By the time the raven had flown, night had fully fallen.
Tywin Lannister immediately dispatched large numbers of scouts toward the Twins to gather intelligence on enemy movements. At the same time, he recalled Gregor Clegane, who was at that moment ravaging villages downstream.
According to Tyrion Lannister's assessment, Robb Stark would cross at the Twins. Their army needed to march north with haste to meet the Northern host and relieve the pressure on Jaime.
For the next several days, Tyrion spent his time on the march.
He had originally proposed returning to Casterly Rock—to oversee recruitment, drilling, trade, even agriculture—but Tywin refused. His father insisted he remain by his side until this campaign was finished, and only then would other arrangements be made.
On a hill overlooking the Kingsroad, a folding long table of carefully selected pine had been set up. Every inch of it displayed the craftsman's meticulous skill, its surface polished smooth as glass, reflecting the warm glow of the setting sun.
A fine golden tablecloth lay spread across it like a shimmering sea, blending solemn dignity with a surprising warmth.
Beside the table stood Duke Tywin Lannister's grand pavilion, made of the finest silk, deep blue in color, embroidered with the red-and-gold lion of House Lannister—its maw open as if ready to devour the world, a testament to the family's power and pride.
The cooks brought out the evening's main course: five suckling pigs roasted to a crisp golden brown, each with a different fruit in its mouth. Lords and knights gathered around, drinking heartily.
Most of the conversation amounted to flattering Tyrion.
Some made the usual offers—presenting younger sons as potential squires, proposing marriages for their eldest daughters.
Tywin Lannister showed little interest in these lesser houses. As for the great houses, perhaps they were wary of Tyrion's reputation and the rumors surrounding him, and so hesitated to commit.
The proud golden lion of the West was in no hurry.
The Lannister army's abundance of supplies was famous throughout the realm. That night, not only the nobles but even the common soldiers enjoyed carefully prepared roasted meats. Crisp on the outside, tender within, their aroma lifted weary spirits.
Large cauldrons simmered with stews and thick soups, blending fresh vegetables, beans, grains, and occasional cuts of meat—rich, nourishing fare that kept the soldiers strong.
Some men traded their own rations—hardtack, salted meat, dried fruit—simple tastes of home that warmed hearts far from their lands.
After supper, Tyrion sat in his tent drafting letters.
He intended to remind his "wise" sister to keep a close watch on her precious son and not to take Lord Eddard's head—though he suspected the effort might be futile. He also wrote to Casterly Rock, instructing them to send men to Tarbeck Hall to oversee the mountain clans' repairs, discreetly, merely to report progress.
"Succubus," came Bronn's voice from outside the tent.
"I'm here. What is it? If the clans are fighting again, don't bring it to me," Tyrion Lannister said.
"Not that." Bronn lifted the flap. "I brought you something good." A figure followed him inside.
A young girl, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, small and slender, very pretty, with large dark eyes and black hair. She carried a cloth bag.
"Well then, my lord 'Succubus'?" Bronn asked, glancing back.
The girl's eyes were like a doe's. Her smile shifted between shy, proud, and faintly wicked. She lowered her head, pretending modesty—Tyrion could tell it was an act.
"Bronn, you know this isn't my taste," Tyrion said, though he flicked a quick glance at her chest—small and firm—before returning to his letter. "What's her name?" he asked, though he already knew.
"Shae," the girl answered.
"I've heard much of your indulgent reputation," Bronn said. "Noblemen taking comfort like this is hardly unusual. King Robert himself—"
"My interests lie elsewhere now," Tyrion said.
"Still, having someone to serve you is never a bad thing," Bronn replied. "This girl—Shae—insisted on coming."
"Those willing to serve me could form a line from the Sunset Sea to the Narrow Sea," Tyrion said, turning his chair to face her. "All right, Bronn. Let's talk."
Bronn bowed and stepped out. "Enjoy your evening."
"Shae," Tyrion repeated. "You've come for gold, I assume. What's in the bag?"
"My lord, not entirely for gold," she said, taking out a ceramic bottle about the length of a forearm.
The timeline had shifted.
"My lord, do you believe in prophecy?" Shae lifted the hem of her rough dress and pulled it smoothly over her head, tossing it aside. She wore nothing beneath.
She knelt between Tyrion's legs.
"It was quite a strange encounter," she said. "In Lannisport I met a witch called the 'Toad,' said to be a forest witch."
"A peddler of love potions," Tyrion said, though he knew she was the one who had prophesied for Cersei. "What did you buy from her? A lust tonic?"
"No—she gave it to me," Shae said, working at Tyrion's belt. He did not stop her. "What did she say?" he asked.
In a world steeped in magic, prophecies could not be dismissed lightly.
"So you do believe," Shae said. Her fingers deftly untied the cords of his trousers. She opened the bottle, releasing a faint herbal scent—something like clover.
"I don't remember her exact words," Shae said softly, blowing a gentle breath. "She said you would see for yourself."
"See what?" Tyrion asked, puzzled. "And what's in that bottle? Are you certain it's safe—oh…"