Chapter 2

Jon

Please let some fresh air in. It seemed to Jon that the entire Red Keep was stinking. The smell of smoke filled the castle and there was not a room or a gallery that didn't reek of charred meat.

Whenever he let his mind wander and thought all this was a bad dream and nothing had happened, the smell reminded him what his king had done to Lord Rickard Stark and his son Brandon. Not that he was fond of the Northerners; they always seemed haughty, wrapped in their pride. The Starks had never completely admitted they were no more kings in the North, and Brandon was a hot head. No one deserved to die this way, though. No one deserved to die for accusing the wrong person.

Jon was not in King's Landing when Lord Stark arrived; he was already heading to the Stormlands before the White Cloaks arrested Brandon Stark and his companions. King Aerys had sent him to Griffin's Roost, explaining that the impending visit of Lords Stark, Royce, Mallister and Glover in the capital didn't exempt Jon from his duties toward the people of the Stormlands. The king's sudden interest for smallfolk seemed unnatural, but what could he do? He was on his way back when he heard the news and thought for a while that the merchants chatting about a man roasting in his armor were just spreading some tale. He loathed rumors and that was the main reason why he distrusted smallfolk. Always telling tales, because they don't know. But if they knew, they would tell even more idle gossips. Then, as every hour brought him closer to the Red Keep, he met more people reporting the death of Lord Stark and his son. When he entered the Great Hall, he almost choked on an acrid smell and realized everything the merchants and the peasants had told him was true. Mayhaps they were not wide of the mark.

His absence and the stench in the Red Keep condemned Jon to imagine what had happened. Somehow, it was worse than witnessing the Starks' death. In his opinion, Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Gerold Hightower, who watched the scene, had never been so spry. How is it possible? When did the King lose his mind? And if I had been there, what would I have done?

There had been hints, tiny details of the king's madness that had startled him, but he didn't want to pay attention. It was easier to blame Aerys' imprisonment during the Defiance of Duskendale. When he was still a squire, the whole story of Aerys rotting in a jail was enough to explain the king's weird habits. Aerys was not only his king, he was Rhaegar's father; Jon found out that yocanoodling forgive almost everything from the one you love, and that you were always lenient with your love's relatives.

After a while, it just was more convenient to turn a blind eye to the king's whims and fits of anger. Everyone did so in the Red Keep. Everyone tried to ignore the bruises on Queen Rhaella's skin, whenever she dared to leave her apartments. Some heard her crying and screaming at night, but didn't say anything for fear of the king's reaction. Thus, most of the time, the ladies and lords still attending court looked at each other with embarrassment and did their best to forget what they saw. After all, Rhaegar would be king someday – the sooner the better – and he was so gifted, so wise...

We were blind, I was blind; we didn't want to face the king's condition. We refused to admit Aerys is mad. Beheading those men – a death the Starks would have approved, they were known for beheading the convicts themselves – it have been a terrible mistake, but they would have died with dignity. The torture Aerys had imagined for them was barbaric and revealed that a demented person ruled the Seven Kingdoms.

Even the dragon skulls adorning the walls of the Great Hall seemed to disapprove. On his way to Maegor's Holdfast, he met one of Princess Elia's ladies-in-waiting, perhaps the most talkative of them. Jon smelt the heavy scent of her perfume before seeing her; she hid her pretty nose behind a lace handkerchief and bowed slightly her head with a courteous look. She certainly had no time for banter, that day, though: like everyone inside the thick walls of the Red Keep since the past few days, she was in a hurry or pretended she had no time to breathe.

Aye, my lady. When you were a little girl, you wanted to live in the capital and stay at court. You imagined the feasts and the gardens full of roses. You certainly didn't imagine that stench offending your delicate nostrils. He snorted. Since the Starks were dead, the high-born ladies stormed the shops that were selling perfumes and frankincense. What kind of fools are we? If we were brave, we would have done something to prevent King Aerys from killing them but we pretend nothing happened and we drench ourselves in perfume. At some point, Jon realized the only bravery he heard of was Brandon's, strangling himself as he tried to save his lord father. Even those he respected, like Ser Barristan Selmy didn't lift a little finger.

A seven years old boy emerged from the dark corner he was hiding in and howled, waving a wooden sword. He had a long pale face and his blond hair was almost white.

