Chapter 1
DUTTON ASSUMES ROLE OF PM: PROMISES TO END 'INDECISIVE' LEADERSHIP
WHO WAS LORAS TYRELL? 'TERRORIST' KNIGHT MET BLOODY END
WAS KING'S YOUNGER BROTHER KILLED BY MAGIC? GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS DENY 'BASELESS RUMOURS'
FUNERAL OF RENLY BARATHEON – GATES OF RED KEEP REMAIN CLOSED TO OUTSIDERS
UN APPOINTS SPECIAL ENVOY TO IRON THRONE OF WESTEROS
RUSSIA, INDIA, IRAN JOIN CHINA'S DEMANDS FOR 'FAIR AND EQUAL ACCESS' THROUGH THE RING
######
The 6th day of March, 299 years after Aegon's Conquest
Tyrion Lannister stepped off the helicopter and onto the wet grass by the Rosby Road.
The Australian ambassador, Mitch Fifield, stepped off beside him, along with a few suited servants and a small phalanx of green-clad guards. There was little talk as the party walked over to the waiting line of cars, and a minute later the small convoy was heading down to the Iron Gate.
The half-burnt city looked no better from the ground than it did from the air. Rhaeny's Hill remained a blackened ruin, and skinny children were running about everywhere. At least fewer were barefoot now. Everywhere people were wearing the colorful shoes gifted to them by the flying men. Many looked to be a few sizes too big, or were mismatched or even worn the wrong way, but Tyrion supposed that was better than to be running about broken and blistered. Other strange garments, the equally colorful 'teeshirts' and 'shorts' of which the flying men were quite fond, could be seen here and there. There were even people riding about on the unwieldy two-wheeled 'bicycles' too, new contraptions, to replace those burnt by the command of his sweet sister.
Oh Cersei Tyrion thought sadly. By what fate am I the one riding to your aid now? If there truly were gods, they played awfully cruel japes.
Their convoy were still the only 'cars' on the road though. At intersections Gold Cloaks shouted for order, clearing the way. Their efforts were quite in vain however. Crowds of children ran alongside them, attracted to the convoy like flies, screaming for chocolate. When a particularly large swarm blocked the way, Tyrion watched the driver reach inside a packet and pull out a handful of what he recognized as Mars Bars. He threw them out the window, and a dozen scrawny youngsters raced after them. It took them maybe half an hour before they were pulling up before the Red Keep.
"We are sure this is a good idea, ambassador?" Tyrion asked, staring up at the great iron portcullis.
"The king has promised you safe passage in and out of the Red Keep, just for an hour, and I can bring my guards" Field reassured him, gesturing at the quartet of green men that followed them inside.
"And you do trust his word? Robert vowed to hunt down every Lannister he could find, and make a mountain of their bones, I do recall."
Fifield frowned. "Stannis is not Robert, and confirming that your sister is still alive is only to his benefit, otherwise what is the point of a hostage?"
Tyrion nodded, but doubts still gnawed at him. He pictured his own skeleton, a stunted little thing, on top of a growing pile of his relatives. "Your men were with Renly too, when he died, were they not?"
Fifield frowned again, seemingly having no answer. At that moment they were greeted inside by Ser Perkin Follard and a score of Baratheon guards. He nodded to Fifield, while not giving Tyrion so much as a glance.
"The way, ambassador" the old knight said, turning and heading across the yard. Tyrion trudged after their escort, glancing about as much as he dared. No one tried to talk to him or even particularly acknowledge his presence. Guards and servants alike averted their eyes. They passed a pair of Tyrell knights, who gave him the briefest glance before just as quickly looking away. Is it bad luck just to look upon a Lannister, these days? Tyrion wondered, though at least no one was jeering or pelting him with rotten fruit.
At the entrance to the dungeons they were met by the Chief Gaelor, a man named Dirron Yorbert who, Tyrion knew, had once been a cloth merchant and had simply purchased the office from Petyr Baelish. His loyalty to the new regime must have allowed him to keep his head and position. He bowed deeply to the ambassador, while glancing at Tyrion like he was something unpleasant he'd stepped in.
"Ambassador…lord Imp" he said. "The king has instructed me to take you downstairs."
