DISCLAIMER: all characters belong to George R. R. Martin.
Chapter 1
Sandor
Footsteps echoed in the spiral staircase and as they seemed to come closer, he did his best to lie there on the pallet, perfectly still under the rough blanket someone had tossed on his curled up form. The wet cloth on his forehead, supposed to reduce his fever, had slipped and blinded him. His heart skipped a beat when the door creaked open.
"The orphan is here," a harsh voice said.
There was nothing pleasant or kind in this masculine voice. It only described his situation: a boy who had lost his father and ended up in this strange and big castle where nobody waited for him. He was a fool if he ever expected to find compassion in this voice.
"And what do you want me to do with him?" a second man asked.
This voice was different; softer, yet determined and straightforward. A commander's voice exuding impatience. This one had forgotten a long time ago what it was to have his orders questioned. Could it be him? Please don't send me back to Gregor...
"Why do you ask?" the first man replied. "If I speak my mind, you won't listen to me. You never listen to my advice..."
"I have no time for this, Gerion. I asked you what you wanted to show me in the maester's tower and said you'd better not waste my time."
No matter who he was, he didn't need to raise his voice to make everyone feel his anger.
"Is he dead?" he added, without the slightest hint of concern or curiosity. His tone revealed all this bored him: the never-ending staircase, the grim room, the form laying on the pallet.
"No, he's not, though he collapsed at the gates. How far is Clegane keep? Thirty, maybe forty miles, as the raven flies. I guess the boy didn't eat for some days," Gerion said.
The man's suppositions were not wrong, but he was wide of the mark. Sandor heard slow footsteps coming closer and someone stopping in front of the pallet.
"Let's have a look at him," the smooth voice commanded.
A hand grabbed the woolen blanket, exposing his ragged figure and the cloth was removed, leaving a wet trail on his face. His limbs were shaking, but he clenched his jaw and tried not to move. When he opened his eyes, he saw Tywin Lannister leaning over him. Long-legged and fair-haired, The Warden of the West, former Hand of the King, looked like a bird of prey with his aquiline nose. Until that day, he had only seen his father's liege lord twice, and only caught sight of him: he wasn't supposed to meet such an important man, he was only his father's youngest son. And Father didn't want me to take away Lord Tywin's appetite if he ever looked at my face. On the left, a younger version of Tywin waited for his orders. Tywin Lannister was staring at him but his green eyes didn't really see him, they focused on his scars. He didn't seem like he was ready to vomit his dinner, though.
"So, it was true," Tywin stated. "Burnt from hairline to chin on one side. And that? Is this his bone I see on his jaw?"
The lord of Casterly Rock had spoken about him as if he was not here, ignoring his pleading eyes. Worse still, under this unsettling gaze, he felt like an animal or an object Tywin Lannister had come upon. The man had not decided yet what he would do with him. His heart beat wildly as he realized this was perhaps his only chance to stay alive. Forgetting his fever and his weak limbs, he tried to sit up on the pallet but hardly managed to lean on his forearms.
"Send him back to his brother. We shouldn't even discuss about it. We should mind our own business."
He didn't know this voice, didn't even know there was someone else; this one must have stayed in some corner by the door because he couldn't see him behind the two other men.
"Seven Hells, Kevan!" Gerion exclaimed. "You know who did that to him. You know who killed Clegane."
"We don't know anything," the third man retorted, coming closer. As soon as he stopped beside Gerion, Sandor saw another version of Tywin Lannister, with rounded shoulders and a massive jaw. "If we take for granted every gossip peasants spread about Gregor Clegane..."
"Why do you think this boy ran away?" Gerion insisted. "And you want to send him back to his brother? Is it a joke or something?"
"Gregor is now my Bannerman," Tywin pointed out. There was no emotion nor stance in his words, only facts.