"Prince Viserys," Jon said, bowing his head, "how are you today?"

Now that the king's madness was so obvious, he wondered how a child could grow up in the Red Keep. In Jon's opinion, Viserys was old enough to be sent away to some place where he would learn everything a prince should know. Some place where the boy would have other companions than the dragons' skulls hanging in the Great Hall. Instead of answering to Jon, the boy pointed his sword at him.

"Watch yourself, Connington!" Viserys squeaked. "Or else I will have you burning in your armor! Just like Father did!"

If he was his son, Jon would have given him a good hiding for threatening people.

"Do you think this is a game?" Jon asked, squatting in front of him. In the young prince's purple eyes, he saw overconfidence, but it soon melted away under Jon's frowning gaze. The boy began to quiver and he finally disappeared in the corridors. Jon stood up and sighed. Prince Viserys' attitude was like the stench inside the Red Keep: a proof of Aerys' madness everyone tried to forget.

Rhaegar came back to King's Landing at noon that day. The Crown Prince was nowhere to be found when Brandon Stark arrived in the capital, seeking vengeance; no one knew where he was, what for and when he would be back.

Jon spotted Ser Arthur Dayne by the stables the same day, after a long absence. He noticed Rhaegar, as well, who seemed upset when he left Princess Elia's bedroom.

Despite his confused look, Rhaegar asked him to come and practice swordplay. They walked side by side, each one in his thoughts, breathing deeper as they left the stinking corridors of the Red Keep to go outside. Rhaegar's favorite spot was a dusty corner of the yard, a place where the late afternoon sun shining in the prince's silver hair always distracted Jon. His head was pounding but he tried to regain his composure and prepared their weapons as he usually did. He was ready to ask Rhaegar if he wanted some squire to fetch his mail when the prince's hand brushed his forearm.

"It will not be necessary, my friend. I have changed my mind: we should talk. I owe you an explanation."

Rhaegar's words surprised him and his heart skipped a beat. He slowly turned around and stared at the prince's handsome face: the high forehead, the straight nose and the full lips he desperately wanted to kiss.

"What my father did, he did it to protect me," Rhaegar began. "I am sure he did it to protect me. It was crazy all the same."

The prince avoided his gaze and watched Maegor's Holdfast as if he had never seen it before. Jon shifted so that he came into Rhaegar's range of vision.

"You have doubts, of course," Rhaegar went on, locking eyes with his. "You remember the king decided to attend the Tourney at Harrenhal because he thought I was plotting against him. And suddenly, a surge of love and fear for his son's life... You are right, Jon. My father, our king, lost his mind, and those men, even if they threatened my life, didn't deserve to die."

Jon kept silent and let his eyes wander on Rhaegar's large shoulders. The prince usually stood straight and his square shoulders were one of the things people noticed when they first saw him, but that day, Rhaegar was so appalled he seemed round-shouldered.

"Maybe you should go while it's not too late, Jon," he suggested, a poor smile on his face. "You know these families will not forgive what happened. We could have a war."

"We can fight them, Your Grace," Jon said with stubbornness.

A nervous laugh escaped Rhaegar's lips. "Don't call me 'Your Grace' today. We are only two friends talking about their future. Lord Merryweather might be a good Hand of the King in peace time, still... Merryweather fighting them would be a mummer's farce. Don't deny it. That's why I think you should go back to the Stormlands while you still have time."

Jon gave him a long look. You didn't confide in me after the Tourney at Harrenhal and now you want me to go away?

"I am not sure there is a future for you here," Rhaegar whispered. "We are dancing on the precipice. The next decision my father takes, the realm could leap into the void."

"If we leap into the void, I might as well be by your side."

Jon's answer made Rhaegar blink and he gave him a reproachful gaze. Oh, no. Don't tell me you don't know. You know how I feel about you for some years, now. Jon couldn't take it back and didn't want to.

"The Starks and the other ones died because of me," Rhaegar insisted. "Because of what I did. I am responsible for their deaths. I should have been here. I should have fought Brandon Stark. You have nothing to do with this and I don't want you to die."

The purple eyes fluttered about him and gave him the strength he needed to grab the prince's upper arm. Surprised by his sudden boldness, Rhaegar stared at him.