Did he say anything about leading me back out? Tyrion wanted to ask, but he bit his tongue. "Please, lead on" Fifield said instead. Yorbert turned on his heels and led them down, a couple of underlings tailing him. Tyrion followed with the ambassador and the four Australian guards, his apprehension growing with every step. They were offered torches from a rack on the wall, but the ambassador pulled his 'phone' device out of his pocket, and the guards had similar lights attached to their weapons. The corridor was soon bathed in an unearthly white glow, the rough stone walls far brighter than they had any right to be.
They headed down two flights of stairs. Tyrion knew the layout of the dungeons. They were heading for the black cells, where daylight never reached. Supposedly there was another level even below that, but it was not oft spoken about. In Targaryen times, enemies of the crown would go down there and never come out again. Those in the levels above sometimes claimed to have heard screaming, but little else was known. Tyrion felt himself give a little shudder at this thought, hoping no one else noticed.
The Chief Gaelor led them down an even darker corridor. From somewhere Tyrion heard the squeaking of rats, and at one point gave a start as something rushed by his ankle. He looked up at Fifield. The ambassador was keeping his face rigidly neutral, but Tyrion sensed his disquiet at the conditions. Tyrion knew little of Australian prisons. It had only baffled him when he had been told they had no death penalty at all in Australia. No hanging or quartering or decapitations. What else then, could deter the worst of criminals if not the threat of a painful death? Were the dungeons of the flying men even worse? Something that would make the black cells look like the Crossroads Inn? Or the Wall like a trip to the Summer Isles? He had not dared to ask.
They passed a dozen cells, the doors sealed shut. Tyrion heard the odd cry for help, or shuffle of movement. Occasionally one of the gaelors banged on a door, demanding silence from the occupants. Near the end of the corridor they came to yet another locked door, a solid slab of ancient oak. Yorbert pulled out the keyring on his waist, searching until he had picked out one of the largest and rustiest examples. He slid it into the heavy lock and had to jiggle it a few times before it finally clicked. With a hefty thunk the door swung open.
Initially the space beyond remained completely dark, until the Australians shone their torches in. The scene came into stark relief. For a moment Tyrion thought they'd made a mistake. He had been told the queen was alone in her cell, then he realized what he was seeing. Beside him, he heard Fifield give a sharp intake of breath.
Bones.
The queen regent of the Seven Kingdoms was slouched over a feeble bed of rushes, with an equally thin blanket over her. There was a small chamber pot in the corner, and a wooden tray with the remains of a meagre meal. There were no books or candles or other comforts. All this Tyrion had expected, but not the companions Stannis had allowed to share her cell.
It took him a few moments to confirm exactly how many skeletons shared the space with his sister. The floor of the cell was a mess of ribs, femurs and fibula, and those just the ones Tyrion could recognize. He counted four skulls however. Cersei appeared to have lined them up neatly beside her makeshift bed. They looked so small. The one at the end was almost a man's size – Lancel it must have been, but the other three were children. Joffrey, Tyrek and Rosamund.
At least there were no others he could see. Tommen, or cousin Willem, or some other more distant Lannister so far unaccounted for. It was hardly a mountain, but a grisly pile nonetheless. Stannis may not have been Robert, but he had kept the man's promises so far. He will grow the pile further, if we give him half a chance.
Tyrion heard muttering among the Australians. The Chief Gaelor was looking at them expectantly. In the sudden glare of the lights, Cersei's figure stirred. Her long blonde hair was a tangle, her clothes were roughspun and smeared with grime, and Tyrion had never seen her looking so thin, but there was still a touch of beauty there, a fair maiden unconquered. Her green eyes locked onto his, blinking, wide with shock and fear, but still recognizably his sister.
"I will give you two a minute" Fifield mumbled, turning and walking back down the corridor. The others followed. A gaelor handed Tyrion a flaming torch. Tyrion watched their receding backs, then turned to face his sister. She was looking at him like he was a ghost, an apparition that might vanish at any moment.
"Tyrion" she croaked harshly.