"I'm sorry," Gerion said, losing his temper, "but as his liege lord, you have to protect your Bannermen and you have to judge them. And by the laws of gods and men, your precious Gregor is a kinslayer. What kind of message do you send to your other Bannermen? 'Kill your father if you feel like it, as long as you're loyal to me'?"
Anger and disgust made Gerion's face ugly and twisted his mouth. After all, when the youngest son of Tytos Lannister stood for him as he did, he was fighting two men at a time. An unfair fight: he should help Gerion. However, he felt so weak he struggled to stay still and tried to ignore the growing pain in his sore arms. He had to do something quickly.
"I can be useful, my lord," he said, locking eyes with Tywin. "I know how to fight. My father told me."
Kevan burst out laughing.
"Do you hear that?" he asked. "The brat's voice didn't even break!"
Sandor was aware his voice was still high-pitched but he was more than that; he was tall and well-built for a boy of his age. And I learnt how to fight: there's not a squire in Westeros who has as many reasons as I have to learn swordplay. Fever had made his eyes glisten and his cheeks red a while ago, but weakness had vanished as soon as Kevan Lannister expressed his disregard and there was only anger growing in him, tensing his muscles and distorting his features.
"How old are you, boy?" Kevan asked, repressing a smile.
"I'm ten-and-two, my lords. But I'm strong. And my father taught me everything about swordplay."
He didn't mean it, but his voice, high-pitched as ever, sounded like he was pleading. I swear I'll never beg someone again. Not in my entire life. He clenched his jaw when he understood that he could burst into tears. Crying is for girls. I'm done with crying.
"He survived," Gerion stated, talking about him as if he was not here. "He's a tough one."
Tywin nodded; at least, his head moved slightly and made him feel suddenly more confident. The lord of Casterly Rock stood there, perfectly still for a while, his brothers waiting for his decision in an attitude revealing they were used to his silences.
"I have to think about it," Tywin finally said. "Give the boy some food. He will have a bath, too: he stinks. For now, I have more important matters to decide than the future of a boy."
Tywin Lannister turned around and walked away, his brother Kevan on his heels. The door creaked, there were footsteps in the spiral staircase and he was alone with Gerion.
After a bath, the fever was gone, he felt terribly hungry. When Gerion said the word 'kitchens', he couldn't help salivating and he gratefully followed the young man out of the grim room. Gerion ran down the stairs and only looked back once outside. They crossed the yard and Gerion waved at some men, pinched a squire's ear and seemed to forget him until they reached the pointed arch that lead to the kitchens. Long before they passed the threshold, when they were still walking in the dusty yard, Sandor could smell grease and onions, teasing him like Gerion had pinched the squire. He was starving and wouldn't be able to eat cleanly. He took a sharp intake of breath, tried to swallow the smell of roasting meat and came in.
He had never seen something like this; in a room whose dimensions equaled those of his father's hall, an army of cooks and servants ran from the hearth to the wide oak table, poured water, cut turnips, shelled peas, but only one, a big woman with grey hair tasted the dishes and gave orders. Smoke crept over one side of the big room, but nobody seemed to notice it, as the big woman wiped her hands on her apron, then waddled to the hearth, scrutinized the pork roasting on the spit and yelled at the other ones. The boys and girls around her hurried to the hearth, fearful and docile. Finally, the big woman turned around.
"What is it you brought me, m'lord?" the fierce woman said to Gerion, a cheeky look on her face. Sandor noticed her pale eyes and her straight hair escaping her head kerchief, as she stood a few yards from them, her hands on her massive hips. Gerion didn't react despite her lippy attitude; with a deft flourish, he showed Sandor, told her to give him some food and walked away.
"Do you have a name, boy?" she asked. Her voice sounded as soft as the smoke that made him cough.
"Sandor, of House Clegane."
He stepped forward. When they heard his name, some of the servants froze and stared at him. The big woman cursed in an undertone and squinted her eyes to see his features in the dim light. She wanted to catch a glimpse at his scars, but she seemed disappointed by what she saw; after bathing, he had flattened his long dark hair on the burnt side of his face. A valueless measure.
