The Mountain of Ice and Fire

The sun was setting.

On a high hill, a huge golden lion banner fluttered in the breeze.

Beneath the flagpole, a folding table made of raw wood was covered with a golden tablecloth, matching the shattered golden sunlight that covered the ground.

The generals of the Westerlands were seated on both sides of the long table.

Tywin Lannister sat in the center. To his left was his brother Kevan Lannister, and to his right was his son-in-law, the Mountain. All the important lords of the Westerlands were present, including Lord Swyft of Cornfield, who managed the logistics and supplies at the rear of the army. This fellow's sister had married Kevan Lannister, elevating the Swyft family to the ranks of the top nobles in the Westerlands.

Tyrion Lannister was also present.

Among the tall and burly generals, Tyrion looked like a child.

The best wine from the Arbor was brought out by the servants, along with sizzling golden roast suckling pig, fragrant and steaming bread, tender green salads, sausages sliced into step-like rounds, roasted rabbits skewered on two huge bamboo sticks, golden honey, long and thick chopsticks... except in front of Tyrion, where shiny knives and forks were placed.

"Gentlemen, Adam Marbrand's scouts have informed us that we are one day's journey from the Young Wolf of the North. We will engage the Northmen in battle here tomorrow," Ser Kevan said, gesturing towards the hill below, encompassing the forest, the Kingsroad, and the shallows of the Green Fork.

Lord Tywin remained silent, skillfully eating with his chopsticks, his face stern and solemn, giving Tyrion an unreal feeling.

The decree to use wood instead of iron was issued by his father, and it was a good idea. Tyrion noticed that the Westerlands militia were all brightly armored and their swords were shining. This was impossible in the past, unthinkable.

In the past, militiamen were lucky to have a spear with an iron tip or a rusty longsword, but this time, the militia's weapons were almost the same as those of the noble guard. - Nevertheless, Tyrion felt that Lord Tywin himself could keep his shiny knives and forks and all-metal tableware. Even if his father made everything out of gold, it wouldn't be out of place. There was no need for him to use so-called wooden chopsticks.

Although Tyrion felt a little awkward about his father's stern face while eating with chopsticks, he naturally wouldn't object in any way. If he dared to object to this, his father would dare to kick him out, without a doubt.

Tyrion hadn't had the best Arbor wine in a long time, and his father's dinner was too sumptuous - there were more than a dozen kinds of roasted meat here, and the bread was made in various flavors. Honey and snow salt were the best seasonings. He could put whatever he liked, and pick whatever he wanted. Tyrion hadn't enjoyed such good fortune in a long time.

Tyrion picked up his knife and fork, ready to dig in. He decided that at the dinner meeting, he wouldn't say a word and would fill his stomach first.

"Tyrion, we're going to make you the vanguard," Ser Kevan said.

Tyrion put down the roasted rabbit he was about to put in his mouth. What Uncle Kevan said was usually what his father said. His uncle was his father's shadow: "My dear uncle, if my martial skills were comparable to my drinking ability and my appetite for roast meat, I think I could be the vanguard."

"Tyrion, as long as you're not as useless as your hill tribesmen, you can be the vanguard. If your brother Jaime were here, the vanguard would definitely be his, and no one could take it away," said Swyft, the quartermaster.

Tyrion looked at his father, who was concentrating on dealing with sliced sausages, ham, and roast suckling pig. A servant stood between his father and the Mountain, specially using a sharp knife to cut all kinds of roasted meat into thin slices. He was sweating profusely because his father and the Mountain ate very quickly.

An ominous feeling crept into Tyrion's heart. His father was clearly sending him to his death.

"My dear father, thank you for suddenly discovering that my martial arts are unparalleled, far superior to all the generals present. Tomorrow, I will lead the hill tribesmen as the vanguard and break through the enemy's lines. I guarantee in the name of my dwarfism and the honor of this suckling pig that I will kill the enemy's vanguard general and cut off his head."

"Tyrion, since you're so afraid of fighting, take your men to the rear to protect our supplies," Lord Tywin said indifferently. He spoke every word clearly, but it didn't stop him from eating meat and drinking. Tywin could talk while chewing, which was a skill that Tyrion admired. Tyrion couldn't do that.

