Riverlands

"The King is dead! Long live the King! Long live Joffrey!"

The soldiers' and knights' merry cheers ring throughout the camp. Tywin had broke the news of Robert Baratheon's death, and all of the Lannisters are busy celebrating. It is a rowdy night, the sky tinted orange by the many bonfires and the red comet. Some of the men have taken it upon themselves to hunt and roast boars in the largest bonfire Tyrion has ever seen, a mockery of Robert's death. Soldiers dance arm-in-arm with whores, men drink themselves to a drunken stupor… It's a change of pace from the tension present after Tyrion's meeting with Lady Aya.

But Tyrion doesn't participate in the festivities. His mind is far too addled by the thoughts of that sorcerer who commands the birds and winds, of their little duel. With Joffrey on the Iron Throne, it should be a pretty easy win for him. Yet, he worries what the madwoman might do in retaliation. Will she accept her loss gracefully, or act like a sore loser and attempt to kill him? He knows that she's more than capable of doing so, and that worries him. Tyrion looks to his left and sees Jaime the Crow preoccupied with a piece of meat stew. The one Tyrion wanted to have to himself. He sighs, drinking his wine. "I suppose it's going to be my win, Jaime?"

"Caw?"

"A bittersweet one, that is. I doubt anything good will come about my nephew's ascension, especially with my sister leading him. But I'm sure that beats being in the sorcerer's claws." Tyrion slept uneasily after his fateful meeting. He does not fear her mountain men since the Lannisters can easily crush them, but of her birds. Her birds and that vicious storm she conjures. Sometimes he wakes up in cold sweat, feeling for his eyes and cock and glad that they're still there. He had gotten off lucky with a destroyed tent and soiled breeches.

He knows something is off, but he's not sure what. That Lady Stormcrow is planning something, I know it. She said she would contact me soon, and I've yet to hear from her.

Then again, Joffrey is King. However much he loathes his nephew, they're still family. And with family, they will look after themselves.

"Tyrion, we need to talk."

Most of the time.

"Stay here," he commands Jaime, but is doubtful that the crow will just stay still. With her out of the way, Tyrion enters his father's golden tent. They have since moved out of the Crossroad Inn's lodgings and marched further into the Riverlands, taking them closer to the Neck. As such, his father had set up a tent fitting for the Old Lion. But the atmosphere within is… Strange. Not solemn, but neither is it serious. His father turns to him and he can see why. There's a twinkle in Tywin's eyes, barely perceptible to Tyrion's sharp caution. Not only that, but from his gait and the slight hum Tyrion can hear, the Imp fears the worst. His father is happy. By the Gods his father is happy. I've never seen him like this. Has he finally gone mad? "Um, father, is something of the matter?"

There's not a ghost of a smile on his father's face, but Tyrion is sure of it. "I see that you're not drunk," Tywin says with an air of condescension, sipping on his own crystal cup.

"Father, there's no need to always think so lowly of me. Robert may have been a drunken oaf, but he's a respectable enough man to not have me shit-faced in his funeral. Besides, my mind is more preoccupied with urgent matters these days."

"Do these matters involve dropping your breeches in front of potential allies?"

"Precisely that, though it was an honest mistake on my part."

"Honest mistake," his father swirls his cup. "I've listened again to your fantastical stories of this woman, this warg sorcerer. Against my better judgement, I sent a scout to the border of the Vale to verify your claims. They were met with extreme prejudice by a flock of birds and some mountain men, so I must accept your stories as true."

"Yes, the mountain men told me explicitly that no one is allowed to enter the Vale."

"As you said before, that must mean she controls the Vale in its entirety. And what did you do? You've made a fool out of the Lannister name and gambled it for some idiotic duel!" Tywin nearly shouts, his voice returning to the stern tone Tyrion is so used to. "I'm disappointed by your actions, Tyrion. I thought I have beaten the lesson into you, and here you have discarded it for lewdness and stupidity."

"For that moment, maybe. But you must admit father that we are at an advantage here. Joffrey is on the Iron Throne, not Robert."

Tywin's lips twitch, threatening to smile. Tyrion shivers at the thought. "Yes he did, and it was no thanks to you. Jaime shot down the raven bearing the news."

