Chapter 3
Eddard
"Grafton is a problem," Arryn whispered, sighing.
After years spent with him at the Eyrie, Eddard knew exactly how to read the Lord of the Vale's expression, and that morning, he understood Arryn was both tired and anxious. On his clean-shaved face, wrinkles were deeper and Arryn rubbed his cheeks nervously, suddenly going back to the large wooden table of the solar.
He had unwound the yellowish scroll showing a map of the Vale; decades ago, a maester serving one of his ancestors had drawn an exact picture of the territory ruled by House Arryn, with the mountains, the lakes, the woods and the cities. The maester had not forgotten the sigils of the lords of the Vale. Tiny coats of arms brightened up the map with their vivid colors.
He extended a large hand to the East, showing a peninsula surrounded by the Narrow Sea.
"Gulltown, one of the major harbors of the Vale, siege of House Grafton," Arryn added, gesturing to a red and black sigil adorned with a burning tower.
"I know what Gulltown is," Robert said with a hint of impatience.
"My men reported Randyll Grafton is gathering half of my Bannermen. Those who stay loyal to Aerys."
"Royalists," Robert spat.
"We have to handle this before even thinking of sending you to the North and in the Stormlands. We need to secure the Vale prior to going South and fighting the royal army. Prior to anything else," Arryn enunciated.
The man had fostered him for such a long time Ned even knew when he would click heels, a sign of nervousness and exasperation with him. And he did it: he clicked his heels and Eddard thought Arryn foresaw difficulties.
"What do you think, Ned?"
Whenever they had that kind of serious conversation, he remained silent most of the time, looking at the maps, weighing Robert's and Arryn's arguments and only spoke when asked.
"We need to gather the men who back House Arryn and go as fast as we can to Gulltown. Take them unaware if possible. Face them on a battlefield. We should not enter the town: narrow streets, three or four floors houses... It's not safe."
Arryn nodded. "I agree with Ned," he told Robert. "A battle in the harbor is far too risky. Once Gulltown is mine, you'll sail to Storm's End, while he goes to the North. We have to be careful: the smallest error can lead us to death. And I don't want my head rotting on the walls of the Red Keep."
"You won't have your head rotting on the walls. These days, Mad Aerys prefers to cook his enemies in their armor," Robert said. "Fire and blood."
"Shut up!" Arryn commanded. "Lord Rickard would have been your good father!"
Robert shrugged. "Are we done?"
Promptness was all in their plan; once Arryn had gathered his troops and his loyal Bannermen, they headed to the East, riding as fast as they could to Gulltown. With the meager forces they had, they couldn't besiege the harbor – a proper siege required a fleet they didn't have – so they counted on Robert to provoke Randyll Grafton. The lord of Storm's End fulfilled their expectations.
The two parties confronted one another in the damp meadows by Gulltown's walls. As expected by Arryn, the royalists Valemen outnumbered them, but they didn't seem ready to fight when they came out of the gates: the lords who exited the city were happy to meet each other and to feast; they believed their only presence would prevent Robert from sailing to Storm's End. They were reddish after a few nights spent in the harbor where Selhorys pale green wines and Pentoshi ambers arrived on a weekly basis from Essos.
The two groups observed each other silently for a while, then Arryn shouted his house's words and Robert's stallion charged. Afterward, his memories of the fight faded. In the knee-high grass, spears met horses' chest, men jumped from their saddle, as their mount died, in order to fight on the ground, high-born lords and commoners uttered the same gut-wrenching cry before breathing their last breath.
Twenty feet on his left, a royalist knight wearing heavy plate armor fell from his horse and didn't manage to push himself from the ground. All Ned had to do was run to him and aim at the joints where no metallic layer protected the flesh; he chose the place beneath his left arm. This way, it will be quick. The knight screamed and he began to think this cry would never end, wondering if he had cut the artery, then the man stopped. The quiet meadows where grass rippled in the wind had turned into a nightmare. Before Ned could understand what was going on, his blood-drenched longsword felt heavy in his hands and Jon Arryn was coming to him, panting and looking concerned.
"It's over, Ned," he said almost softly.
But Eddard didn't understand at first; he was staring at Arryn's face, spattered with blood, despite his helm. When he turned around, he saw Valemen and their squires, their bloodstained jerkins and their red hands. Is my face spattered with blood, as well? He looked at his hands; blood was already drying by places. Suddenly, he felt the urge to touch his cheeks and nose; getting rid of his helm, he run his fingers over his face and realized how sticky was his skin.
