Chapter 5
Eddard
Once the Stark host was ready – the Umbers, Kastarks and other Bannermen leading their archers and foot soldiers; the Crannogmen provided with decent mounts – the knights of the Vale asked if they could take their leave and Eddard agreed immediately. Neither him nor Howland would miss Ser Dennis Waynwood's presence. They headed South, as fast as they could, well aware Robert needed them in the Stormlands. At least, Arryn's host can link up with Robert faster than I can. I hope we won't arrive when everything is already done. I hope we won't arrive too late.
He kept in touch with Arryn and Robert by the means of ravens regularly sent to each other. With each crow flying in the sky, more impatience and worry came; when he didn't see any crow in two days, anxiousness overwhelmed him and he feared Robert's death. Robert wouldn't surrender, Eddard knew it: his friend's persistence in fights always surprised him as a young man he usually was considered changeable and not consistent.
When Wyman Manderly entered his heavy canvass tent and brought him another scroll with a stag on his seal, Ned opened it eagerly, read the few lines and stormed out. The message didn't make sense and he needed Howland to confirm it; he found him with a group of Crannogmen and Northerners from the mountains. As soon as he saw his furious expression and the crumpled scroll in his hands, Howland left his friends and followed him to the edge of the woods where they had settled their camp.
"Read it," Eddard said, more stiffly than he intended.
Howland cleared his throat.
"We fought thrice in a day near Summerhall and it ended up as another tragedy for the Targaryens. Lord Fell, who led the royalists, is dead and we rout their army. I'll soon head towards the capital and overthrow the Mad King. There is more: Cafferen and Grandison, who commanded the Targaryen army, asked my forgiveness and now fight for me..."
The Crannogman's tone revealed his surprise and disbelief.
"Tell me, Howland, what do you think?" he asked, pacing back and forth.
Howland hesitated, still holding the scroll, then grabbed Eddard's wrist.
"Stop it, Ned. Your Bannermen are watching you."
Eddard sighed heavily, trying to exhale the anger and disappointment boiling in his mind since he read Robert's message. Useless.
"I should calm down, that's what you think? How can I when Robert boasts himself about two lords betraying their king for him and dreams of getting rid of the king to settle another dynasty? I didn't want this."
Howland's anxious eyes went from the Bannermen watching them near a fire camp to him and back to the Northerners.
"I doubt he remembers how my father died," Eddard said bitterly. "He's forgotten my sister. Want to know how he celebrated his damn victory in Summerhall?"
His sarcastic tone clearly worried Howland, who didn't understand how he knew details about the night following Robert's success, when they were leagues away from his host.
"Drinking?" Howland shyly suggested.
His friend's temperance surprised and amused the Manderlys and the Karstarks but it was one of the things Eddard appreciated about him.
"Whoring," he told a dumb-founded Howland. "Because that's all he knows. He has the same taste for whores than Manderly for sausages and patés. He claims his love for Lyanna and his sorrow but the truth is, a rutting boar would have more sensibility."
He left Howland without ever looking back, walked briskly to his tent and met Wyman Manderly on his way. The stout lord of White Harbor furrowed his brow, afraid to hear Robert faced difficulties in the Stormlands.
"How bad is the news?" he asked Eddard, stopping him mid-stride.
"Robert won in Summerhall and routed the royal army. Cafferen and Grandison changed sides."
"What's wrong, then?"
"Nothing," Eddard spat. "Absolutely nothing."
Manderly looked so astonished a tiny, bitter laugh escaped Ned's lips while he took refuge in his tent. I'm a fool; that what Manderly must think and he's right. I was a fool to let myself be led by Arryn and Robert: it should have been a family vendetta and nothing more. I should have fought Rhaegar myself, even if I couldn't have the upper hand... I should have resisted Lyanna when she asked me to lie, in Harrenhal. He collapsed on his pallet, thinking of what should have been.
The cawing had startled him once more; after Robert's raven about Summerhall, he had sent back a cold, curt, emotionless message announcing their progression towards the Riverlands and now he dreaded his answer. This is nonsense: what can he do? I'm bringing my host to him, he won't refuse my help, because I didn't congratulate him.
He pushed himself from the ground and left Rickard Karstark and the Umbers who were telling stories about the War of Conquest to the youngest members of the Northern host around a crackling fire. As he left the circle of men warming themselves by the flames behind him and entered the dark tunnel formed by two rows of tents leading to the next camp fire, he felt his chest constricting. The boy who was in charge of the ravens almost ran into Ned.
"Lord Stark, another message for you!" he exclaimed. "From Lord Arryn."
Somehow, the prospect of reading news from Arryn relieved him; he took the scroll, asked for a lantern and read it. In front of him, the boy waited for his reaction, as if taking care of the ravens allowed him to know the content of Arryn's correspondence. Eddard didn't show anything this time and got back to the fire where he had left the Umbers and Lord Karstark. They went silent when they saw his serious expression.
"I need a member of each house in my tent. As soon as possible."