"Didn't know a crow could shoot arrows."

"Your brother, Tyrion. Not that damn bird. Why do you still keep it anyway?"

"That is what I call a jest, father. You should try it sometimes. Now, regarding Jaime the Crow, I keep her due to Lady's Stormcrow's warnings and threats. If she sees, hears, or knows that the bird is hurt, I fear she'll just increase the price of our debts."

"Debts," Tywin scoffs. "Amounting to feathers and bird meat."

"Maybe they're special birds, who knows," Tyrion replies, finishing his cup before going to refill it. "Speaking of birds, Cersei now controls the throne. Joffrey's still too young to do so, after all. What's our next actions?"

"Now," Tywin raises a parchment splattered with blood, "we continue our campaign. We've spent too long staying still while the Rivermen gather their forces. Once we're done here, I'll march towards King's Landing and take my rightful place as the King's Hand where I shall guide Joffrey until he is of age."

"The Hand? You'll have to pry it off Lord Stark's cold, dead hands. He was appointed by Robert and is unlikely to follow my nephew or sister's every whims."

"Eddard Stark is dead."

Tyrion chokes on his wine, coughing some of it back out his nose. "I'm sorry father, my ears must be mistaken. He's dead?"

"Yes, around the same time as Robert. Such a close friendship, even to the end."

Around the same time? Doesn't that mean… "How exactly did Lord Stark die, father? He looks old but he's a spry man, barely two years older than Jaime. I doubt he succumbed to whatever illness Robert might had."

"We don't know," Tywin sighs. "Not a word was given to explain his death in the letter. But the thing has a royal seal, so it must be an official declaration by the Iron Throne. Cersei likely approved of it."

"You don't mean that Cersei-"

"While I do hope that she has better self-control than you, I can't disregard the possibility."

By the Seven… Cersei what did you do!? Did you really assassinated the Warden of the North!? "What of his daughters then, the ones named Arya and Sansa? Any news regarding them?"

"No, but I suspect that Cersei will hold them in custody for the time being."

"Hostages," Tyrion adds. "They'll be her hostages against the North. Smart, but it'll bring their ire even harder down upon us. Coupled with our little excursion into the Riverlands, Robb Stark will see it as some grand conspiracy by the Lannisters to take the Iron Throne. No explanations on Eddard Stark's death, Lady Catelyn's suspicions towards me, all of it will lead them to march South."

"Though I did not prepare for Lord Stark's death, I have planned for the North's eventual interference," Tywin boasts. "They have a great connection with the Rivermen and will likely join forces against us. I estimate in two more days the ravens bearing that man's death will arrive at Winterfell, meaning that we have about a week to prepare. Our forces are currently split into three: the ones in this camp, the one led by Jaime to take Riverrun, and the Mountain with Vargo Hoat, though we know nothing of their condition. If the North is to attack one of them, especially with the help of the Rivermen, they'll no doubt drive us back."

"We're up against fishmen and wolfmen then. We need reinforcements."

"Yes, and what a shame to lose all of our messenger ravens in such a dire time, isn't it?" Tywin stares daggers into Tyrion.

"It wasn't my fault," Tyrion answers his father's growing anger. "The birds were loose before my meeting with Lady Stormcrow."

"And who brought the first crow here, or is that thing just some wild bird you caught in a bush?"

"To be fair, Lady Stormcrow sent them in. It wasn't me that attracted them to camp. But we're getting off topic here, father. How do you plan to communicate to Casterly Rock? I assume it's going to be through more… Traditional methods, shall we say?"

Tywin stares hard at Tyrion before continuing. "…Yes, that is correct. I plan to send riders, less than a hundred of them, West through the Riverlands to carry my messages to Casterly Rock and Lannisport. Then they will return here with those forces."

"And I can guess that that's not only their mission," Tyrion adds, finishing his drink. "You'll probably want them to check other places as well, for example Harrenhal which is just South of here. Perhaps communicate with Jaime regarding an update for this campaign, and a little bit of spying while passing by a few seats of the Riverlords. A risky business, that is. One that will require not only speed but finesse on the riders' part, lest the rivers be dyed red with their blood."

Tywin raises his brow, impressed. "I see there's no need for me to explain the details."