"It's over," Arryn repeated. "Grafton is dead. Robert killed him in single combat."
'Single combat' sounded like their fight was honorable and knightly; minstrels celebrated single combats in their songs, but wherever he set his eyes, he could only see wounded horses waiting for someone to finish them off, corpses in weird positions and men holding their bowels. Did we take part in the same fight?
"Do you understand me, Ned? We won! Grafton is dead, and so are his lieutenants. Half of the royalists surrendered."
Arryn expected congratulations or at least a sign showing that he was as relieved as himself, but Eddard couldn't give him what he wanted. All of a sudden, the Lord of the Vale shook his head in bewilderment and turned his heels.
Since the day they learned Lyanna was missing, Robert supported Eddard, never leaving him alone and trying to comfort him whenever he lost hope. Eddard owed him so much he thought he could never repay his friend. From time to time, he felt guilty, mainly because he didn't tell Robert everything about the Tourney at Harrenhal. Keeping those details secret was more difficult sometimes and that day's butchery had aroused his remorse.
After the fight by the gates of Gulltown, Arryn led his men throughout the city and settled in Randyll Grafton's small castle. There was not enough room for everyone in the castle, but some inhabitants offered to host the Valemen: among them were the Arryns of Gulltown, a cadet branch of House Arryn. Jon Arryn despised them because they chose to wed merchant's daughters and lived in luxury. Their attempt to be back in his good graces irritated him even more and he expressed his anger about them during the supper while Robert and Eddard tasted Grafton's best wines.
Their ride throughout the Vale and the fight in the meadows had tired them, so Eddard quickly went to Grafton's children's bedroom, which would be his for the night. Once lying on the featherbed, he kept going over and over the last events. All this is going too fast. I'm not ready for a war in which everyone in the realm will have to take sides. What will happen if my Bannermen don't want to follow me in this war? I'm not Brandon. Brandon would have known exactly what to do, what to tell them.
Ned rolled over in bed for an hour before deciding he would talk to Robert. He wanted to tell him all he kept secret since the tourney, no matter how Robert would react. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, got on his feet and put on some clothes. The corridors of Grafton's castle were silent and barely lit; he made his way to Robert's room and knocked. No one answered. For a few heartbeats, he hesitated and thought of going back to bed, but he knew he could not sleep before easing his conscience. His bare feet were cold on the red tiles of the floor as long as he stayed still, so he decided to explore the castle.
Robert would likely be downstairs, paying homage to Grafton's wine cellar. On the first floor, some of Arryn's men snored in the hall where they had their supper; Ned avoided them and made for the kitchens. All of a sudden, he heard bottles tinkling in the kitchens and smiled: Robert would be there, drunk and happy to find someone who would help him to get back to his room. Since Lyanna's abduction, every time he was sad, Robert would comfort him and drink for both of them, but in the end, it was Ned who always made sure his friend ended the night in his own bed instead of collapsing in some corner of the Eyrie. Knowing for sure he would find Robert in his cups, he pushed the wooden door and froze.
At the end of the large table where the cooks had forgotten the leftovers of their supper, three green bottles banged together and tinkled at a regular pace; on the other side, a kitchen maid, naked and out of breath, was sat on the edge of the table, Robert between her legs. His breeches on his ankles, panting and cursing in the girl's neck, Robert was not aware of his presence, but she was. In the dim light provided by the hearth on his right, he saw her turning her head and granting him with an impish smile.
"Robert will never keep one bed," Lyanna had told him once. He had taken Robert's side, swearing love would turn his friend into a different person. It was at the beginning of the Tourney. It was a thousand years ago.
His sister's clear-sightedness almost hurt him at that instant and he came in, then slammed the door, at the risk of awakening the entire castle. Suddenly frightened, the girl hung onto Robert's shoulder and he turned his head in astonishment. As Ned walked toward them, he caught a glimpse of her: light brown hair, turned-up nose and small breasts. Taking his cold stare as a tribute to her beauty, she mocked him.
"Is the little lord angry because he wanted me to warm his bed?"
"Get out!" Eddard shouted, and he threw a dirty woolen dress to her.