When the last men came in, Eddard's tent was crowded with the Northern lords and chiefs of the Mountain clans. Some of them couldn't advise him, but he found something comforting in their presence. Howland dodged in and out of the group until he found a spot close to him. Rickard Karstark shushed everyone.
"Lord Jon Arryn sent me a raven containing both good and bad news. Robert met the royal army in Ashford; the battle remained indecisive though. He's going North, to link up with the Vale host. But there is more. Aerys dismissed Lord Merryweather and chose another Hand to get rid of us. Lord Jon Connington of Griffin's Roost. That's why I need you. I need to learn more about this man before we meet his forces."
Howland sadly shook his head. Of course, you don't know Connington. We barely saw him in Harrenhal.
"Connington is pretty young," Manderly commented. "The youngest Hand since... Tywin Lannister, maybe."
That's it. Aerys new move; a young man yet an experienced soldier to face Robert.
"I don't know him very well," Lord Umber rasped, "because the man is rather secretive. That said, he's very loyal. A change after the two turncloaks who decided to fight for Robert. Very close from Prince Rhaegar, as well."
Rickard Karstark cleared his throat noisily and everyone turned to him, even the men of the Mountain clans who had remained motionless until this point.
"Connington's promotion is a warning for us. It's like Mad Aerys was acknowledging our rebellion is a real, big threat for him. He's back in the game and he sends us someone who's just as skilled as Robert."
"Connington is dangerous," Umber approved. "And Aerys still saves his best asset."
"Who is?" Karstark asked.
"Prince Rhaegar. If the prince and Connington fight together against Robert, this rebellion will come to an end before we reach the Riverlands."
The men went silent, imagining a possible confrontation between Robert and his worst enemy. Robert needs me. No matter what he did and what I now think about him, he needs me.
"Get ready to leave at daybreak," Eddard said. "Forced march until we link up with Arryn and Robert."
Jon
The news from Ashford had been oddly comforting in King's Landing. As Jon spent his first days as the new Hand of the King, Mace Tyrell had sent a dozen ravens to the capital, claiming his victory against Robert – before people began to whisper about the young Randyll Tarly's decisive action during the battle. The fact that the wealthy and proud Lord of Highgarden boasted about his triumph against the rebels didn't bother Jon – Mace Tyrell and Randyll Tarly were just like two peasant boys quarreling to know whoever pissed the farthest – but what he saw in the Stormlands when he arrived and questioned some soldiers dampened his spirits.
Robert's host had not been crushed; he had simply left the western Stormlands to go North and try to link up with his allies. His stronghold of Storm's End was not in the hands of the loyalists: Robert's young brother Stannis resisted with an unexpected stubbornness for a boy of his age. In King's Landing, people clung to the idea everything was getting better since Merryweather's dismissal but they were wide of the mark; you only needed to leave the capital to realize Robert was no minor threat.
Thus, Jon's only chance to prevent Robert from joining the Arryn and Stark forces was to hunt him down as the rebel army headed to the Riverlands. I have to stop them. As soon I get rid of Robert, I'll go back to King's Landing. However hard he tried to convince himself, Jon knew he didn't regret King's Landing but only one person who lived in the Red Keep, though his absences were more frequent these days. Prince Rhaegar had once more disappeared the day before he left for the Stormlands. Jon never had a chance to bid him farewell, and since that painful moment when he realized Rhaegar had nearly sneaked out of the Red Keep, he wondered if the prince had done it on purpose. To torture me? Or did he simply forget because the Stark girl is the only one that matters?
There was someone else in the capital who felt neglected and sad and lonely. Princess Elia, the very last person he expected to see before leaving the Red Keep, had asked for him and he had dragged his feet to Maegor's Holdfast.
The princess' bedchamber was bathed in a golden-orange light – bright and almost yellow in the morning, amber during the afternoon. It was just after noon and the sun flooded the room with a cheerful light, contrasting with Elia's expression. The delivery would come soon; she was still lying on her huge four-poster bed, hands folded on her rounded belly, as if she didn't move since his last visit to her. An anxious wrinkle crumpled her angel face.
"I wasn't sure you would come," she said shyly after the usual exchange of civilities. She looked like a little girl, lost in the outsize bed and indifferent to the gorgeous ornament of the bedroom. "Please have a seat, my lord."
"I won't stay for a long time," he answered stiffly, standing very straight, in a soldierly attitude.
She granted him with one of her smiles, not the perfect beaming one she generously offered to the noblemen and high-born ladies hanging out in the castle, but a sad, forlorn smile he had never seen.
"I wish we could be good friends, you and I," she went on. "I used to think of me as a lucky person, always getting what I wanted, even before I knew I wanted it... These days it seems that my wishes are just wishes. I wish... I wish my husband were here, but he just walked out, without saying anything."
In the long, tear-filled gaze she gave him, Jon understood she was as desperate as he was. And she thought Rhaegar was hers. She thought he would never leave her, while I always knew my dreams were hopeless. The words were stuck in his throat so he simply looked back at her and stepped forward, putting one of his large hands on the post of her bed.