"Great minds think alike, father. The only difference is that I pity the poor sods who you've assigned the task to," Tyrion chuckles before refilling his cup of wine. As he sips from it, his eyes meet his father's staring back at him.

…

"No."

"Though I do not pity the 'poor sod', I understand that it will be a hard task. Do not think of it as a punishment, Tyrion. Instead, it is a great opportunity for you to return to the Rock. Your sellsword still needs his gold and you will want to talk to Jaime, your brother. You'll avoid the field of battle as well, at least until you return here. Then maybe I can send you to King's Landing in my stead."

Tyrion rubs his head, the drink slowly getting to him. "Look, father, can't you assign this to Uncle Kevan instead? He's a far better horse rider than me."

"Unlike you, your uncle is willing to put his life on the line for the Lannister cause. Besides," Tywin's voice turns to a sneer, "he's not the heir to Casterly Rock. As much as it pains me to be reminded of it, I'm stuck with you unles your brother throws away that foolish white cloak. And as my son, you must be able to handle yourself in any situation, whether that be a banquet, a battle, or a messenger run. This task I'm giving you will be one of the easiest you'll have in your life. And if you fail this one, I'll make damn sure you won't fail the next."

Tyrion understands his father's logic and thinking well, and he's sure that most of it was done to inflict the greatest amount of suffering. And he has no grounds to fight against his father here. Casterly Rock… "…Geh, fine then. Less than a hundred men, is it?"

"Yes."

"Good, always needed to trim the fat from my men anyway," Tyrion slams his cup on the table; the wine tastes much more bitter now. "May I take the letter with me now? It'll be better if I can prove my words during the trip."

"I have no further use of it." Tywin hands his son the bloody parchment. "Enjoy tonight's festivities, Tyrion. But do sleep early, you'll have to wake up before dawn tomorrow after all."

"Good night, father," Tyrion bows before exiting the tent. He looks to the table he was on previously and sees that Jaime had followed his order to stay still. "Kept you long, Jaime?"

"CAW!"

"Alright," Tyrion sighs, letting the crow perch herself on his head. Though the bird is most likely an enemy spy, he has no heart to drive it away; he has to agree with Lady Aya that the bird is, indeed, 'cute'. "You know where Bronn is, Jaime? Have to break the news to him."

"Caw!" Jaime answers before flying towards the direction of a lit camp. She caws again, leading Tyrion to the tent.

When Tyrion opens it, he finds Bronn balls deep in the woman he brought for Tyrion a few days before. The naked sellsword greets his employer with a choice of curse words. "Glad to see you too, Bronn. If I may disturb you-"

"You may not, Imp."

"Well I'm doing it anyway because this is important. You may be happy to hear that you'll be getting your gold dragons, and more, soon enough," Tyrion smiles.

Bronn looks at him oddly, his hands still on the woman's breasts. "That's… Good. But what's the catch?"

"The catch is that we'll be going to Casterly Rock to retrieve them ourselves. We'll be taking a bit of a detour, though. A little sightseeing trip at Harrenhal, Riverrun, and a few other Riverlord castles. See how they fare in the Lannister campaign."

The sellsword groans, knowing the implication of what Tyrion is saying. He seems to have lost interest in continuing his activities with the whore. "That is… Why couldn't you just pay me here?"

"My father asks for you specifically to retrieve the gold from the Rock. You've seen him."

"Yes, I've seen the bastard as well. Why must all bald men be so distasteful?" Bronn goes to put on his sleeping clothes before talking to the woman. "Sorry love, but I'll have to end it here. For your troubles," he hands her a pouch of coins.

She looks into the pouch, counting the coins, before frowning. "This ain't enough!"

"Well I'm sorry but we didn't really finish what we agreed upon because of the Imp here. Got anything to compensate her?"

"She's your whore, Bronn. Besides, I left my coin purse back in the tent."

"Well," the woman huffs, "I'm not leaving here until I've been-"

"SKREE!"

"Eep!" she shouts in surprise as Jaime sweeps into the tent, carrying between her beaks a small coin purse. The bird lands next to the woman and tips out the coins onto her hands. Tyrion sees that some of it are crowns. The woman looks at it in surprise. "I can have this?"

"I think so," says Tyrion, a bit bewildered by the situation as well.