"He's burnt!" a scrawny girl exclaimed, sucking in deeply.
"Aye, he's burnt," the big woman said. "And I'm fat, for all I care."
She waddled toward him and gestured to the long table dividing the room in two.
"Have a sit, then. Fat Jeyne, they call me. Guess why." She turned around and pointed at the scrawny girl. "Maria, you stupid little wench, bring some stew!" When she gave orders, she seemed to caw like the ravens his father kept to send messages.
The scrawny girl didn't dare to look at him when she brought back a steamy bowl of stew; she put it on the table quickly, then almost ran away and he heard her giggling with her companions crowded near the hearth. Fat Jeyne gave him some brown bread and stood next to the table. Sandor shifted on the bench, ill-at-ease, but he was starving and the rich smell of pork stew was too tempting. He began to gobble down his food, forgetting Fat Jeyne and the boys and girls working in the kitchens, squeaking like mice. Once his bowl was empty, Fat Jeyne filled it with more stew and he went on. If the big woman took his gluttony as a tribute to her cooking, she was wrong: he only wanted to build up his strength, just in case. As long as someone offered him some food, he couldn't refuse. He finally granted Fat Jeyne with a sheepish look.
Two years ago, his little sister had found a rawboned cat nearby Clegane Keep and she had given him scraps. The damn cat had eaten greedily, finishing a surprising amount of food. He remembered his sister's fascinated look in front of the young animal, who used to eat when he could and starve when there was nothing for him. The cat's green eyes revealed he didn't know what to expect from his sister and himself. Were they able to keep him as a pet or did they like to hurt animals? The cat looked at them suspiciously, scratching his ruined ear. After a while, when his little sister confessed him how she loved the cat and how happy he would be with them in Clegane Keep, he understood what he had to do. He caught the skinny animal, put it in some bag and rode as far as he could before dropping the beast in the woods. If his sister had something she loved, Gregor would destroy it, and the thought of his sister's reaction was unbearable. Pretend the cat ran away was easier. It was two years ago, when Gregor only killed animals.
Sandor felt like the cat right now, nauseous because he had eaten too much and unable to read Tywin Lannister's intentions. He didn't know either what to think about Fat Jeyne who was now smiling; was she trying to be nice with him or was she just stupid?
Jon
The swift blow of his sword wasn't enough to disarm his opponent. The prince's locks brushed his forearm as he avoided Jon's long sword; steel made a silvery sound, he felt something pricking his chest, despite the jerkin he wore and it was over. Victory brought a half-smile on Rhaegar's lips.
No matter how gifted he was with a sword, no matter how many of his opponents had bitten the dust, Jon had never defeated the prince. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice his sudden clumsiness whenever Rhaegar chose him as a sparing partner. In the Great Hall, in the sept or in the yard where they practiced swordplay, Prince Rhaegar embodied perfection. My silver prince.
As neither of them moved, the blade still grazed his chest and it was Rhaegar who first thought of the marks valyrian steel would leave on Jon's skin. He took his long sword and sheathed.
"Did I hurt you, my friend?" the prince asked, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.
Jon shook his head but Rhaegar insisted. "I can see blood."
Docilely, Jon undid his jerkin and they both noticed a small gash on the left side of his chest, two inches above his nipple. How ironic. As if he aimed at my heart.
"I am sorry," Rhaegar said, concern distorting his handsome face.
"I didn't even feel it."
It was true. Jon always felt numb and stupid and clumsy in front of his prince. Right now, he could have drowned himself in Rhaegar's purple gaze; moments like this one were too brief and too rare lately. As the prince still stared at him, looking for some other scratch, he stuck out his chest. Suddenly ashamed, he regretted it: was he some wanton girl in Flea Bottom to expose his skin and thus try to draw Rhaegar's attention? He grumbled and slipped on his jerkin.
