Ser Flement Brax lifted his visor. "Lord Tyrion."
He looked astonished. "My lord, we all thought you were dead, otherwise we would never have…" He hesitated, glancing at the mountain clans behind Tyrion. "…your… companions…"
"They are my close friends and loyal retainers," Tyrion Lannister replied, "and allies of House Lannister. Where is my father?"
"Lord Tywin is using the inn at the crossroads as his command headquarters for the time being."
"I'll see him at once."
"As you command, my lord." Ser Flement turned his horse. At his order, soldiers pulled three rows of stakes from the ground, clearing a path so Tyrion and his riders could pass.
The camp of Lord Tywin stretched for miles, and Chella's estimate of twenty thousand men was not far off. Common soldiers slept beneath trees or rough lean-tos, while knights had tents, and some lords' pavilions were as large as houses.
Tyrion glimpsed the red bull of House Prester, the brindled boar of House Crakehall, the burning tree of House Marbrand, and many other sigils he could not name. Apparently, the old Tyrion had not cared much for heraldry.
As he hurried past, knights greeted him, while the militia gaped at the mountain clans as though they were ghosts.
Shagga's mouth hung open just as wide. He had likely never seen so many men, horses, and weapons in his life. Even the knights of the Vale, though well-equipped, had rarely gathered more than a thousand at once.
The other clan leaders hid their shock better, but Tyrion knew they were just as impressed. The more they were awed by Lannister power, the easier they would be to command.
Two guards in red cloaks and lion-crested helms stood beneath the inn's signboard.
"Where is my father?"
"In the hall, my lord."
"My people need food and drink," Tyrion Lannister told them. "See to it."
"And Bronn—keep them calm. I don't want any trouble."
He entered the inn. The dining hall had been cleared. Four square tables were pushed together and covered with a great red cloth. A circle of armored knights sat around it.
Tyrion's eyes passed over them—and found his father at once.
Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, was in his fifties, yet built like a man in his prime.
Even seated, he seemed tall, long-legged, broad-shouldered, with a flat stomach and lean but powerful arms. His golden hair was combed straight back, his beard neatly trimmed, his pale green eyes flecked with gold.
Ser Kevan Lannister sat to Tywin's right, drinking ale. His uncle was lean, a smaller echo of Tywin, with a short yellow beard.
Kevan noticed him first. "Tyrion?" he said, astonished.
"Uncle." Tyrion bowed. "Father. My lords. It's good to see you."
"Tyrion!" Tywin rose abruptly. "Gods be praised—you are safe. I prayed every night. Had harm come to you, I would have burned that whore's kin to ash…"
Kevan seemed surprised to hear such words from his brother, then merely shrugged and winked at Tyrion.
"Sit beside me," Tywin commanded. The knight at his left rose; his armor bore the burning tree.
Addam Marbrand, son and heir of Lord Damon Marbrand of Ashemark. Tyrion remembered him as Jaime's childhood friend, once a page at Casterly Rock.
As Tyrion walked forward, knights rose to clap his back. Those across the table stood in respect.
"You came back alone?" Kevan asked.
"No," Tyrion Lannister said. He kept his answers concise. "When I was taken, my escort was killed. But along the way I gathered nearly two thousand mountain clansmen. They're assembling as we speak."
A murmur of astonishment rippled through the room—two thousand men was the full strength of many lesser houses.
"That is the roar of a lion," Tywin said. "Let our enemies hear it." He never smiled, but his knights visibly relaxed.
"What did you promise them?" his father asked next.
"The first group is three hundred," Tyrion said, pouring himself ale. "Another two hundred should arrive within two days."
"I promised them honor—nonsense, of course." He drank deeply. "Mostly gold, arms, armor, and the right to plunder. And I told them to move their people to the ruins of Tarbeck Hall…"
"My lord," one knight said, "granting lands in the Westerlands to mountain clans is… irregular."
Tyrion saw a golden mountain on his armor—Lefford of the Golden Tooth, yes.
The table fell silent as all eyes turned to Tywin.
The old lion spoke at last, softly but with crushing authority. The tables seemed to tremble.
"Ser Leo Lefford, are you questioning Tyrion?"
"My lord, not at all," Lefford said quickly, rising. "I merely spoke out of turn—"
"He is your future liege," Tywin said. "His decisions are mine. If anyone is to question them, it is Kevan and I."
The force of his voice made Tyrion's ears ring.
"My apologies, my lord," Lefford said again.
"It's nothing," Tyrion Lannister said, standing. "I did not promise them castles or lands. They have no roots in the west—they cannot cause trouble. And Tarbeck Hall's ruins need rebuilding. The clansmen who fight will leave hostages to ensure loyalty. I hadn't finished explaining. Tell me—who oversees the army's equipment?"
"I do," Ser Leo Lefford said. "My lord."
"Then arm the three hundred men I brought."
"As you command."
"That will be all," Tywin Lannister said, rising. "Everyone out."
The knights stood.
"Kevan and Tyrion remain."