By the time the raven was away, night had fallen.
Tywin Lannister dispatched scouts in great numbers to probe toward the Twins. At the same time, he sent for Gregor Clegane, who was busy burning and pillaging villages downstream.
Tyrion reckoned Robb Stark would march through the Twins, and their host needed to move north swiftly to meet the northern army and ease the strain on Jaime.
The next few days were spent in ceaseless marching.
Tyrion had suggested returning to Casterly Rock to see to recruiting, drilling, trade, or farming, but Tywin would hear none of it. His father insisted he remain with him until the war was settled. Only then would future plans be discussed.
On a hill overlooking the Kingsroad, a long folding table of carved pine had been set. Every inch bore the mark of a master's hand, polished to a mirror sheen that caught the last of the sunset and gleamed with a warm glow. A rich golden cloth was laid across it, shimmering like a sea of gold, lending both grandeur and warmth to the setting.
Beside the table stood Lord Tywin's grand pavilion, sewn from the finest silks. Its deep blue fabric was embroidered with the Lannister sigil, a roaring crimson-and-gold lion, its jaws gaping wide as if to devour all before it, proclaiming the pride and might of House Lannister.
That night the cooks brought out the main course: five suckling pigs roasted golden and crisp, each stuffed with different fruits. The lords and knights gathered round, drinking and feasting.
Much of it was little more than empty flattery for Tyrion—offers of younger sons as pages, or talk of daughters for marriage. Tywin had no interest in such petty alliances. As for the great houses, wary of Tyrion's black reputation and the whispers about him, none were eager to bind themselves too closely.
The proud golden lion of the Westerlands showed no haste.
The Lannister host was famed throughout the realm for its abundance. Tonight, not only the lords but even the common soldiers dined well. Spits of meat crackled over fires, crisp without and juicy within, their scent rising thick in the night air—a fine comfort after a long day's march.
In great cauldrons, stews and thick soups bubbled: vegetables, beans, and grains simmered with precious cuts of meat, rich and hearty, giving the men the strength to fight at their best.
Away from the fires, soldiers traded the simple rations they carried—hardtack, dried meat, and fruit. Plain though they were, these tastes of home brought a touch of warmth to men far from their own hearths.
When supper was done, Tyrion sat in his tent with quill and parchment.
One letter was for his "wise" sister, urging her to keep a close hold on her precious boy and not take Ned Stark's head. Futile perhaps, but worth the attempt.
Another was bound for Casterly Rock, instructing that men be sent to Tarbeck Hall to oversee the mountain clans in their rebuilding. They must not realize they were being watched, of course—only that reports of progress reached him on time.
"Lust Demon." Bronn's voice came from outside the tent.
"I'm here. What is it? If the clans are fighting again, don't bother me," Tyrion said.
"Not that." Bronn lifted the flap. "I've brought you something good." A figure slipped in behind him.
She was a young girl, seventeen or eighteen, petite and slender, strikingly pretty, with large dark eyes and long black hair. She carried a cloth bag in her hand.
"Well then, my Lord Lust Demon?" Bronn asked over his shoulder.
The girl's doe-like eyes flickered with a smile that shifted between shy, proud, and wicked. She lowered her head demurely, silent. Tyrion knew full well it was all an act.
"Bronn, you know that's not my taste," Tyrion said, though his eyes flicked quickly over her small, firm breasts before he turned back to his letters. "What's her name?" He asked, already knowing.
"Shae," the girl answered.
"I've heard of your wild appetites," Bronn said. "It's no scandal for a lord to indulge. They say King Robert himself..."
"My interests lie elsewhere now," Tyrion cut in.
"Even so, it's good to have someone to tend to you," Bronn said. "This girl... Shae, was it? She insisted on coming."
"Willing attendants could line up from the Sunset Sea to the Narrow Sea," Tyrion said, swiveling his chair to face Shae. "Very well, Bronn. Let's talk."
Bronn bowed and slipped out. "Enjoy your night."
"Shae." Tyrion repeated the name. "What do you want from me? Gold, no doubt. What's in the bag?"
"My lord, not gold alone," Shae said, drawing out a clay vessel the length of a forearm.
The timeline had shifted.
"My lord, do you believe in prophecy?" Shae reached down, seized the hem of her coarse linen dress, and drew it smoothly over her head, casting it aside. She wore nothing beneath.
Then she knelt between Tyrion's legs.
"It was a curious encounter. In Lannisport I met a witch they call the 'Frog,' said to be of the forest."
"A seller of potions," Tyrion said, though he knew well it was the one who had foretold for Cersei. "What did you buy from her? Love philters?"
"No, she gave it to me," Shae said, her fingers already working at his belt. Tyrion made no move to stop her.
"What did the witch say?"
In a world laced with magic, prophecies could not be dismissed.
"It seems you do believe," Shae murmured. Her fingers deftly loosened the knot of his trousers, slipping them down as she uncorked the vessel. A faint fragrance drifted out, smelling of clover or some other herb.
"I can't recall her exact words," Shae went on, blowing softly as she spoke. "Only that you would see, my lord."
"See? See what?" Tyrion asked, frowning. "And what's in that bottle? You can swear it's safe—ah..."