Chapter 6
Jon
He desperately waited for a message. Two ravens came, but none of them brought him the words he was longing for.
A man who had crossed the Narrow Sea and visited the Free Cities had told him once the fighting pits of Meeren were covered with a velum protecting the audience from the pitiless sun when festivities lasted all day long; an army of slaves unfurled huge sails to shelter both viewers and fighters. That day, the sky above Stoney Sept mimicked a velum, with heavy clouds that seemed to get closer from the ground and took golden hues as they filtered the sun rays. The arena where he was supposed to fight was up there, enclosed in the grey walls, and Jon still didn't know what to do.
Do the fighters hesitate like this before coming in and hearing the crowd shouting for them or for their opponent?
His squire brought him the first message at dawn, right after they had stopped at the foot of the hill. Jon immediately recognized Vary's sloping handwriting.
"Prince Rhaegar said it was time to ask for Tywin Lannister's help; the king was reluctant, but finally accepted. I am not optimistic though, and fear what the Lannisters may demand in return.
About what we already discussed, I try to prepare the king's mind so that he allows Princess Elia to go back to Dorne where she would be safer. Despite my efforts, he doesn't want to let her go."
Jon sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, then lowered his gaze to the Spider's message. Even leagues away, Varys seemed able to read Jon's mind.
"Prince Rhaegar disappeared from the Red Keep and, as none of my little birds saw him take the roads leading to Dorne, I doubt if he is in the South or on his way to meet you. The king was so furious when he heard the prince was gone, I lean towards the second hypothesis..."
Jon's heart began to beat wildly. If Rhaegar came, everything would be different and he was sure to win, because the royal army worshiped the prince and so did the smallfolk. No matter what Robert had said or done to them, the inhabitants of this town would forget the rebel as soon as Rhaegar would show up. Yet, the prospect of Rhaegar involved in this battle worried Jon, not only because he would have more pressure fighting at his side, but above all because he didn't want his prince to take any risk. Robert would find him and challenge him, for sure. Rhaegar would never accept to stay away from the battle.
That was disturbing enough to prevent him from deciding quickly what kind of attack he would lead in Stoney Sept. The sun was already high in the sky when he ordered his men to surround the city and stay in front of the different gates. He led a part of his forces to the main gate.
There was a skirmish at the main gate, between his men and some stupid young men of the town who wouldn't let them in; when two of them died under one of the knights sword, the huge doors slowly turned on their hinges and they were able to enter Stoney Sept. Jon ordered to open the other gates, just long enough to allow the royal army to come in; then, they closed the gates and a couple of his men guarded them. The creaking noise the main gate made behind him – a lingering, threatening sound – should have warned him he wouldn't leave this town with the glory he sought, that many men would die there before the doors opened again.
Jon headed to the market of Stoney Sept and gathered the inhabitants – not all of them, but the main part was there, under the blank stare of the giant leaping trout in the fountain – to speak to them. He wanted Robert Baratheon now and he wanted their full cooperation.
"And what if we don't give Robert to you, my lord?" a man in his forties dared to ask.
"We'll search for him in every house of your town, and my men won't have the patience I show you right now. As we are courteously talking, some of them are already in the sewers to look for the rebel lord of Storm's End. He's nothing to you, so you'd better hand him over to me, before your bloody town looks like a battlefield."
The crowd remained perfectly silent and, in the eyes of the inhabitants, Jon saw a hint of resistance that struck him; they didn't mean to give him Robert, even wounded, even forgotten by his men. He couldn't decide if the Baratheon host had left his leader to the care of the smallfolk and hid outside of the town to attack them at night, or if underneath the common clothes of the men who listened to him there were knights of the Stormlands and foot soldiers who would give their life to Robert; the truth was probably in between.
"Seize this man," he commanded, "the one who asked a question."
The man's face went crimson and two women standing behind him – probably his wife and his daughter – began to scream and to beg.
"Do we have crow cages?" Jon asked.
"Indeed, my lord," a young knight answered on his right.
"Bring the crow cages then, and lock him inside. Neither food nor water for him until someone give us information about Robert."