"I bid you goodnight Ser Bronn, Lord Tyrion," the woman smiles sweetly at them before leaving the tent.

"Whose coins are those?"

"I don't know, Bronn. I don't speak crow."

"Caw!"

Saying his goodnight to the sellsword, he leaves him to find the other soldiers to bring to this mission. Though he reckons that he'll need only about fifty men, he barely remembers their faces. The night makes it even harder to spot them. However, the dark doesn't impede the crow. Jaime flits about, passing from tent to tent, bringing Tyrion to his men. Most were shit-faced while others are surprisingly sober. They didn't take kindly to his mission revelation but agrees to do it anyway; the promise of golden dragons really warmed them up.

Tyrion ends the night by entering his tent, tired and full from the boar he ate during his little search. The place has been rebuilt, though not all of it is in one piece. Many of the books and trinkets are either muddy or broken, and he can't bring any of them for the mission. Right now though, he's curious about a few little things. He opens the chest near his bed and retrieves a small envelope, the one Lady Stormcrow had offered for his men. Jaime perches herself on a makeshift branch Tyrion provided, curling up and sleeping on it.

Tyrion didn't really take a closer look at them during his initial meeting. Now, having both the patience and time, he goes about examining each piece the madwoman has to offer. The first is a parchment filled with letters and punctuations. He notes the paper's strange neatness and white colour. The letters have been neatly written on the page, though from the way they are arranged Tyrion doubts any maester is able to write like it. Not a single one amiss, all in a straight, vertical column. The ink used is thick, though he sees no visible pen-strokes or smudging from it. A curiosity indeed, but not worth an entire army.

The next piece are actually multiples of similar objects. Under candlelight, Tyrion can see the sheen of smooth wax that had been applied on the square papers. Waterproofing? But what catches his attention are the small square painting embedded on the paper. He says embedded because he can't feel any brush-strokes from them, just like the writings on the white parchment. The images are also strange, depicting rivers and mountains from a point of view that Tyrion can only describe as bird-like. A lot of detail has gone into it; he doubts that any painter would take their time creating an accurate bush leaf by leaf. One painting shows a group knights defending the Eyrie from above. Did the woman perhaps use her warg sorcery to see from the eyes of birds? Maybe… But she did say that she flew into the Lannister camp. No one saw her enter and leaving, but I doubt she can actually fly. Or maybe she transformed herself into a bird?

How the things are made are still up to debate for Tyrion. He remembers the woman mentioning a friend of hers working on some projects, but there was no name or description. So she's proposing with me the methods of these parchment creation. Though it might be useful in spying, I am no Varys.

Tyrion yawns loudly, causing Jaime to stir in her sleep. Before tucking in for the night, Tyrion pulls out the parchment that carries the news of the King's death. The thing was sent for Riverrun but Jaime's archers manage to shoot the raven down. Glad to see someone still has their ravens, Tyrion thinks to himself. He opens the bloody letter and reads it, making sure that he did not miss any details.

…

Just like my father said, huh. King's dead, so is Lord Stark with no explanation, and Joffrey is being crowned King. He traces his finger on the seal and signature just below the letter's main body. These looks authentic as well. Neat handwriting and very polite, so the writer must have been Grand Maester Pycelle. If it was Cersei I would expect there to be some harsh or veiled threats in the letter, but there's none.

Tyrion stuffs it into the envelope along with the sorcerer's trinkets; he plans to bring them all along for the mission, perhaps asking Maester Creylen about the parchment's construction.

Tyrion blows out the candles and tucks himself beneath a nice blanket for the night. This will be his last comfortable sleep for a while and so he'll enjoy every second of it.

Riverlands

"My men, be quick with your disguises! Nap time's over and we must move before first light, else we'll miss my Uncle's horn."

"Does he always toot his own horn at this ungodly hour?" Bronn lets out a loud yawn as he puts on a septon garb.

"Why don't you ask him yourself? He'd be happy to provide you with an appropriate answer."

"Better keep my mouth shut around him, then."

The fifty men awake tonight are the best of Tyrion's men, but none of their qualities shine through at this time of day. Well, none of it shines through in daylight either. Those two are only sparing me lackwits and half-bakes, as if they want me to die in the first place.

