Chapter 4
Sandor
For a few heartbeats, Tywin Lannister remained silent and Sandor stared at the burning torch, holding his breath and slowly walking backwards in his cell. The Lord of Casterly Rock noticed his unease, for he looked at the torch, then put it in the metallic support on the wall behind him.
"My Lord," Sandor finally said, eyes downcast. "I disturbed your work, I beg forgiveness."
Tywin gestured as if to prevent him from saying anything else.
"But you don't apologize for beating those squires, do you?" he asked Sandor.
The boy didn't know the correct answer, so he shrugged.
"Your black eye disappeared," Tywin commented, folding his arms. "Good. Cleganes have the merit of healing quickly. Do you know why I'm here?"
Sandor shook his head and watched his overlord when he grabbed a discarded stool the crippled servant kept in a corner and sat on it. Sandor's stomach gurgled and he wondered if Tywin would get mad at him for disturbing the silence of the dungeon.
"It's been a while since I last sent someone here," Tywin went on, lost in his thoughts. His eyes lingered on the walls carved out of the rock, then to the ceiling. "I usually don't need to. People find it easier to obey."
He's pissed off, Sandor mused. That's unfair, I only defended myself.
"Don't scowl at me," Tywin suddenly commanded. "I didn't send you here to punish you. Remember what I told you the other night: I know you didn't attack them."
Why then? He stared at his liege lord while the latter shifted on the stool and crossed his long legs.
"You're an interesting person, Clegane. If this half-witted boy from House Banefort didn't already serve me, I would have chosen you as a squire. Maybe next year, once Banefort is knighted... Kevan wouldn't mind if I steal his own squire, he dislikes you."
Puzzled, Sandor didn't move. The harder he reflected on Tywin's words, the less he understood.
"Do you know why I sent you in the dungeon?" Tywin asked, leaning forward.
"You sent me in the dungeon because you were angry, my lord." In his eyes, it was the only sensible answer, but the man shook his head.
"No, not at all, boy. I sent you to this cell because I'm happy with you."
It doesn't make any sense. Sandor wondered if it was a trick.
"And I let my brother whip the squires because I couldn't care less. Tell me, boy, what will happen to these boys within five or ten years?"
Sandor shook his head again.
"Of course, you don't know," Tywin muttered. "Well, they are both their father's youngest son, which means they'll never inherit their family's lands and titles. They'll do their best to become knights and they'll probably succeed, they'll go from tourney to tourney and dream of being declared champion. A few days ago, I didn't care about them and didn't even think of their future. Thanks to you, I learned what kind of boys they are. In peace time, young arrogant knights like Peckledon and Serrett will be soon take part in tourneys and die because even if they're good at jousting, there's always someone more gifted than them. In war time, they die because they're not as strong as their opponents. And because they make terrible decisions, like assaulting you in the middle of the night."
He paused and observed Sandor's confused expression.
"I don't know if you're good or bad at jousting, boy. I'd wager you don't care about tourneys, because tourneys are not for real. To be completely honest with you, jousting and mêlée bore me. You're different from Serrett and Peckledon. You take it seriously when you fight and I respect that. That's why you're here: you didn't come to Casterly Rock to be coddled. You're here because I can give you bed and board as long as you fight for me."
"I'll fight for you, my lord," Sandor said, eyes pleading, but standing very straight.
His high-pitched voice brought a half-smile on Tywin's lips.
"How is it possible that a tall and broad-shouldered lad has such a girlish voice?" he exclaimed. "It doesn't matter. You need to train daily to improve your skills. You need to harden yourself. There will be battles soon."
"Is it why you were working so late?" Sandor asked, growing more confident.
Tywin nodded.
"Lords of the Vale, the North and the Stormlands rebelled against King Aerys. Sooner or later, I'll have to engage my host in this war," he said thoughtfully.
"I want to fight with you, my lord, when you rescue the king."
Coming to Aerys' help and taking part in a real war sounded more exciting than anything else; Sandor stepped forward, leaned against the bars of his cell and locked eyes with his visitor.
