“Recruit them.” Nero pointed into the black pines where the surviving savages had fled.
“Black Ears.
Burned Men.
Painted Dogs.
They hate each other more than they hate the lowlanders.
But they are starving, and half of them still fight with sharpened stones.” He looked straight into Tyrion’s mismatched eyes.
“If you walk into Tywin Lannister’s camp with only two sellswords at your back, you remain what you have always been in your father’s eyes—a dwarf who needs protecting.
No one will listen.
But if you arrive with several thousand of these reckless killers organized under your banner…” Tyrion cut him off with a dry, self-mocking smile.
“The mountain clans do not care for gold.
Trying to buy the tribes would be like trying to bribe them with my father’s shit.
And Tywin Lannister is said to shit pure gold.” He shrugged.
“So what do you propose I offer them?
Swords?
Spears?
Armor?” Nero’s voice dropped, quiet and deliberate, the way a man speaks when he is about to sell a soul.
“Tell the chiefs you will give them the entire Vale of Arryn.” Tyrion’s eyes narrowed hard in the moonlight.
“I do not own a single stone in the Vale, Nero.
That land belongs to House Arryn—to Lysa and her sickly boy.” “Exactly because you own nothing, the promise costs you nothing.” Nero poked the dying embers with a stick.
“These people have been driven into these rocks for thousands of years.
They dream of the fertile valley the way a starving man dreams of bread.
Your father has more steel and plate than he knows what to do with.
Promise them weapons and the chance to take the Vale, and these vengeful dogs will become the most loyal guard you have ever owned.
Whether they actually succeed in taking the Eyrie later is a problem for Tywin and the Arryns—not for you.” Tyrion stared at him for a long moment.
Then he threw his head back and laughed, wild and uncontrolled.
“By the gods.
Giving away what is not yours and painting the largest picture of the future I have ever heard.
Nero, you could be the most terrifying adviser in King’s Landing.” The laughter faded.
He pulled his cloak tighter and shook his head.
“Assuming we are not all murdered in these mountains first.
The plan is pure madness.” Bronn sat at the mouth of the hollow, back against stone, cleaning dirt from under his nails with a dagger.
He had listened in silence long enough.
“Are the two of you finished?” Tyrion rolled his eyes.
“You want to feed the savages empty promises,” Bronn said, sheathing the blade.
“I don’t care.
But you’re talking like an old woman who’s had too much wine at a wedding.
Either shut up and sleep, or take the watch.” Tyrion gave a short, dry laugh.
“Rare to hear sense wrapped in such an ugly metaphor.” He shifted deeper into the crevice so the rock shielded his back from the wind.
“Fine.
I’ll try to sleep.
Wake me when we’re about to die.” He closed his eyes.
The ground was uneven and freezing, yet within minutes Tyrion Lannister was actually asleep.
Bronn stayed awake.
So did Nero.
The fire had burned down to a thin bed of red embers.
Wind moaned through the crags.
Nero watched the dark shapes of the rocks while Beast Vision worked behind his eyes.
Ordinary night became a grainy green wash.
Heat sources flickered at the edges of his sight as faint dark-red blurs.
The vision was still crude, but it was enough.
He saw pine needles moving against the wind.
Then he saw something that did not belong—metal catching moonlight.
More than one place.
“Tyrion.” Bronn’s warning was low and sharp.
Tyrion was awake in an instant.
Figures closed in from every side.
Hunting knives.
Wooden-handled axes.
Spears with fire-hardened points.
Cured leather and sheepskin.
War paint and burn scars—the marks of different tribes.
“Quiet,” Tyrion said softly.
Then he stood, a composed smile already in place for the uninvited guests.
Nero understood at once.
In that single breath the dwarf had decided to gamble everything on the mad plan.
One wrong word and they would die here.
[Warning: Large-scale hostile encirclement detected.
Scenario: Extremely dangerous.] [[Honor Point Upgrade] system unlocked early.] [Friendly reminder: Current Honor is critically low.
Upgrade with extreme caution.
Honor reaching zero will trigger immediate erasure.] [Honor Points may now be spent to raise basic attributes.
Cost scales with attribute and current value.] Nero’s pupils tightened.
Fourteen Honor.
Everything he had earned by killing the cannibal and holding the line against injustice.
Against Shagga and the men closing in, one extra point of Honor would buy him nothing.
Improved flesh might.
“All of it.
Focus on Agility.
Secondary on Strength.” [13 Honor consumed.
Attributes updated:] Strength: 14 → 18 Agility: 13 → 22 (significant increase in explosive power and neural reflex) Remaining Honor: 1/100.
(Warning: critically low) Pain exploded through every muscle and bone, then was crushed under the weight of killing intent.
“The night is cold,” Tyrion said.
“Come warm yourselves by the fire.
We have no wine, but you are welcome to the mutton.” The shapes in the dark stirred.
Someone muttered in surprise that the dwarf had spoken first.
A voice like grinding stone answered from the bushes.
“The mountain is ours.
The mutton is ours.” “The mutton is yours,” Tyrion agreed without changing expression.
“Who are you?” “When you meet your gods,” another voice crashed down from the cliff above, “tell them Shagga, son of Dolf, sent you.” A boulder moved and became a man—a giant in beast skins, old scars carved deep across chest and shoulders.
The bushes parted.