The wife and daughter went on sobbing and this annoying sound made Jon wonder if this man would be his only hostage or if there would be more crow cages, hanging from the trees, swaying in the air.
A few minutes later, one of the knights of the Stormlands still faithful to the crown ran to him, holding a dead raven in his hands.
"Someone tried to send this bird from a tower, my lord; I ordered the archers to feather it, then we did our best to find the damn crow. Thought you would like to read the message."
Jon congratulated him and eagerly took the scroll tied to the raven's foot.
"Lord Robert is wounded and hides himself in Stoney Sept, with some of us. Connington just entered the town. We need your help and Lord Arryn's as well..."
Ser Farring signed the message. They're in, of course. They hide under commoners clothes and wait for their allies to come. He read again the last sentence and clenched his teeth.
"This message was for Eddard Stark, obviously," he told the knight. "Where is the raven addressed to Lord Arryn?"
The knight shook his head in dismay.
"The archers only saw one bird taking flight from the tower. When my men came in and searched, they couldn't find anyone, nor new messages, nor ravens."
While I was gathering people on the market square, all my men were busy; any rebel could have sent a raven before we notice it.
"We killed several ravens since dawn, though," the knight added, "when we were waiting outside of the gates."
When I was waiting for Rhaegar to come. But he won't. Now Jon was sure about it.
The search began after he sent scouts outside of Stoney Sept, while foot soldiers were on patrol on the walls of the town. Each group of the remaining men had a specific task: some had volunteered to stay in the sewers, in case Robert would choose the most filthy exit; others went house to house, smashed the doors, looked in every damn corner and, when it was done, marked the building with some red paint they had found in a merchant's storehouse.
Thus, the number of houses bearing the mark of infamy rose dramatically before the end of the day; crow cages were soon filled with men and even women who had resisted Jon's knights. They swayed in the dusk light, strange birds locked in their cages, mute and stubborn, stoically looking down on their gaolers, keeping their darkest stare for him.
At sunset, Robert was nowhere to be found, everyone was exhausted and a long night full of threats awaited them. His squire begged him to take some rest, even for an hour or two, but Jon wouldn't listen. He gave more orders to allow some of his men to sleep while the others patrolled the rebel town and he kept scrutinizing an old map of the city, pointing at the areas his men had already searched.
This town is a nest of traitors; each and every one of them, from the old men to the little children took Robert's side and they take pride in their sufferings because they protect him. They're probably moving him from one place to the other.
He told his men to stop every cart they saw, guessing a wounded Robert would be transported on a cart, like a pile of logs. The inhabitants had already shut themselves in their houses, doing their best with the broken doors and a large part of his men spent the night waiting for suspicious carts in the streets of Stoney Sept. In vain.
The second day they spent in Stoney Sept, the search went on. This is a mummer's farce. All the houses had been visited by his men, and the inhabitants had done their best to fix what remained of their front doors. The gables of the big proud houses of the merchants looked like the hovels facades: the doors were smashed and repaired with mismatched planks and every building, old or new, built with fine granite or made of wattle and daub, bore the same crimson mark.
The knights began their search at dawn, shouting louder than the day before. Walking through the streets to pay a visit to his men crawling in the sewers, Jon saw one of their groups in front of a tavern, trying to force the door open.
"You'd better open this fucking door and cooperate!" the knight leading his men roared. "I'm loosing patience!"
We all are, Jon thought bitterly. One of the oldest knights had reported to him that merchants and inn-keepers protested about their goods; with the doors smashed, their belongings weren't safe anymore. Some talked about thieves; they were ready to accuse his men of stealing goods during the search.
His squire ran into him before he could reach the hole where half a dozen men had slipped into the sewers. He held a message in his hands. Varys, again.
"Princess Elia gave birth to a son, a few hours ago. The maesters say she will not have another child. Prince Rhaegar didn't come back and I am now sure he is in Dorne.
We are waiting for Tywin Lannister's good will and pray for your success in the Riverlands. Don't waste time, though: the other rebel hosts are close, now..."
