"Tyrion." Bronn's warning was low and urgent.
Tyrion was awake in the blink of an eye.
The fire had burned down to embers, and the shadows were creeping in all around them.
Bronn had raised himself to one knee, his sword in one hand and his dirk in the other.
Tyrion held up a hand: stay still, it said.
"Come share our fire, the night is cold," he called out to the creeping shadows.
"I fear we've no wine to offer you, but you're welcome to some of our goat."
All movement stopped. Tyrion saw the glint of moonlight on metal.
"Our mountain," a voice called out from the trees, deep and hard and unfriendly. "Our goat."
"Your goat," Tyrion agreed. "Who are you?"
"When you meet your gods," a different voice replied,
"say it was Gunthor son of Gurn of the Stone Crows who sent you to them."
A branch cracked underfoot as he stepped into the light;
a thin man in a horned helmet, armed with a long knife.
"And Shagga son of Dolf."
That was the first voice, deep and deadly.
A boulder shifted to their left, and stood, and became a man.
Massive and slow and strong he seemed, dressed all in skins, with a club in his right hand and an axe in hisleft.
He smashed them together as he lumbered closer.
Other voices called other names, Conn and Torrek and Jaggot and more that Tyrion forgot the instant he heardthem; ten at least.
A few had swords and knives; others brandished pitchforks and scythes and wooden spears.
He waited until they were done shouting out their names before he gave them answer.
"I am Tyrion son of Tywin, of the Clan Lannister, the Lions of the Rock.
We will gladly pay you for the goat we ate."