Like Tyrion and Jaime the Crow, all of them are still half-asleep. The only one who's wide awake is Bronn, whistling away as he tidies up his boots and bag. Really, he's the reason the supplies got packed early in the first place. That's another crown for him then.

"So," Bronn stretches and cracks his body, the sound unnerving Tyrion, "all your plans ready?"

Tyrion pats his pouch. "Map's marked, papers in the bag, all we have to do is reach Ser Stafford at Lannisport and Ser Damion in Casterly Rock."

The sellsword whistles. "And I though all the Lannisters are here."

"We always have spares, Bronn. We always do." Tyrion groans as he climbs up his mare and onto his specially designed saddle. But since it hasn't been used, the leather feels as hard as wood. Gods, hopefully my hips survive the trek. "How goes the disguise?"

"Fits like a glove worn by a gravedigger," Bronn groans, correcting his garb. "This stinks like a goat's ass. Where did they even st- Hah!"

"What?"

"You-You…" Bronn tries his best too keep in his laughter as Tyrion puts on a fool's hat, the bells swinging side to side.

"Like it?" Tyrion displays the red and blue tassels on his arms, causing the man to break into laughter, waking everyone present. Even Jaime is laughing at him. "I know, it was a lark for my late Uncle Gerion to give me this."

"Gods," Bronn wheezes, clutching onto his horse. "Do-Do the little bells-"

"I'd rather not be chased about jingling all the way," Tyrion groans, flicking the ones on his hat. "And this is actually a kindness from him, the last gift he ever gave me before sailing into Valyria."

"Maybe he wants you to follow in his footsteps."

"I may be dressed like a fool, but I'm no lackwit."

"Caw!"

"Shut it Jaime."

"Still," Bronn trots up to him, "at least they're coloured silks unlike my mess. Couldn't I just be a sellsword? They're common enough in the Riverlands."

"What kind of begging brothers have that much money?"

"Maybe a devout sellsword?" Bronn smirks. "Alright, even that's too big of a stretch."

Tyrion rides over to his men and finds them already on their horses, supplies packed and disguises on. "We shall run by my Uncle's horn. He should be here any moment now so be ready."

And so they wait. And wait. And slowly their waiting turns into an hour. Tyrion watches the sky anxiously, seeing the way the red comet move through the dark. "Is… Is your uncle asleep?"

"He woke me up, so he shouldn't-"

A loud gallop appears from the dark and his Uncle rides forth, still in his sleepwear. And from his eyes, Tyrion can tell he had just woken up. At least have the courtesy to see me off! "Men!" Tyrion shouts, bringing them all to attention. "Ready your horses."

So finally, astride a horse under a new moon and the red comet, Kevan Lannister blows his horn.

And with that, the fool and his merry men charge off into the night.

Jaime flies ahead, high into the sky. She caws and directs Tyrion through a more favourable path in the dark. Tyrion has no doubt about her intelligence, but what of her loyalty? You are still with that Lady Stormcrow, are you not? Are you helping me because you're sure of her victory? Well, I must prove you wrong then; an imp I may be, but I'm still a lion.

By first light, their encampment is nowhere in sight. Tyrion spots a growing grey gloom over where they're heading. Bronn gallops over to him. "A bloody good chance we'll be drenched when evening comes, and all 'cause of your uncle's sleepiness. Any suggestions?"

Before Tyrion can pull out his map, Jaime lands on his head. "Caw!" she says before flying South-West.

"Follow the bird."

"Follow the Kingslayer!" Bronn shouts to their men. They all soon head South-West.

As the sun rise higher in the sky, the company find themselves in a forest of elms, oaks, and birch. Tyrion sees the Crossroad Inn not far from the forest's edge, still unoccupied. "If we weren't delayed by my Uncle, we should reach Harrenhal by two days from now at most."

"But because of him…?"

"We'll reach there in due time," Tyrion sighs, "if we don't get rained in. But enough of maps; I'm starving. Who has breakfast?"

"Septon Barron's distributing breakfast."

"Ah, the Faith is being charitable for once. Fetch me a drumstick, will you Bronn?"

"I ain't your servant."

"But I'm paying you to keep me alive," Tyrion smirks. "Don't want me to die of hunger now, do you?"