"Your grace" Tyrion said, giving a stunted little bow. He took a step inside the cell, vaguely wondering if someone was going to slam it shut at any moment. Then add my bones to the pile… "Sweet sister" he said, almost meaning it. "We had heard this was the punishment Robert had for you. Woe that he has carried it out, and Stannis has allowed it to continue."
"Stannis?" she asked, confused. Tyrion realized she might have known of nothing since her capture.
"Robert is dead. Jaime killed him, you'll be pleased to know."
Cersei made an odd sort of sound that was half a laugh and half a sob. "He's dead?"
"Yes, Robert is, Renly too. Stannis reigns now."
"Is Jaime here? Is he close? Is he outside the city?" She sounded so hopeful, Tyrion was loathe to disappoint her.
"Jaime's alive, father too, but he was wounded. He's…not as good looking as he used to be. Father reached the city, but the Tyrells came and there were too many. They had to retreat. They are back in the Westerlands by now. Father has proclaimed Myrcella the new queen."
"Myrcella?" Cersei asked, startled. "What of Tommen?"
Tyrion glanced around the cell, unsure of whom might be listening. Had someone commandeered Varys' little birds, and concealed one behind a wall? Or what of the lightning ears the flying men were said to possess?
"No one has seen him since Stannis took the city" he said in a low voice. "Though his head isn't on a pike anywhere either, so far as we know." Tyrion did not comment on the bones.
Cersei took a moment to absorb this. "Who fights alongside us?" she asked cautiously.
"The Hightowers have declared for us, as has Duskendale, and a few other places."
"What of the Faith?" Cersei asked, sounding nervous.
"They have left the city, by and large" Tyrion replied. "The Most Devout are reconstituting in Oldtown. The old High Septon is dead. There was a great fire during the battle. Everything between the hills of Rhaenys and Visenya burned down, including the Great Sept of Baelor."
Tyrion watched his sister's face closely as he said this. She took a moment to reply. She was breathing hard, almost like a woman on the verge of giving birth, or one just managing not to burst into tears. Tyrion watched as a single one, shining in the flickering torchlight, ran silently down her cheek. Ah Tyrion thought, his question all but answered. "Myrcella is just a girl" Cersei said finally.
"She has father behind her, and Jaime, and thirty thousand swords of the west, at least."
"Against Stannis?" she asked. Tyrion nodded. He went on for a few minutes about the events of the past few months, of who had declared for which monarch.
"…are outnumbered, it is true, but father is far from suing for peace. He doesn't think the realm will hold together for Stannis, and he may well be right. You are still loved by many." That last part may have been a lie, but he had to give some hope to the pathetic figure in front of him.
"What of the flying men?" she asked after a time.
"They remain rather aloof" Tyrion answered, glancing over his shoulder. "They have said they have no interest in our wars, provided they are allowed passage through our lands, and they appear to mean it. For this we should be thankful, I have spent time in their world Cersei, much of the past few weeks."
Her eyes widened at this. "In the Stranger's domain?" she asked, fearfully.
Tyrion paused a beat. Was his sister starting to believe her own bullshit? Had the black cells broken her more completely than it appeared?
"I do not know if they are truly servants of the Stranger, my dear" he said cautiously. "But they are certainly powerful and knowledgeable beyond all measure. Picking a fight with them was not one of your better notions, sweet sister."
"They were going to remove Joffrey, put that stinking oaf back on his throne" she said, suddenly angry. "I had no choice. It was Ned Stark, his words…his lies would have gotten us all killed."
"Lies did start this war, I do not doubt" Tyrion said cautiously. "But it scarce matters now. We must try and finish it with our heads still attached to our bodies. Father, Jaime and I will work tirelessly to that end."
"Jaime will come for me, so long as he draws breath" Cersei said confidently.
"I do not doubt it, but Stannis has won the allegiance of Highgarden, Riverrun and Winterfell. He has a hundred thousand men between you and Jaime."
For the first time, Cersei almost gave a weak sort of smile. "Jaime will come for me anyway. He could take any one of them" Cersei said stubbornly.
"Well, if only they would do us the courtesy of attacking just one at a time…" Tyrion replied. He might have regretted the jibe, but at that moment there were more footsteps, as the chief gaelor and the Australians returned down the corridor.
