(The Goldroad: 10/8/298 AC) Tyrion III

He peered out from the carriage, head aching, catching the aroma of the recently passed rains and fresh mud on the wind. The sky was dull and grey, a few rays of light shining some distance away. "How much longer to King's Landing…?" He lingered on the question, trying to remember the man who controlled the reins.

The man straightened himself, understanding the pause, "Wode, my Lord."

"I'm not a lord, Wode," he moved to sit near the window of the carriage, passing a stack of books and parchments regarding the prophecies of 'the Prince that was Promised,' and his various names. Shifting the curtain aside, he slid the window open and looked out down the muddied Goldroad. Mountains ran down along the northern side of the path while a small copse of trees, and rocky outcroppings, lined its southern side. "So how long?"

"Two weeks, in favorable conditions, three at most should the weather turn," a throaty voice replied. The carriage shook as it passed over a small patch of rocky terrain, providing an unwelcome surprise after the long slog through the mud. A group of thirty men on horseback rode ahead of the carriage, leading a supply wagon, while six rode at either side of his carriage. The rest of his hundred-strong guard rode behind, some cursing the soggy ground.

"Speed is of the essence, and these conditions do not seem too favorable at the moment," he saw several men struggling with a wagon up ahead, its wheel caught in the muck. "I do not recall hearing much rain last night. Was there a flood while I wasn't looking?"

"Speaking plainly, my l….Tyrion," the man coughed, clearing his throat. "You did drink quite the ample amount of ale the night before."

"I'm fairly confident I've drunk far more in the past than I did last night," he corrected, looking towards the man seated on the other side of the window.

"With all due respect," Wode's deep voice added. "You opened the windows of the carriage and called everyone 'cunts,' even that traveling family of smallfolk while singing the 'Rains of Castamere,' and shouting about 'Azor Ahai.' The men thought you had grown mad before you put your head over the edge of the carriage and spewed your guts all over its side."

"Well, perhaps I was mistaken?" He felt a smirk grow on his face as he focused on the hunched man before him. Even in the haze of his mind, the readings on the prophecy, and the flickering candle by his table that last night, had shaken him far more than he would have cared to admit.

"There will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour, a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him…."

'Nothing but grumkins and snarks,' he shook his head, not allowing his mood to darken.

"In any event, you did not seem to be very aware of the events transpiring before you. The storm passed quickly, but the rain fell in sheets for the hour that the rain clouds loomed above. We lost three wheels to the mud in the night, took some time to repair while you were indisposed."

'Hmmm, I doubt father will be pleased with these developments. Speaking of which,' the realization hit him, far slower than he would have liked. "Any news from my father, or King's Landing, while I was…away?"

"Yes, my lord, a rider in the night from Casterly Rock," he answered, a soft gust of wind cutting through the carriage. "Her grace, Queen Cersei, has sent word to Lord Tywin that she will be sending Myrcella down along the Goldroad, escorted by Ser Jaime and Ser Loras, in addition to twenty Lannister guardsmen."

'Jaime leading the escort? Hmmm, I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised,' he shrugged his shoulders. 'She wouldn't trust anyone else to escort Myrcella, especially Loras, after what she had done to the serving boy, Coren,' the grim outcome of Ser Loras' short-lived romance with the boy haunted the youngest Lannister sibling. 'I should not have told Jaime. Still, how did you manage to convince Robert to send Myrcella away, dear sister?'

"Lord Tywin has also sent word that another twenty men will be dispatched from the Rock to accompany us to the capital," Wode added, lightly snapping the reins as he did so.

"Reinforcements for the guards sent from King's Landing," he noted.

"Without a doubt," the man grunted, nodding his response. "We are to wait at Deep Den, a day or two, giving the extra men time to approach our caravan," Wode clarified.

"Wonderful news! I can finally sleep in a proper bed and not this slab of wood," he exclaimed, slapping a hand down on the cushion of the poor excuse of a bed laying at his side. "Did the message say when the princess would be departing from King's Landing?"

"No, my lord," Wode responded. "However…"

"Wode?"

"Yes, my lord?" he asked, cutting his own words short.

"Nevermind, go on," he sighed in defeat, realizing Wode had not given up saying, 'My lord.'

With a nod, the man continued, "Given the delay in communication, I fully expect to encounter them at around the time we reach the Blackwater Rush. Little more than a week out, not counting the time we spend in Deep Den."

"Might as well stop now," he said suddenly, the ale from the night before had made its presence known. "I need to piss," he looked out ahead.

"Of course, my lord," Wode replied, pulling at the reins of the four dark brown Palfreys leading the carriage. He felt it slow beneath him, before stopping entirely. "Halt!" a heavy voice bellowed, causing a few riders ahead to turn back towards the carriage.

"What is the meaning of this," one of the armored men closest to the carriage asked Wode. "We are to make for Deep Den in three days."

"Lord Tyrion requires a place to make water," the gruff voice stated, looking towards him, before snapping back to attention.

"We are all men here," he raised a brow at the man's propriety, smiling as he did so. "You can say 'piss,' without reprimand, Wode."