Mindlessly, he crumpled the scroll and made a tiny ball of it; this childish gesture didn't soothe his nerves, though. He was exhausted, alone, and the premonition of a disaster darkened his mind like the heavy clouds banking up in the sky of the Riverlands. A saturnine laugh escaped his lips as he realized Elia felt exactly the same: they both had made their duty, only relying on themselves since Rhaegar was far away, but weariness overwhelmed them and they knew some terrible fate awaited them. Except that Elia already lost Rhaegar: what can happen to her now?
A strange atmosphere now filled the streets of Stoney Sept at the end of the day; with Robert still missing despite the broken doors, with the hostages in the crow cages bravely enduring the lack of food and water, the royal army seemed defeated. Neither looting, nor rape, nor murder had been reported in the city, but as the sun retreated from the sky, they looked more and more like a bunch of outlaws, scaring the inhabitants to get what they wanted.
When he heard some knight bellowing 'Where is he? Where is he?', Jon wondered if he was talking about Robert or about a pile of money hidden in the darkest corner of a basement. Regardless of his men's irreproachable behavior, the townsfolk glared at them and now showed his hostility. Somehow, they had already lost in the eyes of the inhabitants, because Robert had forced them to act like thieves and criminals; this small victory against the royal army galvanized the people of Stoney Sept. The second night came and brought with her neither good news nor sleep.
Besieged. Besieging Stoney Sept but besieged by Arryn and Stark and some of the troops led by Robert who couldn't hide themselves in the city.
When a scout had reported the news, he had felt almost relieved: the disaster he had waited for was there, almost tangible. And he needed to fight, like his men, rather than smashing doors and scaring old women.
Jon reorganized his forces quickly, surprising his soldiers and giving them a flash of pride. At least, they appreciate my efforts. A third of the troops, including himself, remained in the city, to search the houses, while the rest of his men dedicated themselves to the impending battle with the besiegers. He gave the command to a Dornishman, Lord Yronwood, and prayed for reinforcements, even if he knew Aerys wouldn't send more troops to augment the numbers.
The never-ending wait was over and he took the command of half-a-dozen men looking for Robert in the area of the market square. There, the buildings were so close from each other, the balcony of one house almost touching the window of the tavern across the street, Jon thought it was the best place to hide someone and moved him from time to time. Robert must be here. If I was a fucking coward hiding myself behind civilians, I would choose these streets.
The blood rushed to his face, and he flexed the fingers of his sword hand with anticipation. We're besieged and my men are tired of the previous fights, whereas Arryn and Stark bring with them fresh troops. All this is true, but if I can kill Robert, the outcome of the battle going on behind the walls doesn't matter.
The first building of the street was a shop held by a cobbler, already visited twice by his men; they only had to push the door this time, and they looked in every corner while the cobbler gathered his four children around him.
"The next houses?" he asked Ser Allyrion, a dornish knight afflicted with a severe squinting.
"Two taverns, a building sheltering several families, one brothel, my lord."
"Let's go on!"
The two taverns had nothing to offer except the furious glare of their respective owners – the customers had deserted when the second search had begun. Jon led his men in the building shared by several families when an archer stopped him.
"Seven fucking Hells!" he shouted, "Robert is here!"
Jon turned his head quickly enough to see Robert Baratheon leaving the brothel, glancing at them and finally running in the opposite direction. There was another man with him, but before Jon could process what was happening, they all hurried themselves behind the runaways.
"Robert is mine!" he shouted to his men.
His order was useless: he commanded them, he was the Hand of the King and they all agreed to give him the right of killing Robert. They were running on the cobbled and slippery streets of the old town when a deafening noise made him realize where they arrived and what was happening.
"What is it?" Ser Allyrion shouted, squinting more than ever, "is it a fucking knell?"
A big house with a fancy tower hid its massive form from their eyes, but Jon knew exactly where Robert had led them. The Sept. And there's no knell today, no funeral: it's the only way to warn Robert's men to leave their hiding-places and to attack us.
