Essosi philosophers considered slavery to be the single greatest gift of the old Valyrians to civilization. By designating some men to labor and others to freedom from labor, they claimed, the Valyrians had made it possible for men to devote their time to music, art, literature, the sciences, and the worship of the gods. If slavery did not exist, such partisans declared, then the whole of humanity would be nothing more than a faceless rabble doomed to eternal toil, incapable of even obtaining the fruits of higher civilization, much less appreciating them.
Ser Myles Toyne, Lieutenant-General of the Grand Army of Volantis and Captain-General of the Exile Company, begged to differ. Slavery was all well and good, but he was a soldier, not a philosopher. And any soldier would agree that the single greatest dispensation of old Valyria was the dragon roads. Wide enough for three wagons or eight men to travel abreast of each other, raised off the surface of the earth and cunningly sloped to allow rain and snowmelt to run off them, impervious to the harshest abuse of weather and traffic alike, the dragon roads were what allowed armies to function away from the river Rhoyne and its vassal streams. They, and they alone, could carry the weight of logistika that an army required without turning into either a quagmire or a cloud of dust. Not that the lesser roads the Valyrians had cut away from the main trunk routes were incapable of supporting armies, but they were not the supernaturally durable highways that mocked rainstorm, blizzard, and drought alike and could stand up to the abuse that a wagon train could inflict.
Which made the lack of dragon roads in the Disputed Lands a problem that defied easy solution. It was an unfortunate quirk of history, Ser Myles reflected, that the Valyrians had never had to deploy an army to the Disputed Lands, as they had had to do along the Rhoyne, along the frontier of Andalos, and around Slaver's Bay. There had simply never been an enemy in these districts that could not be defeated with a dose of dragonfire, or simply overawed into submission. If there had been, then doubtless a dragon road would have been laid, in order to allow Valyria's armies to march in and lay waste to the landscape as had been the wont of the dragonlords. But dragons had no need of roads, and the cities of the Disputed Lands had been connected by ship far more efficiently than would have been possible even with a dragon road, so a dragon road had never been considered necessary. And while the Quarrelsome Daughters had not neglected the roads that the Valyrians had laid, those roads were mere rammed earth topped with gravel and cobblestones rather than supernally durable dragonstone, and so were vastly more vulnerable to erosion.
And the Quarrelsome Daughters had never maintained the roads that lay in the interior of the Disputed Lands. They had never had sufficient motive to do so, when the ownership of them could change from year to year. The roads along the coast and leading inland remained in good repair, but the roads of the interior had long since degenerated to lightly-graveled tracks, which could support large armies only with great difficulty or great good luck as to weather. Captain-General Naharis had outright told him that he had argued against initiatives to maintain or upgrade the roads within twenty miles of the border, in order to deny the Royal Army of Myr an easy way to support an overland invasion.
"This measure, combined with the neglect of previous centuries," he dictated to the scribe-slave that was writing his report to King Viserys and Magister Rahtheon after a long sennight of consultations with Naharis and others, "militates against deploying the bulk of the Grand Army to the Disputed Lands. That some forces will need to be deployed here is uncontestable, but these forces must be limited in number and weight of necessary supplies, in order to avoid placing too great a demand on the logistika of our allies. I recommend that no more than three or four companies of horse or mounted infantry be deployed to the Disputed Lands, this being the number that can most likely be supplied at a level necessary to undertake offensives into Myrish territory."
"Furthermore," he said on, "this degree and type of force, if ably commanded and endowed with even a normal measure of fortuna, should be sufficient to enable our allies to withstand large raids such as the one they have most recently been subjected to. The great want in the interior of the Disputed Lands is for light horse to patrol the border and scout the advance of enemy forces, and after this for cavalry of sufficient weight to face the knights of Myr in open battle while at the same time being light enough to maintain a significant degree of mobility. Making good our ally's deficiency in this regard will relieve them of the need to fear a large-scale invasion overland and allow them to focus their energies against attacks by sea, which will necessarily be of more immediate concern to the Conclave here."