"No, father, as you wish, I will be the vanguard tomorrow. It would be good to have the Mountain follow behind me, so he can learn how I charge into battle on a little pony. I bet the enemy will lose all their momentum and be vulnerable as soon as they see me appear, because they will all burst out laughing."

With a bang, the generals of the Westerlands burst out laughing at the long table. Tyrion also laughed, as if he had already won the war.

Lord Tywin didn't even blink, his expressionless face was his expression.

"Tyrion, you and your men will be the vanguard tomorrow, but the vanguard will not be under your command."

"Who will command?"

"The Mountain. You and your men will all be under the Mountain's command, and all actions will be under his orders." Lord Tywin raised a glass of wine and drank it all in one gulp.

Tyrion wanted to smash the glass in his hand on the table, or splash the wine on his father's face, that would be wonderful. Was the military force that he had worked so hard to build going to be wasted?!

"So, letting me be the vanguard is just a joke? A joke to amuse you noble lords at dinner?" Tyrion shrugged.

"Tyrion, tomorrow you will be in charge of the left flank. The entire army will be close to the river. Unless the enemy's horses can run on the surface of the river, you must not allow the enemy to outflank us from the left. Even if you and your men all die in battle, holding the left flank is a military achievement. Leave the charging to me and my Clegane men."

Tyrion secretly breathed a sigh of relief. He believed that if he charged, he would be thrown off his pony before he even got close. His horsemanship was not good at all, just like his swordsmanship. With his body, he wasn't even as tall as a sword when he was a teenager, how could he practice martial arts?

"General Gregor, since you are my superior, I am applying for three thousand sets of weapons for my hill tribesmen. You have to give them to me. Otherwise, you won't be able to defend your left flank with wooden sticks and rakes."

His father wouldn't give weapons and armor to the hill tribesmen, and wanted to give them after they fought a battle with their original weapons first. Tyrion was powerless against his stubborn father, so he shifted his gaze and squeezed the Mountain. If the Mountain didn't give them, he would ridicule his commanding officer. If the Mountain gave them, he would be going against his father's will. Hehe, he just wanted to vent his anger.

Tyrion looked at the Mountain with malicious pleasure. He thought the Mountain would not be able to take the move.

"I can only give you three hundred sets," the Mountain said. "These are spare weapons and armor for my own army. There aren't any more."

Wealthy nobles would prepare spare weapons, armor, warhorses, and food themselves. They wouldn't rely entirely on the Duke's logistical support.

"Three hundred sets?" Tyrion was surprised. The Mountain was giving him his own armor, three hundred sets. With the financial resources of his territory, it was an ultra-limit number. Tyrion swallowed the words he was going to mock the Mountain with.

"Three hundred sets!"

"Really?"

"Really!"

"When will you give them to me?"

"You can have Bronn take people to my army camp tent to get them now."

"Okay!" Tyrion said. He glanced at his iron-hearted father, whose frequency of eating and drinking had neither changed nor stopped. It was as if he hadn't heard this conversation at all.

Tyrion felt very lost in his heart.

Lord Tywin didn't look at Tyrion, but he seemed to see through his thoughts. He said, "Tyrion, you were supposed to lead the first wave of attack on the left flank tomorrow, but the Mountain advised me not to. He believes that the left flank is best defended to prevent the enemy from breaking through you and then flanking our army on the left. I agreed to his suggestion."

Tyrion suddenly lost his appetite.

His father's original plan was really to arrange for him to be the first to charge, wasn't this sending him to his death? But he was the Duke's son! There were many generals in the Westerlands, why did his father arrange for him to be the first to charge? He was not a true general!

"Father, don't you think it's sending me to my death to launch the first attack from the left flank? I don't understand why?" Tyrion said with a bitter taste in his mouth.

"You are a Lannister, this is the Lannister's war," Tywin said calmly, "If your brother were here, he couldn't wait."

"Okay, I'm full!" Tyrion said. The roasted meat on the plate in front of him hadn't even been touched. He had only been talking and had only drunk one glass of wine since he came to the table.

He got off the table and staggered down the hillside. Behind him was the laughter of the Westerlands lords.