As he tumbled down into the cold ashes, his lion helm askew, Shagga snapped the man's sword in two over a knee thick as a tree trunk, threw down the pieces, and lumbered into the common room. He was preceded by his stench, riper than the cheese and overpowering in the closed space. "Little redcape," he snarled, "when next you bare steel on Shagga son of Dolf, I will chop off your manhood and roast it in the fire."
What, no goats? Tyrion said, taking a bite of cheese.
The other clansmen followed Shagga into the common room, Bronn with them. The sellsword gave Tyrion a rueful shrug.
Who might you be? Lord Tywin asked, cool as snow.
They followed me home, Father, Tyrion explained. "May I keep them? They don't eat much."
No one was smiling. "By what right do you savages intrude on our councils?" demanded Sir Kevan.
Savages, lowlander? Conn might have been handsome if you washed him. "We are free men, and free men by rights sit on all war councils."
Which one is the lion lord? Chella asked.
They are both old men, announced Timett son of Timett, who had yet to see his twentieth year.