Myles paused in order to allow his scribe-slave to stretch his hand and reload his quill before continuing to dictate. "The security of the border will also relieve the political pressures our allies face. The trial of Norello Hestion came close to inciting open defiance of the Conclave from their holdings on the mainland, and only the fact that Captain-General Naharis ordered the army to accept whatever decision the Court issued prevented such a breach. The cleverness of the Court in ordering Hestion to serve without pay on the border for the remainder of his life in lieu of paying a fine to Magister Ennaar also did much to prevent an eruption, but it remained a close-run thing. I witnessed no less than five demonstrations against the Conclave among the coastal towns here, at least three of which came within a hair's-breadth of devolving into riots. As the main grievance that sparked these demonstrations was the lack of apparent concern that the isles held for the plight of the mainland, relieving that concern will do much to fulfill our obligation to maintain the government of Lys, while also potentially swaying the hearts of the mainland Lyseni towards King Viserys. What that may lead to I will leave to the King's and to Magister Rahtheon's judgment."
"As regards the forces of Lys and the effectiveness of Captain-General Naharis," he continued, "my impressions are these. Firstly, that while Captain-General Naharis has yet to score a telling victory against the Kingdom of Myr, he has at least held them to a stalemate on the border prior to this new Myrish policy of large raids, and seen off smaller raids in a convincing fashion. Secondly, that the army he has built is possibly the best that Lys can raise. I have observed them in camp, on the march, on patrol, and in training, and at all times I saw them act with discipline and diligence. I have yet to see them in action, but I doubt not that they will bear themselves well if the odds are anything near to even. I must add, however, that the army's effectiveness is contingent upon its continued command by Daario Naharis. He is to them not so much their captain-general as their talisman. Even those soldiers that were defeated in the last raid claim that if Naharis had led them, they would have been victorious. It is in him that they place their trust and to him that they give their loyalty, more than to the Conclave. Furthermore, the measures that Naharis has implemented in securing the border, namely the replacement of slaves in the border districts with hired laborers, the establishment of watchtowers, patrols, and beacon fires, the preparations for evacuation of civilians and laborers from invaded areas, and the general disposition of his forces, have all proven effective when tried. I would advise, therefore, that Naharis be brought into our councils and confidence, and that in military matters we confer directly with him without reference to the Conclave. This will ensure that his experience of fighting the Myrish is fully exploited, and also that the cooperation of his army will be more easily secured."
"I will sail back to Lys isle in two days' time in order to review their fleet and to consult with the Conclave prior to returning," he went on, "but as I have little experience with ships I do not expect my advice on such matters to be of much assistance. Admiral Hotion's report will be of more use, especially as he remained on Lys isle while I sailed to the mainland." He waved a hand at his scribe-slave. "Add the usual salutations and write up a fair copy for my signature and seal by the end of the day."
"Yes, master," the scribe-slave replied, rising with a bow and leaving the study of the small manse that Myles had been given for the duration of his stay in Crotona, one of the main seaport towns of the Lyseni mainland. As he went, Myles poured himself a tumbler of fortified wine and pulled out a map of the Disputed Lands. The bulk of the Grand Army might never come within a hundred miles of the Lyseni-Myrish border, but the part of it that did come thither would have to be active and enterprising, and be seen to be so, in order to maintain the faith of the Lyseni in the alliance. And also to convert those who regarded it as a thinly disguised annexation; he was aware of how many pawky glances he had been the subject of when he had observed the Lyseni armies. What was called for was either the entrapment and destruction of a Myrish raiding force, or the launching of a raid into Myrish territory. But where? He sipped his wine and leaned over the map, absently drumming his fingers against the desk as he dived deep into contemplation.
XXX
It was not until the khalasar had left the Khyzai Pass that Drogo called Khal Ematto into his tent to give his next command. "Take one-third of the khalasar," Drogo said as they shared a bowl of airag, "and ride to the Omber. Choose one of the princes there and destroy him. Kill his men, take his women and children as slaves, and make his land grass for horses. Then tell the other princes that their gifts shall go to me and to me alone, and that if they refuse then the first prince's fate shall be theirs. Tell them also that if any other khal demands gifts of them they will refuse and call on me, or you in my name, for aid against them, and we shall answer with bow and arakh."
"I hear and obey, khal of khals," Khal Ematto replied as he considered the potential fruits of such a raid against the Omberese as Drogo had commanded. The Omberese had no great name for wealth, but of the walker nations that bordered the plains they had one of the best reputations for comeliness; Omberese women fetched high prices in the marts of Volantis and Lys. Ematto's name meant 'the smiler', in reference to the scars along his cheeks that gnarled his mouth into a twisted semblance of a smile. When he actually smiled, the result could be disconcerting even for Drogo. "Where shall we meet after this is done?"
"Vaes Dothrak, for the year's-end festival," Drogo said. "I will take the rest of the khalasar and ride the eastern plains, and bring the khalasars there under my banner. After we combine again we shall ride west, to the great river."