What was this sudden impression? He felt his chest constricting as tears ran down Elia's cheeks: forgetting her goods manners and the lectures about how discreet a lady should be, she began to cry. The sound of her unrestrained sobs filled the room for a while, until the abrupt rise and fall of her chest startled Jon. What if she faints? He didn't know anything about women's health and child-bearing; in some way, it scared him more than the prospect of chasing Robert's host in the Stormlands.
"Your Grace," he said tentatively.
She gasped and, at that point, as she raised a red and wet face to him, her vulnerability struck Jon.
"Prince Rhaegar will be back in time, to see his child," he offered, wondering why he was suddenly so kind with a woman he despised.
"You don't even believe what you say," she retorted, wiping her tears with her pretty hands. Jon hold out his handkerchief for her and she gladly took it.
"I'm sorry, Your Grace, I'm not good at comforting people."
"This is not why I asked you to come," she whispered, laying back against the plump pillows. "We don't really appreciate each other, do we? I'd better be honest with you; I used to think of you as my enemy. However, we have some common interest. We both thought we could change Prince Rhaegar."
Jon sucked in deeply. How does she dare? I don't want to talk about Rhaegar with her...
"The realm needs you," she said softly. "You probably believe I should not discuss politics because I am only a silly young woman, but I know King Aerys was right when he chose you. You will do whatever it takes to protect the Seven Kingdoms. Will you do the same for my children?"
He sudden felt as if she backed him to a corner. What was this question about the children? Did she mistake him for some wet nurse? Shifting back and forth on his feet, Jon glared at her.
"If things get worse, will you protect Rhaegar's children?" she begged.
"In your condition, we shouldn't discuss such matters," he answered curtly, but Elia's bright brown eyes met his and he couldn't do anything but looking back at her.
"You always think of me as a naive girl, don't you? 'Let's not tell Princess Elia, she can't handle this.'"
This strange rebuke wasn't only for him: exasperated, she turned to the folding screen and stared at the lacquered wooden panels, repressing another sob, before facing him again.
"It makes me sick every time I realize how people treat me here: a girl only meant to smile and give heirs. A broodmare. My father was kinder towards his mares. I should not think, I should not talk, but I'm scared. I'm so terrified, Jon."
She never used his name and it sounded different when escaping her lips; ill-at ease, he looked at the inlaid wooden floor. The pattern of suns recalled House Martell's sigil and right under his feet, a big sun made of light wood contrasted with dark mahogany. He scowled.
"What do you want from me, Your Grace?" he finally said.
"If things get worse, will you protect us – Princess Rhaenys, the baby and me?"
"We are going to win this war. Can't you have faith in the royal army?"
"I do not care about the royal army. I care about my children."
"Of course, I will protect you. Why in Seven Hells would I-"
"Swear it," she commanded. "You won't leave until you swear."
Her big brown eyes shone with a mix of anger and anxiety when she wiped a tear running down her cheek. Jon was at a loss and silently observed her for a while; he hated tears and emotional outbursts, he despised those who used their weaknesses to win over him. He toyed with the idea of playing for time, but he was not that kind of man and he finally chose to tell the princess he didn't have to swear some stupid oath. Before he could say anything though, she called for one of her ladies-in-waiting.
A door located on the left, barely visible thanks to the wall hanging hiding it, opened suddenly and some Dornish girl Elia brought with her showed up. The girl opened her eyes wide when she saw a man in the bedroom and a disapproving look appeared on her face; it only vanished when the princess told her to let her daughter in.
The servants had decked out Rhaenys in a long silken dress that annoyed her; without ever looking at Jon, she trotted about and stopped in front of her mother.
"Your Grace," Jon said, bowing slightly.
Princess Rhaenys turned around, probably recalling her mother's lessons about politeness.
"Red hair!" she exclaimed with a gleeful smile.
Elia grabbed her daughter's forearm and lectured her in an undertone; in the meantime, she mindlessly stroked her stomach, then the little girl's light brown locks. Jon wanted to leave these apartments filled with trinkets, hushed voices and this sweetish smell typical from a woman's bedroom, but the harm had been done.
"I'll do it," he said abruptly, cutting off Elia's scolding. "I swear I'll protect you and the children. If things get worse, I'll take you out of this place."
When he saw her lips trembling as she nodded gratefully, Jon prayed that the princess wouldn't cry again. After a few heartbeats, she let go of her daughter and granted him a smile. Sat on the inlaid wooden floor and playing with one her mother's bracelets, Rhaenys had forgotten them.
"As Your Grace probably knows, I'm going to the Stormlands, that's why you should talk to Lord Varys. Lord Varys will see to your protection until I get back."
"I already talked to Lord Varys. In fact, he came to me and... this conversation was his idea," she confessed.