"Alright, I'm taking one for myself as well. A breakfast fitting Lord," Bronn says as he gallops to the back of the group.

Tyrion lead his men through the forest, following Jaime's leaping from branches to branches. And on this relaxed trot, he can't help but enjoy this small slice of the Riverlands. Streams and brooks criss-cross between large boulders and massive trees, filling the air with a relaxing melody. There's even small ponds throughout the forest, filled with reeds and ducks. I see why they call this place the Riverlands… A shame it's filled with Riverlords, though.

A rolling thunder breaks his sightseeing. The clouds are far, but he can see the curtain of rain bathing the land. He hopes that once it reaches them, the clouds offer nothing more than a drizzle.

Bronn comes back and hands Tyrion a drumstick that so large that he has to ask: "Are you trying to stuff me like a turkey?"

"With another turkey? No." Bronn bites into his own drumstick. "Bread and spices maybe, but you're too small to roast."

"Why so large then?" Tyrion takes a bite and enjoys the sweet and savoury taste of the roasted leg. He throws a small shred to Jaime in the trees.

"The septon," Bronn speaks with his mouth full, "he decreed that growing boys should eat lots and grow as big as their fathers."

"Well sorry to disappoint but I am a man grown. Any other wisdoms he gave out?"

"Said that whores are sinful."

"And water is wet, Bronn. Next thing you know, he'll tell us the sky is blue and night is black."

"Heh, that's what you get from the Gods," Bronn chuckles. "Half lucid and the other being pure madness."

Continuing their idyllic trot, they manage to avoid human contact by noon. Well, there was one vagabond living underneath a leafy hut, but Bronn made quick work out of him.

Tyrion opens his map, allowing his horse to follow Bronn's. Lost time because of my Uncle means we could have gone this far… We passed by the inn so we should be here. At worst, Harrenhal by three days, but that's only if we continue our trek to midnight and leave before first light. That's going to be a pain.

Folding them into his pouch, Tyrion looks up and sees their scenery having changed significantly. No longer are the leaves green but now bright orange and red, filling the sky like a glowing sunset. The sign that Autumn has come, yet he has never seen them as bright and beautiful as this. A soft breeze blows between the trees, causing a soft rain of leaves to fall on them.

Their horses crunch the leaves underfoot like snow, and Jaime is jumping about in piles of leaves, sometimes coming out with small beetles and lizards. Bronn whistles, picking a red oak leaf from the air. "Would you look at that."

"Certainly the most beautiful autumn I've seen, Bronn. Makes you appreciate the little things in life, doesn't it?"

"Most of the time it's been dull and dreary, other than harvest festivities of course. Then the maidens and ladies come out of the woodwork to celebrate."

"Sad that it'll only last for so long," Tyrion sighs. "There's always the next autumn."

"Winter is coming."

The company suddenly stop. That was a woman's voice. They look about, hands on their weapons, when Tyrion spots a woman sitting atop an elm tree. Her hair shines like the sun, and she's wearing a dress as red and ornate as the falling leaves, a crown of it in her hair as well. In one hand she holds a green leaf and in the other… A paint brush? "These are beautiful leaves you've painted," he calls out. "Certainly takes a lot of patience to do a whole forest."

She smiles softly at him, her face looking quite radiant and… What exactly? There's something he can't pin down about her, like the sun peeking behind a dark cloud. "Thank you, Tyrion Lannister," her voice as soft as the rustling leaves. "It's rare to have someone compliment my efforts."

"Oh, every artist and painter deserve their praise, especially with as large a painting as this," Tyrion muses, motioning Bronn to ready his crossbow. "But I think you have the wrong person. Why, I'm but a humble fool named Bells, not that handsome lion from Casterly Rock."

"Why did the bird call out for your name then?"

"…You can speak crow?"

"I can understand them well enough," says a voice from behind him. He turns around and sees the same woman atop a still green elm tree, painting it leaves with a stroke of a brush. He looks back at the oak and back at the elm. They're the same.

Twins? Or sorcery? "There's two of you."

"One and the same," says another one from further away, brushing a tree and letting its leaves fall from the branches. "A Goddess like me can have more than one body, which is easier for me to paint the leaves with."