Ematto nodded. "Is there anything else you would have me do, great khal?" he asked. "Before we leave the lands of these walkers for good, perhaps?"
Drogo shook his head with a scowl. "There are oaths of peace between me and the walkers of the Pact," he said sternly. "Him that makes me an oathbreaker will die for it, and die a dog's death. We are not these walkers."
Ematto bowed where he sat, his smile sliding off his face. He knew well enough that when Drogo used that tone, he was being utterly serious. And while he was rightly feared for his skill with the arakh, Drogo's skill was greater than his could ever hope to be. Even if what he had so obliquely suggested could be said to be in the service of honor and the god.
For after Drogo had sworn his oaths with the Pact of the Six Cities, the ambassadors of the Pact had put on an entertainment for him and his riders. It seemed that a certain pirate, named Rumblood, had attempted to raid the Pact, had been defeated, and had been captured as a result of his defeat. The magisters of the Pact had sentenced him to die, but when they had learned of Drogo's subjugation of the Lamb Men and sent ambassadors to speak with him, they had smelled an opportunity to demonstrate what fates their enemies could expect. Once the negotiations were finished, a makeshift fighting pit had been erected, into which had been loosed a tiger that had been starved on the journey to the Pass. Rumblood had been forced into the pit as well, with no more than a breechclout and a wooden sword to defend himself with; but the pirate had proven himself both courageous and quick-witted. He had broken the sword so that it formed a point, had waited for the beast to pounce, and as it pounced he had rammed the sword down its mouth and out the back of its throat. Neither Drogo, his khals, nor his bloodriders had been able to restrain themselves from giving the bloodscream as Rumblood had struggled out from under the tiger's corpse; he might have been a walker, but he had just demonstrated skill and bravery of the sort that even a fighting rider of the People would be proud to own.
Which had made what happened next all the worse, for the magisters had apparently foreseen that the tiger might fail. A pack of red wolves had been loosed into the pit, and while Rumblood had managed to strangle one he could not fend off all of them. As his screams dwindled amid the snarling of the feeding wolves, Drogo and his men had sat in silent anger while the magisters gloated. If Rumblood had been Drogo's prisoner, and Drogo had decided to give him a death-duel rather than simply kill him, then if Rumblood had killed Drogo he would have earned the right to go free unmolested; when the god chose to demonstrate his favor in such fashion, wise men paid heed. That the magisters had refused to do so only proved their vileness, as if any true man of the People needed to be reminded of it. If Rumblood had been doomed to die, then one of them should have been man enough to do their own killing, instead of leaving it to the beasts.
"Make the walkers of the Omber kneel to my standard," Drogo said after the pause of remembrance, "and then meet me in Vaes Dothrak and we shall ride west against the walkers of the coast. And when they are dead and their cities grass for horses, and the Volantenes have bowed to us . . ." Drogo shrugged. "Then what need will we have of the Pact?"
Khal Ematto's laugh rang through the tent like the caw of a carrion crow.
XXX
Archsepton Olan loved Braavos more than he had ever expected to. When he had initially been sent here, in a thinly disguised exile that his enemies in the Faith hadn't bothered concealing their glee over, he had feared it would be purgatorial. It was almost as far from King's Landing as a septon of his rank could be sent on any kind of pretext, among a people who seemed to care more for their profits than their souls, and with virtually no connection to the centers of power and learning that were the heart of the Faith. But over the years, Olan had come to appreciate the charms of the Secret City. If its people worshipped money more than their gods, they were permissive, even indulgent, towards those who felt summoned to lives of greater moral rigor, and considerate of men far from home so long as they played by the rules. While his colleagues had bowed and scraped to the last decrepit scions of the Targaryen's, fearing always that the next king might prove to be Maegor come again, Olan had become a fixture of the halls of power in Braavos. He had never been more than a minor player, due to the relative dearth of followers that he could command, but that weakness could be an asset to a clever man who could build a name for fair dealing; Olan had quickly become known as a man who could mediate a quarrel, resolve a dispute, or take custody of a contested asset until its ownership was resolved. He had a standing appointment with the Chief Moonsinger to discuss matters that touched both their flocks, as he did with the city's High Priest of R'hllor. Even the office of the Sealord had requested his counsel on a few occasions, and Olan had won the right to offer the Sealord a blessing for wisdom on the occasion of his election.