As soon as he arrived in the square in front of the Sept, he noticed men coming from all directions, dressed in common clothes and taking their weapons from under their cloak. We're outnumbered, he realized, looking around, we are outnumbered and Robert is standing on the stairs. The bells still rang loudly, and it sounded like thunderclaps echoing and following one another.
Somehow, the stairs of the Sept mimicked those leading to the Iron Throne in the Red Keep, except Robert waited for him instead of Aerys. A few days ago, he had not chosen to climb the stairs to become the new Hand of the King, but refusal had not been an option. That day, he didn't ask himself if he wanted to climb those stairs and face Robert: everything seemed obvious. He winced in pain at the sound of the bells, unsheathed his longsword, while the archer collapsed on the cobblestones, wounded by a rebel. Robert's men seemed to ignore him and focused on the soldiers still faithful to the crown, as if their leader had warned them the Hand of the King was his.
The sight of Jon beginning his ascent of the stairs, sword in hand, elicited a smug smile on Robert's lips. Jon didn't know how that was possible, but the man he had wounded by the mill had recovered and seemed as dangerous as before, clad in his heavy plate, holding firmly his longsword and waiting for him as the bells still rang furiously.
Rhaegar, he thought.
Eddard
Did Brandon love this place? It was he could think about, when he arrived in Riverrun, and saw the noble siege of House Tully, the rivers, the glorious landscape. Eddard remembered his brother came there once to meet his future bride, Lady Catelyn, after his father had arranged an alliance between the family ruling the Riverlands and the one commanding the North. A magnificent wedding; everybody said they perfectly matched each other.
The next Stark visiting Riverrun brought news about battles rather than weddings; Lord Hoster Tully's host was necessary to win the war, if Robert managed to escape the trap where he was, according to the last raven one of his men sent them.
"Lord Robert is wounded and stuck in Stoney Sept: we need your help to besiege Lord Connington's forces..."
That was why, after another meeting with Karstark, Manderly, Umber and Howland, they had all persuaded him to let them march South while he negotiated with Lord Hoster Tully; Arryn had been sending messages to the lord of Riverrun for weeks, now, but someone needed to put an end to the discussion and make sure he would give them reinforcements. Ned had protested, telling them he didn't want people to take him for a coward, because he wasn't on the battlefield.
"You think it's easy to negotiate with someone like Hoster Tully?" Manderly had asked, laughing at his own remark.
"Lord Arryn led the negotiation, he knows how to negotiate with him," Ned had retorted. "I don't. What can I offer him?"
At that point of their discussion, Umber had turned to Manderly and they had exchanged a sly look before laughing again.
"No offense, Ned, but you're such a fool sometimes," Umber had sighed. "You're a boy. And Lord Hoster has two daughters."
That said, Umber had burst out laughing, and had patted his shoulder, while Eddard had blushed like a maiden.
And now that he was in the Great Hall of Riverrun with a dozen Northerners escorting him, he felt clumsy and stupid. Because the Tully girls saw Brandon and I'm going to disappoint them. Because now I understand why Benjen didn't want to grow up and preferred to run away and take the black. He heard a rustle of skirts coming from the closest room. I don't want to grow up. No girl showed up, though; instead of the beautiful lady he imagined looking down on him, he only saw Lord Hoster Tully at the end of the Great Hall, nodding courteously and walking towards him.
After the usual exchange of civilities, the lord of Riverrun led him to his solar, where the view over the valley was intoxicating. The glistening meanders of the river contrasted with the dense woods nearby; different shades of green, from a dark emerald to a light yellow green color, proved how rich were the forests of the Riverlands. I couldn't work in this room, he mused, I'll spend my time watching through the windows. In comparison with the landscape, the furniture seemed almost poor.
Lord Hoster gestured and he took a seat, while his host sat at the other end of the long table, and the bargain began.
Eddard was not used to this; nothing, in the education he had received had prepared him to discuss over offers and to lead the negotiator where he wanted. It could be worse; Lord Hoster could have told me to go away but he didn't. Instead of telling him he didn't give a damn about the rebellion, Lord Hoster talked about numbers.