Jon gasped. Bloody eunuch! He played me for a fool. And she used me, she tried to move me to pity. He left her room with the unpleasant impression of being a puppet in the Spider's hands, but he had given his word all the same.
Now that he was chasing down Robert in the Stormlands, he clenched his teeth whenever he looked back on his promise; Varys had twisted his arm. Regardless of the ravens coming from the capital and bringing news about the finances of the Seven Kingdoms, regardless of his tracking of the rebels, Jon couldn't help thinking of Elia and the little princess who called him 'Red hair'. He thought of how he would help them if Robert managed to join his allies. How he would protect a woman he hated because he had taken a vow.
Despite the chaos surrounding them – men fighting and yelling everywhere, royalist foot soldiers throwing themselves on rebel knights and arrows coming from both sides and whistling above his head – everything was clear in Jon's head: Robert was panting in front of him and the rebellion stirring the realm since a few months could be over soon.
He couldn't remember when was the last time he had met the eldest son of Steffon Baratheon, but he had significantly changed since then: taller, with broad shoulders enclosed in heavy plate. Indifferent to his equipment's weight, Robert had run to him as soon as he caught a glimpse at Jon's sigil; bellowing and waving his long sword as if he was possessed, he had attacked Jon and made him step back until they hit a steed's corpse. A seething rage had took hold of Jon and he fought back, surprising his young opponent. Behind the visor of his helmet, Robert was getting nervous, not understanding why he couldn't get rid of him as fast as he did with Lord Grafton and Lord Fell. Killing the leader of his enemies in single combat becomes an habit about Robert. I'll make him fall out of the habit.
Jon's blade stroke on Robert's cuirass; he winced in pain, but barely moved. All around them, the shouting and the loud crash of steel was deafening, however Jon knew exactly what to do. Methodically, he countered Robert's furious and disorganized blows and backed him between a cart full of supplies and the ruins of a mill where the skirmish had begun. When Robert showed signs of tiredness, Jon's blows intensified and he aimed at the joints of his armor. His opponent was bathed in sweat underneath his breastplate but he knew what Jon was doing and bravely attacked once more.
Since a few minutes, Jon was looking at the joint between the cuirass and the gorget, guessing he could easily wound his enemy if he ever stroke there; he risked it all and stabbed Robert near the collarbone. The Lord of Storm's End collapsed and he thought for a heartbeat it was over, before noticing the rebel knights running to him and to their leader. Springing up from nowhere, they pushed him and hauled a wounded Robert on the cart; while half of the knights hurried on the gentle slopes of the hill, the rest of them prevented Jon and his men to follow the cart. Jon and his companions fought back, cut some of the rebels to pieces, but the fools seemed glad to give their lives for Robert and to protect his retreat. Jon commanded his troops to chase down the cart, but the rebel host was already reorganized, some seasoned knights gone with Robert and most of his army holding back the royalists and preventing them to leave the hill.
Dozens of men died that day, protecting Robert's retreat: they knew what was at stake. Without Robert, the rebellion would vanished instantly. For now, Jon ruled over the ruins of a mill covered with corpses, forgotten weapons and an awful smell. At the end of the day, even if he had prisoners, even if he had crushed a part of Robert's forces, he felt the bitter taste of defeat.
A scout had spotted the Baratheon host in the outskirts of Stoney Sept, in the Riverlands, and as soon as Jon got the information, the soldiers had made a forced march through the night. Heading North, to join Arryn and maybe Stark. If he meet them, I don't have enough forces to outweigh them. And the Tullys. The eldest daughter was betrothed to Brandon Stark; her father could join the rebellion or at least allow Baratheon to cross his lands without doing anything...
Despite the weariness and the amount of wounded men, the royal army progressed silently in the hummocky landscape as the Stormlands gave way to the Riverlands; Jon feared another skirmish or a sudden attack led by Robert's rearguard, some vicious maneuver planned by the rebels, but nothing came. Everything was quiet as they made their way to the small town, and the chilly wind of the night only brought more pain for those who had been injured and a certain discomfort for the rest of them, including himself.
Being the Head of the King didn't spare Jon the hardships his soldiers suffered; he rode his horse as if he led a dozen men, not as the dignitary he had become overnight. He was with the vanguard, because Aerys expected no less from him. Neither the lack of sleep nor the tiredness in his bones would prevent him from doing his duty towards the crown. And he will acknowledge my value; I'll bring Robert's head to his father and I'll say nothing. I'll just look at his face and he will know I killed Robert for him.
The ground became hilly as they approached Stoney Sept. The moon retreated slowly and red hues appeared on the east, revealing the first wooden houses of the town. At the top of the hill, high walls surrounded Stoney Sept like the hands of a man around the waist of his bride and below, on the steep slopes furrowed by the rainy spring, hovels and thatched houses were visible in the first rays of light.
Men, women and children asleep in their tiny houses, unaware of the danger coming for them, unaware of the struggle between a bunch of rebel lords and the king. Another scout, a beanpole born in fishing village of the Stormlands, came back and dismounted in front of him.