"Did I say I will fight for the king?" Tywin asked, his green gaze shining. "I didn't make a decision yet. As my guest, you'll fight for the side I choose."
"Of course, my lord."
Tywin arose and planted himself in front of the door, his long fingers brushing the lock. Immediately, Sandor ran to the corner where he left his boots and tried to tidy his cell. When he was done, he got back to Tywin and waited for him to open the door. Brow furrowed, the Lord of Casterly Rock gazed at him.
"I came to talk to you, not to suspend your punishment," Tywin steadily explained. "I said five days. You have two more days to spend in here."
He ignored Sandor's begging eyes and calmly walked out of the dungeon.
Under Kevan Lannister's watchful gaze, the crippled servant turned the key in the lock and slowly opened the door of his cell. Free, at last. After five days spent in the dark, living on bread and water, Sandor was so weak he didn't know if it was day or night; he only remembered he was asleep when they came. The lame boy who brought food everyday gave him a curious look and he felt like a wild animal out of his cage.
Kevan's frowned and commanded Sandor to follow him; they left the dungeon located in the depths of the castle and began to climb one of the never-ending spiral staircases of Casterly Rock. Sluggishly, they made progress in the chilly and unlit flights of stairs; Sandor was so unsteady on his feet the climb itself looked like an adventure, like exiting the Seven Hells and getting back to the world of the living. Finally, Kevan led him to a corridor poorly lit by candles; outside, a waning crescent moon cast a blueish light. It was later than he thought.
"What time is it, Ser?" Sandor asked.
"The hour of the wolf. The same hour I locked you in the dungeon when you fought with the squires. Five days are five days."
Did Tywin command him to free me exactly five days after I stepped in the dungeon? He didn't dare to ask, but Kevan seemed furious, as if he had been disturbed in his sleep. They walked through the corridors, climbed more stairways and arrived in front of the room he shared with Tybolt. Without ever looking back, Kevan left him and headed to his apartments.
When he entered his room and sat on the pallet, Tybolt snored, head backwards and gaping. In the dungeon, at least, everything was quiet. Lying curled up in a ball, he felt tired but couldn't get to sleep. He was ravenous and knew he couldn't get some rest before eating. It was not gluttony: he needed some food. Silently, he left his pallet and opened the door: the corridor seemed empty. He walked on tiptoe on the wooden floor, reached the staircase and made his way to the kitchens.
During the five days he spent in the dungeon, Sandor had become obsessed with the larder: he dreamed of ham and sausages, let his mind wander around the shelves full of bacon, pâtés and legs of lamb. The kitchens were perfectly silent and by chance, no kitchen maid slept there. Thanks to the meager light provided by the fire, he found the larder's door and slowly opened it. The smell was so rich, with fragrances of salt and smoked meat tickling his nostrils, he nearly fainted and needed to lean back on the door. Careful now: nobody needs to know I was here. If I got locked in the dungeon five days for defending myself, I'll spend the next moons in a cell for stealing food.
All of a sudden, before he could decide what he would pick, a muffled noise startled him and he hid himself in the darkest corner of the tiny room, hitting a large ham hanging from the ceiling. The intruder, whoever it was, headed directly to the larder: underneath the door, he could see the light of a lantern dancing on the red tiles and coming closer. He swallowed hard, ruing his decision of sneaking in the kitchens and thinking of the black bread he would eat for days in the dungeon, when the door creaked open.
Fat Jeyne's pot-bellied figure appeared, holding a candle lantern; in her nightgown and woolen shawl, she seemed heavier than the last time they met.
"Seven save us, what are you doing here?" she hissed, her chest heaving, and she put the lantern on the nearest shelf.
Sandor thought of running away, but standing on the threshold, she blocked his path; he nevertheless decided to force his way out, guessing he would leave her behind easily. He threw himself on the cook, convinced she would step aside and let him go. To his great surprise, she put up resistance and clung on to him, preventing him from leaving the larder. Using all her weight, she stood in his way and crushed Sandor to her big breasts; soon he couldn't kick her and when she tightened her grip on him, he couldn't move anymore.