A sorcerer, capable of creating multiple bodies. His mind quickly run through several scenarios. If she's anything like Lady Aya, then he's pretty much trapped; a crossbow will simply anger her. But she sounds kind enough. Kinder and softer than Lady Aya, that is, which admittedly is not that high of a bar. But he does wonder… Can he bring her to his side?

Tyrion is not so blind as to ignore what's happening in Westeros. Lady Aya, the tales of demons and cults near Harrenhal, the talks of walking things near the Wall… Something is changing in the world, and he's sure as hell not going to be left behind. He needs her on his side, even if it means delaying this mission. What is an army to someone who can control the storms and winds? He must take the risk here.

And so, to Bronn's and his men's confusion, Tyrion disembarks from his horse. "I think it's time for a proper introduction. Why yes, I am Tyrion Lannister, the heir of Casterly Rock. May I ask your name as well?"

"Shizuha Aki." A painted leaf falls from her hand and onto Tyrion. There are strange symbols on the leaf. "I'm the Goddess of the Autumn Leaves, the fleeting reminder of winter's coming."

Claims herself as a goddess again, but of a humble thing. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Shizuha, Goddess of Autumn Leaves. And I must say again, it is a lovely work you're doing to this forest. Why, it looks almost as lovely as yourself!"

She blushes and lets out a giggle. "Why thank you, Tyrion. I do try to hone my craft."

So she's weak to compliments, huh? "But forgive me, may I speak to you face-to-face? For a short man, I have a hard time craning my neck up, you see."

"Only if you tell your friends to put away their weapons," she smiles back.

"Bronn?"

"You sure, Imp?"

"Friendly relations, Bronn." And I'd rather not find out what she can do.

With a groan, his men put down their weapons. Bronn steps down from his horse and walks closer to guard Tyrion. "You better know what you're doing," he whispers.

With a wave of a hand, the leaves from the oak tree falls and forms another Lady Shizuha at its base. He can hear his men mumble curses and fear beneath their breath, but Tyrion does his best to keep a straight face. "Such an awesome skill you have, creating multiples of yourself, Lady Shizuha. Many would benefit from such a thing."

"Oh please, it's something basic for someone divine like myself," she declares proudly. She sits herself on a nearby rock, looking at Tyrion eye level with great interest. "So, what makes you come through this forest?"

"We're travelling South to the castle of Harrenhal, Lady Shizuha," he answers, taking a seat on a broken stump, the points digging into his thigh. "I have my duties as heir to my father's title, and so I must fulfil them. It is hard work, but not without its rewards. But I'm also curious about you, Lady Shizuha. In all my life I've never heard a Goddess of Autumn Leaves, especially in Westeros."

"Oh, I'm not from this place."

Lady Aya is also a foreigner to this land. "May I ask where from? Essos?"

"What's Essos?" she tilts her head.

Now that's curious. "Oh just… Another place near here. Where did you arrive from?"

"A place called Gensokyo. It's a small area full of mountains and forests and valleys. There's a lake as well and several rivers. It's a wonderful place," she says wistfully, looking up at the other her painting the leaves. "The Tengus called it a prison, but it's like a paradise for me."

Tengu? "Ah, crow tengu," Tyrion says, trying to bait more information out of her. Even Bronn is curious of her words.

"Yeah… White Wolf Tengus, Crow Tengus, Yamabushi Tengu… I miss their rowdiness in the mountains. It's so serene here, the forests I mean. I heard some awful things about the outside, though," she frowns. "As if we're not already on the cusp of winter."

"Certainly, it is an awful thing happening in the Riverlands. Which is why I'm here to prevent it." A half lie. Sure, he's gathering more forces to enter the Riverlands, but defeating the Riverlords quickly will surely bring a quicker peace, something that this woman clearly enjoys. Of course, the woman's list of different tengus also brings him to rapt attention as well. So there's more to the enemy then, and this woman knows of it. I must get her on my side. "If it's possible, may I ask for your hand in ending the madness in the Riverlands?"

She points to herself. "Me?"

"Yes," Tyrion smiles. "A fine and beautiful goddess like you will surely bring peace to everyone's heart. Of course, that means coming along with my company to the castle south of here. Perhaps you can talk some sense to these warring men."

