Half a league from the crossroads, a barricade of sharpened stakes had been erected, manned by pikemen and archers. Behind the line, the camp spread out to the far distance. Thin fingers of smoke rose from hundreds of cookfires, mailed men sat under trees and honed their blades, and familiar banners fluttered from staffs thrust into the muddy ground.
A party of mounted horsemen rode forward to challenge them as they approached the stakes. The knight who led them wore silver armor inlaid with amethysts and a striped purple-and-silver cloak. His shield bore a unicorn sigil, and a spiral horn two feet long jutted up from the brow of his horsehead helm. Tyrion reined up to greet him. "Sir Flement."
Sir Flement Brax lifted his visor. "Tyrion," he said in astonishment. "My lord, we all feared you dead, or... " He looked at the clansmen uncertainly. "These... companions of yours... "
Bosom friends and loyal retainers, Tyrion said. "Where will I find my lord father?"
He has taken the inn at the crossroads for his quarters.
Tyrion laughed. The inn at the crossroads! Perhaps the gods were just after all. "I will see him at once."
As you say, my lord. Sir Flement wheeled his horse about and shouted commands.