"If I were them, I’d fear a trap," Bronn said. "Why else would we be so open, if not to lure them in?"
Tyrion chuckled. "Then we ought to sing and send them fleeing in terror." He began to whistle a tune.
"You’re mad, dwarf," Bronn said as he cleaned the grease out from under his nails with his dirk.
"Where’s your love of music, Bronn?"
"If it was music you wanted, you should have gotten the singer to champion you."
Tyrion grinned. "That would have been amusing. I can just see him fending off Ser Vardis with his woodharp." He resumed his whistling. "Do you know this song?" he asked.
"You hear it here and there, in inns and whorehouses."
"Myrish. ‘The Seasons of My Love.’ Sweet and sad, if you understand the words. The first girl I ever bedded used to sing it, and I’ve never been able to put it out of my head." Tyrion gazed up at the sky. It was aclear cold night and the stars shone down upon the mountains as bright and merciless as truth. "I met her ona night like this," he heard himself saying. "Jaime and I were riding back from Lannisport when we heard a scream, and she came running out into the road with two men dogging her heels, shouting threats. My brother unsheathed his sword and went after them, while I dismounted to protect the girl. She was scarcely a year older than I was, dark-haired, slender, with a face that would break your heart. It certainly broke mine. Lowborn, half-starved, unwashed...yet lovely. They’d torn the rags she was wearing half off her back, so I wrapped her in my cloak while Jaime chased the men into the woods. By the time he came trotting back, I’d gottena name out of her, and a story. She was a crofter’s child, orphaned when her father died of fever, on her way to?.?.?.?well, nowhere, really.