Despite the awkward situation, Robert protested and gesticulated. The girl left the edge of the table and walked on tiptoe to the hearth, not without showing him her rounded ass. While getting dressed, she peered at them. Robert didn't seem to understand why someone had interrupted him; unashamedly, he turned to Eddard and waved his big hands, his breeches still on his ankles.
Ned held himself back as long as he could, but once the girl was gone, he lost his temper.
"How dare you!" he bellowed, not caring about the men sleeping nearby.
"Oh, please!" Robert said. "Don't tell me you never fucked a maid!"
Ned burst into an involuntary fit of nervous laughter.
"You don't understand, Robert. What are we fighting for? Why did those men die today?"
"We want to overthrow the Mad King and kill this Targaryen bastard named Rhaegar. Westeros will never be the same."
Ned shook his head.
"We don't fight for the same reason, then. Perhaps we don't take part in the same war. I fight because Aerys destroyed my family and because I want my sister back. My sister, Robert. The girl you were betrothed to, the one you were supposed to cherish. And you spend your nights tumbling kitchen maids?"
Anger and sadness overwhelmed him so that he felt dizzy. He didn't know if he wanted to hit Robert or to cry. In the end, sorrow prevailed and he leaned against on the edge of the table.
"We don't even know where Lyanna is," Robert said, as an excuse.
Ned collapsed on the bench, elbows on his knees, and cradled his pounding head. He heard fabric rustling and understood Robert was finally getting dressed. A few heartbeats later, the green bottles tinkled again and the bench creaked. When he opened his eyes, Robert was sat beside him, pouring wine in a cup.
Jon
He woke up one day and Lady Ashara Dayne was gone. In the absurd kingdom Aerys ruled, people disappeared and died without rhyme or reason: the Red Keep's learned assembly noticed she was missing but preferred to turn a blind eye to this strange event. They all pretended nothing had occurred and focused on pointless matters such as the next tourney and the early ripening of the royal gardens' pomegranates.
Jon didn't care about Ashara Dayne; however, it was not the first time someone left the Red Keep from one day to the next. He didn't need to love her, like poor Ser Barristan, to be obsessed with Ashara's mysterious disappearance. He wanted to know if her hasty departure had something to do with her brother's absences and there was only one person who could answer to his questions: Lord Varys.
Jon didn't count the Lyseni eunuch among his friends: though they were of an age, it was nearly impossible to find two more different persons in King's Landing. He presented himself as a soldier, taciturn, whose life went like clockwork between his duties in court and the ones he had in the Stormlands, whereas the master of whisperers was an unctuous foreigner, clever and crafty, loving secrets and conspiracies as much as garish silken clothes and scented powder. No doubt Varys would read his mind, even before Jon asked about Lady Ashara.
Despite his aversion for nosy people and his usual awkwardness whenever he met the eunuch, Jon found himself knocking at Lord Varys' door two days after Ashara's disappearance. The bald man welcomed him in his apartments with an obsequious yet surprised smile and closed the door behind him. Right in the Spider's web. Curiosity will kill me someday.
His eyes roamed through the gorgeous quarters Varys lived in, observing the sophisticated furniture and expensive carpets selected and arranged with an exquisite taste: the embellishment made by the eunuch now that the king trusted him more and more reflected the master of whisperers' refinement and sense of scenery.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?" Varys asked. "I guess a man who is always in a hurry, like you, doesn't knock at my door without a good reason. Besides, I have a couple of ideas about the motives of your unexpected visit. Tell me everything, and we'll see if I was right."
"Are we playing games, now?" Jon growled.
"Don't fly off the handle, my lord, I never meant to offend you," he replied, chuckling. "I suppose your visit is related to Lady Ashara's sudden departure."
Jon opened his eyes wide, even if he knew the eunuch's sagacity.
"Aye, we all noticed the lady-in-waiting was gone," Varys said in an almost apologetic tone. "I feel for Princess Elia. And so do you, of course."
A sly expression appeared on his face, as he stressed these last words. Bloody eunuch. He's teasing me.
"Why did she leave the capital?" Jon finally asked as his guest offered him a seat.
"Why would a young and beautiful woman attending a princess leave court?" Varys whispered, carefully sitting on a pile of cushions. "I didn't know you had such an interest for her, my lord. I always thought-"
An evasive smile on his full lips, he paused and Jon grasped the sides of his armchair.
"Watch yourself, Lord Varys," he grunted.
