“Bring them into the fold.” Soren pointed toward the dark woods where the Wildlings had fled.
“The Black Ears, the Burned Men, the Painted Dogs…
They share ancient grudges and bow to no one.
But these people are driven mad by poverty.
They lack food and clothing, fighting with stones for weapons.” Soren stared into the dwarf’s astonished, mismatched eyes and laid out the first step of his strategic plan: “If you return to Lord Tywin’s camp with only two mercenaries, you will remain, in your father’s eyes, nothing more than a dwarf son who needs protection.
No one will listen to a word you say.
But if you can forge these reckless Wildlings into a vanguard thousands strong…” Tyrion interrupted him, a self-deprecating smile curling the corner of his mouth.
“The mountain clans don’t care for gold.
If you want to buy off these tribes, I doubt even bringing my father’s chamber pot would do the trick.” The little dwarf shrugged.
Across this continent, legend had it that Lord Tywin, master of the gold mines of Casterly Rock, shat solid gold.
“What then?
Promise them swords?
Spears?
Armor?” Tyrion countered.
“My lord, you can tell the chiefs of the mountain clans,” Soren paused, his dark eyes gazing out at the mountains shrouded in night, his voice purring like a tempting devil: “that you will give them the entire Vale of Arryn.” …
“Give them…
the entire Vale of Arryn?” In the moonlight, Tyrion’s mismatched green and black eyes contracted sharply.
He stared at Soren as if looking at a total madman—or a priceless treasure.
“I don’t own a single stone in the Vale of Arryn, Soren.
That is the domain of House Arryn.
It belongs to Lady Lysa and her sickly little boy.” “Precisely because you have nothing right now, you stand to lose nothing on this deal.” Soren kept his expression calm, poking the campfire with a stick.
“The mountain clans have been driven into these barren, rocky mountains for thousands of years.
They dream night and day of reclaiming the fertile Vale.
And your father, Lord Tywin, has steel swords and fine armor to spare.” Soren turned his head, his gaze dark and searching.
“So long as you promise them weapons and back their claim to conquer the Vale, these revenge-hungry hounds will become your most loyal bodyguards.
As for whether they can actually take the Eyrie later on…
that’s a headache for your father and House Arryn, isn’t it?” Tyrion fell silent for a long moment, then burst into a fit of helpless, ringing laughter.
“By the gods!
Generous with what isn’t yours, promising pie in the sky…
Soren, you would make the most terrifying counselor in King’s Landing.” The dwarf frowned in thought for a moment longer, wrapped his cloak tightly around himself, and shook his head.
“Assuming your throat isn’t slit in these mountains first.
The plan is far too dangerous.” Bronn was slouched at the cave entrance, leaning against the rock face, using a dagger to scrape dirt from under his fingernails.
Having listened to them all this time, he finally spoke up: “Are you two finished?” Tyrion rolled his eyes.
“I don’t care if you promise the Wildlings the moon,” Bronn said, sheathing his dagger.
“But you’re babbling like an old hag who’s had too much to drink at a wedding feast.
Either shut up and sleep, or take the night watch.” Tyrion blinked, then let out a dry chuckle.
“It’s rare to hear someone speak so much sense using such foul metaphors.” He wriggled deeper into the rock crevice, letting the stone shield his back from the cold wind.
“Fine then.
I’ll try to get some sleep.
Wake me when we’re about to die.” He closed his eyes.
The ground was cold, hard, and uneven, but before long, Tyrion Lannister actually fell asleep.
Bronn did not sleep.
Neither did Soren.
The campfire had dwindled to a fluttering red film, and the wind moaned low through the jagged rocks.
Soren peered into the shadowy outlines of the rocks.
His [Feral Vision (Basic)] was active—what appeared as pitch black to ordinary eyes manifested in his perception like a heavily grainy, dark-green filter.
Heat signatures around him flickered as faint, dark-red signals on the edge of his vision.
The vision was still imprecise, but he could see pine needles swaying unnaturally in the distance.
Then he caught a glint of light that shouldn’t have been there.
The moonlight reflecting off metal.
And from more than one place.
“Tyrion,” Bronn warned, his voice low and urgent.
Tyrion was awake in an instant.
Figures materialized from the darkness, closing in from all sides.