After a few heartbeats, he stopped struggling with her and stood up straight as soon as she released her hold on him. She wasn't so impressive this way; he was taller than Fat Jeyne and her face seemed tired.
"There," she cawed. "You little monster. Thought you could sneak in the larder and eat whatever you want? Say you're sorry."
Looking down and observing his feet black with filth, he complied.
"Are you going to tell Ser Kevan I stole food?" he added, anxious.
"No, 'cause you didn't. You only awoke me and tried to escape. And kicked my old legs."
"I'm sorry," he repeated, glancing at her.
Hands on her hips, she gave him a long disapproving look.
"What am I going to do with you, Sandor?"
She remembers my name. Nobody called him 'Sandor' in Casterly Rock. He knew he should have been moved, however, her familiarity disturbed him and he felt the urge to run away, like some young wild animal.
"I'd better go to bed," he said, avoiding her gaze.
"Where have you been? I didn't see you in days."
Someone wondering where he was and caring for him seemed completely unnatural. He shifted from foot to foot.
"I... was in the dungeon. I hit squires. But they hit me first," he explained, ashamed.
"The dungeon, huh? I'd wager they barely gave you something to eat. Is it why-"
She gestured at the shelves heavy with smoked sausages and hams and he nodded in acquiescence. Her lips twisted in a motherly smile.
"Well, since we're both awake..." she sighed, extending her pudgy hand to reach a plate of smoked bacon. "Go sit down, boy."
Sandor watched her as she prepared eggs with bacon. For fear he was starving, she added some gruel and put the food in front of him, with a gap-toothed smile. She looks like an ogress, an ogress who remembers my name.
"Can I have some wine?" he asked, knowing gruel would make him thirsty.
"Only watered wine for you, boy!" she exclaimed, ruffling his hair.
She stood up behind him while he ate, keeping an eye on Sandor. With every gulp of food, he felt better but began to wonder what she had in mind and why she was good to him. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he turned to Fat Jeyne.
"I once had a son," she muttered, as if answering to his silent question. "Big eater, he was. Like you. He died, years ago. A fever."
Sandor wanted to say something, but words were stuck in his throat.
"But you don't care, do you?" Fat Jeyne added. "I'm pretty sure you're a decent lad, Sandor. There will always be something for you in the kitchens as long as you promise not to steal food. Just ask Fat Jeyne."
She sighed heavily and he saw unshed tears in her small eyes.
"Go to bed, now. When this codger who calls himself a master-at-arms is done with you, come here and I'll give you some more gruel. With jam, if you're a good boy."
Eddard
The companions Jon Arryn had given him hated those swamps and the reed thickets of the Neck; the flat landscape of the bogs stunned him, as far as the eye could see, with its green-yellowish tufts of grass, its streams snaking in the plains covered with moss. Arryn had deliberately forgotten to tell his men about crossing the damp treacherous lands of the Neck, if their bad mood and silent reproaches were any indication.
Traveling in that part of Westeros was obviously not child's play, once the riders had left the causeway to find the siege of House Reed: they had to stay together, to be even more vigilant when the ground became soft as a pillow under the hooves of their horses and when the frogs croaked noisily. His own reaction astonished him, but Eddard put up with the dangerous path and shrugged off the sultry weather and the myriad of insects – flies, midges, dragonflies – overrunning the place. Strange to say, the slender reeds bending with the wind soothed his nerves and made him feel more serene. Even the knights' interrogations about how they would find Greywater Watch, a castle only crannogmen could locate, didn't spoil his good mood. When a rider emerged from behind a reed thicket in the late afternoon sun, gawky on his horse, Eddard immediately knew who he was. Howland. My friend. Arryn's men didn't believe their eyes as the frail crannogman came closer on his old horse and welcomed them with a warm yet nervous smile.
"Do you see, Ned?" Howland Reed said pulling the reins. "I bought a horse and I'm practicing everyday. I'm getting better."