"Time is up, Lord Imp" Yorbert said curtly.
Tyrion didn't bother replying. He turned back to Cersei, taking her soft hands in his own grubby little paws. "Stay strong. I will see if I can get you out of here. Is there anything you would like me to tell Jaime? Or father? Or Myrcella?"
"Tell Myrcella I love her, I love her so much, more than the ocean is deep, and she will end up being a far better and more beautiful queen than I" Cersei said quickly, as the guards ushered Tyrion back out of the cell. "Tell father to keep fighting. Teach the Baratheons the same lessons as the Reynes and Tarbecks…" They were shoving the door shut now. "And tell Jaime…" Cersei cried over the sound of wood scraping on stone. "Tell Jaime I am waiting for him. I will wait for him until the Others come down out of the north and the Long Night comes again. Tell him that!"
The door slammed shut, the lock clicked, and the Lannister siblings were separated once more.
######
2 hours later…
Fifield paused the recording, trying to gauge the king's reaction.
Stannis Baratheon the First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, gazed down at the smartphone over steepled fingers. He had listened to the conversation in silence. Around them sat the reconstituted Small Council. On the king's right sat his new Hand – Lord Mace Tyrell of Highgarden. Next to him was his own uncle Gormon Tyrell, though he only had one name now. He wore the grey robes heavy chains of a master. Further on was sour old Lord Celtigar, the King's new Master of Coin.
Opposite sat Ser Imry Florent, the king's brother-in-law and Master of Ships, his uncle Alester Florent, Lord of Brightwater Keep and the new Master of Laws, Ser Barristan Selmy, wearing the fine white cloak of the kingsguard, and the mysterious Red Woman, Melisandre of Asshai, the King's Mistress of Whisperers.
"So it seems all but confirmed, you grace" Mace Tyrell spoke up. "She gave Tommen to the faith, he died with the High Septon and the rest."
There was a murmur of agreement from this. "We have seen no sign of the boy, your grace" Ser Barristan reported. "Bywater and his Gold Cloaks would surely have turned him up by now."
Stannis did not reply. He glanced over at the Lady Melisandre.
"I too have seen no sign of this boy, your grace" she crooned. "R'hllor embraced him in his flames, as with so many others. He suffered the purest of deaths."
Fifield did not know what to make of this comment. The Red Woman was among the strangest people he had encountered in a very strange world. Her habit of burning prisoners alive was particularly distasteful, but there was much here they had already turned a blind eye to. His government had resolved to try and treat fairly with King Stannis' new regime, and now it was his duty to do just that.
Finally, Stannis looked up. "Thank you, ambassador, bringing the Imp here did serve some purpose after all."
"Yes, your grace" Fifield agreed.
"He has gone back through the Ring?"
"He is returning to Melbourne now, yes."
"Curious, ambassador, how you profess to recognize my rule, yet accept envoys from a usurper to my throne?"
"We are not really one to turn back envoys, your grace" Fifield said apologetically, spreading his hands. "I would urge you to appoint your own, to represent your interests on our side of the Ring."
Stannis nodded. "Very well, I will provide you with a name in the next few days. Thank you, ambassador."
Fifield got to his feet. "I hope to see you again at your coronation, your grace."
"As do I, then we shall sign this treaty you talk so much about" Stannis replied. Fifield took his leave, the members of the Small Council following his retreating back. When the door to the Council chamber had slammed shut, their business resumed.
"My wife and daughter?" Stannis asked.
"They have left Dragonstone, your grace" Ser Imry reassured him. "Selyse and Shireen shall be here in three or four days, depending on the wind."
"They shall receive fair winds, good ser" Melisandre promised. "Count on three."
"Then three it shall be, my lady" Ser Imry said deferentially. The Florents had been the quickest to wholeheartedly embrace the new faith.
"And plans for the coronation?" Stannis asked.
It was Lord Tyrell who answered. He consulted a long scroll he had unfolded on the table in front of him. "Many more fine lords and ladies have accepted your invitation, your grace. Lords Wendwater and Massey, Lady Footly, Lord Caswell…Lord Estermont, your own grandfather, I believe? Oh, Lord Staunton begs your forgiveness, as the road from Duskendale is still blocked…"
The king was drumming his fingers on the table as the Lord Hand continued his report.
