white in the air—not surprising, since snow had already begun to fall in the Eyrie. A cold front swept down from the North, through the North itself and then into the Riverlands.
"The supply convoy from Riverrun should arrive today," Tyrion said after checking the dates. "And they're bringing warm clothing. We've had more deserters lately. If we can't keep everyone warm, we'll lose more men to the cold than to hunger."
"We also need more firewood," Davon added. "We've nearly cut down every tree on the south bank of The Twins."
"And those recipes you gave us—sawdust soup and bark powder. Surprisingly edible," Brynden Tully said, biting into a piece of bread. "Where'd you learn that? Flea Bottom?"
"I've got something even better. Famine pills that were all the rage in King's Landing. Want to try one?" Tyrion asked. "They'll stop you up for days."
"I'll pass." Blackfish set the bread aside. "This stuff is rough enough to forge a warhammer head."
"My lord, the supply convoy from Riverrun has arrived," someone announced from outside the tent.
It was Brienne the Beauty. "They made it on schedule this time. No need to punish the escort."
"Showing up on time for once—impressive." Tyrion sighed, then suddenly turned. "Brienne? Why are you here? You should be in Riverrun protecting the Stark girl!"
"My apologies, my lord. The lady commanded me to come," Brienne said with a bow. "And…"
Sansa stepped through the tent's curtain. She wore a snow-white linen gown, white as a Kingsguard cloak, with long trailing sleeves lined in red and blue—the colors of House Tully. Her thick auburn hair fell over her shoulders.
"My lord," she said, dipping into a curtsy before Tyrion.
"Why are you here?" Brynden Tully shot to his feet. "What is Edmure thinking? How could he let you come?"
"I insisted on coming," Sansa said.
"You'll only make things harder here," Tyrion said. She had once lifted morale with her songs, but this was not King's Landing. "Brienne, I order you to take the lady back at once—"
"No," Sansa said. "I've lived through war. At the Blackwater, I was with the Queen and the other ladies. I know what it's like."
She was learning to voice her thoughts, Tyrion noticed. "You can stay, but you'll eat what I eat, and what the soldiers eat."
He picked up the bread Blackfish had bitten and tossed it on the ground. It hit the dirt with a solid thump and rolled twice like a stone.
Sansa knelt, brushed the dirt off the bread, and took a small, determined bite. "It's not as hard to swallow as it looks."
She chewed with effort until Blackfish quickly snatched it away.
"Tyrion, even if Sansa stays, she won't consume much grain."
"No, I'll eat the same food as everyone else."
Tyrion looked at her—stubborn, just like Catelyn Stark. He sighed. "Fine. Stay until you can't stand it anymore. Or until I can't. Once the Riverlands start snowing, we'll be out of options."
"We can both endure it," Sansa said, settling beside him. "The only one who can't face the winter is Walder Frey."
And so Sansa stayed in the camp. The soldiers welcomed the sight of their lord's betrothed standing with them on the front lines. Desertions dropped sharply. Even when hunger left them too weak to speak, the men found the will to straighten up at the sight of Tyrion and Sansa.
But their armor was losing its shine, eaten away by mud and sweat into a mottled, patchy mess. In places it had cracked, exposing the exhausted bodies beneath. Their faces were smeared with grime, eyes sunken, gazes dull with hunger and fatigue. White flakes clung to their cracked lips, each breath rasping dryly in their throats. Their fingers—stiff and thin from marching and fighting—clutched sword hilts and spear shafts that now seemed heavier than they were.
Every stomach growled, protesting loudly, a sharp reminder of their hunger. Though ruins of villages dotted the Riverlands, nothing edible could be found in the rubble.
Tyrion himself spoke less and less. Hunger dulled his mind, stealing words and even desire from him.
Two more months passed in hunger and despair.
Then, at dawn one morning, a convoy approached from the south, flying a green banner with a golden rose.
Lions, wolves, trout—none of them grazers. Yet the one to rekindle hope in all this despair was Highgarden's supply train.
Aunt Genna and Uncle Emmon traveled with the convoy.
"Gods, Tyrion, what has become of you?" Aunt Genna, still square-faced and rosy-cheeked, seized her nephew's hand. "What have you been eating here?"
"Wood shavings, bark, grass seeds, roots."
"Gods." Aunt Genna looked him over. "This is not the Lannister way."
"Give me another chance and I'd never fight like this," Tyrion said. "But it's all right. Victory is near."
"Emmon, go see your castle," Aunt Genna instructed her husband. "The Warden of the Riverlands prepared it for you."
Emmon Frey obediently went toward the catapult lines, the safest place near The Twins.
Once he was out of sight, Aunt Genna pulled a letter from her bodice.
"These provisions come from House Tyrell's goodwill," she said. "Ser Garlan couldn't come himself—he's marching to retake Brightwater Keep—so he asked me to deliver this letter." She pressed it into Tyrion's hand. "Find a quiet place to read it."
Tyrion stood on the riverbank and unfolded the letter. The lady's elegant script read: "Even roses bear fruit." He tore the parchment into pieces and scattered them over the rushing waters of the Green Fork.
Green Fork, Green Fork—the charm of it all lay in that word "green," he thought.
"My lord?" Sansa's voice came from behind him. "Is this a letter from House Tyrell?"
"It is."
"If I may guess," his betrothed said, "are these terms? Conditions for their help?"
"Yes." Tyrion nodded. "Conditions for their help."
"Are they difficult? Expensive?"
"No." Tyrion shook his head. "Worthless."