"I am sorry," Rhaegar repeated, turning around and looking into the distance.
This time, Jon could tell the prince's apologies were not about the gash on the freckled skin of his chest. A fresh breeze blew in Rhaegar's silver locks and reminded Jon it was late; they only had until the sun went down. He nevertheless would try to make this moment last.
"I'm sorry, Your Grace," Jon rasped. "I know I'm not half as good as Ser Arthur Dayne. If he was here, he would have made a worthy opponent. I can still take my revenge, though."
His back to him, Rhaegar gestured and he understood there would be no more swordplay before the sunset.
"I didn't see Ser Arthur in King's Landing for some days," he went on. "Does Your Grace know what he has to do in Dorne?"
Rhaegar turned on his heels and his purple gaze became darker, as if Jon had insulted him.
"I'm sorry, Your Grace, I didn't mean..."
The Targaryen prince's features relaxed and he sighed.
"Someday, I will tell you everything, my friend," he promised. "But now, I feel tired."
Rhaegar looked rather anxious than tired, but Jon kept his thoughts for himself. After the Tourney at Harenhal, rumors spread all over the realm. For the first time in his life, Rhaegar was a disappointment; he had given the crown of blue winter roses to Lyanna Stark instead of choosing his wife Elia. That day, the Stark girl had become the Queen of Love and Beauty and from then on, smallfolk began to talk about their beloved prince in a way they never had before. Of course, Rhaegar's decision surprised him, but Jon could understand; Princess Elia was frail and always sick. The Stark girl was just a girl, but at least, she seemed alive.
They slowly walked toward Maegor's Holdfast and Jon brought back to his apartments the vision of his prince, distant and melancholic as ever.
When the squire knocked at his door, he was looking at the gash on his chest. Without really thinking about it, he had scratched it and removed the thin brown crust; now it was bleeding again. Jon stared at the boy with a hint of exasperation and asked what he wanted.
"Princess Elia would like to talk to you," the squire explained.
For fear of his reaction, the boy stepped back immediately, ready to retreat. If Jon managed to conceal his true feelings for the dornish princess when in court, he made no secret of his disdain for her in front of his relatives and his servants.
"What in Seven Hells does she want?" Jon growled.
The frightened boy couldn't tell him and he knew it. He cursed, got dressed and emptied a cup of Arbor gold before following his squire in the corridors of the Red Keep. A muted rage took hold of him and made his strides longer; the poor boy who couldn't keep up with him was soon forced to run behind an infuriated Jon. When he realized the squire was panting, he slowed down his pace, but they were already in front of Princess Elia's apartments.
She was bedridden since the maester found out she was with child. Before Princess Rhaenys' birth, she had stayed in bed for half a year, and now it was just the same. Everyone in court said it was necessary and sympathized with Elia, but he just didn't get it. Since when did bearing a child mean lazing in a feather bed? His mother certainly didn't spend her time bedridden when she was expecting him. As Lady Ashara Dayne, Princess Elia's lady-in-waiting sent him in, he sighed and clenched his jaw. On Ashara's graceful face, he noticed a mischievous smile; she knew how he felt about Rhaegar's wife, but he couldn't care less.
The bedroom had an incredible coffered ceiling of orange, red and golden, a tribute to House Martell's sigil. White veils hung from the ceiling, framing the bed where Elia of Dorne sat enthroned. She seemed even weaker than the last time he had seen her, lost in the huge bed like some beginner actress in a spectacular scenery.
"It's been a long time, my lord," she said softly, granting him with one of those smiles all the lords and ladies of Westeros found so charming. Hypocrite. We don't like each other. He bowed deeply in front of Elia, happy to realize that a curtsey allowed him to keep the contemptuous look the princess inspired him for a heartbeat or two.
"Oh, stand up, my lord. Please. Did somebody tell you how this doublet fits you well?"
"I don't think so, Your Grace," he answered a bit stiffly. "Are we here to talk about frills and flounces?"