"I would give my life for you," Jon growled. "I didn't spend all those years in King's Landing so that you can send me off. I choose to stay and to fight by your side."

When he let go with Rhaegar, he was shaking but he felt relieved. His eyes shut tight, the prince shook his head.

"I owe you an explanation. What happened... I didn't harm Lyanna, I swear it."

Lyanna. He didn't say 'the girl' nor 'Lady Stark'. Using her first name sounded like a confession. Jon clenched his jaw.

"Princess Elia asked me so many questions," Rhaegar said. He seemed to relive the unpleasant conversation he had had with his wife. "What you have to understand-"

"I don't want to know," Jon cut him off.

Of course, Elia wanted to know every detail: she was young and silly. In the throes of jealousy, she was now crying on a feather bed, ruing the day she met Rhaegar. If he didn't despise her, Jon could have felt sorry for the dornish princess. He knew better than asking what had happened with the Stark girl; jealousy was so familiar to him he had learned not to feed it with details.

"Don't tell me anything," Jon begged. "Don't tell me but let me stay by your side."

Eddard

The shadows lengthened across the solar's tiles as they waited for Robert. A servant had told Arryn that he wouldn't be long, but the poor lad underestimated Robert's ability to try everyone's patience. Arryn pushed himself from his armchair and began to pace up and down, cursing in an undertone.

"Could you tell me what it is?" Eddard finally asked, coveting the scroll at the end of the long solid oak table. A few hours ago, a raven had arrived and Arryn asked Eddard to come forthwith. The Lord of the Vale shook his head and glared at him.

"But I can't! Robert has to be here. Where is he?"

Ned was certainly not responsible for his friend's lack of punctuality but as usual, Arryn held him accountable. It was how things worked: Robert misbehaved and Arryn lectured Eddard, because lecturing the Stormlands boy was counterproductive.

"Tell me," Eddard insisted.

Arryn froze and pointed at him angrily.

"I told you I can't, because Robert is not here!" he bellowed.

And if Robert was here instead of me, if I was late, would you wait for me like this? Sometimes Eddard considered there was a double standard: Arryn always cared for Robert and asked where he was, but almost ignored him. He looked at Arryn's wrinkled face and couldn't decide whether he should speak or keep his thoughts for himself.

A knock made them turned around, but Arryn growled in discontentment when he saw the old serving man popping his head around the door. "They're here, m'lord."

"Send them in," Arryn grunted.

Startled, Eddard watched as men of several houses sworn to the Eyrie came in the solar. Houses Royce and Belmore, Corbray, Waynwood, and other minor houses. He even recognized the curious sigil of House Lynderly of Snakewood with its wriggling green snakes on a black field. Why are they all here? It can't be some news from my father: Arryn would have told me in privacy. And he suddenly felt relieved.

"Where is Grafton? And Sunderland?" Arryn snarled.

He seemed offended and the men standing in front of him, weathered or young, looked at each other hesitantly. One stepped forward and finally said he didn't know. Arryn stared all the men – including Eddard – in his furious gaze and went to the hearth. The fireplace wasn't used for some weeks now that the sun warmed the Vale, but he took the firebrand and moved the ashes.

Another knock made Arryn spin on his heels. The door creaked open and Robert came in unfazed. When they saw his rather disheveled look, the Bannermen probably thought he had run through the corridors. As Robert took a seat, Eddard gripped the sides of his chair until his knuckles went white. His back to the hearth, Arryn cleared his throat and looked at the assembly.

"This morning, a raven from the capital came to the Eyrie. King Aerys killed the men who sought revenge for Lyanna Stark's abduction. All of them. Lord Rickard Stark and his heir Brandon are dead."

At first, he didn't realize what Arryn said; stunned, the lords murmured and Robert banged his fist on the table. He felt lost: he tried to lock eyes with Arryn, but the Lord of the Eyrie ignored him and went to the large mullion windows. When Ned turned around to face Arryn's vassals, their intrusive look made him cringe; they waited for his reaction and Robert tilted his head, urging him to stand up and shout something.

This was not supposed to happen this way. He knew danger awaited his father and brother in King's Landing, but he had never imagined he would learn they were dead in a room crowded with strangers. That was enough for him: he got on his feet and left the solar, hurrying in the barely lit corridors, as Arryn yelled after him.

