Early the next morning, the party set out from Gates of the Moon, passing through Redfort to join Lord Horton Redfort before proceeding together to Gulltown.
Lord Horton Redfort was short and well into his old age, with neatly trimmed gray whiskers and gentle, kindly eyes. It was a blessing he couldn't ride and had to travel by carriage—otherwise Tyrion feared he might burst out laughing.
"Is Lord Horton your only ally?" Tyrion asked Bronze.
Yohn Royce nodded. "His youngest son, Mychel Redfort, will marry my daughter, Ysilla."
"A marriage alliance," Tyrion said. "A foolproof solution. Does this Mychel like your daughter?"
"What does it matter whether he does?" Yohn Royce replied without concern. "Does Lady Sansa like you?"
"You have a point, my lord," Tyrion agreed, though he laughed inwardly.
Gulltown was the Vale's chief port, sheltered by natural mountains and serving as a crucial gateway and harbor. Its haven provided safe anchorage for ships sailing from King's Landing to Braavos or the North. Its strategic position guaranteed a steady flow of exotic goods from across the Narrow Sea, and even in winter, when the passes of the Mountains of the Moon closed, it still sustained the Vale's supplies.
Tyrion liked ports—they brought fresh food, fresh trinkets, and fresh women.
Many wealthy merchants lived here, and some Vale nobles married into mercantile families for profit. This was not unlike Lannisport, where House Westerling had taken a spice merchant to wife.
From a distance, the town was already bustling: carts passing, packed crowds, lavish decorations—everything hinting at a grand celebration ahead.
The welcoming party had already come out from Gulltown, bearing banners of a yellow flaming tower on a black triangle set against a fiery crimson field—the sigil of House Grafton. At their head was Lord Gerold Grafton, sporting a dirty-blond mop of unkempt hair and a booming voice.
"Welcome, Lord Tyrion Lannister, Warden of the Riverlands, and Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone!"
"I had no desire to come," Yohn said, though he returned the greeting politely.
"But I like it," Sansa called from her carriage. "A town! I've lived in castles far too long. I hear Gulltown's tailors are wonderful."
"Lord Grafton," Tyrion said with a smile, "my wife is still a rather clumsy young girl. I fear she's made a fool of herself before you."
Sansa brightened—so their little duet had already begun. She lowered her head deliberately and withdrew silently back into the carriage.
"Lions are always demanding," Lord Gerold Graffson remarked. "Hear me roar, yes?"
"I notice Lord Petyr and Lady Lysa are not here to welcome us, nor Lord Robert," Tyrion said as he scanned the crowd. "It seems the heir of Casterly Rock, the Warden of the Riverlands, is not very welcome here."
"Lord Petyr is terribly busy, and Lady Lysa clings to him so tightly she won't leave his side," Lord Gerold Graffson explained. "And Lord Robert Arryn is very lively, always running about. I hope you'll forgive him, my lord."
Lively? Tyrion sneered inwardly. More like half-comatose, waking only to cry for milk and suffer fits. Would Lady Lysa nurse him in public?
"I was joking, my lord," Tyrion replied with a cheery laugh. "How could I be discourteous to Lady Lysa? She is my elder. I treat her as a child treats his mother." Perhaps little Robert would enjoy suckling beside me. Gods, the thought was foul.
The procession entered Gulltown. The wedding would be held at the center of the square, where countless banners fluttered overhead: the crescent moon and falcon of House Arryn; the groom's sigil of three crows clutching a red heart; a black broken wheel on green; six silver bells on purple; and nine stars within a golden saltire on black. The last three belonged to the banners of the Lords Declarant.
And many others Tyrion himself couldn't name.
"Whoever among you can tell me which houses these banners belong to gets a gold dragon—and leave to run wild in the streets," Tyrion told his three attendants. "You be the judge," he said, pointing at Gendry.
"Lord, but I don't know..." The smith's face flushed bright red.
"Who told you a judge has to know everything? You just need to keep them from cheating or squabbling forever," Tyrion said. "If anyone tries to cheat, smack his backside with a stick. The winner will have to teach you all these banners afterward."
He was certain the champion would regret the victory once he'd spent that gold dragon.
The procession dismounted near the square. Brienne stayed close to the two young ladies, while the Blackfish and Bronze flanked Tyrion on each side, Horton Redfort following behind. The whole scene amused him—two old men guarding him?
Dozens of long tables filled the square. Guests crowded and laughed, but still kept their composure and courtesy. Tyrion thought back to the betrothal feast in King's Landing and the wedding at Pinkmaiden. Would this kind of scene delight him more? No—the moment that truly thrilled him was still the one behind the bridal-chamber door.
As they approached, the guests parted to open a path and bowed to the lords.
Tyrion looked over the feast: fresh pike, trout, and salmon from the river; crabs, cod, and herring from the sea.
The tables were heaped with ducks, capons, peacocks still feathered, and swans coated in almond paste. Sizzling suckling pigs stuffed with apples were carried out. Three gigantic bison roasted over the bonfire in the center of the square—so large they nearly got stuck in the kitchen doorway on the way out.
Steaming loaves of bread piled high, and countless cheeses had been brought up from the cellars. There was freshly churned butter, and vegetables of every kind: leeks, carrots, roasted onions, beets, turnips.
Lord Grafton's cooks had also made an enormous and elaborate lemon cake—twelve feet tall, shaped like a giant's lance, crowned at the top with a sugar-crafted Eyrie. It was Little Robert's favorite treat.
Tyrion felt his mouth water. He glanced back to see Arya doing exactly what he'd expected—snatching off chicken legs and duck legs—while Sansa looked around the square with excitement. The attendants seemed close to settling the contest; Podrick hung his head, clearly the first eliminated, while Edric and Hoster were still arguing heatedly.
"My lord," Bronn said, "just ahead."
On the raised platform, Tyrion saw no fiery red hair like his wife's—only a pair of cold, sinister eyes fixed on him.
Long time no see, Lord Petyr Baelish.
...
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