A tinkling laugh escaped her lips and he suddenly remembered how young she was. Featherbrained.
"Of course not, my lord. You are here because now that I am bedridden, I have time to think about many matters I overlooked so far."
"Politics? Philosophy?" he mocked. Every time they met, it became more and more difficult to hide his aversion for her; he should be more careful. She laughed again.
"You are boiling, my lord. Actually I was thinking about politics and love. I was thinking about a wedding. Yours."
Elia's big eyes locked with his and she tilted her head, observing his reaction. He stood there gaping, trying to understand what she had just said. She knows. She knows who I am and what I feel for him.
"How old are you, Lord Connington? Two-and-twenty, maybe three-and-twenty, like my dear husband? It doesn't matter: it is time for you to marry and give an heir to Griffin's Roost."
If she was a man, he would have thrown himself on her and made her regret her words, but he couldn't do that: her sickness and her pregnancy were her shield and sword.
"I do not have time for this," he said slowly, glaring at her.
"How serious you look, my lord!" she exclaimed. "No time for marrying a high-born lady and conceiving an heir?"
"I would be a terrible husband and a terrible father, Your Grace," he replied, his eyes fleeting around the room. He hoped this argument would hit the bull's eye.
"My dear Jon, if all the terrible husbands and fathers had refused to wed, we wouldn't be there."
His forced smile perhaps didn't delude her, but she couldn't blame him for that.
"I think you should get married," she insisted. "I found you the perfect match..."
"No offense, Your Grace, but I don't want to discuss those matters for now. There are far more important questions than my wedding. Lord Varys' little birds reported that troublemakers are coming to the capital."
"Troublemakers?"
"Lord Stark's eldest son and some of his companions."
"What do they want?" Elia's tone was suddenly frightened.
"I should not tell you, Your Grace. In your condition..."
"What is it?" she begged. "I told Lady Ashara and my ladies-in-waiting not to hide anything from me, but they disobeyed. They don't know me, I am strong..."
He snorted. The princess had just given him a way to make her suffer like he suffered. It was too tempting. Her anxiety delighted him.
"I suppose you remember the crown Prince Rhaegar gave to Lyanna Stark, during the Tourney at Harenhal. The Stark girl is reported missing and his brother blames Rhaegar."
"Impossible," the princess said, panting as if she had run in the corridors. "My husband..."
Jon kept silent deliberately. He should be ashamed for disturbing Elia's mind, but he wasn't. Now, it's your turn to suffer and to torture yourself. Fear and doubts distorted her features.
"Your Grace asked why I don't want to get married," he finally said, a pitiless look in his eyes. "I see your concern about Prince Rhaegar, and I thank the Seven for not being a husband and a father."
She swallowed hard, unable to answer or to send him away. He noticed how her small fists grabbed the smooth fabric of the sheets, how jealousy had crept up on her face. Tormenting her relieved him. He bowed again and asked her in a courteous tone if he could leave her. She barely answered and he made his way to the door. Lady Ashara Dayne waited for him in the corridor, the little Rhaenys in her arms.
"Princess Elia wants to be alone," he told her. I want her to brood over the case of the Stark girl, no matter how false rumors are.
Ashara's half-smile surprised him and he wondered if she was the 'perfect match' Elia had found for him, but it seemed far-fetched. Rhaenys squirmed in Ashara's arms and looked at him.
"Red hair!" she told him, pointing a chubby hand at him.
"Why does Prince Rhaegar's daughter have brown hair?" he retorted stiffly.
Frightened by his harsh tone, the little girl hid her face in Ashara's neck. The lady-in-waiting laughed.
"Are you trying to convince Princess Rhaenys you would make a terrible husband?" she asked.
"You listened to our conversation."
"Perhaps."