But then Robert Baratheon had abjured the Iron Throne for his mad quest of vengeance. At first matters had gone well; the seizure of Pentos and the taking of Myr had sparked interest in the Faith among the Braavosi such as Olan had never before seen. The fact that Myr had been made its own ecclesiastical province, with its own archsepton and radianors, had been a setback, but one that Olan had been prepared to swallow. The scandal that had sent him to Braavos was not the sort that would be swiftly forgotten, if it would be forgotten at all, and at least he had been granted authority over the Merryweather Sept in Pentos; the Most Devout had considered that the Archsepton of Myr had quite enough on his plate combating heresy without having to divide his attention between two realms, and Olan had been the senior septon in Essos for more than two decades before the Sunset Company sailed. And Olan had had quite enough to be getting on with in Braavos as well as in Pentos, for his long and patient efforts at proselytization had finally started to bear fruit. For almost the whole length of his tenure, the number of native-born Braavosi who kept the Seven could fit in a single row of pews with room to spare. Now, thanks to Robert's victories and Stannis' growing repute, the Braavosi finally seemed to be ready to enter the Light of the Seven. True, many of them were young bravos who took ship for Myr almost immediately after their baptism, but in many ways those were exactly the kind of converts that Olan had hoped for. Those that returned would be hardened in their faith, and would raise their children in the Faith after them. There was more than one way to skin a cat, and Olan knew that when it came to playing the long game the Faith had all the advantages.
But now the crows of heresy had come to roost even in Braavos. The proof of it was not a hundred feet from where he sat in his gondola in one of Braavos' less affluent neighborhoods. A building that had been an abandoned and dilapidated storehouse was being renovated by a crew of industrious-looking men, each with his belt of tools and evident task. Most prominent to Olan's eye was the stonemason perched on a scaffold over the broad double doors, painstakingly chiseling a seven-pointed star into the façade above the lintel under the eye of a straight-backed man with a shaved head wearing robes clearly modeled on those of a septon. This man's robes, however, were black instead of a proper white or grey, or even the dull brown of a Jonothoran. Olan's fists clenched. He had prayed that Ryman's death would strangle his heresy in its infancy; clearly the Seven in their wisdom had not seen fit to grant that prayer.
The heretic priest must have felt Olan's glare upon his back; he turned, sweeping the canal with a searching gaze that quickly lighted on Olan. As well it might have, as Olan had not bothered to disguise himself or his gondola, which bore the three stars he was entitled to bear as an archsepton. The heretic's gaze turned caustic for a moment before schooling itself to blankness as he gave the half-bowing nod that was the universal greeting between clergy of different sects in Braavos. Olan forced himself to return it. As much as he wanted to order his servants to descend on the nest of heresy with fire and sword, his hands were bound. By Braavosi law, no religious group could use force against another except in immediate self-defense, on pain of death for the offenders and banishment for their co-religionists until such time as they denounced the misdeed and repented for it. And the High Septon's instructions were explicit; while all efforts were to be made to prevent the encroachment of heresy into Braavos and sway back to the true Faith any who strayed, Olan was not to provoke the Titan's displeasure. The Faith did not have so many footholds in Essos that it could afford to lose one., especially one where a rupture would be so dangerous to the policy of King Stannis. Who despite his weakness at Harrenhal, Olan reminded himself, was still the most powerful of the Faith's defenders, and one of the most fearsome.
No, Olan decided as he ordered his boatmen to return to the Sept, he would stay his hand for now. In truth, all he needed to do in any case was wait. Heretics were all outlaws at heart, who could no more live quietly among civilized men than so many wolves among sheep. He had had decades to learn how to work within the bounds of the Titan's laws, the Rymanists had not. Sooner or later they would misstep, and the sheepdogs would be loosed upon them. Olan smiled; he had seen turbulent and over-troublesome sects driven out of Braavos before. Young Solazzo might not be a man of blood and fire by inclination but he was learning quickly, and in any case he was of the same mind as Olan as far as unruly sectarians were concerned. In the meantime, he would set men to observe, record their observations, and pass them on to the Watch. The Titan's laws were inflexible, but so long as they stayed within their confines people like him were expected to writhe for advantage. A little covertcy would be considered perfectly normal even by the most scrupulous Watchman.
XXX
Meanwhile, in Westeros
Sandor Clegane, now Lord of Clegane and Lionswood, the Mastiff of the West, the Krakenslayer, and more other honorary titles than he could be bothered to remember, imagined that there were men who would be thrilled to be granted a private audience with Tywin Lannister. He suspected that most of them were not men who knew Tywin Lannister.
