"What a piss poor sad bunch this is," the leader of the company declared as he made his way to their table. He was a crooked sort of man, with yellow teeth, a scraggly beard, and a scarred face. His hand rested on a sword whose pommel was far too decorated to belong to any peasant outlaw. It likely belonged to some lord, now long dead.

"Move along, ya blighter." Rock raised his eyes to look up at the man, not bothering to raise his head with them. It was a careless motion that spoke volumes. He didn't think this other man was worth the effort.

"A blighter, am I? And who are you to speak? These are a fine three children you've collected here. Though this one..." The man set his hand on Tyrion's shoulder. "Is no child, is he?"

Tyrion sneered and did not dare turn around. They needed a lie, but he could not be the one to tell it. As a mute, he had a chance to evade trouble. But the moment he opened his mouth...