Though he almost fell from his saddle when trying to dismount, Howland kept his broad grin and embraced Eddard, ignoring the cutting remarks of the Valemen about his nag.
Howland led them to his father's castle built on a floating island and the proud knights of the Vale whispered to each other, discovering the modest dimensions and strange architecture of the keep. Brow furrowed, they learned there were no maester, no master-at-arms, no knights in the biggest castle of the area. Even the scent of peat fires seemed to offend them. After a while, Eddard doubted they ignored those facts about the Neck and thought they only tried to be as nasty as possible. He glared at Ser Dennis Waynwood when he compared the keep with the tiny thatched houses they had seen during their ride.
After the supper, Howland and Eddard left the Valemen in the Great Hall of the castle, went to Howland's apartments and almost collapsed in two armchairs smelling of old leather next to the fireplace.
"I can gather all the forces of the Neck," Howland promised his guest. "The Blackmyres, the Fenns, the Crays, the Quaggs... They're men of honor, they will help us. They don't have enough horses, though. Some don't have horses."
"Winterfell will provide mounts," he replied, mesmerized by the blue and pale yellow flames coming from peat bricks.
Silently, Howland jumped on his feet and began to stoke the fire. As far as Eddard knew, people used the hearth even in summertime, in damp places like the Neck. When Howland turned and faced him again, his big green eyes had changed and in his triangular face resolution gave way to melancholy.
"I wish we would of met in different circumstances," he added. "Are there any clues of where she is?"
Eddard shook his head.
"Once you got some rest, we'll ride to Winterfell," Howland said. "I'm coming with you."
"You said you would gather your Bannermen," Eddard retorted.
"My father doesn't need me here to call them and make sure they're ready. You need my company more than he does. Unless... you prefer to ride alone with those buttoned-down knights of the Vale."
Eddard laughed heartily, for the first time in days.
"Gods, I can't stand their contemptuous looks anymore!"
"Oh, there is no maester here?" Howland exclaimed, mimicking Waynwood and his companions. "You don't have any master-at-arms? You don't have knights in the Neck? How can you organize tourneys if you don't have knights?"
Howland's simpering voice and scandalized look was such a good imitation of Ser Dennis that Eddard convulsed with laughter. As his host began to ape the Valemen on their horses, back straight and riding haughtily, cantering throughout the room, hilarity elicited a few tears at the corner of Eddard's eyes.
"I'm afraid we don't have tourneys in the Neck, Ser," Howland replied to the imaginary knight. "That's why crannogmen go South to watch people jousting."
Ned's laughter immediately vanished and Howland stopped his imitation of the Valemen. They were both thinking of the same tourney now, the one Lord Whent had organized in Harrenhal some months ago. The memory of their first meeting made Eddard smile thoughtfully for a heartbeat, but his lips soon twisted in a bitter expression.
Eddard thought he would feel at home as soon as he would catch sight of the massive granite walls and the watch turrets. In the dreams he had night after night, he saw the crenels silhouetted on the cloudy sky and she was there, slender figure waiting for him and waving her arms in anticipation. Lyanna and Winterfell were indivisible; whenever Eddard was in Winterfell, his sister warmed the northern castle with her laughter and exuberant manners. On the few occasions when they met out of Winterfell, she always seemed to bring with her tiny pieces of the castle: not only news of the servants and people living there, but also habits they had, memories they shared, even something in her grey eyes that reminded him of the Northern sky. There was not another member of the Stark family whom he associated so deeply to Winterfell.
What will Winterfell look like without her? The granite walls were still there, and the King's gate welcomed them at the end of the King's Road, with its postern and the lonely guard who immediately recognized him. After the drawbridge, he noticed the moat water was as murky as before, passed the high inner walls and dismounted in front of the Great Keep. Benjen was already hurrying himself through the yard, pushing aside the maester and the servants and ignoring the Valemen's disapprobation.
