On a hill overlooking the kingsroad, a long trestle table of rough-hewn pine had been erectedbeneath an elm tree and covered with a golden cloth. There, beside his pavilion, Lord Tywin took hisevening meal with his chief knights⁴ and lords bannermen, his great crimson⁵-and-gold standardwaving overhead from a lofty pike.

Tyrion arrived late, saddlesore, and sour, all too vividly⁶ aware of how amusing he must look as hewaddled up the slope to his father. The day’s march had been long and tiring. He thought he might getquite drunk tonight. It was twilight⁸, and the air was alive with drifting fireflies.

The cooks were serving the meat course: five suckling pigs, skin seared and crackling, a differentfruit in every mouth. The smell made his mouth water. “My pardons,” he began, taking his place onthe bench beside his uncle.

“Perhaps I’d best charge you with burying our dead, Tyrion,” Lord Tywin said. “If you are as lateto battle as you are to table, the fighting will all be done by the time you arrive.”

“Oh, surely you can save me a peasant or two, Father,” Tyrion replied. “Not too many, I wouldn’twant to be greedy.” He filled his wine cup and watched a serving man carve into the pig. The crispskin crackled under his knife, and hot juice ran from the meat. It was the loveliest sight Tyrion hadseen in ages.

“Ser Addam’s outriders say the Stark⁹ host has moved south from the Twins,” his father reportedas his trencher was filled with slices of pork. “Lord Frey’s levies¹⁰ have joined them. They are likely nomore than a day’s march north of us.”

“Please, Father,” Tyrion said. “I’m about to eat.”

“Does the thought of facing the Stark boy unman you, Tyrion? Your brother Jaime would beeager to come to grips with him.”

“I’d sooner come to grips with that pig. Robb Stark is not half so tender, and he never smelled asgood.”

Lord Lefford, the sour bird who had charge of their stores and supplies, leaned forward. “I hopeyour

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