"One thousand horsemen. And one thousand archers, that's all I can do," he told Eddard, toying with a quill.
"We need more, my lord. As I already explained, we shall not underestimate Lord Connington. What about Lord Frey? I'm sure he has troops."
Hoster Tully rolled his eyes and Ned immediately understood he was not pretending.
"Trust me, young man, with a Bannerman like Lord Walder, you don't need enemies. I can't tell you I'll bring more than one thousand horsemen because this damn Frey will drag his old feet and play for time. If you had such Bannermen in the North, you would understand my point."
He paused and gave Ned a long, thoughtful look.
"Let's say one thousand and three hundred horsemen, one thousand archers and foot soldiers, on top of that. You'll have more if the lazy Lord Frey answers on time. Do we agree on this?"
Eddard nodded in acquiescence.
"Now let's talk about what you have to offer," the man said, sending shivers down Ned's spine. "You need a wife. You'll marry Lady Catelyn. What? My eldest daughter is not beautiful enough for you?"
Eddard shook his head vehemently.
"Of course, she is, my lord. I'm afraid you mistook my reaction. Lady Catelyn was betrothed to my brother Brandon and we're... quite different. I hope she won't be disappointed by me."
Lord Hoster looked away with a hint of exasperation.
"My daughter will do as I say. Besides, I'm glad she didn't marry your brother. Brandon was brave and skilled, but he was a fool. I don't mean to insult your brother's memory; read it like the opinion of a man concerned by his daughter's future."
He remained silent for a while and Eddard didn't know if he should be relieved because Lord Hoster seemed to agree on him marrying Lady Catelyn or if he should just felt more pressure because the lord of Riverrun was so protective towards his daughter.
"What about Lord Jon Arryn?" Lord Hoster abruptly asked, taking him unawares. "He lost his heir the same day your brother died. If I could send more troops – forcing Frey to respect his commitments – do you think Lord Arryn could consider the prospect of a wedding?"
Ned was not inclined to laugh for any reason, but he found it hard to repress a smile. The idea of the man who had fostered him for years, who was older than his father or the man sat across him, walking down the aisle and wrapping his cloak around the shoulders of a young girl, was incongruous.
"Do you mean a wedding with your younger daughter, my lord?" Eddard asked shyly.
"I won't give him my Edmure, obviously!" Lord Hoster bellowed, annoyed by his reaction. "Lysa is a bit younger than Catelyn, but Jon Arryn shouldn't waste time if he wants a heir, in my humble opinion."
"I need to send him a raven," Eddard said, ill-at-ease.
"Be quick, then. As far as I know, your friend Robert Baratheon needs us. My men are almost ready, so we'll leave at dawn."
Negotiating a wedding for the man who had fostered him exceeded his mission and he feared Arryn's answer. He nevertheless wrote to him, explaining the Tully sisters weddings would give them Lord Hoster's full coöperation. Before the end of the day, a raven brought him a message from Arryn and Eddard immediately informed his host his younger daughter would rule the Vale with her husband.
He thought the negotiation with Lord Hoster would be the most awkward moment of his stay in Riverrun: he was wide of the mark. His host insisted on introducing his daughters to him during the supper and he felt clumsy and stupid.
Lysa Tully, who was of an age with Benjen, seemed dull and Ned wondered about her pale skin; she looked like a girl who had been sick for a long time and had just recovered. What a strange consort she will make for Arryn! She's so young. Lord Hoster could have waited one year or two before marrying her. Fascinated by the content of the dishes, she barely gazed at him.
Her elder sister was completely different and all the characteristics that were only promises in Lysa – the thick auburn hair, the blue eyes and the tall figure – reached their perfection in Catelyn. She had done her hair simply and she didn't wear a sophisticated dress but its dark green color enhanced her ivory complexion and her braids revealed a gracious neck. She would have been perfect for Brandon, he realized with bitterness. And instead of Brandon, she'll have the second son. The second choice.
After the supper, Lord Hoster said he could talk with his future bride, provided that Septa Selene stayed with them. Septa Selene, a tall and broad-shouldered woman whose face was deeply wrinkled, sat on her favorite armchair by the fireplace, took her needlework and seemed to forget about them.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Catelyn said graciously, though her tone sounded a bit cold.
