"The northern army will march south along the Kingsroad, and we'll meet them here," Tyrion explained, outlining the Lannister battle plan to the tribesmen.
Using a crude map, he traced the terrain from east to west. The tribesmen stared at him in silence. Initially, they had clamored for a democratic discussion, eager to voice their opinions, but now, not a single one could find a word to say.
For the free folk, war councils typically revolved around three things—who to fight, who would take the front line, and how to divide the spoils afterward. Their meetings were never as tedious as those of the so-called flatlanders.
Tyrion knew his audience well. He wasn't truly explaining for their sake—his real aim was to ensure Cole understood, as most of the men ultimately answered to the Lord of Fire.
"We're responsible for the left wing?" Cole frowned, his brows just beginning to grow in.
Tyrion nodded. "Yes, and Ser Gregor Clegane will lead his knights alongside us."
Cole's gaze dropped to the map. "The Kingsroad follows the Green Fork. The western side is flat, the eastern side higher ground. The flatlands on the left are ideal for cavalry charges. However, between all our tribes, we have barely six hundred horsemen, and our mountain ponies are ill-suited for such tactics."
Tyrion was no military expert, but even he understood that flat terrain favored cavalry.
"So, which forces will Lord Tywin command?" Cole asked.
Tyrion shook his head. "They've told me nothing beyond our position on the left flank."
Cole's frown deepened. His tone was certain. "We're bait."
Tyrion fell silent, considering his words. He knew his father. Cole's assumption made sense—it aligned perfectly with Lord Tywin's methods.
The weapons and armor given to the tribesmen had been taken from the Riverlands—looted spoils, old stock from noble houses. Tyrion had noticed immediately. The sigils on the shields told the story.
Dolf and the others had been overjoyed, bickering over their spoils like children. Even Cole had taken a set of armor—chainmail, a nose-guarded helmet resembling a Western Norman design. The mix of chain and leather allowed for some mobility, though it lacked the full protection of plate. But plate was valuable. Tywin Lannister would never waste it on them.
Seeing this ragtag assembly, did they really think the seasoned warriors of the North wouldn't recognize them for what they were?
A disorganized force, positioned precisely where cavalry could charge—any northern commander worth his salt would seize the opportunity. Unless, of course, their leader was overly cautious. But Robb Stark was young, barely more than a boy.
Tywin was wagering on that. If the North's cavalry shattered the wildling ranks and drove into the battlefield from the left, the Lannister army would suffer immense losses—perhaps even defeat.
And so, Tywin had chosen a battlefield at the base of a hill. He would position five thousand elite Lannister troops on the high ground, ready to intervene the moment the wildlings broke. Two thousand five hundred heavy cavalry would be held in reserve, prepared to clash with the enemy's horsemen. Another two thousand five hundred infantry would be stationed to prevent a full collapse.
"If we really have to face the North's main force, there will be heavy casualties, Tyrion," Cole said, his violet eyes unreadable.
He cared little for the tribesmen's fate, but the thought of stepping onto that battlefield unsettled him. What Tywin had done was ruthless—but it was entirely in character.
"I'll speak with my father." Tyrion stood. He hadn't expected this shift in Cole. The boy who had once followed him in silence, speaking rarely, had changed.
It wasn't arrogance—Tyrion had seen men grow drunk on power before, but this was different. Cole was more confident now, more assured.
Regardless, the boy had saved his life, had stood with him through life and death. That was reason enough.
"I didn't follow half of what the half-man said," Shagga admitted, grinning as he admired his newly acquired gear, "but Shagga will fight for him."
Tyrion offered him a slight nod before leaving.
"The Stark pup has already garrisoned the pass ahead of us," Ser Kevan Lannister pointed at the map, his voice steady. "We've arrived too late."
Lord Tywin sat motionless, his expression carved from stone. He listened as his men debated, offering no opinion of his own.
At that moment, Tyrion stepped inside.
Tywin's golden gaze lifted to him. "Tyrion," he said, his tone measured. "I do not recall summoning you."
Tyrion was not at all intimidated by the imposing lion before him. He picked up the jug on the table, poured himself a cup of wine, and took a sip.
"The free folk are not pleased with being used as bait," he said casually.
Tywin's golden eyes narrowed slightly. Few knew of his true strategy, and he doubted those savages had the insight to figure it out. If they did, they wouldn't have spent so many years skulking in the Moon Mountains.
"What are you implying, Tyrion?" A father knows his son best—even if Tywin had little love for his dwarf son, he still recognized his intelligence.
Tyrion downed the rest of his wine and set the cup down. "I think you already know."
"You are still a Lannister, Tyrion. I will have Ser Gregor watch over you."
Tyrion let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "Why not let this shame of a Lannister die with dignity on the battlefield?"
Tywin's gaze darkened. "It seems my son has some misconceptions. My lords, this meeting is adjourned—I must have a word with him."
The gathered men bowed and took their leave.
As Ser Kevan passed by, he leaned in and whispered, "You shouldn't shame your father."
Tyrion met his uncle's gaze but said nothing.
When the room was empty, Tywin took the wine jug, poured two cups, and handed one to Tyrion. "So, what is it you want?"
"A fief. A title," Tyrion replied smoothly, taking the cup with a smirk.
"For your friend, the Fire King?"
Tyrion only smiled, saying nothing.
"It would be even better," he continued, "if a Lannister girl were to marry him."
A sharp glint flashed through Tywin's eyes. "You should know the two greatest shames of my life."
Tyrion's smirk faded slightly. How could he not? One was having a dwarf for a son. The other was his sister's marriage to a Frey.
"If your friend desires such rewards, let him come before me himself," Tywin declared. With that, he turned and disappeared into his chambers, dismissing his son entirely.
When Tyrion returned to Cole's tent, his expression was grim. Cole could tell at a glance—he had not reached an agreement with his father.
Cole offered a reassuring smile. "You should have more faith in the warriors of the free folk, Tyrion. Even if we face cavalry, it doesn't mean we'll lose. If you don't believe me, ask Shagga."
Sure enough, the fool immediately erupted into shouts, swearing he would cut off the Stark boy's second brother.
Tyrion forced a smile.
Then, Cole spoke again. "I've been thinking—this war may not play out the way we expect."
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