Some gripped hunting knives, others held wooden-handled axes, and some carried wooden spears with fire-hardened tips.
They were clad in cured leather and sheepskin, their faces painted with pigments or branded with burn marks—the insignias of various tribes.
“Quiet,” Tyrion whispered.
Then he stood up, a composed smile gracing his face for these uninvited guests.
Soren realized that in that brief second, the dwarf had decided to carry out that bold and perilous plan.
If anything went wrong during the negotiation, Soren would die right here today.
[Warning: Large-scale hostile encirclement detected.
Current Scene: Extremely Dangerous!] [Unlocking early: ‘Honor Point Upgrade’ System.] [Friendly Notice: Host’s current Honor Points are dangerously low.
Please upgrade with caution!
If Honor Points drop to 0, you will be erased immediately!] [Honor Point Upgrade System: Honor Points can be used to increase base attributes.
The cost varies based on the attribute and its base value.] Soren’s pupils shrank.
14 Honor Points—that was his entire fortune, earned from slaying the cannibals and holding fast to his principles.
Yet he knew full well that against Shagga and his horde of barbarians, an extra point of honor wouldn’t save his life, but boosted physical stats could.
“Distribute it all!
Focus on Agility, with the rest into Strength!” Soren roared in his heart.
[Spent 13 Honor Points.
Attributes updated:] Strength: 14 → 18 Agility: 13 → 22 (Significantly enhanced muscle explosive power and neural reflex speed) Current Remaining Honor Points: 1/100.
(Warning: Value at critical risk!) A searing surge of explosive pain ruptured through Soren’s limbs and torso, only to be instantly suppressed by his taut killing intent.
“The night air is chilly, my friends.
Why not come warm yourselves by the fire?
Though we have no wine to offer, you are most welcome to share our mutton,” Tyrion said.
A stir went through the shadows.
Muffled whispers broke out; none had expected the halfman to take the initiative.
A few seconds later, a voice came from the thickets—deep and hard as stone.
“The mountains are ours.
The mutton is ours too.” “The mutton is indeed yours,” Tyrion said without changing expression.
“And who might you be?” “When you go up to meet your god,” another voice boomed down from the rock face above, rumbling like a falling boulder, “tell him Shagga son of Dolf sent you.” A giant rock moved.
It stood upright, revealing itself to be a man.
He was a giant draped in animal pelts, with rough old scars crisscrossing his chest and shoulders.
The bushes parted.
A lean man with iron rings in his ears stepped out, a hunting knife swaying against his thigh.
He was half a head shorter than Shagga, but his eyes were sharp and nimble as a fox’s.
“I am Gunthor son of Gunn, of the Stone Crows.” He appraised Tyrion from head to toe as if inspecting a talking goat.
“Jaggot, Conn, Torrek.” He gestured one by one to the Wildlings behind him holding scythes and sharpened wooden spears, rattling off every name present like a menu.
Ten men in all.
Or more.
Bronn’s knuckles turned white around his sword hilt, but he remained still.
Gunthor turned his head, his gaze suddenly locking onto the corner of the rock wall.
“Did you pierce this beast’s neck?” Gunthor glanced at the two corpses on the ground—the chiefs of the cannibal clan killed by Soren.
“I did,” Soren said, stepping calmly to Tyrion’s side.
The Wildlings exchanged looks.
The Stone Crows and the Painted Dogs were blood enemies; Soren’s kill injected a sliver of unspeakable wariness into their bloodlust.
“The beasts of the Painted Dogs steal our meat and steal our babes.
You did what needed to be done.” Then his tone shifted.
“Though you killed my enemies, that does not mean you pass without paying toll.” “I am Tyrion son of Tywin, of Clan Lannister,” the dwarf said, sitting up straight as the firelight cast long, strange shadows across his face.
“He is the lion chief who dwells in Casterly Rock.” Gunthor tilted his head.
“Lannister…
I have heard of them.
Lowland lords.” “Then you should also know that a Lannister always pays his debts.” Tyrion reached into his purse and produced two silver coins.
“I am more than happy to pay compensation for the mutton.” Shagga grunted deeply.
“The halfman wants to pay us with what is already ours.” “Your silver coins are ours, your horses are ours, and that mail shirt on your back is ours.” He took two steps closer to the fire.
“You have only one life to pay us with.
