The marching camp sat along the mountain road from the Bloody Gate to The Eyrie. Torches flickered here and there, and the golden lion banner fluttered alone in the wind.
Tyrion had led everyone out of Gates of the Moon under cover of night, leaving Littlefinger and Bronze behind.
They had stopped at a wide shelf on the mountainside during their descent. Soldiers cleared the ground, set up fences, leveled the earth, and raised watchtowers. Massive boulders were stacked at the top of the slope, facing the road that climbed upward.
Brynden Tully had taken the Bloody Gate without shedding a drop of blood. The guards felt no suspicion toward their old commander, and Ser Donnel Waynwood was disarmed with ease. With Brynden Blackwood stationed inside the gate, he sent three squads racing back to the Riverlands to request reinforcements and supplies from Darry, Harrenhal, and Riverrun.
"With fewer than two thousand men, we'll never hold the Bloody Gate," Janos Bracken barked, clearly losing his temper. "Hold it? By the time the snows seal the mountains, we'll freeze to death before anyone attacks us."
Unlikely, Tyrion thought. The chest hair on your body could serve as winter furs.
"Then pull back," Greatjon said. "So what if that sickly boy dies? We march back to The North from Moat Cailin."
"No," Tyrion said at once. "Littlefinger has already seized the advantage. He's brought more than half the Vale lords under his rule. If we let this continue..."
He might truly rule the Vale. Then this place would be sealed tight as iron, no needle slipping through, no water seeping in. Too late for anything. Ambition had to be strangled at the sprouting root.
"Tyrion is right," Brynden Tully said. "You don't understand Petyr Baelish. He's been quick-witted since boyhood. And cleverness can hide a great deal—but underneath it lies treachery."
"But we can't—"
"Enough!"
Lord Janos opened his mouth again, but Tyrion cut him off.
"Arguing helps nothing. We'll decide once the men we sent to the Riverlands return." He rose and stepped out of the tent.
The Bloody Gate perched high in the Mountains of the Moon, far colder than the Vale plains below. Tyrion saw soldiers gripping their spears while shivering violently at their posts. He hurried into another tent, lifted the flap, and a wave of heat rolled over him.
Sansa, Arya, and Brienne were seated inside.
"Ladies," Tyrion said, stamping his feet for warmth. "I hope the mountain chill hasn't gotten to you."
"Liar!"
Arya's horse-long face glared at him. No doubt the lady had told her everything. It hardly mattered now—Little Robert was sleeping forever. Even so, the thought tugged at Tyrion's conscience.
Thwack!
"Arya!" The horse-faced girl had flung a pebble she'd picked up from somewhere, and her sister shouted in outrage.
"It's all right," Tyrion said as he sat. "She has every right to be angry."
"Everyone must marry someday, my lady," Brienne said gently.
Tyrion looked at the beauty. Other people offering comfort made sense—why a knight thought to comfort Arya, he had no idea.
"I'm not angry because he betrothed me!" Arya snapped, tossing an entire handful of pebbles at him. "I'm angry because he picked that sickly, milk-sucking child for me!"
"My lady," the knight murmured, placing a hand on her shoulder, "that's how betrothals work. My father once found three men willing to marry me, and of course all three were after my inheritance."
"The first two engagements went nowhere. The third was to an old man, Humfrey Wagstaff. He insisted that after the wedding I behave like a proper lady. And I was only sixteen."
"I told him I'd never agree unless he defeated me in a joust," Brienne said with a grin. "Ser Humfrey broke three bones instead, and naturally the betrothal was canceled. After that, my father stopped trying to find me a husband."
"You hear that?" Arya spun around with her hands on her hips. "At the very least, find someone who can beat me. Not some milk-drinking, pants-wetting baby."
"Then Gendry sounds just right," Tyrion said, giving her a cold look. "He could smash your skinny arms and legs to pieces."
"Enough! You two can keep chatting, you filthy pair!" Arya snapped. "I'm sleeping with Brienne tonight."
She stormed out of the tent.
"My apologies, my lord, my lady. I'll go bring her back," Brienne said, rising.
"No need. If she tries to crawl into your tent tonight, kick her out," Tyrion said. "A horse-faced girl belongs in the stables."
"I'm sorry," Sansa murmured once the others were gone, taking her husband's hand. "I wasn't able to help you."
"What does this have to do with you?" Tyrion brushed his thumb across her fingers, guiding her hand to his cheek. "Things aren't nearly as bad as they were at Pinkmaiden."
"Back then we were drinking root soup," Sansa reminded him. "Podrick even dug up a vole burrow full of wheat and beans, but you still refused to eat any."
"You'd catch the plague eating that," Tyrion said, glancing at a small plate on the table piled with ring cakes. "Is this what you've been eating every day?"
"I brought plenty with us when we left Gates of the Moon," Sansa said. "Maybe eating them will help us think about how Littlefinger murdered Lord Robert Arryn."
"Poor little Robert," she whispered. "He was slow, loved his milk, cried, wet his pants, had seizures… but he was still just a child."
Tyrion took a piece of cake and ate it. Then he picked up another, set it down, and began shifting the cake pieces around.
Sansa watched his expression move from confusion to surprise, back to confusion, then suddenly to delight. Her husband let out a small, helpless laugh.
"What is it?" she asked.
Tyrion leapt to his feet, pacing excitedly around the tent like a mule at the mill, making odd little squeaks of joy. He grabbed a handful of cake and shoved it into his mouth before pulling his wife upright.
"I knew you wouldn't disappoint me!" he said, kissing her cheeks twice and leaving crumbs behind.
"What did you figure out?"
"I can't tell you yet, but I've got it. I've worked out the method." As he spoke, footsteps sounded outside.
"My lord!" A voice both familiar and strange called out. "We've returned, and we've succeeded!"
"And here comes another who never disappoints me," Tyrion said with a grin, wiping his lips. "Come in!"
Who could it be? Sansa wondered.
The curtain lifted. In stepped Lord Stokeworth, once a sellsword, and the one-eyed barbarian from the mountain clans.
...
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