Snow. Snow drifted down outside the tent.
Tyrion lifted the flap, and cold air surged inside. The camp beyond was already covered in a thin white blanket, growing heavier by the moment. In the distance, the barns seemed to pull on hoods of snow.
Inside the tent, Sansa was complaining about the cold, so he stepped back out and secured the flap properly. Snowflakes drifted down in silence. A few melted against his face, and he could see his breath frosting in the air.
It was snowing in the Vale as well. If it was snowing here, then Lannisport and King's Landing would be no different. Winter was sweeping south from the North, yet half the realm's granaries were still empty. Any crops left unharvested were already ruined. There would be no sowing, no final harvest, no last chance.
He wondered whether the Riverlands would even manage to gather their last pumpkins.
By evening, the snow would reach ankle depth. Away from the castle, the roads, and the camp, in the forests beyond, it piled even deeper beneath the trees.
Between the campfires, the snow had been churned into slush by boots and hooves. Shields and banners were everywhere: the Lannister gold lion on red, the runic stone sigil of Runestone, and among them the lesser houses sworn to Bronze Yohn Royce. Red-and-blue banners of House Coldwater of Coldwater Burn, the black-and-white checks of House Shett of Seagull's Tower, and the mountain peaks of House Tollett of Grey Glen.
The imp's arrival caused a stir. A scout tightening his boots gaped at him, a knight he half-recognized dropped to one knee, and two soldiers in the middle of pissing turned at the same time, soaking each other.
"Lord Tyrion!" someone shouted.
He did not look back, striding straight ahead. Many of the faces around him were the same ones who had once clamored for his execution at the Eyrie, back when Lady Lysa Tully ruled the Vale while nursing young Robert. And now? Bronze had told them all that Littlefinger was the one who had destroyed everything.
He mounted his horse and rode out of the camp with his attendants. Ahead, the siege engines before the Gates of the Moon were slowly rolling into position. Nestor Royce knew nothing of war. He had not even prepared the battlements. No stones, no boiling oil, not enough warm clothing. Only the sigil remained: a black portcullis before a white crescent moon, on a purple field edged in bronze, the edging itself inlaid with runes. The runes of House Royce.
Jaime Lannister stood at the very center of the battlefield. Though the overall commander was Yohn Royce, with Brynden Tully as his deputy, the Kingslayer drew the greatest devotion. Countless hedge knights and sellswords crowded around him, begging to be allowed into the first assault wave.
Fools, Tyrion thought.
That had always been Bronze and the Blackfish's plan. Let them die in the first wave. The second and third waves would be mixed formations of Lannister and Vale troops, with the Vale men in the majority.
The drums thundered.
The wheels of the siege towers rumbled.
Hooves, steel, and shouting echoed through the valley.
The soldiers advanced with shouted chants. Only a thin scatter of arrows fell from the walls, dripping down like Maester Pycelle's prostate. It was said that on the very day Jaime slew Lyn Corbray, a quarter of the Gates of the Moon garrison had fled.
Looks like the catapults won't be needed, Tyrion thought. If I'd known it would be this easy, I should have insisted on attacking with my brother. This is free glory.
The battering ram slammed up against the gate, and the siege towers locked onto the walls. The first wave surged forward, shouting and waving their weapons as they swarmed the battlements and the gatehouse. From afar, Tyrion could just make out his brother's gleaming gold-plated armor, and Thoros's sword burning bright with flame.
Less than half an hour later, Nestor Royce's banner was cut down. In its place atop the walls flew the crescent falcon of House Arryn.
Cheers erupted from the soldiers outside. The second wave followed immediately, climbing the walls by way of the siege towers. The third wave, under Bronze Yohn's command, waited at the gate.
Another half hour passed. The battering ram still had not broken the gate, but the assault troops had already taken the walls and opened the gates from within. Soldiers poured inside in a steady stream.
Brynden Tully led his men in the search for Lady Lysa. Bronze Yohn Royce went after Nestor Royce. As for Timett, Tyrion had given his orders long ago. He was to take the most trusted warriors of the mountain clans and find Harrold Hardyng before anyone else.
Whether the unfortunate Hardyng lived or died would depend entirely on Timett's mood.
"I want Littlefinger," Tyrion said, giving his orders to his brother, Thoros, Bronn, and the rest.
"If he tries to run, kill him on the spot. If he's cornered, I'll deal with him myself."
After several corridors were cleared, the great hall secured, and the mountain road leading to the Eyrie taken, Bronn sent word. Petyr Baelish had been cornered in the highest tower of the Gates of the Moon.
Climbing the spiral staircase reminded Tyrion of the Tower of the Hand. At the top, Bronn and several soldiers stood guard at the door. He pushed it open, and the biting mountain wind struck his face like knives.
"Petyr Baelish."
Tyrion stood before him. The wretched schemer lay sprawled on the ground, his eyes burning with rage and resentment.
"Long time no see," Tyrion said. "Any last words?"
"Catelyn… Sansa…" Littlefinger looked up at him, knowing there was no escape. His voice was barely a whisper. "Why? First Brandon Stark, then Ned Stark, and now you… you nobles…"
"You think you lost because you weren't born a noble?" Tyrion seized him by the collar and slammed him against the battlements.
"Did Brandon Stark defeat you because of his noble blood?"
"You loved Catelyn Stark. Did that mean she was obliged to marry you?"
"Jon Arryn raised you up, step by step, all the way to Master of Coin. And you still chose to murder him."
"How could you…" Littlefinger's eyes widened.
"I see more than you think," Tyrion said calmly. "Especially conspiracies. You worked with Varys, Pentos, and the Dornish, trying to overthrow the Iron Throne."
Fear flickered in Littlefinger's eyes.
"And you sought to conspire with Highgarden as well."
"You even went to my father and asked for Sansa's hand, didn't you?"
"Sansa…" The name seemed to snap him back to himself. "It's all your fault. It was supposed to… it was supposed to…"
"Stop fooling yourself." Tyrion leaned close to his ear.
"Sansa would only ever dance to your tune if I were a dwarf. But now, she's lost with me every single day, helplessly addicted."
With that, Tyrion shoved Littlefinger over the battlements.
He leaned out and looked down. In the snow below, a dark flower had bloomed.
It seemed the mockingbird couldn't fly after all.
...
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