"I don't judge you. I would even say it requires a certain amount of strength to stay here after his wedding. I would call it self-sacrifice or rather recklessness now that we know the prince has a relationship with the Northern girl."
Jon tried to ignore the anger growing inside him and looked at the eunuch straight in the eyes.
"Does her absence have something to do with... Lyanna Stark?" he asked.
"What a curious theory! How would Princess Elia's faithful lady-in-waiting change sides and take care of the princess' love rival? You still have many things to learn about human relationships, my lord."
"I didn't came here for a lesson, Varys. Why did she leave King's Landing overnight?"
The master of whisperers smoothed his purple silk tunic.
"What is the worst enemy of a young and lovely lady-in-waiting?"
"Let's skip the charades. I don't have the slightest idea."
"Pregnancy."
Before Jon could realize what he said, Varys went on.
"You certainly remember the baleful Tourney at Harrenhal. During the festivities, Lady Ashara danced with three men: Ser Barristan, the young Eddard Stark and you. I'd wager her child's father is among them. Let me think about it... Barristan the Bold was never bold with women, so we can consider he's not the father. I would draw the same conclusions about the young Stark. Who stays in the race? You."
"You have a curious sense of humor, Varys," Jon rasped, leaning forward.
"Your feelings for the prince don't mean you can't enjoy feminine beauty and Lady Ashara is a beauty, isn't she?"
Appalled, Jon sat back in his armchair, looking into the void.
"Of course, it can't be you," the eunuch said, repressing a smile. "You're not the kind of man who betrays his love. Still, Lady Ashara's personal life remains a closed book and I must admit I don't know whose child it is."
"You fall short of your reputation," Jon commented. The bald man's failure delighted him. "So she went back to Dorne?"
"My little birds say so," Varys sighed.
Jon got on his feet, eager to put an end to their interview. The eunuch suddenly waved his chubby hand, as if to stop him.
"I don't know who was Lady Ashara's lover, but there are a couple of things I learned, lately," he said in an undertone. "Did you know that after Jon Arryn raised his banners, half of the Vale noblemen refused to follow him? The lord of Gulltown, Randyll Grafton was their leader. No doubt he wanted to take advantage of the situation once the rebellion was over and lusted after the Eyrie. The Hand of the King could have helped him in his undertaking, but Lord Merryweather trifles with the rebellion."
"So Arryn is now fighting in the Vale against his own Bannermen?" Jon asked.
"I wish he was. He defeated Grafton and Robert Baratheon is now sailing to the Stormlands. He'll soon have a host and so will the young Stark. Three of the Seven Kingdoms in open rebellion because the Hand fears the king's reaction."
"I should go back to the Stormlands and fight Baratheon-"
"Certainly not, my lord. You'll have a role to play. Later on."
Jon shook his head; the eunuch exasperated him with his secrets and his condescending attitude. He gave him a cold stare as Varys stood up and smoothed his loose tunic.
"We are not so different you and I," he told Jon, stepping forward.
"Not so different?" Jon repeated, snorting. "Come on, Lord Varys."
"No, we are not that different. We're faithful to the Targaryens, even when they take foolish decisions, like falling in love with the Stark girl or roasting her father because he dared to protest. Even when they refuse to see the impending danger, you and I will defend their interests. I'm afraid this loyal attitude is not so common in the Red Keep. That's why someday, when things turn badly – because hardships await the realm, that's an absolute certainty – we'll need to unite our strengths and fight the king's enemies."
Varys lost his subservient and hypocritical tone and gazed at him intensely.
"Still, there may be a difference between you and me, my lord," he added, tilting his head. "I will always use my qualities at the service of the royal family whereas you would give your life for only one Targaryen. Sacrifice is very noble, but what's the point if all Aegon's descendants are sent in exile or murdered? Lord Connington, I'm not asking you if you will fight for Prince Rhaegar, because I know you will. Will you fight for the entire royal family? If you decide to do whatever it takes to protect them, you can think of me as an ally."
In his small eyes disappearing behind heavy eyelids, Jon could only see the eunuch's concern for the Targaryens.
Sandor
He was sleeping a dreamless sleep when a pair of hands seized him and dragged him on the wooden floor of his room. Tybolt, the young page who slept beside him, began to scream in fear and protested, but someone commanded him to keep quiet. Sandor thrashed about, but the intruder – it was dark and he couldn't see anything – pinned him to the ground and pummeled his face and his rib cage.