"He's inside, my lord. Don't know how Robert got inside, whether the inhabitants let him or not, but he's inside. What shall we do?"
As the breathless man stared at him, Jon reflected intensely. He thought of only one option: sneak in and find Robert. Kill him in single combat like he did with my predecessors. Jon rubbed the sleep of his eyes and looked at the granite walls at the top of the hill. People won't remember me as the butcher of Stoney Sept.
Sandor
Ignoring the curious eyes of the kitchen maids, Sandor came in and rued the bright sun that made the kitchens so dark in comparison; after a few heartbeats, his eyes got accustomed to the dim light, he found the place where the wood was stored, on the left of the big hearth, and put the heavy logs on the ground.
The girls were whispering when he turned around to seek Fat Jeyne's eyes. None of them could carry as many logs as him and the two boys working in the kitchens boasted themselves but couldn't either. It didn't prevent the boys from blowing their own trumpet in front of the maids, but Sandor shrugged at that thought. He didn't care for girls: he only wanted to help Fat Jeyne.
Not to help her, not exactly; do her a favor because she gave me some food. And there will be more favors because she intends to feed me for a while. Being beholden to someone, even to Fat Jeyne, made him sick. I'll fight for Tywin Lannister because he welcomed me in his castle. And I'll carry those damn logs because Fat Jeyne didn't let me starve when I left the dungeon.
"What can I do, now?" he asked Fat Jeyne who considered the pile of logs with a smug smile.
She hesitated, visibly surprised he didn't walked out already, and turned her round greasy face to him.
"Well, the young lady asked for green peas and she likes green peas with onions and carrots so you can lend us a hand. Have a seat."
He sat on the bench across the whispering maids, who elbowed each other while podding peas. Fat Jeyne put a dozen carrots and a blunted knife in front of him then grinned.
"Cut them to pieces, Sandor. Here's your sword," she mocked.
Sandor had thought of some task requiring strength rather than meticulousness, something more masculine; he nevertheless complied. He didn't like the whispering girls, nor the mix of dirt and juice sticking to his palms once he had peeled the carrots, but there was something soothing in the atmosphere of the kitchens; while he usually felt like he didn't belong to Casterly Rock, this sensation disappeared in a few seconds when he passed the threshold. Just like the impression of being blinded when I come in: I step in, my eyes get used to the half-light and suddenly I can see every greasy stain of the kitchens. The smell of hot bread elicited a smile at the corners of his lips.
Skirts rustling on the tiles of the corridor made the kitchen maids stiffen suddenly and Sandor's gaze settled on the door frame as Fat Jeyne gave out a heavy sigh. A tall and slim blond girl stepped in and he knew instantly who she was. Cersei Lannister. Tywin's daughter. The one King Aerys rejected for his son. The girl for whom I'm peeling carrots. Sandor didn't know anything about women's attire and would have been unable to describe how she was dressed or how her golden hair was done, but she did look beautiful and elegant. The most beautiful girl in the Westernlands, mayhaps in the realm, they say. Well, it's true. But nobody told me she looked so fierce.
Cersei Lannister stepped forward, her haughty gaze flying from the trembling maids to the long wooden table covered with vegetables, jugs and dishes, then to Fat Jeyne and himself. They all stood up very straight, waiting for an invitation to sit down again that would never came. She let her green eyes linger on them for a few heartbeats, taking perverse pleasure in the girls submissive look.
"I will have cabbages for my supper. Boiled," she said, without greeting them first.
"The girls just picked the green peas in your lord father's garden, my lady. They're as fresh as can be. I thought green peas were your favorite-"
"You thought? You don't work in the kitchens to think or to plan anything, old woman. I'll have cabbages because it's good for my skin. And oysters, for the taste."
"Summer is not a good season for oysters," Fat Jeyne replied.
"Surprise me, then," she answered coldly.
They all thought Cersei was about to walk away and the kitchen maids were almost sighing with relief, when Tywin's daughter pointed at him.
"You. I saw you in the yard, fighting with Serret and Peckledon. Defeating them."
Her remark made Sandor feeling ridiculously proud, not because the compliment came from a beautiful girl – he was too low-born for her and she was old, really old, probably seven-and-ten – but because she was his liege lord's daughter. She can talk to her father about me. And if a girl who only cares for her skin or for her power over kitchen maids acknowledges my skills, I'm better than I thought.
He looked at her straight in the eye and nodded curtly.
"My lady."
She smirked and, in her handsome face, there was suddenly something devilish.
"What an ugly face! Sheltering crippled boys doesn't look like my father. Is this the way you won over the squires, showing them your dreadful face?"
He was shaking with rage but held on the edge of the table, while the youngest of the kitchen maids, a girl of ten, frantically shook her head as if she was telling him not to react to Cersei's provocation.
"Still making fun of everyone," Fat Jeyne growled. "Was your day that bad, my lady?"