He didn't even know where he was going to; he only wanted to be alone in some quiet spot where he could realize he would never see his father and Brandon again; the solar was the worse place for it. He ran down the stairs and made his way to the gardens. Outside the castle, on the terrace overlooking the Vale, he would find solace in the godswood, even if the Eyrie didn't have a heart tree. That was where he would have gone, if he was in Winterfell. He sat near the biggest tree, shut his eyes and tried to remember Winterfell's godswood, its weirwood with blood-red leaves, its pool...

They're gone. Father is gone. Brandon died. He recalled his brother, tall, handsome, exuding confidence and drawing the girls attention. Sometimes, he thought Brandon was cocky, while his elder brother used to call him fainthearted. And Father... Ned's father was stern and reserved. He didn't speak unless it was necessary, a trait of character he had inherited. He couldn't believe they were dead. Because of the Tourney. Because of what we did.

He roused himself from his reverie when he felt a large hand on his shoulder. Robert was squatting in front of him, brow furrowed.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he said, squeezing Eddard's upper arm. "My lord."

"What did you call me?"

"My lord. You're the lord of Winterfell, now that your father and brother are dead."

Eddard's heart beat wildly. He began to understand he would never see Brandon and Father again, but that... Winterfell. The castle, the winter town, the fields, the forests... He suddenly felt dizzy.

"No, no," he told Robert, shaking his head. "It was not supposed to happen this way."

"Ned, you can't indulge yourself in grief. You don't have time!" Robert replied.

Grabbing Eddard's upper arms, he helped him get on his feet, then cupped his chin.

"The scroll Arryn received from King's Landing was about your father and your brother's execution, but there was more. This prick smallfolk called our king demanded our heads. Mine and yours. It seems that murdering two members of House Stark and a bunch of noble men didn't quench his thirst for blood. Aerys demands your head because you're the new Stark of Winterfell and mine, because I'm betrothed to Lyanna. The message doesn't say if Arryn should hand us over to the king or if he has to behead us before sending our heads in some basket, though."

Robert didn't lose his taste for japes, despite the circumstances.

"What will Arryn decide?" Eddard asked hesitantly.

Towering above him, Robert roared with laughter.

"The Mad King – from now on, I'll always call him this way – killed Elbert, Arryn's only heir. He can't sit in a corner and wait until the royal army comes here! He'll raise his banners. That's why he summoned his vassals. I think he wrote to some of them a few days ago, when he received a raven from your lord father."

Bewildered, Eddard tried to give sense to Robert's words.

"We'll soon head south, Ned. We'll seek revenge for Lyanna, for your father and brother, for Elbert and the other ones. We'll kill the Targaryen rapist. But first, I'll go to the Stormlands and call my Bannermen. And so will you, once you're in the North."

In the solar, the noble men were shouting; Ned raised his head to see the mullion windows that looked like two dark eyes in the white stone façade. Noticing his puzzled face, Robert gave him a pat on the back.

"Their oath of allegiance to Arryn," he explained. "Our first war... You and me, fighting the royal army..."

For a heartbeat, Robert seemed to forget Eddard was mourning and dead worried about his sister. He looked at his friend's glimmering eyes as he spoke and the sparkle he saw in it – not scared but rather cheerful – made him feel uncomfortable.

Sandor

His opponent was the youngest squire Casterly Rock housed, a boy of ten-and-four, the fifth son of Lord Serrett. A despising look on his face, the young Harry Serrett of Silverhill hid his dull blond hair under a helm looking too big for him.

Fighting Sandor in the dusty yard of Casterly Rock irritated him: first of all, the orphan of Clegane's Keep was not a squire, not even a page ; he was a child, compared to the young Serrett who had learned swordplay with a master-at-arms in his lord father's castle. Worse still, Sandor was the second son of a minor house, while the Serretts boasted about being one of the principal houses sworn to the Lannisters.