There were two persons now; one made sure he didn't move and gagged him while the other one kicked his bare legs. Lying on his belly, he couldn't do anything: when he extended his arm to reach something useful – a stick, a chamber pot, anything with which he could hit them – his hand met his attacker's heel and the gag muffled his shouting. Why?
"Let's turn him over, for a change," a hissing voice suggested above him. "Tybolt, give us some light."
"What do you have in mind?" the other one growled in Sandor's ear.
"Take a piss."
All of a sudden, Sandor realized who they were and why they had something against him. Serrett and Peckledon. They didn't stomach their defeat. Serret blames me for his humiliation. As the pressure on his back seemed lighter, he understood this might be his only chance to escape them.
"I drank a lot tonight," Serrett said. "Made sure my bladder was full for the bastard."
The knight-to-be gave a raucous laughter and slowly raised, his big hand still on his victim's back. Sandor's elbow reached his jaw and Peckledon fell with all his weight on the floor. When Sandor got on his feet, the page had finally lit the candle and fear made Serrett wince.
Defeating two older boys one after the other was not enough; they came for him at the same time, at night, taking him unaware. Their cowardice almost elated him. Father would have loved that. Lord Clegane would have been proud, though he was not generous with paternal pride. Buggers! As if it was the first time someone intended to beat me up in the middle of the night...
Tybolt cowered on his pallet, while Sandor threw himself on Serrett and began to hit indifferently his face, his stomach and his chest. However hard Serrett protested, his whining didn't covered his accomplice's groan.
"I won!" Sandor said and his voice, distorted by anger, sounded even more high-pitched. "You hear me? I won," he repeated, careless of the racket they made.
The door suddenly creaked open and Kevan Lannister's massive figure appeared. He only wore a pair of breeches.
"What's going on, here?" he shouted.
"My teeth, Ser, the Clegane boy broke my teeth!" Peckledon complained, crawling to the door.
"Help me!" Serrett begged. "He assaulted us."
No matter how absurd it seemed, Serrett repeated Sandor had attacked them in his own room. How they came in and why he would beat bloody two older boys didn't seem to disturb the squire.
"He lies!" Sandor replied, "They sought revenge after I defeated them. I was asleep when they came and started beating me."
"Very well. Tell me then why I found you thumping Serrett when I came in? Tell me who broke Peckledon's teeth – and probably his nose?"
Folding his arms over his little paunch, Kevan ignored Sandor's bruises, and slowly turned to Tybolt.
"What did you see, boy?"
Frightened, the boy cringed. Without any other warning than slow footsteps in the corridor, Tywin arrived; Sandor noticed he was fully dressed, whether he didn't left his room before putting his clothes on or didn't go to bed yet.
"I found Clegane's son beating up the two squires, but he persists in saying they started the fight," Kevan told his elder brother. "I always told you too many pages and squires in Casterly Rock was a problem-"
"Not now, Kevan. Why would Clegane beat them in his room, in the first place?"
Father always praised Tywin's intelligence. He understands what happened. He won't punish me.
"My page saw everything," Kevan said. "What did you see, Tybolt?"
Tybolt shook his head and gave them a poor excuse.
"I don't know... I didn't see anything. I was asleep," he whimpered.
"Children quarreling," Kevan summed up. "I'll tell Symon to flog Serrett and Peckledon until they bleed. Thirty whip lashes for Clegane."
"No," Tywin said coldly.
He believes me. Sandor suddenly felt relieved.
"Serrett and Peckledon did attack him. Have them whipped, if you feel like it. Lock Clegane in the dungeon. That's for ruining a future knight's face. Water and bread, five days. That's for disturbing me when I work late. Send him to the maester first; he'll have a look at his black eye."
Back in the maester's tower, he felt ill-at-ease. Casterly Rock's maester, a frail creature with a grey beard, deaf in one ear and smelling of thyme and herbs, had been waken up in the middle of the night. The old man rubbed his eyes and yawned once in a while: a mute reproach to the young trouble maker Kevan Lannister had commanded him to examine.
Shambling on the creaky wooden floor, the old man lit all the candles and gestured to the pallet. Sandor sat there and let the maester scrutinize the bruises on his arms, legs and rib cage.
"Contusions," the maester said with a quavering voice. "Nothing serious. Lie down."