A leaner figure stepped out, iron rings swinging from both ears, a hunting knife riding his thigh.
He stood half a head shorter than Shagga, but his eyes were quick and fox-sharp.
“I am Gunthor, son of Gunn of the Stone Crows.” He looked Tyrion over the way a man inspects a talking goat.
“Jaggot.
Conn.
Torrek.” He pointed to the men behind him one by one—sickles and fire-hardened spears in their hands—listing names like items on a butcher’s board.
Ten at least.
Probably more.
Bronn’s knuckles were white on his sword hilt, but he did not move.
Gunthor’s gaze shifted to the rock wall and the two corpses still cooling there—the Painted Dog leaders Nero had killed.
“Was it you who opened that beast’s throat?” “It was me.” Nero stepped calmly to Tyrion’s side.
The Stone Crows exchanged glances.
They had a blood feud with the Painted Dogs.
Nero’s kill had bought a thin, uneasy respect.
“The Painted Dogs steal our meat and our children.
You did us a service that needed doing.” Gunthor’s tone changed.
“That does not mean the toll is paid.” “I am Tyrion, son of Tywin of House Lannister.” The dwarf sat up straight.
Firelight stretched the lines of his face into something long and strange.
“My father is the Lion of Casterly Rock.” Gunthor tilted his head.
“Lannister.
Lowland lord.
Heard the name.” “Then you have also heard that a Lannister always pays his debts.” Tyrion shook two silver stags from his purse.
“I am happy to pay for the mutton.” Shagga gave a low rumble.
“The half-man offers us our own things as payment.” “Your silver is ours.
Your horses are ours.
That chainmail on your back is ours as well.” He took two heavy steps toward the fire.
“You have only one life left to offer.
Tyrion, son of Tywin—how do you wish to die?” “I wish to live to eighty, full of wine, with a soft woman in my bed, and die warm between clean sheets.” Shagga was the first to laugh, a sound like rocks tumbling.
The others did not find it as funny.
“Conn, take the horses,” Gunthor ordered.
“Kill the other one.
Keep the half-man and the pretty boy.
They can milk goats.
It might please the mothers of our children.” Bronn rose in one smooth motion.
“Who dies first?” Jaggot grinned and drove the point of his spear to within a hand’s breadth of Tyrion’s throat.
Nero moved.
Agility 22 turned the motion into something close to teleportation in the eyes of ordinary men.
Before Bronn could take a single step, Nero was already between Tyrion and the spear.
He did not draw fully.
Left gauntlet knocked the shaft aside.
Right hand flashed the longsword in a short, vicious arc that stopped with the point resting exactly on the tendons of Jaggot’s wrist.
One more fraction of an inch and the hand would never close again.
Silence crashed over the pass.
Even Shagga froze, axe half-raised, staring at the “knight” whose speed made no sense.
“Shagga, son of Dolf.” Nero kept the point steady, eyes locked on the giant.
“We killed the Painted Dog cannibals.
That was a gift.
Start a war now and you lose a man before the first blow lands.
I might even take your head in trade.” Gunthor looked from the thin line of blood on Jaggot’s wrist to Nero’s face, then raised one hand.
“I will hear what he has to say.” The moment the pressure eased, Tyrion seized it.
“Gunthor, son of Gunn—listen carefully.
My family has gold and power both.
Guide us safely down this mountain and the reward my father gives you will be so heavy you will never wash the dirt from your hands.” “Lowland gold is as empty as a half-man’s words,” Gunthor answered at once.
“I may be only half a man,” Tyrion said, rising on his short legs, “but I have the courage to stand in front of a dozen armed mountain warriors.
What about the Stone Crows?
When the knights of the Vale ride out, do you still hide behind rocks?” Shagga roared.
Jaggot’s spear tip stopped an inch from Tyrion’s chin.
The charcoal-black point did not waver.
Tyrion did not flinch.
“Dwarf!” Shagga’s voice rolled like thunder through stone.
“I will cut off your manhood and feed it to the goats!” Gunthor’s eyes moved between Nero and Tyrion.
“The mothers of our children starve.
Good steel is worth more than gold.
Tyrion, son of Tywin—what will you trade for your life?
Swords?
Spears?
Armor?” “All of those, and more.” Tyrion lifted his chin.
Firelight caught the side of his face and turned the smile into something sharp and night-born.
“I will give you the entire Vale of Arryn.” The wind itself seemed to pause in the pass.
The Vale of Arryn.
The words struck like a falling star into still water.
Anger on the painted faces shifted into naked greed and disbelief.
“Did the half-man just say—the Vale?” “Yes.” Tyrion spread his hands.
“Black soil.
Golden wheat fields you have never seen.
Lord Royce sitting in his castle beneath the Moon Door, crunching melon seeds in full plate.
I am the son of Lord Tywin.
He has more swords and spears than he can count.
Bring me safely to his camp and weapons will not be a problem.
As for the valley—” He pointed east, toward the distant peak that held the Eyrie.
“That land belonged to your ancestors.
House Arryn has sat on it for a thousand years.
It is time it returned to its rightful owners.” Shagga looked at Gunthor and gave a slow, heavy nod.
“Half-man.
If this promise is only wind, Shagga will split your skull himself.” Tyrion released a long breath.
The familiar cunning smile settled back onto his face.
“Rest easy.
A Lannister always pays his debts.”