The armored man with the deep voice remained silent for a moment before replying. "Yes, my lord."

"Good to hear. I assure you, this won't take but a moment," Tyrion stated, rising from his seat.

The rider gave them both looks before he rode out behind them, "Halt!" the man began shouting.

Tyrion slipped on his boots and threw open the door to his temporary home on wheels. The steps off of the carriage were specially made to allow him quick ascent and descent without embarrassing himself.

"Watch your step, my lord," Wode warned, his face hidden behind a full Lannister helm. The man's torso and head were turned towards him, watching as he moved down the steps of the carriage.

He clambered down the wooden steps causing them to creak under his weight, nearly slipping as the ale seemed unwilling to let go of his sense of balance. "Thank for the warning, Wode."

"It was my pleasure, my lord," the deep-voiced man bowed.

'Now I have the feeling he is mocking me,' Tyrion chuckled to himself, landing upon the ground with a 'squish.' The mud rose above soles of his boots and made his journey to the nearby trees all the more difficult. After crossing a thicket of bushes, within shouting distance of the caravan, he rounded a large tree, undid his breeches, relaxed, and let the monster loose in torrents. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. "Ahhhhh. Maybe I should consider not drinking as much?" he asked himself.

"Or maybe you should drink more?" a voiced boomed, startling him and causing him to splatter piss all over his hands.

"Fuck!" he turned on his heels, fists at the ready, and his cock dangling between his legs for the world to see. There before him, stood a group of three men, along with two women, and a small girl. One of the women and the girl had seemingly turned away just in time. "Who in the seven hells are you?!"

"Travelers, my lord, but," the short, dark-skinned, fat man at the center of the group, cleared his throat where a chain with a burning heart lay. "If you be considerate enough to put that away, my lord?" the man looked down. "I would prefer it if my daughter were not exposed to such things yet."

He looked over to the girl who was still turned away, covering her eyes, with a mop of curly brown hair resting on her shoulders. A quick shove of his left hand saw his manhood back into their trousers. The girl and the two women wore loose, orange-colored leggings, with long strapped boots, red tunics laced closed, dusty grey undershirts, and all wore ruby chokers or necklaces. The men wore similar clothing only in slightly darker shades. They all carried small packs on their backs, and with no horses in sight, barring his own, he felt a small sort of truth behind the stranger's words. 'Perhaps they are travelers? Although,' he looked towards one of the women, 'that one looks remarkably attractive for a mere traveler.'

"I trust I need not fear for my life?"

"Of course not, my lord. We are but six and," the stout man started, looking out towards the caravan, "You are far more. Besides, we have no horses, we would be run down long before we arrived anywhere of import." The man caught himself, "My apologies, where are my manners? I am Gerros, and these are my children," he gestured to the group staring with the girl who no one had informed could now look upon him. "My youngest daughter, Tira."

"Can I look now?" she squeaked.

"Yes, little one," Gerros smiled. The girl began opening spaces between her fingers before removing her hands and revealing a rosy-cheeked face and large brown eyes.

'She looks around Myrcella's age, though taller,' he observed.

A polite smiled lined the girl's face before Gerros moved on. "My daughters, Vella and Vorila," the two women bowed slightly.

"It's a pleasure, my lord," they said in unison.

"And these, young men, are my sons Jorys and Arelos."

"My lord," they men nodded.

As one, the family looked out towards the direction of his caravan, and he felt the ground shake underneath the beating hooves of several horses. He turned, seeing several armed Lannister men closing in on the group. "Are you well, my lord? Have these people harmed you?"

The horsemen surrounded the family spears at the ready. The little girl whimpered and stood behind the heavy man.

"No, they have not, lower your weapons." The mounted men looked at him a moment before lowering their spears. "Tell me, Gerros, where were you and your family headed?"

"To Hornvale, then Wendish Town, my lord," the man answered, voice not as confident as before, but only just. "We just came from Deep Den and cut across the country to shorten the trip. May have gotten lost in the hills, for a few days," a sheepish grin appeared on the man's face. "But we can survive in the wilderness."

"Well, you are survivors indeed," he looked down towards the man's necklace, recognizing the burning heart for what it was. "Tell me, Ser, would we be able to spare me a few moments to speak with this man and his family? You can use the time to have the men rest a bit and allow the mud to become easier to manage. Besides, what difference does it make? We are still going to have to wait for the men at Deep Den."

The man hesitated before he spoke, "Very well, but only a few moments. Lord Tywin has given us a timeframe of when to arrive at Deep Den. I do not wish to disappoint him."

"Of course not, and neither do I," Tyrion frowned and nodded his head.

"Do you wish us to accompany you back to the path, or leave guards?"

"That will not be necessary captain, however, I know you will insist even if I say no to guards, so leave them at the tree line where they can see me."

The men remained a moment more before departing to the edge of the trees. He felt the family release mutually baited breath. Tyrion saw the captain of his guard pause and order a couple of men to wait by the trees, establishing a clear line of sight between each other.

"So Gerros, tell me, who are you? Where are you from? The necklace shows you to be a man of the Red Faith," he sat down on the roots of a nearby tree. "Do you serve her?"