At least it was a relief from his present circumstances. Before Balon's Rebellion he had almost sworn off tourneys and feasts in order to escape the hordes of marriage-minded ladies and lords in search of living vicariously through his anecdotes. Now that he was a certified hero, and the man who had slain Mad Balon on his own throne in single combat no less, he couldn't so much as visit Lannisport to consult with his factor without being besieged. His elevation to proper lordship meant that instead of the wives and daughters of other landed or household knights, wealthier merchants, or minor lords, he now had to deal with their counterparts higher up the food chain. Not the great houses, like Crakehall or Banefort or Marbrand, but Westerling, Broome, Dogget, Falwell, Lefford, Payne, Sarsfield . . . Virtually every other noble house of the second or third rank had invited him to consider marrying their daughters or sisters, in hopes of hitching their fortunes to a rising star that was so obviously in good odor with Lord Tywin. Even an Osgrey had shown up at Lionswood Keep with a pair of female cousins; he had claimed that they were merely passing by on their way to Lannisport to do some shopping, which Sandor would have been more inclined to believe if he hadn't known that Lionswood Keep was two days out of the way between Standfast and Lannisport. And marriage offers hadn't been the only sort of request to be showered on his head. It seemed that everyone with even a modicum of noble blood and a son of the right age had asked him to take their boy as a page, probably in the hope that he would turn them into the next great paladin of the West.
Sandor restrained himself from spitting on the floor at the last second. A hero he might be, even if only by blind luck, but a knight in the mold of Ser Rickon he was not. He knew himself well enough to know that he could never train a squire as Ser Rickon had trained him; he hadn't the evenness of temper for it.
Only three things had kept him from handing his fiefs back to Lord Tywin and sailing east to see if the Braavosi could do with another sword. The first was his duty to his smallfolk; there was still much to do to remedy the years of Gregor's misrule. The second was the fact that he was morally certain that if he did go east then Lord Tywin would have him killed. After Jaime Lannister's defection, the Old Lion was not in the mood to lose another champion. The third, though he would never admit it to another living soul, was that he would be damned before he let a crowd of popinjays drive him into exile. So he had gritted his teeth and resigned himself to the life of a new lord who was also an acknowledged hero. He had been able to beg off attending some tourneys as being too busy putting Lionswood in order, but he had fought at others and done well; with Red Rain in his hand it was a rare swordsman that could stand against him, and he was a good enough jouster that even such champions as Addam Marbrand had to respect him. Such performances had made the task of recruiting enough men-at-arms to fill out the ranks of his newly expanded fighting-tail even easier; apparently at least one duel had been fought between two knights that had wanted the same place in his service. When Sandor had heard he had immediately resolved not to take either of them. He wanted competent, sober, and steady men for his service, and had no need of hotheads. Ser Thomas Cutler was quite enough a fire-eater for one retinue, enough so that Sandor had made him his right-hand-man on the theory that at least that way he could be sure that Cutler behaved himself.
News of yet another rebellion in the Isles had made him almost dread the summons to war; fighting aside, he would be stranded amid every knight in the West, most of whom would have all the time in the world to waste his. Fortunately, the summons had never gone out, as the Order of the Sea had taken matters in hand well enough. Sandor suspected that Ser Rickon's captainship was more responsible for that than the rumors that Ser Harry Flash had managed to root the ringleader out of his hole and kill him in single combat in the middle of rescuing a fisherman's daughter, but his fellow lords seemed to prefer the tales of Ser Harry's derring-do to examining Ser Rickon's careful preparation and swift reaction to the first rumors of the rising. Sandor snorted; as if he needed more proof that his fellow lords could no more make war than so many tomcats. Any fool could fight. Waging war took brains.
Finally, a colorless equerry came to fetch him from the antechamber and bowed him into Lord Tywin's study with a murmur of "Lord Clegane, my lord." Lord Tywin looked as hard as Sandor remembered him from Pyke and Orkmont as he stood from his desk, although there seemed to be a few more lines on his scowling face. As he made his bow and they exchanged pleasantries while the equerry poured them each a glass of wine and withdrew, Sandor couldn't help a sudden twist of apprehension. When he had last spoken to Lord Tywin, it had been to refuse to sell him Red Rain, and to defend his decision to spare Theon Greyjoy. Tywin's offer had been offhanded, but Sandor's explanation for sparing Theon had been accepted with a curtness that bordered on ill grace, and the Old Lion was famous for the way he could nurse a grudge. Sandor willed the apprehension away; his conscience was clear on the matter of the Greyjoy's, both elder and younger, and since Theon was now a King's Ward, there was little that Tywin could do to punish him over the matter without it touching King Stannis.