"Robb Stark is bringing a number of lords from the North and the Trident in his plane, the Eddard Stark he has called it apparently, after his father. He cannot fit them all at once, so will be making several trips. The Prince of Pentos is sending a delegation, as is the Archon of Tyrosh, the First Magister of Lys, even Volantis, your grace. It is impressive. Most of the Free Cities did not send delegates to your brother's coronation" he reported, beaming.
"They come to see the Flying Men for themselves, not me" the King said impatiently, wiping the smile off his Hand's face. "What of the Dornish? Lady Arryn? Pyke?"
"Uh…well your grace" Mace Tyrell moved down the scroll some way. "Ah yes. Prince Doran sends his apologies. He claims to be too ill to travel, but he is sending his brother Oberyn in his stead. A party of Dornishmen have already crossed the Red Mountains. They hope to arrive by the Feast Day of our Father above."
"They have a fortnight, and a long ride to make, but that is good news. And the Vale?"
Lord Tyrell further consulted his scroll, muttering to himself. Reaching its bottom, he gave his king a defeated look. "It seems we have received no reply from the Vale, not from Lady Arryn, nor any of her bannermen. The Ironborn also have been silent."
The king had not been smiling, but his frown seemed to deepen as this news. "As I feared. Lady Arryn still hides in the Eyrie."
"She cannot mean to declare for the Lannisters?" Ser Barristan asked. "The ones who murdered her husband? The mentor of Robert and Ned Stark?"
"She fears they will kill that boy of hers next, if she declares for me" Stannis fumed. "One woman's cowardice denies us thirty thousand swords. My brother would not have won his crown without the Vale, even Robert would admit to that."
"You have the Reach, your grace" Mace Tyrell said, his chest puffing out slightly. "For every sword you have lost, you have gained two more."
"For which I thank you, Lord Tyrell, provided those swords remain loyal and true" Stannis said dismissively. "The longer we delay, the more dangerous lord Tywin will grow. He will empty the vaults of Casterly Rock to put that abomination on the throne. The Hightowers too. Between them they could hire a dozen free companies, tens of thousands of fresh troops. No" the king shook his head "as soon as this coronation is done, we march west, and end this threat once and for all."
"May I ask, your grace, who shall lead this army?" Lord Alester asked eagerly. Everyone knew he had been lobbying hard for the command, yet his grace surprised them.
"I will" the king replied, causing a stir. Ser Imry's eyes widened, while Lord Tyrell gave a sharp intake of breath.
"Your grace…" the Grand Maester said cautiously. "Is there no other who could perform this task?"
"Previously I did leave it to others, their efforts proved inadequate." The king looked over again at the Lord of Highgarden, who seemed to rapidly deflate under his gaze. The king turned to his Master of Ships. "Ser Imry, the map?"
The knight complied, unfurling a beautifully colored map of the continent. It covered most of the table, from the golden deserts of Dorne up to the white frozen north. The King's councilors leaned in as he proposed his plan.
"I will lead the bulk of our levies west. We shall march down the Goldroad and take Deep Den, and from there go on to Casterly Rock. Lord Velaryon will lead ten thousand men north. Rosby, Stokeworth and Duskendale still defy us. He will bring them to heel, then proceed north-west. If it has not fallen yet, he can meet up with Lord Bolton's army at Harrenhal. Once these threats to our rear are eliminated. They can link up with Edmure Tully and Robb Stark. They can head down the River road and attack the Golden Tooth."
The king looked up at his council. So far there were no great objections.
"A third army, with another force from the Reach, shall be led by Lord Tarly up from the south. They will take the Ocean road. They will lay siege to Crakehall, then move further north. Eventually, all three armies must converge on Lannisport. If Lord Tywin still will not come to terms, we will burn his city and lay siege to the Rock."
There were nods around the table. "A well-conceived plan, your grace" Lord Florent conceded, sounding like he meant it. "But Casterly Rock has never been taken by storm or siege. It may take years, and will require ships as well as men."