"My brother," Benjen said, fighting back his tears. Forgetting they were not alone, he threw himself in Eddard's arms and clutched him. That's just the two of us, now. As Howland tentatively jumped from his saddle and stepped forward, however standing at some distance from them, Eddard realized they offered a strange sight to Arryn's men; the Stark siblings, in each other's arms, Benjen sobbing against his elder brother's shoulder and the skinny heir of the Neck sharing their sorrow but observing them with the crannogmen's proverbial discretion.
Eddard always felt clumsy when people expressed their emotions like his younger brother did; he hesitantly patted Benjen's shoulder wondering how he could put an end to this and if he ever should. Lifting his gaze to watch the servants, he met Maester Luwin's eyes. The small man clad in a grey woolen robe smiled sadly and came closer, giving Ned a good reason to speak to him.
"Maester Luwin," he said, "I am sure you and the servants did your best to help my brother these last weeks and I am very grateful for that. Could you make sure our guests have all they need for the night?"
"Of course, my lord," Maester Luwin replied.
Luwin was right to address him this way, but the words were still unfamiliar to Eddard and he looked away. On the eaves of the Great Keep, a raven cawed, disturbing the heavy silent in the yard. For a heartbeat, Eddard imagined the scene through the bird's eyes, as if he was on the roof of the ancient tower: the company of men arriving after their long trip, looking like dots in the muddy yard of the castle, and among them, a young man, inexperienced and insecure, who was the new lord of Winterfell. He pictured all this and felt like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Servants were already taking care of the knights and the yard slowly emptied out, leaving only Maester Luwin, Howland and his brother with him. As Benjen wiped his tears, Eddard understood they all waited for him to speak.
"You'll go to the solar with us," he informed Luwin. "We have matters to discuss, I suppose."
"I took the liberty of having your lord father's apartments ready for your arrival, my lord."
The maester's reply sent chills down his spine and his back stiffened. I need to get used to it.
Once Luwin gave him an overview of the situation in the North and told him the Stark Bannermen would fight for their cause, he let the maester go and stayed with Howland and Benjen. For the first time since his arrival, he could have a good look at his brother; the last months had been rough on him. Benjen never was a robust fellow and now he looked nothing but skin and bones. His blue eyes glistened with a mix of grief and guilt, as he hid his long face behind dark hair. An uncomfortable silence filled the room and Eddard felt the urge to speak, without finding the proper words. While he rued his inability to reassure his brother, the latter finally cleared his throat.
"I'm so sorry," Benjen said on the verge of tears. "I was always with her, I should have known, I should have done something."
"Blaming yourself won't bring her back," Eddard answered steadily.
His cold tone almost hurt him. He's my brother, I love him, I should be able to give him the comfort he needs so desperately instead of...
"I made a decision a few days ago," Benjen said, pointing a skinny finger at him. "What I did led to her abduction, her abduction led to Father's death and... to Brandon's death. Three lives wrecked and I'm responsible for this disaster. Criminals have two choices: their lord's justice or the Wall. I'll go to the Wall because the Night's Watch is all I deserve."
A flash of anger and frustration made Eddard jump on his feet.
"You're not going anywhere!" he bellowed. "You're too young, only ten-and-four, and you want to estrange yourself from your family? Your place is here, in this castle, not in some ruined fortress of the Wall. We're at war, Benjen, and while I'm fighting in the South, there shall be a Stark in Winterfell!"
"You don't understand!" Benjen retorted, sneering in disbelief, "you're just like Brandon when Lyanna disappeared. I can't do this anymore. I can't go on and pretend nothing happened because I feel so guilty!"
He stressed on the last words, not caring about the Valemen who could hear him if they were nearby.
"You think it's some game I play in the Great Hall, when people come to seek my advice? I'm only four-and-ten, and if I was in the Night's Watch, there would be brothers taking care of me and teaching me how to fight, how to serve. I would have hundreds of brothers instead of one brother who plans to let me down and go fighting in the South!"