The old man stared at his face for a minute and Sandor understood he didn't care for his black eye. He clenched his jaw, waited and prayed the Seven, if they ever existed, to help him. The old man brushed his dark hair aside, to gaze at his scars and the scent of thyme became stronger. Though he avoided mirrors, Sandor had quite a good idea of what his burnt side look like: when healing, the skin had turned into something thick and red. There were craters oozing pus and, by places, his scars cracked. He didn't need a bonehead maester to remind him his disfigurement.
"What happened?" the old man asked. His bluntness made Sandor jump. People were usually so frightened or disgusted by his face they never asked for details. Father already gave them details. How his bedding had caught fire and wounded his youngest son. Convenient details everyone preferred to the truth, he thought bitterly. The bleary-eyed maester nodded to encourage him.
"I fell," Sandor replied.
The old man neither commented his answer nor took care of his black eye; he stayed there, leaning over him in the flickering light a dozen candles provided and had a careful look at his face. At first, Sandor felt angry and clenched his fists, repressing the urge to beat him. The maester blinked from time to time, trying to adjust his old eyes to the dim light; under his insistent gaze, he was vulnerable. He yielded to this feeling of weakness and closed his eyes tightly. As the maester's look lingered on him, he realized the man could read his scars and knew for sure what had happened the day he had played with Gregor's discarded toy. Perhaps someone had whispered to the maester the rumors leaking out of Clegane's Keep, perhaps he was more sagacious than the other ones: he knew the truth all the same.
Sandor hated him for gazing at his scars and seeing right through him. When the old man applied balm on his black eye, his muscles tensed up in the tremendous effort he made to conceal his feelings. I want to be as still as a stone; no grimace, no smile, nothing he could use against me.
In the end, the smell of thyme faded and he became aware the maester was done with him; he opened his eyes and saw the man bending over a table to reach a cloth and clean his hands. Sandor didn't wait for his command to get on his feet, he grabbed his clothes and he walked to the door, deliberately forgetting to give his thanks.
Five days, Tywin had said. Five days seemed like five years to him. As long as he remembered, Sandor loved to live in the open air. He was certainly not cramped for room in the large twenty feet high cell Kevan Lannister locked him in, but he missed daylight and the caress of a gentle breeze on his face. He heard men shouting and the shrieking voices of pages in the yard, carts lugged around and swords clanging together: that was how he knew it was daytime. At dusk, the only noise came from the birds of prey chasing nearby: he remembered his father's lessons and recognized ospreys and falcons thanks to their cry. Later on, lying on the straw, he listened to the owls screeching.
He couldn't even complain: the dungeon didn't stink nor was filthy and he had a bucket as a replacement for a chamber pot. On the second day, a young crippled servant offered him a basin of water, so that he could wash his face and hands. There wasn't even mice in his cell to keep him company: Tywin would not tolerate rodents in the castle. All the rooms he had visited so far were as clean and tidy as possible, revealing the Lord of Casterly Rock's high sense of order. Nothing to do with the pigsty Gregor had once shut him in for two days, taking advantage of their father's absence.
Bread and water. He was not new to lack of food but he had plenty of time to think about his hunger and to listen to his stomach gurgling. He salivated every time the crippled servant entered, bearing a torch and a plate; the contents of his dish hardly changed. It was either brown or black bread, nothing nourishing enough for a boy of ten-and-two.
Sat on the rather fresh straw, he wrapped his arms around on his knees and waited. Serrett and Peckledon would not attack him again. Once bitten, twice shy; and on top of that, they are both cowards. However, something puzzled him, more than the other squires' mute hostility or Kevan's distrust: why in Seven Hells Tywin had punished him if he knew he didn't start the fight? 'That's for ruining a future knight's face, that's for disturbing me when I work late': dubious explanations, really. There had to be another reason, but the meaning of all this eluded him.
On the late afternoon of the third day – the master-at-arms' booming voice was gone and the squires didn't shriek anymore – a key rattling in the keyhole startled him. It wasn't the crippled boy's hour: he had already come earlier with stale bread and a jug of water. Sandor jumped on his feet and leaned against the bars of his cell; at first, he only saw a tall figure half-lit by a torch, standing straight in the corridor leading to the dungeon. Him? Why would he come here? The stately demeanor and the slow footsteps confirmed his visitor was the Lord of Casterly Rock himself. He stopped in front of the door, holding his torch so that he could look at Sandor, and for a heartbeat, there was a half-smile on his noble face.
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