"Ser Imry shall dispatch the Royal Fleet once the armies have departed, unless he does not feel up to this task?" the king asked, casting his gaze on his Master of Ships.
"It shall be done, your grace" Ser Imry said graciously. "The voyage will be long, a thousand leagues at least. Three or four months sailing, if we are granted fair winds. By the time you reach Lannisport, we shall be close."
"It would be much easier with the support of the Redwynes, or even the Ironborn" Lord Celtigar pointed out. "There have been no replies to our overtures?"
"None, my lord" Mace Tyrell admitted. "My own good brother…Paxter could not march while Cersei held his grandsons. Now the city is taken, but it seems they have fled, and no one knows what has become of them."
"Then they must be found" said Lord Celtigar impatiently. "We could gain the Redwyne fleet with the promise of their safe return."
"And does not the Greyjoy boy ride with Robb Stark?" Lord Florent asked. "The Ironborn have always been unruly, but they can be a potent threat when properly roused. Demand his father's ships and swords. If he refuses, send him the boy's fingers one by one, until he complies."
"The boy has been gone ten years. I doubt Lord Balon cares much for him, even if he is his last son and heir" Stannis said dismissively. "But it may come to that. I am more inclined to promise the Ironborn gold and booty. My brother banned reaving all across Westeros. I will lift that ban for the coast of the Westerlands only. Let them harry the Lannister's rear. They can keep whatever they take, then Lord Tywin will be threatened from all four points of the compass."
There was some further discussion of the plan. Numbers were discussed. Levies assigned from each sworn bannermen. Eventually, Mace Tyrell raised another point. "May I ask, your grace. My son, Ser Garlan, still hungers for battle. He feels great shame from his last failure. I beg you, your grace, what role might you have for him?"
The king fixed him with an unhappy stare. "Ser Garlan fought bravely under the walls of this city. It is only for this reason I may be willing to forgive him. He can head back to the Reach with Lord Tarly. There he can take charge of the defenses of Highgarden, in case Oldtown should bestir itself."
Lord Tyrell looked disappointed. "Yes, your grace."
"Are we not to march against the Hightowers as well, your grace?" Lord Alester asked, surprised.
"Lord Tyrell hesitates for Reachmen to fight Reachmen" the king said, frowning "and the Lannisters are the real threat besides. Alone, the Hightowers cannot defy us. They will come to terms."
Ser Barristan was nodding now. "If you are to take to the field, your grace, may we consider the issue of appointing new kingsguard?"
Stannis gave a curt nod. It was Ser Barristan's turn to reach for a scroll. "Currently, aside from myself, we have Sers Mandon Moore, Richard Horpe and Godry Farring. All fierce fighters, and loyal men. We had…" he gave a slight cough, trying not to meet eyes with Mace Tyrell "…two members from the Reach, who are now lost to us. So we have three appointments to fill."
"No doubt you have a list of names for us to consider?" Stannis asked.
"Many brave knights fought in the recent battle, your grace" Ser Barristan replied. He started reading a list of names, but the king had soon interrupted him.
"We must choose carefully Ser" Stannis said. "Men of the Kingsguard must be loyal and brave, but I am not ignorant of other considerations. The Targaryens are gone. Some of their blood runs in my veins, but their dragons are gone regardless, and the flying men cannot be counted on" the king said, sounding a touch bitter. "Oh sure, they will dangle enough trinkets in our face to keep us dazzled and reverent, but they will not fight for us directly, nor equip us with better weapons. No, instead we must tie the realm together in other ways. Marriage serves best" the king said, nodding at Lords Tyrell and Florent in turn "but we have other tools we must use. A position on the Small Council, or even in the kingsguard, so that the son of a prominent house can win glory for themselves while protecting the crown."
He turned back to Ser Barristan. "I am of a mind to write to Robb Stark and Edmure Tully. Tell them to bring here a number of candidates who seek the chance of becoming a kingsguard. If suitable men can be found, I will appoint one from each region. Would you object to that, Ser Barristan?"
"No your grace, if that is your command."
"You are the Lord Commander, I will seek your approval, of course" Stannis said, with a nod. "Test the men they bring, tell me which ones are worthy, and I will appoint them to the order. I will leave that task to you."