Benjen clenched his fists so hard his knuckles became white and his whole figure was shaking. Eddard realized his own pain had made him forget of his brother's: ashamed, he looked through the window and what he saw – the dark green woods in the distance, behind the inner walls crenelated frame, reminded him of Lyanna, as everything did in Winterfell.
Can't you understand it's the only choice I have? He turned slowly to his brother and locked eyes with the scrawny boy.
"I'm as responsible as you," he said, "and I want my sister back-"
"What did we do?" Benjen asked, choking on tears and not letting him a chance to finish his sentence.
"Will you stop this?" Howland intervened, pushing himself from his seat and squatting in front of Benjen. "What did you do, exactly? You gave her pieces of armor and stole your elder brother's weapons for her? And you?" He pointed at Eddard. "You lied for her. You lied to your father and to Brandon because your beloved sister asked you to do so. Because neither of you could refuse her anything."
Howland paused and watched them one after the other.
"And now, there's what I did. I came, and she welcomed me. She took care of me, she introduced me to you. I was a naïve boy, humiliated and ashamed, and she restored my pride. She fought for me. Nobody will ever do for me what she did. I did nothing but I gave her a purpose, and we all know where this purpose led your sister. I am the reason why all this happened. I should be the one who takes the black, by your standards, Benjen. If you think you're the only one who feels guilty, you're sorely mistaken."
With a sigh, Howland stood straight and kept his eyes on Benjen's shaking form.
"That's why we're going to do what is right. We're going South to find her. And I am personally seeking revenge for the death of my liege lord and his son, because it's loyalty. Eddard's not only your brother, now. He's your lord. As your lord and your brother, he commands you to stay here and be the Stark in Winterfell, until he returns. You will do so, because you're a loyal young man."
His tone surprised both Starks who were not used to such a resolution in the crannogman.
"And if you desperately want to take an oath, we can go to the godswood," Howland added. "We'll swear to do whatever it takes to find Lyanna and to play our part as we just decided. We'll swear not to talk about the Tourney with anyone else because the Knight of the Laughing Tree is a truth who could swallow us like it already swallowed your father and brother."
When Howland left the solar, striding in the corridor with an astonishing self-confidence, Eddard and Benjen followed him to the godswood. By the cold pool, under the weirwood's red foliage, they stood and took their oath repeating the words Howland had said. In the end, Eddard's look lingered on the face carved in the bark: the eyes seemed ready to shed tears and the corners of the mouth were pulled downwards, in a sad grimace.
Jon
Now that the Stormlands had become a battlefield and that everyone in King's Landing agreed to call the recent events Robert's Rebellion, the Red Keep was astir. Lord Owen Merryweather, the jocund old man who replaced Tywin Lannister as the Hand of the King, bore the responsibility of the royal defeat in Summerhall. Three battles and three defeats in a day: how is it fucking possible? This amazing event disconcerted everyone – and Jon lost his propriety.
A few hours ago, as he returned to his apartments, Jon had heard voices whispering and lamenting about a lost battle; the rumor was already spreading throughout the castle. Lords, knights and maids troubled themselves at the news and denied the obvious: the royal army could not be defeated by an inexperienced young man who was known for his foolhardiness. Yet, the hot-headed rebel had vanquished the royal army led by three lords, killed one of them and captured his son. A most disturbing rumor said the two surviving lords – Cafferen and Grandison, both of them noblemen of the Stormlands – had changed sides and rallied behind the rebels' cause.
He doubted things could be that worse, but when Varys came and knocked at his door, he began to think the persistent hearsay was true. A smug smile on his face, Varys told him his presence was needed in the Great Hall.
"The king has summoned everyone," Varys added, hiding his plump hands in his long saffron sleeves. "He is furious after what happened in Summerhall. Summerhall, such a tragic place for the Targaryens. The Tragedy happened what? Twenty years ago, and now-"
"Did you come here to brood over history?" Jon asked, with a hint of exasperation. "What does the king want with me? Attend another execution in the Great Hall?"
The Spider looked around, as if there could be spies behind the faded tapestries and simple furniture of Jon's apartments.