The thought of an alliance between him and House Dayne didn't seem so stupid after all, at least in Elia's mind. Rhaegar's wife probably thought it was a great favor to marry her lady-in-waiting. And it was true, for any other man. Maybe Elia knew his feelings for her husband and tried to separate them. He clenched his jaw, as anger rose inside him. All of a sudden, he remembered Ser Arthur Dayne's unusual absence.
"Tell me something, my lady," he said. "It's been a while since I last saw your brother here. As a member of the Kingsguard, he should be protecting the king, shouldn't he?"
Ashara's purple eyes expressed both surprise and helplessness. When she heard Princess Elia's voice through the thick wooden door, she quickly took leave.
He stared at the carved panels once Ashara was gone and wondered about the Stark girl.
Eddard
For some years, the castle of the Eyrie had been his home and the craggy landscape of the Vale, his only horizon. His family came down to a man in his late fifties, who fostered him, and a boy who was his age, but whose character was so different from his people generally didn't understand the bond between them. Lord Jon Arryn represented the only father figure he knew and Robert Baratheon was his closest companion, almost a brother. Sometimes, it seemed to Ned the features of his father and his brother became blurred and his life was there, in the impregnable fortress looming over the Vale. Yet, the Tourney at Harrenhal, some months before, had questioned everything.
The Year of False Spring had forced him to reconsider who he was and who was his family. Who was his friend. And now he felt like in the middle of the ford; it was difficult but he could only go further and try to reach the other side, whatever the cost.
When he thought about the Tourney and its beginning, he remembered his shock when he had seen her again; he had almost forgotten what it was to have a sister. Lyanna was a will-o'-the-wisp – and Robert's presence in Harrenhal had nothing to do with it. Her fits of laughter, her whims, her secrets were parts of an exotic land he had left long ago. The tourney was like a new opportunity to visit this foreign country. He felt both disoriented and charmed. Day after day, she surprised him and they became again a brother and his sister. What they had lived together when the Knight of the Laughing Tree made his entrance, gave them the illusion nothing could resist them. Even the sagacious Prince Rhaegar. Then, at the end of the Tourney, when the story of the Knight of the Laughing Tree only seemed a trick imagined by children, the consequences of their game frightened him.
Time was flying, though, and the mismatched armor of the mystery knight was just a memory. As he leaned against the balcony of his bedchamber, Ned felt like an old man summoning the ghosts of his past. Someone knocked at the door and put an end to his reverie. One of the old servants came in and explained Ned's presence was required in the High Hall.
He didn't know what to expect when he strode along the corridors of the Eyrie. The last raven had revealed Lyanna's abduction and he still clang to the faint hope his brother Brandon had found her. At the sight of the walls made of blue-veined marble, new comers often felt like the temperature in the High Hall was lower than in any other part of the castle. He knew the High Hall; he even played there with Robert, but when he saw Jon Arryn's grim expression at the end of the never-ending table, it seemed to Ned that the narrow windows were open, allowing a chilly wind to blow in the spectacular room.
Robert was there, as well. After all, Lyanna was betrothed to him. Since her kidnapping, Robert was a shadow of his former self. The tall and broad-shouldered young man was stooping and avoided people's gaze. However, as soon as he caught a glimpse of his friend, Ned sensed there was something completely different. Restless, Robert was pacing up and down. He even shouted something at Jon Arryn, but he was too far to understand his words. Before Ned reached them, Robert stormed out of the High Hall, ignoring his surprise and Arryn's frowning.
Ned looked at the man who had fostered him for so long and felt unable to speak. At first, Arryn remained silent, as if he suddenly feared another burst of anger, then, when tension became palpable, he held out a scroll.
"Your lord father," Arryn said in his baritone voice. "Your brother found out that Prince Rhaegar abducted Lyanna and he went to the court with some of his companions. Now King Aerys summons your father and his companions' fathers to court."
His head was pounding.
"House Royce, House Mallister, House Glover summoned to court as if they were thieves and murderers. And to say that my nephew, Elbert, is out there. You know what it means," Arryn added. "It can only end in blood."