Cersei's green eyes opened wide; she didn't find anything to reply and frustration made her chest raise slowly up and down, just like she lacked air. Spinning on her heels, Tywin's daughter finally walked away. As soon as the sound of her offended footsteps faded outside, the youngest kitchen maid leaned over the table to talk to him, not understanding he only wanted to be left alone.
"Lady Cersei is always like this," she explained, shaking her long and thin black braid. "Today, it was just your turn. She uses to call me 'Rat tail'. Because of my braid."
He didn't give a damn about how Cersei nicknamed her and looked back at the little girl angrily.
"What's your name?" he asked her.
"Willa, from Pansy Mill."
"Get back to your peas, Willa from Pansy Mill," he told her in a threatening voice, making her and her companions shudder. "Unless you want me to crush your face like I did with Peckledon."
"Come here, Sandor," Fat Jeyne grunted. Once Cersei was gone, she had waddled to the larder in order to pick what kind of meat the Lannister family would eat for supper; something in her tone suggested she had heard his answer to Willa. He pushed himself from the bench and walked to the larder.
"Don't ever talk to my girls like you just did," Fat Jeyne whispered, pointing a pudgy finger at him. "Willa was just trying to help. Now go tell her you're sorry."
Sandor didn't understand how she did it, but the old cook always managed to make him do what she wanted even if he disagreed: he dragged his feet to the long table, looked at the girls who were as scared of him as they feared Cersei's wrath and planted himself in front of Willa's tiny figure.
"I'm sorry," he said flatly.
I don't really mean it, he mused. Behind him, in the larder, Fat Jeyne cleared her throat noisily.
"Won't talk to you like that again. Don't push me, though," he added.
He sat down, grabbed his knife and lowered his gaze on the carrots, determined to avoid the kitchen maid's eyes. When he was almost done and when his blood stopped running wildly in his veins, the smell of hot bread tickled his nostrils again; his reward would come soon. Unless Fat Jeyne didn't like my apologies, but I would already know. Someone suddenly slammed the door open, startling the poor girls again, and Kevan Lannister appeared on the threshold. Instead of the boiled leather he usually wore during the afternoon, when he attended the squires training, he had done a fresh doublet.
"What in Seven Hells are you doing in the kitchens?" he barked at Sandor.
"He's skilled with a blade, Ser," Fat Jeyne retorted in a playful tone. "Besides, I heard Lord Tywin wants him to become a hefty young warrior. I would have given him something nourishing for the care given."
Kevan glared at her and motioned him to the door.
"Quick, boy. A squire's place is not in the kitchens, with women," Kevan hissed.
"I'll save some bread for you, Sandor," Fat Jeyne promised, like a provocation to her lord's brother.
Kevan silently hurried himself to the part of the keep where they lived, taking two steps at a time and striding along the corridors, but never looking at his squire.
"Dress properly," he commanded Sandor when they reached the room he shared with Tybolt. "Your brother pays us a visit."
You can do this. You defeated two older squires, and one of them was almost a knight. You beat them when they attacked you at night. You spent five days in the dungeon for nothing and you didn't complain. You lived for a week in the woods, on the run, starving, still you managed to climb and reach the gates of Casterly Rock. You escaped him. You survived. You survived them all.
He should have been proud and invigorated when thinking of the last weeks, so why did he feel so weak and frightened? Terrified, rather. I'm no craven, but I'm terrified. The prospect of meeting Gregor again, here, in the Golden Gallery of Casterly Rock, sent shivers down his spine and sickened him. When he thought of his older brother, he saw blood puddles on the dirt and on the reddish tiles, recalled the stench – a mix of sweat, mud, blood and gods-know-what. He couldn't remember the screaming, though, neither his father's nor the young servant's a few months before. How long did she stay with us? Three, maybe four months. Her name was Ivy and she laughed at me, calling me her savior. I tried to protect her, I swear, but I couldn't do anything the day he came for her.
As he tried to wipe away the servant's face lingering in his memory, anxiety took hold of him at the thought of what Gregor could do to the keep's inhabitants. He suddenly felt more scared for the stupid girls who worked in the kitchens than for himself. I should have warned them. Warned Fat Jeyne to be careful. He even felt worried about the nosy little girl who had tried to comfort him. The only women for whom he wasn't anxious were Cersei and the stupid woman Kevan Lannister called his wife; Gregor was not clever, but he was smart enough to choose his preys.
Kevan looked back at him and frowned, not understanding why Sandor hesitated before crossing the threshold of the Golden Gallery, so he came in on quavering legs. Tywin was already there, casually sat on a cross-framed folding seat whose back and armrests were of gilded leather, his brother Gerion by his side, facing their guest's massive figure.
The Golden Gallery took copper tones in the afternoon; large windows provided a generous light sent back by the brocade curtains, the polished wooden floor and the gilded furniture displayed in the room. Everything was golden inside, except the red sigil of House Lannister visible on a huge banner at the end of the gallery. It boasted several golden candelabras, so uncommonly large and wide they were taller than the servants who saw to furbish them, but that day the candelabras seemed small and frail, compared to the man planted in front of Tywin; Tywin Lannister himself looked stunted on his armchair.