When Sandor went past him to fetch his weapons, he heard Serrett barking and howling. In the Westernlands, everyone knew how the Cleganes had become landed knights, how the kennelmaster of Casterly Rock once saved Tywin's father from being killed by a lionness, losing three dogs and a leg in the effort. It was a tale people whispered when they saw the sigil of House Clegane, three black dogs on a yellow field reminding the dry autumnal grass where the hounds gave their lives for Tytos Lannister. Sandor's grand-father was a kennelmaster overnight raised to nobility; among the noble houses of the Westernlands, the Cleganes would always be low-born. A boy of ten-and-two belonging to such a minor house was not worthy of Harry Serrett of Silverhill. Serrett made no mystery about it but he couldn't disobey Gerion who was his master.

Peacock, Sandor thought, glaring at the young Serrett. It was not even an insult, since Harry waved a wooden shield adorned with a peacock in his pride. House Serrett's words were 'I have no rival'. We'll see.

Tywin Lannister had almost forgotten Sandor after his visit to the maester's tower. Someone had told Sandor that he could sleep in the same room with Kevan's page, a sickly boy of ten, and a maid had tossed a pallet on the floor for him. Things changed the day Gregor send a raven to Casterly Rock; Gregor said he wanted his brother back and Tywin suddenly remembered a boy hiding his scars under black hair wandered in his castle.

If he didn't wake up before sunrise – he got into the habit in Clegane's Keep, because Gregor was still asleep at dawn and he could come and go in the towerhouse – he wouldn't have met Gerion in the corridor next to the kitchens, nor learn that Tywin wanted him to prove his skills. He suspected he would be better than his opponent, but what if he failed?

A knot in his stomach – the cabbage soup Fat Jeyne had given him didn't help – he got back to the room where he slept and sat on his pallet. Kevan's page mumbled something in his sleep and Sandor shook his head. He had to collect himself and remember all the things his father had taught him. For hours, he didn't move and got back mentally to Clegane's Keep's yard, where he used to practice swordplay. The impending fight brought to his mind the smallest hole in the uneven ground of the yard, every piece of advice his father had given him, every move he had done while facing Gregor.

The lazy page rubbed his eyes, got dressed and left their room long before he decided to go downstairs. Once in the large ocher yard, Sandor realized how his opponent despised him and it only gave him another reason to fight.

Thus, he was waiting in the midday sun for Tywin to come. Under Kevan's command, an older squire helped him with a padded armor and a hauberk. The damn chainmail shirt was a bit short for him, but he kept his mouth shut and took the lumpy visorless helmet the squire hold out to him.

People began to gather around them, more than happy to entertain themselves; the master-at-arms was there of course, with the pages and the squires, a dozen serving men in addition to them; some of the maids escaped Fat Jeyne's watchfulness and sneaked out of the kitchens. The crowd started to talk about the fight's outcome and some bet copper coins on the young Serrett. Gerion and Kevan as well waited for the Lord of Casterly Rock. Each one took sides; while Kevan whispered to Serrett's ear and patted his shoulder in a paternalistic way, Gerion stood behind Sandor, silent, yet scowling at his brother.

Finally, as he was wondering if this fight would take place, Tywin arrived. Sandor didn't see him at first, but he noticed something had changed in the eyes of the bystanders and a hasty retreat of the kitchen maids warned him the Great Lion of the Rock was there. Tywin forced himself through the crowd and glared at a squire who was tossing a few coins to the master-at-arms.

"I wager that Serrett will make the pup cry for his mother," the squire said, unaware of Tywin's gaze. Someone nudged at the squire and he bit his lip. With his hands folded in his back, Tywin turned to Sandor.

"You told me you could be useful and you knew how to fight. Very well. Are you ready to fight Serrett in loyal combat?"

"Aye, my lord," he replied.

Some of the men burst of laughing.

"Did you hear this grating voice?" one exclaimed. "He's a babe! Rather tall for his age, maybe... Serrett, you're fighting a babe!"

Tywin's sharp look stopped the man immediately; he motioned his hand and the fight began. Emboldened by the shouting men, Serrett threw himself on him but dropped his guard; Sandor easily struck back and made the squire retreat. He looked at the peacock boy's eyes and saw nervousness, but around them, the watchers still bellowed Serrett's name and not his. What do I want? Having them supporting me or just winning the fight and see this rat squeaking in the dust?

