They left the Golden Tooth on the coast road and ate two days and a half of dust.
Third day.
Afternoon.
The sun sat on the slate until the stone threw the heat back.
Lyonel rode with his eyes half shut and watched the land pinch ahead.
A grey-brown mouth.
Steep walls.
Brush and crooked trees clawing out of the cracks.
Blum checked his horse.
“My lord.
Broken Tooth Gorge.
Narrow floor.
High ground both sides.” “And.” “And you should have a hand on that sword.” Lyonel looked at the blade on the saddle.
Casterly work.
Plain.
The belt was the one Jaime had tied in the yard.
“To frighten the crows.” Blum’s face did not change.
“Broken Tooth has been thick with blades half a year.
Golden Tooth trains do not come this way alone.
Twenty of us is not a small thing to look at—” The brush moved.
Not wind.
Thirty men came out of it with axes and short swords and filled the slopes.
The one in front sat a black horse and held a two-hander.
Sun ran a white line down the steel.
Lyonel stopped the column.
“…There they are.” Bronn pushed up from the rear, longsword already in the open, mouth already pleased.
“My lord.
What do we call this.” “Speaking it into being.” “Whose mouth.” “Blum’s.” Blum went the color of old cheese.
The chief came down the slope, pulled up twenty paces out, and laid the long blade on his shoulder.
He took the twenty in.
Then he took Lyonel.
“Little one.
You the purse?” Lyonel did not move.
“Fifteen?
Sixteen?
You walk Broken Tooth with this many and think the road is yours?
Did your father never—” “My father is Tywin Lannister.” The gorge held its breath.
The chief’s mouth stayed open around the rest of the sentence.
The panel ticked.
[Combat warning: outnumbered.
32 against 20] [Basic Sword Framework — Green.
Active] [Line prediction +15%.
Seven cuts at 80% form.] Lyonel’s hand found the hilt.
The chief spat the name back out.
“Tywin’s get.
Fine.
Tywin’s get still pays in Broken Tooth.
Lads—” Thirty came off the walls.
Lyonel drew.
Green ghosts laid themselves over the first man’s cut.
Right shoulder.
Chest open like a door.
He dropped his height.
For once the body Tywin hated was the right size.
The slash went through hair.
Lyonel went under the horse, point up, and put the steel through the man’s calf.
Wet sound.
The rider came off howling.
A second from the left.
Axe in a full wheel, aimed at the skull.
[Parry: held.
Force shed 70%.] He took it across.
The axe jumped three inches wide.
Wrist turned.
His edge ran the haft and took three fingers with it.
Second man down.
Bronn was a problem in the back.
Cut.
Cut.
A boot.
A man every other stroke and a shout under it.
“You held out on me.
Who put a sword in your hand?” “Jaime.” “Your brother’s a monster.” “So are you.” Bronn laughed and dropped another.
The chief had not moved.
He watched the short figure work the gaps.
Roll.
Up.
Another man on the ground.
Height that should have been a joke using the floor like a second weapon.
Seventeen of thirty were down.
The rest started back up the slope.
Then the black horse came.
Two-handed cut, flat, at the neck.
[Heavy line.
Over the parry.
Advise: do not take it.] Lyonel went left.
Hooves hit the stone where he had been.
Gravel went up in a spray.
The chief pulled the horse around and put the point at the boy on the ground.
“Little one, you—” Lyonel did not let him finish.
The roll became the under-cut Jaime had shown three times in the sand.
Photographic Memory had kept the strap.
The point went up and took the left girth clean.
The saddle slid.
The chief went with it.
Ground.
The two-hander a yard from his fingers.
Lyonel came out from under the horse on his hands and put his point at the man’s throat.
“…Yield.
Or I finish it.” The chief breathed like a bellows and stared up.
Green eye.
Black eye.
No heat in them.
Only the count.
“…Name.” “Lyonel Lannister.
Yours.” “…Dake.” Lyonel looked at him.
Early thirties.
Dark stubble.
Meat on him.
Mean, and a little clever under the mean.
The panel agreed.
[Note: high combat growth.
Recruitment advised.] “You waste that work on a gorge.” He took the point away.
Dake sat up and rubbed the back that had met the road.
“Waste it where, then.
You making bandits into knights?
What lord hires the men who just tried to cut his purse?” “This one.” Dake looked at him.
Lyonel crouched until their eyes were level.
“You work for me.
Ten times what this rock pays.
Food.
A roof.
Steel that is not rust.
We win, we split what is on the ground.
We lose, it comes out of my pocket.” “…You mean that.” “I mean it.” Three seconds.
“Shit.” “That a yes.” “That is a yes.” Lyonel stood and put a hand down.
Dake took it, came up, beat dust off himself, and stepped back half a pace.
Four feet of boy who had put seventeen men in the dirt and cut a girth out from under a warhorse.
“You’re mad,” Dake said.
“I know.” “I like it.” “I know.” Lyonel got back in the saddle and looked at the mouth of the gorge.
Seventeen on the stone.
Legs.
Fingers.
The same look on all of them.
“Dake.” “Aye.” “These yours.” “Were.” “Now.” Dake glanced at the men, then at the lion on Lyonel’s saddle, and raised his voice.
“On your feet.
You eat if you walk behind this one.” They looked at each other.
The sound that came back was ugly and together.
The panel closed the count.
[Combat settled: 32 faced.
17 down.
15 taken (Dake included).] [Basic Sword Framework — live work +30%.
Proficiency now 65%.] [Bonus draw available.
Draw now?] Lyonel tapped yes.
White.
[Congratulations.
White entry acquired: Night Sight] Effect: Low light: see +20% farther.
Dark: pick edges +15%.
He gave the card two seconds.
“Night Sight.” Nothing.
“I fought in the sun.
You hand me the dark.” [Host may consider the longer use.] “…Fair.” He killed the glass and turned the horse west.
Broken Tooth let them out.
The sun was stuck in the notch and pulled the column into long black lines.
Bronn came up on his right.
Dake’s two-hander lay across the sellsword’s other thought like a problem he was already fond of.
“My lord.” “Mm.” “Where.” “Silverhill.” “What for.” “A mine.” Bronn looked at the dwarf who had just written seventeen men into the road.
Then at the fifteen behind, axes and all.
“Shit.
Bandits into miners.
You change work fast.” Lyonel checked the horse and looked at him.
“Bandits rust.” “Coin does not.” Bronn gave it two seconds, then the grin.
“Fine.
We dig.” They went west.
Twenty light horse.
Fifteen hard men with dirty steel.
The line twice what it had been at the gate of the Tooth.
The panel wrote while the road ran.
[Westerlands Expansion — Stage One: Golden Tooth held.
Silverhill in work.] Lyonel shut it and looked at the next brown ridge.
Silverhill.
The veins.
He wet his mouth and did not bother to hide it.