"Yes, your grace."
"What of the third appointment?" Ser Imry asked. "The Reach is…now absent a member."
"The Reach had its chance" the king replied, without emotion. "There are others to consider."
Lord Tyrell looked like he'd been slapped. "You mean to consider a Dornishmen, your grace?" he asked, his eyes narrowing.
"Actually, I am more inclined to offer the Dornish a council seat, provided they swear their loyalty to me" Stannis replied. Before the Lord Hand could sputter a reply, the king had turned back to Ser Barristan. "We still have two of Cersei's kingsguard in the dungeons, do we not?"
"Yes your grace."
"Fetch them, and my commanders of war. It is time we planned this coming campaign in detail."
"At once, your grace."
######
Sandor Clegane would have preferred to have the cell to himself.
'Ser' Tallad the Tall had been thrown in with him. He made a poor choice of companion. As far as Sandor could see, the boy was virgin both in the literal sense and to killing, which was even worse. He was said to have fought bravely enough inside Maegor's Holdfast, wounding three men before a mace had smashed his swordhand and his attackers had tackled him to the floor.
He had spent the weeks since muttering incessantly to the seven. He had even asked their gaelors for a copy of The Seven-pointed Star, which he had been trying to learn to read before their imprisonment. To Sandor's surprise, the hooded undergaelor, Rugen, had wordlessly slipped it into their cell one day. Now the boy flicked through it constantly, mouthing the letters by candlelight and slowly working his way through it line by line.
Sandor had lain on his own rushes in the corner, brooding and wondering what was happening above. He knew the Red Keep well enough. They were confined on the second floor of the dungeons, too far down for windows to permit sunlight, though torches burned in the corridor outside. A floor below were the black cells, where no light reached, and darkness and rats and confinement could drive men mad.
Lean meals were delivered to them twice daily, and occasionally guards came and went to collect their other charges. Many would be heading upstairs for a rather short meeting with Ser Ilyn. It was therefore with little enthusiasm that Sandor heard footsteps outside their own cell and a key turning in the lock. His scarred face flickered with fury at the figure that greeted him.
"Pup! There you are, up you get now" Ser Godry Farring said, leering at them through the bars. "You too Tallad, the king wants to see you. Put these on now."
Reluctantly, Sandor stood, allowing a pair of gaelors to enter the cell, carrying a set of heavy shackles they carefully chained about his ankles. If he'd had a sword and armor and a full belly, we might have chanced a one-man breakout, but he was quite past caring by this point. If his meeting with Ser Ilyn was today, then so be it.
The two captive kingsguard were poked and prodded down the stone corridor. Sandor's muscles ached as they ascended a flight of stairs. His eyes were equally pained when he saw daylight again. He blinked, realizing it must be near noon. There had been little indication belowground. Ser Godry and half a dozen guards, all bearing the flaming stag sigil, led them across the yard. A few minutes later and they were being marched across the drawbridge into Maegor's Holdfast. Sandor looked around, disinterested. The furnishings were bare, whatever sorry replacements Stannis had conjured from somewhere to replace the rich hangings of the previous regime, before the queen had burned them all.
They were marched into a large room, which had previously served as the Queen's Ballroom. At the far end they passed through another corridor, before the doors opened into a more modest space which he knew to be the Small Council chamber.
The room was more crowded than usual. A handful of wooden chairs sat around a plain table, though one on which had been spread a large and detailed map of Westeros. Sandor recognized several of the high lords seated around it, fat old Mace Tyrell, another old man wearing grand maester's robes who must have been Pycelle's replacement, a couple of unremarkable Florents, another old lord with a mantle patterned with red garnet crabs, Ser Barristan Selmy and the vile red woman. Sers Richard Horpe and Mandon Moore were posted at the door, watching the newcomers carefully.
Seated at the table's head was Stannis Baratheon himself. Seeing the crown about his head – a circle of red gold wrought with points that looked absurdly like flames, Sandor was in no doubt who had seized the mantle of 'king'. His grace looked up at them as they came to a halt before the table. After a moment's hesitation, Ser Tallad took a knee. Ser Godry had to give Sandor a firm butt before he'd do the same.
