Ser Flement Brax lifted his visor. "Lord Tyrion."
He sounded astonished. "My lord, we all thought you were dead, otherwise..."
His eyes shifted uncertainly to the band of clansmen. "And these... companions of yours?"
"They are my close friends and loyal retainers, and allies of House Lannister," Tyrion replied. "Where is my father?"
"Lord Tywin has made the inn at the crossroads his command post."
"Then I'll see him at once."
"As you command, my lord." Ser Flement wheeled his horse and gave the order. Men pulled up three rows of stakes, clearing a path for Tyrion and his followers.
...
Lord Tywin's camp sprawled for miles. Chella's guess of twenty thousand was not far off. The common soldiers camped under the open sky, some huddled beneath trees, others in makeshift shelters. The knights had tents, and the lords' pavilions were as large as houses.
Tyrion glimpsed the Red Bull of House Prester, the Spotted Boar of Crakehall, the Burning Tree of House Marbrand, and many other banners he couldn't name—clear proof of his past neglect of study.
He hurried on. Knights hailed him in greeting, while the levies gaped at the sight of the clansmen, mouths open as though they'd seen ghosts.
Shagga's jaw hung open too; never in his life had he seen so many men, horses, and weapons. The knights of the Vale were well-armed, but in decades they'd never mustered more than a thousand.
The other clan leaders hid their awe better, but Tyrion knew it was no less than Shagga's. That played to his advantage—the more impressed they were by Lannister power, the easier they would be to sway.
Two guards in red lion helms flanked the inn door beneath its sign.
"My father?" Tyrion asked.
"In the hall, my lord."
"My men need food and drink," Tyrion told him. "See to it."
"And Bronn—keep them calm. No trouble."
He stepped inside. The dining hall had been cleared. Four square tables had been pushed together and draped with a great red cloth. Around them sat a ring of knights, armor bright beneath the torchlight.
At once Tyrion saw his father.
Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, was past fifty but as strong as a man of twenty.
Even seated, he looked imposing—long-legged, broad-shouldered, flat of belly, his arms lean yet corded with muscle. His golden hair was combed straight back, and a neat beard framed his mouth, lending him an air of severity. His eyes were pale green flecked with gold.
To his right sat Ser Kevan Lannister, nursing a bottle of ale. Tyrion's uncle was a leaner, smaller image of his brother, with a yellow beard trimmed so close it was hardly visible.
Ser Kevan was the first to spot him. "Tyrion?" he said in surprise.
"Uncle," Tyrion bowed. "And Father, my lords—it gladdens me to see you."
"Tyrion!" Lord Tywin rose to his feet. "By the gods, you are safe. I prayed nightly that if you came to harm, I would put the whore's kin to the torch..."
Kevan Lannister looked taken aback—he had likely never heard his brother speak so—but then he shrugged as though it were natural enough, and gave Tyrion a conspiratorial wink.
"Sit beside me," Tywin commanded. The knight at his left stood, armor bearing the blazing tree sigil.
Addam Marbrand, son and heir of Damon Marbrand, Lord of Ashemark. Tyrion remembered him well—he had been a page at Casterly Rock, Jaime's boyhood companion.
Tyrion made his way to his father's side. Knights rose as he passed, clapping him on the back, and those seated across the table, unable to reach him, stood to give their respects.
"You came back alone?" Uncle Kevan asked.
"No," Tyrion replied, keeping his answers clipped at the council. "My retainers were slain when I was taken. But along the way I gathered nearly two thousand men from the mountain clans. They are on their way here now."
A murmur of astonishment swept the chamber—two thousand men was nearly the full strength a minor lord could raise.
"That's more like a lion. Let our enemies hear us roar!" Tywin never smiled, yet the knights relaxed at their liege lord's words.
"What did you promise them?" his father pressed, cutting to the heart of it.
"The first to arrive numbered only three hundred. Another two hundred should join within the next two days." Tyrion poured himself ale and spoke between gulps.
"I promised them honor—though that's nonsense." He drained a mouthful and caught his breath. "What I truly offered was gold, weapons, armor, and the right to plunder. And I told them they could move their people into the ruins of Tarbeck Hall..."
"My lord," a knight interrupted, "to allow mountain clans into the Westerlands, to grant them lands—that is hardly proper."
Tyrion noted the golden mountains painted on the man's armor. The Golden Tooth... Leo Lefford, that was the one.
The council fell silent. No one else dared speak. All eyes turned toward Tywin Lannister.
The Old Lion spoke slowly, softly, yet with such force that Tyrion felt the joined tables tremble.
"Ser Leo Lefford, are you questioning Tyrion?"
"My lord, I meant no such thing." Ser Leo Lefford shot to his feet. "It was a thoughtless inquiry..."
"He is your future liege lord. His decisions are mine. If there is to be questioning, it will be by me—or by Kevan."
Tywin's voice rang so sharply Tyrion's ears rang with it. He sat far too close.
"My apologies, my lord," Ser Leo said again.
"No need," Tyrion interjected quickly, rising. "I made no promise of castles or lands to the mountain clans. In the Westerlands they have no roots, no power to stir trouble. Besides, the ruins of Tarbeck Hall need rebuilding, and hostages will be taken from the clans who fight to secure their loyalty. I hadn't yet finished explaining. Now, tell me—who oversees the arming of the host?"
"That duty falls to me," Ser Leo said, adding hurriedly, "my lord."
"Then the three hundred warriors I brought will be armed under your care."
"As you command, my lord."
"Enough," said Tywin Lannister, rising. "That will do for today. All of you, leave."
The knights rose at once.
"Kevan and Tyrion, stay."