"You should be more careful, my friend," Varys warned him. "I give no credence to the rumor of Merryweather's execution. King Aerys will not do such a thing. Still..."
"What?" Jon asked, annoyed by the eunuch's simpering airs.
"The King needs your presence in the Great Hall and you will know soon enough what he plans for you."
With a courteous bow, Varys left a puzzled Jon and silently hurried on his slippers. How can a man wear something else than boots or clogs?
Jon convinced himself King Aerys wanted him to lead the royal army in the Stormlands and defeat Robert Baratheon. All things considered, he was more experienced on a battlefield than the three lords beaten in Summerhall, despite his young age. And the Stormlands where Robert gathered his host were familiar to him. Perhaps he was the best choice to command the royal forces and crush the young rebel in his castle of Storm's End.
He smoothed the creases on his doublet, drank a cup of red wine and walked out of his apartments; on his way to the Great Hall, people seemed to notice his brisk pace and some of them, both ladies and counselors hurrying in the same direction, greeted him with an unexpected deference. This is it: the rumor says I'm going to the Stormlands in replacement of the three fools who got killed or came over. They show their respect to those who'll fight for them while they're still in King's Landing. And alive. But what is King Aerys going to do with Merryweather?
In spite of its large dimensions, the Great Hall burst at the seams; from the bronze doors to the dais where was the Iron Throne, people were crammed. Courtiers had rushed to know the king's decision about his Hand, anticipating the fall of a man whose fate was already sealed. At the foot of the narrow stairs leading to the throne, stood the fat figure of Lord Owen Merryweather, waiting Aerys' entrance. On the platform, Jon noticed the dark glow of the swords forged to make the back of the throne. The high windows provided a cold, crude light inside the Great Hall, emphasizing the deleterious atmosphere. Jon had given up the idea of watching the scene, because of the crowd, when he spotted Ser Jaime Lannister's golden curls and usual smirk. Tywin Lannister's son planted himself in front of him.
"Please come with me, my lord," the knight said. "It's not a worthy place for the lord of Griffin's Roost."
Jon wondered what his beloved Griffin's Roost had to do with it; he nevertheless followed the young member of the Kingsguard down the aisle. Once again, he felt curious looks on his face and did his best to ignore them. How many men will I have? Will the king give me free rein? When am I leaving the capital? Is Rhaegar coming with me?
They stopped in front of the dais, near some other members of the Kingsguard. Aerys and the royal family were not there yet and the king's advisors waited patiently on his right; as for Merryweather, he was shaking like a leaf. Jon looked inquiringly at Ser Barristan Selmy, then at Lord Varys: neither of them gave him the slightest indication.
Finally, the Great Hall went silent when the royal family showed up. The herald announced the King's entrance and Aerys appeared first, his slender form surrounded by Ser Gerold Hightower and Ser Arthur Dayne. Why do I have the impression he's aged every time I see him? His tangled grey hair and beard didn't belong to a king, nor his excessively long nails. He stood in front of the Iron Throne, mumbling something, as his wife and sons followed him on the dais. "The King thinks out loud," courtiers reported with a sparkle of admiration in their eyes, but Jon didn't share their enthusiasm. In the small town near Griffin's Roost, there was also a man who talked to himself but people didn't sing his praises: for them, he was just the village idiot.
While his royal husband sat on the throne with a wealth of precautions, Queen Rhaella stood stoically by him and kept an eye on their youngest son; the crowd fascinated Viserys, who opened his eyes wide. Rhaegar brought up the rear. Jon immediately turned to him but his friend's impassible face remained a mystery: pale and thoughtful, almost contemplative, the Targaryen prince stopped in the shadow of the Iron Throne. Hightower and Dayne went down the stairs and Aerys cleared his throat. On Jon's right, Lord Merryweather seemed ready to faint.
"Lord Owen Merryweather," the King bellowed, though there was no need to shout in the silent Great Hall, "I trusted you. The day I gave you this badge, I put the realm in your hands. And what have you done?"