"Your grace, look at them! They show defiance from the very first" Ser Imry protested. There were grumbles of agreement, but the king seemed to be ignoring his councilors. He looked back and forth between his two charges, before his eyes settled on Tallad.
"Ser Tallad, we have not met before now, unless I am much mistaken?"
The former hedge knight shook his head. "No, your grace" he said quietly.
"Nor did I know of you by reputation, before your appointment as a usurper's kingsguard" Stannis went on. "Nonetheless, Cersei must have seen some promise with you, and even a usurper's actions can have consequences. Has your hand healed?"
Ser Tallad blinked. He looked down, flexing the hand in question. "It is healing, your grace, by the Mother's mercy."
Sandor saw the king's flicker of annoyance at the invocation of the Seven, but it lasted only a moment. "I can have a maester tend to it. Provided you recover fully, and show sufficient skill at arms, I ask if you would consider returning to your role as kingsguard."
For a moment the hedge knight seemed too shocked to speak. He glanced around the room uneasily. "Your grace…?" he asked, as if he had misheard.
"Think quickly ser. If you refuse, I can only assume your loyalties remain with the prior regime, in which case I think the Wall will be the kindest option for you" the king said impatiently.
Ser Tallad nodded. "I will serve, your grace. By the Warrior, I will prove worthy of you."
Another flicker. Stannis stared at him for several long seconds. "Very good then, rise. Ser Barristan will see to you."
The knight rose tall again. A pair of guards escorted him over to the Lord Commander, shackles clanking all the while. The king's eyes fell on Sandor.
"The Lannisters offered you your knighthood, Clegane, many a time, yet you would not take it. Even when raised to the kingsguard. Why?"
Sandor Clegane grimaced. "My brother is a knight…" he grumbled in a hoarse voice.
"Was a knight" the king corrected. "Lord Stark stripped him of all his titles."
"Stark is dead" Sandor spat.
"He served as Hand, in my brother's name. His decrees still stand, unless I overturn them, and I have not overturned this one. More to the point, Gregor rots in a dungeon at Riverrun."
Now that was news to Sandor. His expression must have given him away.
"No one has told you?" the king asked, incredulous. "Robb Stark took him at the Whispering Wood. If Edmure Tully hasn't had his head off by now, there are a hundred others who happily will. One way or another, the Clegane lands are yours now."
Sandor let these words wash over him. A part of him didn't give a damn and urged him to say so. Another voice, quieter, told him to say nothing. The king was looking at him expectantly.
"I will be shedding no tears for my brother" Sandor said eventually.
"I didn't think you would. What of Joffrey and the other royal babes?"
Sandor turned and spat on the stone floor. "Joffrey was an evil little shit. He would have been a terrible king. I shed no tears there neither."
"The boy was but twelve" said the man in maester's robes, aghast. "An abomination, to be sure, but still just a boy, and you were his sworn sword."
"He means shit to me. I killed my first man at twelve" Sandor spat. No one quite seemed to know what to say to that. Stannis was looking at him again.
"I will make you the same offer as Ser Tallad. My brother was in the habit of making friends out of sworn enemies. Ser Barristan served the mad king before him, as did half the lords here" Stannis glanced at the representatives from the Reach. "Swear me your sword, Clegane, and I will restore your positions and more."
Clegane spat again. "I am no knight."
There were mutters of outrage at this. The king was grinding his teeth. For a moment, Sandor wondered if he had just asked for the Wall, then the king surprised them all again.
"Very well, I will do one better. If you will not be a knight, let us make you lord Clegane instead."
It was Sandor's turn to lose his voice. He glanced at the councilors, as if expecting someone to explain the jape. "Your grace…?" he said hoarsely.
"If you accept, you will be the first of Lord Tywin's bannermen to swear himself to my service" the king went on. He gestured at the map before him. "The greatest loyalty comes with the greatest reward. I am sending Lord Velaryon to lead a force north and I would have your serve as one of his captains. Serve me well, and I will see your family's lands expand tenfold, and you can end this war as Lord Clegane, one of the principal bannermen of the west"
The Hounded listened to all this in silence. Finally, he nodded.