The Mountain's host remained at Harrenhal to scour the Riverlands of raiders, while Tyrion led the rest of the men down along the Blackwater, King's Landing just ahead.
The river ran deep and fast, rushing toward Blackwater Bay.
Its waters were dark as ink, mysterious and turbulent, smashing against the banks with a thunderous roar. Spray leapt high, a crashing chorus like nature's own grand symphony. In the sunlight, the surface sometimes flickered with a dim, star-like gleam.
"This young man has green eyes, a handkerchief," Tyrion sang softly in the saddle, gazing out at the river.
"In his breast pocket it swayed, like an iris bloom."
"The girls on the bank watched that graceful knight."
"And the knight, riding the shore, watched the girl who watched him."
"I don't know what the girl meant to him."
"Shut up." Arya Stark rode pillion with Shae, just behind Tyrion. All along the road, whenever the Lust Demon began to speak, she cut him off.
"But the horse-faced girl has such a temper," Tyrion said with a grin. "What is it? Don't like the song?"
"Don't know where you stole it from," Arya shot back. "You're an illiterate, a scoundrel, a bandit. How could you possibly write poetry?"
"You're far too harsh on your rescuer." Tyrion shrugged. "If not for me, you'd have ended in the hands of the Brave Companions. Remember? That brute who liked little boys—I'd wager he was a septon."
"You killed Yoren!" Arya snapped. "For your gold."
"Then I should be damned a thousand times over," Tyrion replied. "Every time my lordly heart softens, half the beggars in King's Landing will pay for it."
"I wouldn't mind dying by your hand," Bronn cut in.
Ahead, a column of riders appeared, banners flying at the fore—a bloodstained spear upon the cloth.
"That must be the new-made lord my father spoke of, Janos Slynt, commander of the City Watch—the Gold Cloaks," Tyrion said.
"I've seen him," Arya said. "On the day of the execution."
Nearly a thousand Gold Cloaks marched there, clad in thick woolen cloaks dyed gold, their armor, boots, and gauntlets black. Officers wore black breastplates set with four golden discs. At their belts hung hammers and swords; in their hands, black-iron spears.
At their head rode Janos Slynt, a squat, barrel-shaped man with a bald pate, a double chin, and a frog's face. His banner streamed behind him.
The Gold Cloaks looked far less disciplined than the garrison of Lannisport. Tyrion studied them and asked, "Ser Janos Slynt?"
"My lord, none other!" Slynt beamed, his face creased in oily smiles, every wrinkle steeped in flattery. "It is my greatest honor to welcome you to this glorious city of King's Landing. May your presence bless our walls with endless honor and prosperity."
The butcher's son had a surprising touch of polish.
"Isn't this display a bit much?" Tyrion asked, sweeping his gaze over the ranks. "Half your Gold Cloaks?" Was the man boasting?
"For your safety, my lord, this is nothing." Slynt puffed out his chest, reminding Tyrion of a toad swelling its throat. "Besides, the Gold Cloaks now number six thousand."
Six thousand?!
That was three times their old strength. Feeding, arming, housing, and paying them would bleed coin like a slit throat.
Whether it was his clever sister or his soft-hearted nephew, someone had spent their own fortune fattening Janos Slynt into a monster.
"Managing so many men must be quite the burden, Lord," Tyrion said with practiced flattery.
Janos Slynt waved, and the column of Gold Cloaks split neatly, riding to either side of Tyrion's party before turning toward King's Landing.
Shagga gawked at the glittering armor, craning his neck left and right, while Timett sat steady in the saddle, no longer the nervous outsider he had been when first entering Tywin's camp.
Arya Stark kept her eyes locked on Janos Slynt. She remembered too well—on the day her father was executed, after Sansa's confession, it was Slynt and Ilyn Payne who dragged him to the block.
Bronn, Shae, and Podrick Payne brimmed with anticipation at the thought of reaching King's Landing, each believing they had bound themselves to a great lord. Yet none of them were wholly loyal, and what they hoped to gain from Tyrion varied sharply.
Had Maester Qyburn ever seen the Red Keep? Likely not. But Tyrion was sure the dungeons of King's Landing would soon become his perfect laboratory.
He let his gaze drift over the faces of those following him—each different, each alight with its own glimmer of hope or ambition. This ragged band would be the core of what he built from nothing.
The column stretched for miles, a great serpent winding across the land, carving deep ruts into the earth—marks that would tell of this journey long after.
Birdsong and insect hums followed them along the way, as if nature itself urged them on, while the distant mountains and rivers bore silent witness.
Soon, the vast walls of King's Landing loomed before them, the spires of the Red Keep faint against the horizon.
Outside the city, the poor had raised their shanties. The capital teemed with life, but it was filthier, fouler, and uglier than any other city. The reek of refuse could be smelled even beyond the gates.
Still, King's Landing was one of the great ports of the Seven Kingdoms, second only to Oldtown. Tyrion found comfort in that—he liked port cities.
"Seven" was sacred in Westeros, so Aegon the Conqueror had raised seven great gates for the city, each guarded with iron grates, heavy doors, and armed men.
"We'll enter through the Lion Gate, fitting for your station," Janos Slynt said.
"All good things fade with the dusk.
Purple eyes may still pierce the dust.
We'll never know what it once meant to him.
Knights, black waters, laughter on the river.
We only know what the horse-faced girl means to us.
His brother will leave us in the end.
But still the river runs beside us, shining, rushing."
Tyrion hummed the verses as they rode under the gate. The poor craned their necks to watch, and he scattered handfuls of copper stars and halfpennies from his cloak, sending beggars scrambling.
Merchants and craftsmen lingered at a distance, watching, but none dared approach.