Tyrion son of Tywin, how do you choose to die?” “I would prefer to die in my own warm bed at eighty, full of wine and with a maiden by my side.” The burly Shagga was the first to laugh, a sound like thunder.
The others did not find it quite as amusing.
“Conn, fetch the horses,” Gunthor ordered.
“Kill the other one, then grab the halfman and the pretty boy.
We can make them milk the goats and amuse the mothers of our children.” Bronn leaped to his feet.
“Who wants to die first?” Jaggot sneered, his spear tip lingering less than ten centimeters from Tyrion’s throat.
In that split second, Soren moved.
The explosive power from his Agility, now boosted to 22 points, rendered his motion a near-instantaneous blur in the eyes of the ordinary Wildlings.
Clang!
Before Bronn could even spring forward, Soren’s figure flashed like a ghost between Tyrion and Jaggot.
Without even unsheathing his blade entirely, he deflected the weapon with his left handguard while flicking his longsword upward with his right at an impossibly strange angle.
The cold tip came to a steady rest against Jaggot’s spear wrist.
Had Soren pushed forward half an inch more, the tendons in this Stone Crow warrior’s wrist would have snapped like lute strings.
Dead silence fell over the glade.
Even Shagga froze, holding his massive axe mid-air, staring in astonishment at this unnaturally fast “knight.” “Shagga son of Dolf,” Soren said, his blade remaining unyielding as he locked eyes with the giant.
“We killed the cannibals of the Painted Dogs; that was a gift.
If you wish to fight, you will lose a man first—and I just might take your head in exchange.” Gunthor stared at Soren, then looked down at the tiny bead of blood on Jaggot’s wrist.
Finally, he raised his hand.
“I want to hear what he has to say.” With the crisis temporarily staved off, Tyrion seized the moment to pitch his grand promise of the Vale.
“Gunthor son of Gunn, listen to me.
My family has wealth and power beyond measure.
If the Stone Crows see us safely down the mountain, my lord father will shower you with so much gold you’ll never scrub the dirt off your hands.” “Lowland lords’ gold is as worthless as the halfman’s words,” Gunthor retorted instantly.
“I may be only half a man,” Tyrion said, slapping his stumpy leg as he stood, “yet I have the courage to face more than ten fully armed mountain warriors.
What about you?
When the Knights of the Vale ride out, do the Stone Crows do anything but cower behind rocks?” Shagga let out a furious roar.
Jaggot thrust his wooden spear right under Tyrion’s chin, the charred black tip hovering inches away.
Tyrion didn’t flinch.
“Dwarf!” Shagga’s voice rumbled like thunder against the stone.
“I’ll chop off your manhood and feed it to the goats!” Gunthor’s eyes flicked between Soren and Tyrion.
“The mothers of our children starve.
Good steel is worth more than piles of gold.
Tyrion son of Tywin, what will you give us for your life?
Swords?
Spears?
Armor?” “Gunthor son of Gunn, those are small matters.
What I offer you is far greater than that.” Tyrion Lannister lifted his chin, the dim glow of the campfire outlining his profile as he thrust a sly smile into the darkness.
“I will give you the entire Vale of Arryn.” The wind seemed to freeze in the mountain pass.
The Vale of Arryn.
The promise struck like a meteorite plunging into still water.
The expressions of the Wildlings shifted from fury to greed and disbelief.
“Did he just say…
the Vale of Arryn?” “Indeed,” Tyrion said, spreading his hands.
“Fertile black soil, golden fields of wheat the likes of which you’ve never seen, and Lord Royce sitting in the Gates of the Moon cracking seeds in his full suit of plate armor.
I am the son of Lord Tywin, and my father has endless swords and spears.
As long as you all deliver me safely to his camp, weapons will be no issue.
And as for the Vale…” He pointed east, his finger aimed toward the distant mountain peak where the Eyrie stood.
“The Vale was your ancestors’ land to begin with.
House Arryn has stolen it for thousands of years.
It’s high time it was returned to its rightful owners.” Shagga nodded to Gunthor, grunting harshly, “Halfman, if your promises are hot air, Shagga swears he will split your head in two with this very axe.” Tyrion let out a long breath, his signature cunning smile returning to his face.
“Fear not.
A Lannister always pays his debts.”