"Oh… But I have my duties as well. There's so many leaves to be done, I'm not sure when I'll be finished, even with this land's long autumn."

"I see… Not even with your ability to be at multiple places?"

The woman closes her eyes and goes to thinking. To Tyrion, she looks like when Myrcella is trying to come up on some sort of prank for Jaime, a hint of mischievousness in her face. Then she smiles and snaps her fingers, a set multi-coloured leaves appearing between her fingers. "Here," she hands them to Tyrion. "I may not be able to come with you for now, but you can use these to have my aid. You seem a nice enough man, after all."

"Ah, thank you," he takes them with a slight bewilderment. They're oak leaves, arranged by colour from green and soft to dark red and crunchy. All have that strange symbols on them

"Nice gift," Bronn snickers. "Could have given you something like that myself."

"What do these do, exactly?"

"If you need help, throw one of them into the air and I'll appear before you. It's a gift, from a Goddess to nice man. And if you need it to be stronger, pray to my name and I'll reply back in kind."

Prayers and faith… Didn't Lady Aya say something on similar lines to that? To be born out of fear? "Why thank you, Lady Shizuha. I shall keep these safe on my person." Tyrion takes out the map and fold it around the leaves, careful to not damage it. As ludicrous as it might be, her powers are real enough. "We should meet again, perhaps at Casterly Rock. I'm sure, once they know of your beauty and divine powers, they will worship you as readily as any other gods."

"Thank you, Tyrion," she beams a bright smile at him. "I'll be sure to take up your kind offer. And if you want to talk to me, just look for autumn leaves and call my name. I should answer soon enough."

"Well," Tyrion rises from the stump, glad to not have spikes digging into him, "I think it's time for me to leave. Time is of the essence after all."

"Winter is coming," she says solemnly.

"Aye, and I'm not staying still until it comes; I have work to do!" He and Bronn climb back up on their horses. "Would you mind showing us the way out of this forest? South, preferably."

"Sure," says the one on the oak, pointing towards a small orange path. "Just follow the path of leaves and you'll find yourself out. Watch out for fairies!"

"Thank you, Lady Shizuha. May your beauty grace the Riverlands and its people." With that, the company marches on through the forest.

The trees slowly turn back to the more familiar green and blue as they near the forest's edge. As the sky darkens with heavy clouds, Bronn rides up to him. "Was that really the right move, Imp? You know what happened with that Lady Stormcrow of yours."

"She acts fine enough, wanting nothing more than faint praises," Tyrion answers. "Besides, with that done, we have something great in our hands. Tell me Bronn, what do the Lannisters have that other great Houses don't, hmm?"

"Gold?"

"Everyone has that."

"…The Old Lion?"

"Correct, but father is already past his golden age. I'll take his mantle a decade from now perhaps."

Bronn hums before shrugging. "Got nothing."

"Precisely! We have a great seat, gold, and men; but so do all other houses. Our Valyrian steel sword is lost, and gold can run out if we continue this campaign in the Riverlands. But this?" Tyrion pats his bag. "Sorcery? I only know of Lady Aya who wields it. None in the Lannisters' past have dabbled in the dark arts. Uncle Gerion died before reaching Valyria, most likely. Other Houses? None in recent memory for the Targaryens lost their dragons."

"But she's asking for worship," Bronn adds. "Can you fulfil your end? Sounds kooky if you ask me, especially her advice of fairies."

"I'm sure I can introduce some smallfolk to her little cult; I'll make sure to have control over it. What's important is to have her by my side in the end. She knows something of Lady Aya as well, so even there it's quite valuable."

"Suit yourself. I'll ride ahead and see if I can find a nice place for tents. Keep yourself safe, Imp. I need my gold."

Gold, Tyrion scoffs to himself. Our family only has its worth in gold, isn't it? The mines will run out, we still have debts to pay, and what are we then? For all his talk of family legacy, father truly does not see it, huh? And Joffrey's on the throne, he shivers. I doubt he'll bring anything good towards me. But magic… Establishing myself like that will surely make a different mark on the Lannister name. What was it Aunty Genna said? That Uncle Gerion didn't want to be like father?

Well, That's something to yearn for. No longer the Dwarf of Casterly Rock, no.

Imp.