As he walked in and left behind him the heavy doors adorned with bronze and copper, Gregor had his back to him and wasn't aware of his presence; Sandor noticed the hulking form, his legs like columns, his arms strong enough to crush anyone. His brother looked gawky in the fresh clothes he had done to meet his overlord, yet determined; he stared Tywin down, without understanding it was a mistake. For a while, this realization distracted him from his queasiness, until Gregor turned to him. Sandor's heart skipped a beat and Gerion must have sensed his uneasiness, for he left his brother's side to stand beside the boy.
"Brother," Gregor flatly said, narrowing his eyes, "you look in good shape."
His honeyed words didn't hide his devious smile, though, and he made few efforts to conceal his true feelings; dissimulation was never familiar to him. In the meanwhile, images churned around in Sandor's head: the woods, his father's last hunt, the servant. Her name was Ivy, she was my friend and you destroyed her. When you were done with her, I knew we couldn't give her back to her family, not like this, so I asked one of the peasants to help me bury her. Hiring her was a mistake, Father should have known, but it doesn't change anything. She was good to me and you slaughtered her. You made me clean your mess.
"Seven Hells, boy! Say something to your brother," Kevan commanded him, exasperated by his silence.
Sandor looked back at the new owner of Clegane's Keep and mumbled something inaudible. For a few heartbeats the room remained silent, only filled with the growing tension between the two siblings.
"I just asked Lord Tywin if you could come back to Clegane's Keep," Gregor finally said.
No. Please don't. I didn't do what I did to be sent away like this. He swallowed hard and beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, soon slipping down his temples. Though he kept staring at his brother, he saw Gerion leaning toward him in his peripheral vision.
"Don't worry," he whispered to Sandor, but what followed was directed at Gregor. "Do you think we can't take care of young people like him? We've got plenty of pages and squires here!"
Gregor tried to apologize and began to justify himself. He never meant this, never ever thought something like this; his confused explanations elicited a half smile on Tywin's lips. The lord of Casterly Rock didn't utter a single word since Sandor's arrival, observing everyone, especially the Clegane brothers, as if this meeting was a game with sophisticated rules he was the only one to know and the people in front of him pawns he could play with. He slowly shifted on his seat, elbows rooted to the arm rests and looked at them over steepled fingers.
"Why not discuss these matters during a hunting game?" he suggested. "Tomorrow morning. The five of us."
"I love hunting," Gregor replied, and he turned slightly to his brother.
A seething rage took hold of Sandor, but before he could do anything stupid, Gerion placed a heavy hand on his right shoulder.
"Don't."
Sandor only thought about throwing himself on his brother, though he knew he wouldn't have the upper hand, when Tywin sent away everyone. His anger focused on his liege lord, who knew what had happened to his father the last time he led his hounds in the woods surrounding Clegane's Keep. Tywin didn't know what kind of game Gregor intended to play with his brother after he ran away from home and hid in the forest, but that, the death of his father, he couldn't ignore it. Sandor could only read this hunting game as a provocation directed at him and felt betrayed. As they all retreated from the gallery, he was more bitter than ever, following obediently Kevan who courteously talked to Gregor.
"Stay here, boy," Tywin called.
As far as he knew, he was the only boy exiting the gallery, so he stopped and spun on his heels.
"Shall I close the door?" he asked coldly to the man still sat on his leather gilded armchair.
Tywin didn't reply instantly, waiting for his brothers and Gregor to walk away.
"Don't ever look at me like you did, boy. I know what I'm doing."
His tone was curt and peremptory; Sandor nonetheless granted him with a dark stare.
No, you don't know anything.
/
His father always told him hunting games in Casterly Rock looked like expeditions, with dozens of dogs and an army of men driving deers and boars towards Tywin Lannister and his guests. Father would have been disappointed. They were only ten: the Lannister siblings, Gregor, himself and five beaters, wandering in the woods. The area located on the east of Casterly Rock abounded in stags, deers and hares, Kevan had said, as if four-legged game still captivated Gregor.
Sandor had barely slept the night before; when Kevan had dismissed him, he had visited Fat Jeyne – to warn her, but she already seemed to know and she had tried in vain to make him talk to her – then he had shut himself in his room refusing to come down for supper. He had to think about what he would do, that night and the day after. When he understood he wouldn't sleep, at least not in this room where Gregor could easily find him and finish what he had begun, he sneaked out, stole a sword in the armory and finally took refuge in the stables. Gregor wouldn't look for him there and the presence of so many horses – stallions, mares and draft horses – was comforting enough; short after the middle of the night, he fell asleep and only woke up when an astonished stable boy found him lying on the straw.
Kevan had spent his entire morning chiding him – because he was late, because he smelt of the stables, because the hares had deserted this part of the woods. At noon, Tywin decided they should part; Kevan and Gregor, who were talented hunters, would go with the three more seasoned beaters while himself would stay with Gerion and Sandor.