"I have heard, my lord," Tywin said in his level voice, "that while your lordship thus far has been exemplary, you still have yet to take a wife or even to seriously seek one out. Allow me to be blunt; are you a sword swallower?" His expression hardly changed as Sandor choked on the sip he had just taken of his wine and only avoided spraying it across the desk by a hasty and barely-successful effort. "I'll take that as a no. In that case, Lord Clegane, I must remind you that this sluggishness will not serve."
Bloody hells, Sandor thought amazedly. Tywin Lannister's poking his nose into my love life?
"Given . . . recent events . . . you are now the foremost champion of the Westerlands," Tywin continued. "As such, your status reflects upon me. Your apparent reluctance to marry might be a matter for mere gossip in a knight, but in a lord it is indicative of weakness, and so not to be tolerated. Is there any lady in particular that has caught your eye since your elevation?"
Sandor shook his head. "No, my lord," he admitted. Morag, the maidservant who had led him and his men to Balon's throne room and followed him back to the Westerlands, shared his bed occasionally, but even he knew that she would be a bad choice of wife.
"In that case," Tywin said, "I shall make you an offer. You may leave the work of choosing a wife to me. I shall take two or three years to sift through the most promising candidates, and at the end of those years you shall marry the lady I choose for you. Naturally my selection will be based primarily on policy, but you have my word that I shall also do my best to ensure that the lady in question in palatable. You will need to sire children on the lady in question after all, so my choosing one that you could not bear to do the deed with would be counterproductive, as well as insulting to yourself and a needless strain on your loyalty to me."
Sandor nodded; he could already see the benefit to him. It would take a person of rare courage to try and go over Tywin Lannister's head by contacting him directly with any offers of marriage, and no one would approach Tywin with an offer unless they were serious about it and willing to make it a good one. It would, in fact, solve most of his social problems at a stroke. Of course, his future wife would be Lord Tywin's agent as much as anything, but such divided loyalties would have been inevitable even if he had chosen his own wife. At the least she would have had her father and any brothers she might have had whispering in her ear, as well as any uncles. "And what service would I do in return, my lord?" he asked.
"Travel to King's Landing and help represent my interests at Court," Tywin replied, to Sandor's shock. "My daughter has served well in the past, but in recent years she has become . . . inconsistent. Her newfound devotion does well to bind the Faith to House Lannister, but it also blinds her to other currents, both at Court and elsewhere. Ser Damon does his best to keep her on an even keel, but he has his own duties to attend to, and even at the best of times he is not the most forceful of men."
Whereas Queen Cersei has a will you can straighten horseshoes on, Sandor thought to himself as he nodded and made diplomatic noises. And a temper that can burn a hole in an oak plank at five paces, to hear Ser Rickon tell it.
"You, by contrast," Tywin continued, "have the name and the presence to make yourself a true counterweight to Cersei. You can remind these Queen's Men, as they call themselves, that they must grow fangs before they can call themselves lions in truth, and hold them to discipline in the meantime. Furthermore, while my grandson is still a boy, he will soon be a man; it will be good to have a true champion of the West for him to look up to while his father and mother feud over him. I am aware, of course, that you have no head for intrigue and no patience to pretend otherwise, but I have other men for that. Your task will be to act as my gauntlet, both to protect and to strike. Whispers and plots are not to be despised, but they rarely retain their effect when faced with the prospect of sudden and overwhelming violence, applied by a man who knows how to implement it."
Tywin leaned back in his chair. "And while I'm sure it need not be said," he finished, "I will say it anyway; serve me well at Court and you will be richly rewarded, even beyond your marriage. I always pay my debts."
Sandor sipped his wine as he considered. The pitfalls were plain to see, and the fact that Tywin wanted to send him indicated that he expected those pitfalls to be the least of the likely dangers. For another thing, while Ser Damon and the Queen would continue to be the faces of the Lannister faction at Court, he would be prominent enough that he could expect to be specifically targeted. At the very least he would have to bid farewell to any thought of a quiet life in obscurity. That said, accepting it would solve too many problems for him to ignore, even if he could do so without offending his liege-lord. And while there would be even more sycophants and poseurs at the Red Keep than there were in Lannisport, at least he would be able to knock some sense into some of them. And those he wouldn't be able to bring in line could have it impressed upon them that the Mastiff was not to be fucked with.
"I will need some time to set my affairs in order before making such a journey, my lord," he began. "But once the arrangements are made . . ."