The king's tone was so vehement Jon couldn't help looking at his feet and he noticed apprehension about the people standing next to him. In Ser Jaime's green eyes, he saw a hint of nervousness, despite his proud and martial attitude.
"You failed! What happened? You sent three incompetents to fight Lord Robert Baratheon and prevent him from gathering his host. They lost. Two of them changed sides! Two of them!"
At this point, the king looked at the assembly, calling everyone as witness to Merryweather's failure. Some nodded, others whispered their concern.
"Two of them," the King repeated after a while, regaining his composure, "changed sides. Lord Cafferen and Lord Grandison. I, Aerys Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, deprive them from their lands and titles, as a just chastisement for their treason. Their lands now belong to the crown."
Aerys shifted on the throne and Queen Rhaella cocked her head for fear he cut himself on one of the blades. As she moved ever so slightly, the jade green pleated dress she wore revealed her bulging stomach and behind him, someone gasped. She's with child.
Unaware of the assembly's curiosity toward the queen, Aerys went on.
"As for you, Lord Merryweather, the lost battle of Summerhall and its consequences feed speculation. I can't believe Cafferen and Grandison's treason is mere coincidence."
The king paused, glaring at Merryweather, and everyone, from the Kingsguards to the servants who had deserted the royal stables in order to watch the scene, held their breath. The Hand of the King glanced frantically, looking for some terrifying device which would gave him a long and painful death. He's thinking of Lord Rickard, he doesn't want to burn alive. Still, there was no pyromancer nor torture stake in the crowded Great Hall.
"History will judge you, Lord Merryweather. You are the Hand who betrayed his King and sent traitors to fight a rebel. All this was planned, I realize it now."
"No!" Merryweather protested. "I didn't betray you, Your Grace, I didn't-"
Aerys lifted his hands to shush the fat and squeaking man huddled up at the foot of the stairs.
"Enough! I am tired of lame excuses. You are no longer my Hand. You are no longer the lord of Longtable: I strip you of your lands and titles and banish you."
Panting, Merryweather raised an astonished gaze to his king. He thought he would be sentenced to death. Why did Aerys choose to send him in exile? The answer came when the king turned to his eldest son; Rhaegar nodded imperceptibly. Merryweather owes his life to Rhaegar, not to Aerys' sudden burst of leniency. Who will be the new Hand? To whom will I have to obey?
"Out!" the king hissed in a threatening tone. "You do not belong here, now, and I have to designate the man who will rule the realm and defeat Robert of House Baratheon."
The Great Hall went silent again and Jon felt for the poor soul who would be Aerys Targaryen's third Hand. Obey a mad king and fight a hothead. If Aerys sends me to the Stormlands, I'll do my best to help him.
"Lord Jon Connington!" the king shouted.
Startled, Jon peered at the royal family gathered around the Iron Throne; emotionless, Queen Rhaella and Prince Rhaegar looked him back. What? Why does he calls me before calling his new Hand? As he didn't react fast enough, Ser Barristan Selmy grabbed his arm and brought him in front of the black throne covered with spiky blades. Jon knelt and behind him, people began to whisper.
"Lord Jon Connington," Aerys repeated, still frowning. "The realm needs someone young and strenuous. Someone as young and skilled as our enemy, someone who knows the Stormlands as well as this young rebel. Henceforth, you are the Hand of the King."
Ser Barristan Selmy tugged his sleeve and Jon stood up, then climbed the stairs leading to the Iron Throne. It doesn't make sense, it's impossible, I'm too young... He knelt again in front of the king and as he ducked his head, he caught a glimpse of Lord Varys; the eunuch nodded encouragingly. Bloody Spider! He whispered my name to the king. He should know I'm not ready. On the throne, Aerys shifted once more.
"Lord Jon Connington of Griffin's Roost, will you serve your king loyally?"
His heart beating wildly, Jon bowed down, then raised his head.
"I will, Your Grace."
His words were for the king, but Jon was only staring at his prince.