He attacked Serrett and all of a sudden, the watchers' screaming changed. Some shouted their head off in disappointment, because they had bet on the peacock squire, others gave advice to Serrett. No one cried his name. Far from disheartening him, the situation infuriated Sandor: holding tight the pommel of his sword, he began to destroy the painted shield and soon there was nothing left but the offended head of the peacock, still protecting the squire's hand. Panic-stricken, Serret stepped back and stumbled. On all fours, then on his back, the squire waved his hand until he got rid of the ridiculous shield Sandor had pulverized and lost his sword in the effort. However, a disarmed enemy wouldn't be enough by Sandor's father's standards; he pushed aside the squire's sword and drove his to the panting boy's throat. Unable to speak, his armored chest heaving, the proud Serrett begged Sandor with his eyes and looked at the blade. Around them, the men went silent.

Sandor turned slightly to face Tywin and what he saw elated him. The Lord of Casterly Rock was not smiling, nor anxious about the terrified squire who had lost both the fight and his pride. He seemed impressed and the sparkle of interest Sandor caught in his eye was the sweetest thing he had seen for a while.

"Let go with him," Tywin commanded. "We'll see if we can find you a worthy opponent."

Sandor stepped back and sheathed his sword, but froze when a man pointed at Serrett.

"Seven Hells! Serrett pissed his pants!"

On the brownish sand of the yard, a darker puddle widened between the squire's legs.

"Serrett pissed his pants, Serrett pissed his pants!" the men exclaimed.

They said it over and over, as the wretched squire pushed himself from the ground and ran away. The sentence, repeated, chanted, sounded like a nursery rhyme. Tywin shushed the assembly, then looked around, trying to find who would be Sandor's next opponent.

"You," he finally said to the squire who had helped Sandor with his equipment. "Find a padded armor and a hauberk."

This one, a muscular boy with brown hair and a protruding chin, was older than Serrett, probably almost seventeen. Gregor's age. He was a bit taller than Sandor, and more far more experienced.

"This is a cruel game," Gerion protested, walking briskly toward Tywin. "Peckledon will be knighted soon and-"

"I disagree. We need to know if the lad has the guts," Kevan retorted. "After all, he said he wanted to fight. Who will he fight, once in the battlefield? Knights, most likely. Let's have some fun."

Sandor intended to have fun, too. As Peckledon put on his padded armor and a chainmail shirt which seemed his, not something borrowed from the master-at-arms, he observed him. Peckledon glanced back at him from time to time without showing his apprehension if he ever was ill-at-ease. Gerion came back to Sandor and brushed his arm thickened by the padded armor.

"You're quick," he told Sandor. "You're quick, but sometimes you need to have a good look at your opponent. Agility is good, but only once you've taken your time and understood his weaknesses. You did well, though."

"Thank you, Ser."

Twenty feet separated him from Peckledon, who was fastening his helmet.

"Left shoulder," Gerion whispered.

He said it without looking at him, careful not to be heard by the other ones. Sandor barely nodded, wondering why Gerion Lannister himself would help him this way.

Among the men watching the fight, he saw a very young boy, with golden hair framing his strange little face. He knew Tywin Lannister's youngest son was a dwarf and his father rejected him. The dwarf boy limped along toward Gerion, who frowned at him and told him he shouldn't be there.

Tywin gestured once again and the fight began. This time, his opponent seemed cautious and observed him for a while before feinting. Sandor knew the Lannisters watched every thrust he made and appreciated it; the atmosphere was different from the first fight, because nobody dared to bet on either of the boys and because the outcome was uncertain. Tension filled the corner of the dusty yard where they were challenging each other.

"He's gifted," Tywin commented, after Sandor's counterattack. "Very agile."

"He's more than that," Gerion added. And for once, Kevan didn't find anything wrong with it.

After a few minutes, Sandor struck Peckledon on his left shoulder; he had hesitated, but finally realized Gerion had given him this advice so that he could take advantage of it. The older boy winced in pain. A few more blows and his opponent was on his knees. There were no shouts, no cheers. What did I expected? Instead of praising him, squires and grown men looked at him with distrust.

"You stay, for the time being," Tywin eventually said. "You'll be Ser Kevan's squire. You already share his page's room." And that was all.

As he took off the hauberk and the padded armor, he heard men talking about him.

"He's Gregor Clegane's brother. The one Prince Rhaegar knighted a while ago."

"Clegane's brother? Seven save us! Now I understand why he defeated the two older boys. He's a monster. Cleganes are monsters."