"Lord!"
Amory Lorch came panting with his men, his helmet askew and breastplate hanging loose, though without a mark of battle on it.
"My lord, that traitor ran too fast and knew the land too well. We couldn't catch him."
"I trust you did your best to give chase." Tyrion's eyes fell on his own money pouch, now hanging from Lorch's belt. "Are you holding Harrenhal's defenses now?"
"Yes, my lord." Lorch nodded with a forced smile. "I am acting castellan of Harrenhal, charged with the safety of the supply convoys and the defenses of the surrounding lands."
"Hmph." The Mountain gave a cold snort. "The Brotherhood Without Banners have been harrying the supply lines. How many of their raiders have you caught?"
Lorch had no answer.
So, Amory Lorch was nothing but a cruel fool. As a subordinate he was far worse than the Mountain. Gregor was sheer brutality, but at least he accomplished his tasks. Lorch's cruelty was mixed with greed.
Tyrion had no wish to deal with him, nor did he care to mention the stolen purse. Instead, he moved through the camp, searching for survivors. He knew three still remained to be found.
At last, near a lonely thicket, he came upon a prison cart holding three men.
Among the Night's Watch, those thrown into such carts were always the worst of criminals.
Amory Lorch and Gregor Clegane stood at Tyrion's back.
"What are your names?" Tyrion called, keeping his distance from the cart.
"My name is Rorge, my lord," said one. He was bent-backed, heavyset, his body covered in black hair, and he had no nose. "This one is Biter. He cannot speak."
Biter was a hulking, bald brute with skin as pale and soft as dough. His tongue had been cut out, leaving him able only to hiss ceaselessly through teeth scored with scratches.
"I once kept a fighting pit in Flea Bottom," Rorge explained. "Biter was an orphan. I raised him myself."
"And you?" Tyrion looked to the third. "What's your name?"
"Jaqen H'ghar," the man replied. His hair was half white, half red. "A man comes from Lorath."
"Your hair is curious. Natural, or dyed?" Tyrion asked.
"Honored lord, a man's hair is not like yours. It is dyed," Jaqen H'ghar said.
Ha. Tyrion gave a dry chuckle. His hair was not two different colors. What nonsense was this pitiful assassin spouting?
In truth, Tyrion disliked such wild cards. The Faceless Men were too dangerous, too unpredictable. The more one dealt with them, the more perilous it became. Best not to keep him alive at all.
"Then what do we do with these three?" Tyrion asked.
"Burn them. Hack them apart. Hang them. Makes no matter," said Ser Gregor Clegane.
It wasn't the manner of death he cared for, but that they die—and preferably by his own hand.
"Perhaps they could bolster our ranks," Amory Lorch offered. He always seemed to find strange patience when dealing with vicious criminals, and now he suggested pressing them into service.
"Or they could be sent to Castle Black," Tyrion mused. "Would you three care to go to Castle Black?"
Rorge shook his head. Biter shook his as well, hissing all the while. Jaqen said nothing.
Tyrion stooped, picked up a stone, and smashed the cart's lock. "Ser Amory Lorch, they're yours."
The Mountain growled his displeasure as the three climbed out of the cart. Jaqen H'ghar bowed low to Tyrion's retreating back.
At that moment, a man burst stumbling from the woods and rushed to Tyrion's side. "Shagga's lost him!"
It was Shagga.
"Shagga wasn't familiar with these woods and got shaken off by two boys."
"Two boys?" Tyrion asked. "Which two? I told you to chase the one with the horned helmet."
"Shagga remembers—the boy with the horned helmet," Shagga said. "And the fat white boy." He pointed to his leg, where two arrows stuck out.
"Shagga chased them to the lake. He was about to catch them when arrows flew from the forest. The boys escaped while Shagga took the shafts. After that, Shagga couldn't run."
"The Brotherhood Without Banners," Amory Lorch muttered.
"Never mind. Lost is lost." Tyrion dismissed it with a sigh. He already had the one he wanted; the rest were only scraps.
He ordered Maester Qyburn to tend Shagga's wounds, then told Amory Lorch to march the men to Harrenhal for the night.
The Brotherhood Without Banners was near, and Tyrion had no wish to camp in these woods again. One battle had drained him; he wouldn't risk another.
...
Harrenhal, the great fortress on the northern shore of the Gods Eye, had been raised before the Conquest by Harren Hoare, called Harren the Black, last King of the Isles and Rivers.
It was the largest castle in the Seven Kingdoms, greater even than the Red Keep or Winterfell. Yet since Aegon's Conquest, it had remained dark and broken, as though cursed.
Harrenhal was three times the size of Winterfell, its scale beyond comparison. Its stables could hold a thousand horses, its godswood spanned twenty acres, and its kitchens rivaled Winterfell's great hall.
The castle boasted five vast towers and walls of staggering thickness. Within those walls, chambers were large enough to house giants. Its lords had once been among the wealthiest in Westeros, ruling broad and fertile lands.
But now much of Harrenhal lay in ruin. House Whent used only the lower two-thirds of its five towers, leaving the rest to rot. Many parts had gone untouched for decades, and bats made their homes in the upper reaches.
Harrenhal was the mightiest of castles—but even the mightiest could fall. The Rock would never fall, Tyrion thought as he rode into the monstrous keep.
"Your garrison is nowhere near enough to hold all of Harrenhal," Tyrion said to Amory Lorch.
"Yes, my lord."
Tyrion studied the layout. Two towers were joined by a stone bridge.
"My men will quarter here," he said, pointing to one. "That one goes to Ser Clegane."
They were the Kingspyre Tower and the Widow's Tower.
"Shae, Qyburn, and the boy stay with me. Bronn, you'll see to our protection. Timett and Chella take the outer watch. Shagga rests tonight."