"I am formerly from Braavos, my lord," the fat man replied, moving to sit upon a large root opposite himself, with the rest of his family sitting down along the grass. "Travelled to Myr, with my family, before...before our ship was overtaken by pirates in the Sea of Myrth, and we were shipped to the Stepstones…" the man's eyes and those of his family's suddenly grew dark. "I do not wish to speak of this, my lord."

"Ser Steffon freed us, but was captured!" the young girl screeched.

"Shhh...Tira," the woman tried calming the girl, putting a comforting arm around her.

"No, I will not 'shhh,' Vella!" Tira countered. "They were bad men, who did bad things!" the little girl clenched her hands into fists as she shouted. "R'hllor was with Ser Steffon when he freed himself and saw those who hurt us put to the sword!"

"Tiranea!" Gerros boomed, causing the irate little girl to suddenly go quiet, with a frown on her face. They all looked to her before the short portly man resumed their previous conversation. "Apologies, my lord. Where were we?"

"The Red Faith. Do you serve her?"

"Yes and no. In spite of what you may hear, the Red Temple in Volantis is not the representative of my faith. No matter how much it likes to think it is. Though I hold no ill will towards it, the Red Temple is ultimately still a servant of the Lord, as are my fellow worshippers."

"I have heard that nearly half of the Red Faith has chosen to acknowledge her as Azor Ahai, is this true?" he questioned, having tried and failed to gather more information about the subject on his own.

"This is true, and given her miraculous appearance in Westeros all those years ago, it was hard to not see it as a sign. However, this religion is vast, with adherents stretching from Asshai to Braavos, each just as different in belief as the followers of the Seven here in Westeros, and everyone has their own interpretation of the signs, my lord. Of the prophecies, of the Lord's designs."

"And what is your interpretation?"

Gerros sat in quiet contemplation, seemingly choosing his words, before looking back to him. "Not all those of the Red Faith see her as 'the Prince that was Promised.' Some see her children as the prophesized savior. Some for her son, others the eldest daughter, and still some for the youngest. A select few even believe Lord Stannis is Azor Ahai."

"And you?"

"I have faith," the plump man looked to his youngest daughter, "that Ser Steffon is Azor Ahai." Tira crossed her arms and nodded her head in agreement. "We do what he commands. He saved us when he had no reason to. Lord Stannis, and the Lady Azula, they came to correct a slight, they cared not for the people enslaved there, but Ser Steffon did, and that is enough for us to see him as our savior, ensure our loyalty to his family."

"And what has he commanded of you?" the words left his mouth quickly. Out of the Dragonstone siblings, Steffon had captured his interest the most, especially now.

"To travel around the Crown, and Riverlands, assisting poor families with work, providing extra hands to till the fields, and see their family's needs met."

"How very altruistic of him," he spoke, thinking on Stannis' son. 'Steffon is a sharp and well-read boy. A pity Joffrey is not like him.'

"Do you try and convert the people you meet on your travels?"

"No, my lord. We but offer assistance, and if one wishes to hear the sermons of R'hllor, we are more than eager to share."

"Hmmm," he stroked his chin and looked towards the caravan. "It was a pleasure meeting you and your family's acquaintance, Gerros, but I best get back," he rose from the root of the tree.

"The pleasure was ours, my lord, farewell," the family nodded.

He trekked back through the trees, towards the waiting guards. "Let's go," he ordered. As he reached his carriage he looked back and saw the family in the distance going over the hill.

"Who were they?" Wode asked through the window, once he had scampered up into the carriage, and the caravan had begun to move.

"A family of travelers. Held to the Red Faith," he answered simply, looking out towards the horizon.

Wode looked to him, "Quite the long way from Dragonstone."

"They are not from there, originally."

"What were they doing traveling along the Goldroad, my lord?" the deep voice questioned.

"Gerros, the rotund little man, informed me that they traveled the countryside assisting smallfolk with tasks before moving on."

"Holy men on a righteous mission from their foreign god?" Wode scoffed, his body jerking to the side in response to a dip in the muddy road.

"Possibly," he looked towards his pile of books.

It grew silent for a moment before Wode spoke once more, "Do you believe them to be more than what they seem?"

"Yes."

"Spies then," the armored man answered. "Should I order some men to run them down? Did they say where they were headed?"

"No need, they were headed for Hornvale," he replied.

"Hornvale?" Wode paused, taking a moment to realize, as he already knew, the obstacles that stood in-between the family and their destination. "The bandits in the mountains…"

"Correct. The leftover brigands from Ser Loras' 'gardening.'"

"Clever, my lord. If they are the woman's spies, the brigands take the blame."

"I thought so," he smirked without mirth, thinking on the prophetic words of the book and Ser Steffon's role in them.

"Reborn amidst smoke and salt…."

'The salt of the sea surrounding the Stepstones? The smoke of the burning docks? He ceased being a boy that day and was reborn a knight. But the bleeding star, what could that be?' he pondered on the subject, long and hard into the night, until sleep overtook him.