"We'll talk about your brother later," he told Gregor, "on our way back to the castle."
Tywin was already getting tired of the hunt, Sandor noticed. Because it's not for real. War is the only thing he really cares for. War and ruling the Westernlands.
As soon as Gregor and Kevan began to canter through the woods, their beaters running desperately to follow them, Tywin contemplated the slender tree trunks, the changing green of the leaves when rays of light played through the foliage.
"Joanna loved this season," Gerion observed, guessing what was in his brother's mind.
Tywin nodded, his gloved hands pulling the reins. Progressing slowly, they started to talk about Lady Joanna, to recall ancient memories, half forgetting about the squire they had taken with them; the remaining beaters themselves seemed lost in the thick woods. Sandor realized it was his only chance and put some distance between him and the Lannister brothers first; then, when he was sure they didn't even remember his presence, he spurred on his horse and hurried himself to the pond where Kevan had said he wanted to go.
The woods were silent around the marshy area of the pond; no trees had taken root in the damp soil, so that he could clearly look around and his brother wasn't there. He had not really decided what he would do; it was more an impulse than a conscious resolution. He couldn't put up with the idea of letting Gregor breathe and walk freely after what he had done. And since Tywin doesn't give a damn... he probably wants to get rid of me, too, or else he would have told Gregor to fuck off. If he was ever alone with him, Gregor wouldn't let him escape like he had done in Clegane's Keep. He won't make the same mistake and think I'm too sad or too weak to run away. And I'm the last one, the only one able to resist him, so he'll take his time with me.
He was riding around the pond when he spotted Gregor, a hundred yards away, shouting at a beater; he let his horse feel his spurs, once again, and grabbed the handle of the dagger the master-at-arms allowed him to take for the hunt. As the distance narrowed between Gregor and him, different images churned in his head – Ivy's grave, in the orchard, under the apple tree; his father's corpse, lying across the saddle of his own horse, tied like a dead stag at the end of the hunt. He was only thirty feet away from his brother when Gregor turned to him, saw him alone and immediately understood what he planned to do, if the perverse smile distorting his lips was any indication. Someone was galloping behind him though, someone who had escaped the half-light of the woods only to dive on him; Sandor was aware of his presence, yet didn't stop, hoping the intruder would arrive too late. He was wrong.
His horse reared up when Gerion appeared on his left and made him stop suddenly.
"What did you had in mind?" a breathless Gerion bellowed, seizing the reins of Sandor's mount.
He didn't answer but stared at his brother, then glanced from time to time at his massive figure once Gerion forced him to turn around and go back to the woods. When he finally stopped looking at Gregor, he heard a disturbing laughter behind him.
The stag was a beautiful beast; Tywin nonetheless found it was too young to die and Gregor mumbled something about a biggest animal the beaters had let escape. They were drinking out of their wine skins, around the dead stag, ready to go back to the castle.
"I'd like to take the antlers as a present for my wife," Kevan said thoughtfully.
"A present for your wife?" Tywin exclaimed. "The laws of hospitality tell us to let our guest decide about that. What do you think, Ser Gregor?"
"I would say Ser Kevan can take the antlers and the rest if I can have my brother back," Gregor replied with a fake playfulness.
"What a strange bargain!" Tywin put away his wineskin and Sandor read it as the beginning of the more serious discussion. Please, tell him to fuck off.
"Well, it seems to me that a young knight now in charge of a keep and good lands such as yours is quite busy. How will you find the time to take care of this... rather unruly boy?"
"That's what I thought," Gregor sighed, shaking his head. "Always getting in trouble. I hope you chastised him well enough, my lord."
"We saw to it."
"Let me take him back to Clegane's keep, my lord, and he won't bother you again. My little brother can be such a nuisance sometimes."
"Am I already drunk," Gerion jested, "or did you forget to answer my brother's question? I don't understand how you will take care of this boy with all your... activities."
Gregor took a gulp of wine, pondering his answer.
"He belongs to Clegane's Keep," he finally said. "Besides, what will you do with him? Look at him, his voice didn't even break!"
Tell him to fuck off. Please don't send me away. Tywin tilted his head.
"As a matter of fact, he can be useful. He already proved his skills, with a sword and wooden shield. It would have been perfect if he had not ruined this squire's face, but... your brother is gifted."
"Do you know what our father Tytos would have said?" Gerion added. "Never underestimate a Clegane. I'm sure you agree with that."
Gregor couldn't do anything, except showing his acquiescence and gratefulness.
"So we agree on this; your brother will stay here with us so that you have plenty of time to take care of the lands my father gave to your family. Oh, and you can have the antlers, by the way."
Tywin walked away and one of the beaters instantly brought him his horse, as Gregor, white with rage, stared at the antlers. Tywin's way to tell him 'Fuck off', Sandor mused.
Thank you for reading. Any encouragement will be appreciated!