GOT: The Great Khal — Chapter 139 - The Envoy — The Conversation

The Kingsroad south to Storm's End cut through the Kingswood like a pale scar, splitting the silence of the dense forest in two.

Kevan Lannister's army moved slower than a funeral procession.

The three thousand regulars at the front still looked the part. Breastplates polished to a shine. Spearpoints catching the sun in a clean, glittering line.

The problem was they marched too fast. Every half-mile, they had to stop and wait for the men behind to catch up.

The seventeen thousand behind them made a sound like rain hammering mud.

Tyrion Lannister caught up with Kevan on a pony. The horse's coat was dull, its ears drooping. Tyrion's feet nearly grazed the ground, knees bent wide, the whole picture something like a toad hunched on a rock.

He wore a dark brown traveling cloak. A short sword hung at his hip.

Bronn rode behind him on a lean chestnut, a grass stem between his teeth. Podrick Payne brought up the rear on a placid mare, a fat bundle of luggage lashed to its back. Fifty paces back, a carriage rolled along with its curtains drawn.

"Uncle Kevan!"

Kevan turned and looked at his dwarf nephew with a frown.

"Lucky your army marches slowly enough," Tyrion said. "Or I'd never have caught up."

Kevan's gaze moved from Tyrion to Bronn, then to Podrick, then settled on the carriage. The curtains were shut tight. No sign of who was inside.

"Why are you here?" Impatience edged his voice. "You're the Hand of the King. King's Landing needs you." He pointed at the carriage. "And what is that? We're marching to war, not a countryside picnic."

Tyrion glanced back at the carriage. When he turned around, his face wore a smile so bitter he seemed to have surprised even himself.

"You should know," he said, "my father ordered me to negotiate with the Horse Lord. Find out his terms for withdrawal. Khal Drogo finally replied. He's agreed to see me, but on one condition."

He paused.

"He wants me to bring my lady wife. A show of good faith."

"Sansa Stark?" Kevan asked.

"What other lady wife do I have?" Tyrion said. "Strange request, isn't it? The Dothraki promise safe passage for the envoy. How far a Horse Lord's promise can be trusted, we'll find out soon enough." He added, "Varys tells me Khal Drogo keeps his word."

"What does that Horse Lord actually want?" Kevan's brow creased. "Is he hoping Sansa Stark will call the North's bannermen to his banner? Northmen will never bend the knee to a barbarian."

Tyrion shrugged. "Who knows. Maybe he thinks a man who brings his wife is more trustworthy."

Bronn nudged his horse forward and grinned, showing a row of yellow teeth. "Maybe they just want to see how a dwarf manages with a woman. Entertainment's thin on the plains, you know how it is."

Tyrion didn't bother looking at him.

"How long will you be gone?" Kevan asked.

"However long it takes," Tyrion said. "Joffrey doesn't want me in King's Landing. Neither does Cersei." His tone dropped. "Besides, I wanted to see this army for myself. 20,321 men. 17,321 of them fresh recruits." He looked at his uncle. "How exactly do you plan to take Storm's End with this?"

Kevan didn't answer. He simply pulled up at the roadside and ordered a halt. Dense forest pressed in on both sides of the Kingsroad.

The new men scattered. Some dropped flat on the ground. Others crouched down and started rubbing their feet.

Martin Lannister moved through them with a dozen veterans, using spear shafts to whack the legs of anyone lying down. The field filled with groaning. Men cursed and clambered upright, shuffling into something that was shaped, vaguely, like a formation.

Kevan sat his horse at the edge of the field and waited for the stragglers to limp in from the rear. When the last of them finally arrived, he dismounted and walked the front of the square.

Twenty thousand spears wobbled up into the air, like a forest of stunted, sickly trees.

He walked the line, tapping misaligned shafts with his sword. The clinking rang out like a blacksmith's yard.

"Most of you have held nothing but a hoe your whole lives. I don't expect you to become knights in seven days. But I want one thing in your heads."

He kept walking.

"The Dothraki arakh is shorter than your spear. They're on horseback. You're on foot. A horse won't charge a spear wall, because horses feel pain. You stand your ground, you keep your spearhead on the horse's face, and they won't come through."

"Stand firm and you live." He stopped. His gaze moved across the whole formation. "Run, and you die faster. Your legs will never outrun a horse."

He set the veterans to work, breaking the recruits into groups of ten. Each group formed two rows, spears pointing outward, bristling like a hedgehog.

"You will learn to march," Kevan said. "You will learn to keep your steps even and hold your place in the line. When a shield wall pushes forward, one man losing his rhythm can tear the whole line open."

The veterans led their groups across the field. Straight lines, over and over. Adjusting stride, closing gaps, grinding for something like uniformity.

Tyrion watched the drilling for a while, then yawned, turned, and wandered toward the rear of the column.

He stopped beside the carriage and patted the side board. Too high.

He turned his head. "Pod."

Podrick Payne trotted over. "My lord?"

"Help me up."

Podrick bent down and held out his arm. Tyrion stepped onto his knee, grabbed the edge of the carriage board, and hauled himself upward in a graceless scramble. Podrick put a hand under his backside and pushed. Tyrion finally rolled onto the board.

"Thanks." He brushed the dust from his robes.

He lifted the corner of the curtain.

Sansa Stark sat inside in a pale blue gown, white snowdrop flowers embroidered at the collar.

"My lady." His voice dropped without him meaning it to. "Are you well?"

Sansa looked up. Her blue eyes held no tears, no fear. Just a blank, hollow calm. That calm sat worse with Tyrion than weeping would have.

She had been like this since Robb Stark and Catelyn Tully died.

She had heard what happened to her mother. Stripped naked. Thrown into the river. The current carrying her away, no one to bring her home.

She had heard what Walder Frey did to her brother's body. Grey Wind's head, stitched onto Robb's neck. Joffrey had made sure she knew all of it.

"I am well, my lord," she said.

"You've been sitting in this carriage since we left the city."

"Yes," she said.

"You should get out and walk a bit."

"There are soldiers outside." She didn't move. "...Men."

Tyrion understood.

He remembered what the mob had done to her in King's Landing. Her clothes torn. Held down on the ground. The Hound was the only reason she'd survived it.

"All right. If you want to come out, call for Bronn. He'll stay close." He let the curtain fall and turned away.

He slid down from the carriage board, his knee dipping as he landed. He steadied himself.

"Bronn."

"Hm?"

"If Lady Sansa calls for you, you go. Don't let anyone near her."

"Anyone?"

"Anyone," Tyrion said. "That includes men in Lannister crimson."

Bronn made a sound in his throat and said nothing.

The drilling ran until nightfall.

King's Landing to Storm's End wasn't a long road. Kevan used every evening, the hour before the soldiers bedded down, to push the training. He meant to wring whatever fighting shape he could out of this army before they arrived.

By the third day, they could hold a column without stepping on each other's heels.

Kevan's face stayed unreadable. But that night in his tent, cup in hand, he said to Tyrion, "At least they aren't all useless."

Tyrion raised his cup. "To the useless who aren't entirely useless."

➤ Next: The Seasoned Tywin