He thanked her, then remembered she had lost the man she was about to marry.
"I'm sorry for your loss as well," he added, awkward and slightly impressed by her. She was almost as tall as him.
"I barely knew your brother," she answered and she led him to the windows.
Under the moonlight, the river still glistened and he wondered if she could ever learn to love Winterfell and its wild landscape, after growing up in the part of the Seven Kingdoms people compared to a garden. Once more intoxicated by the view, he felt like he couldn't talk and when he became aware it disturbed her, it was almost too late to break the silence. She expected a question, a jape, anything. Ned cleared his throat and suddenly remembered an anecdote Brandon had told him about his own stay in Riverrun.
"My brother told me he had to fight for you with this boy your father fostered."
The blue eyes widened and he read a mix of surprise and disappointment on her handsome face.
"Petyr? Oh, don't take him too seriously, he's just a boy. Your brother wanted to give him a lesson and he wished to impress me, I suppose. He shouldn't have fought with Petyr."
She shook her head in disapproval of Brandon's foolishness, then looked at him straight in the eye.
"You won't have to fight for me, since Petyr left," she added.
You mean your father sent away the troublesome boy who could ruin his plans. She stayed silent and her proud demeanor didn't encourage Ned to talk; after a while, she turned to her septa, said she felt tired and left him with the tenacious feeling he had spoiled their first meeting.
Sandor
He was breathless, shaking, and his knuckles ached when Gerion Lannister pulled him away from Willem Banefort, one of the oldest squires in Casterly Rock, almost a knight. Tywin's squire. Still panting, he gave a look at his opponent lying on the grass; he should have known it was a mistake to throw himself on Banefort who was all muscle and whose family was powerful while he was nothing. But he challenged me, he provoked me. And I had the upper hand on him. He decided to ignore the fact that he had made another enemy in a castle where he had so few friends, dusted his jerkin and met Gerion's eyes.
"What's wrong with you?" Gerion shouted, clearly disappointed by his behavior.
Tywin's youngest brother had found Sandor giving Banefort a beating in the orchard, at the foot of a pear tree, surrounded by other squires and pages excited by the fight. The boys bellowed and yelped with every blow but none encouraged Sandor; they were just thrilled by his violence and perhaps glad to see someone hitting Banefort. Banefort was said untouchable, because he was Tywin's squire and because he used to terrify the youngest boys; the pages and squires loved the sight of Banefort beaten by someone else but a fight like this one wouldn't make Sandor one of them. He glanced at the fallen nest, lying on the grass; from where he was standing, it looked like a dark sphere made of twigs and moss. He didn't answer Gerion's question.
Banefort pushed himself from the ground, wincing because of his split lip and carefully feeling the lower part of his face, as if he was afraid to lose his jaw, while the other boys stepped back for fear of his reaction. He pointed at Sandor.
"He's mad, Ser. A mad dog, that's what he is! He threw himself on me, like a damn beast, when I was climbing the pear tree-"
"What were you doing in the pear tree? Stealing green pears?"
Behind them, a boy laughed and Banefort went silent. The shame he read on the squire's face made Gerion think Banefort climbed the tree for a reason he didn't want to explain.
"Tybolt, come here," Gerion ordered.
No, not Tybolt! He never knows anything, nor sees anything. Tybolt won't say the truth. Kevan's page was looking at his feet and bit his lower lip like a little girl.
"I didn't see anything, Ser. I arrived when they were already fighting," Tybolt explained, after glancing at Banefort.
"Serrett!" Gerion called. "What happened?"
Serrett seemed as sheepish as Banefort and Gerion immediately noticed his crimson cheeks, if his way of stroking his blond beard was any indication.
"Speak, boy. What was your friend Banefort doing in the pear tree? Speak or I'll send you to the dungeon. Clegane already spent a few days in the dungeon, he can tell you how comfortable it is. Right, Clegane?"
Serrett shifted from foot to foot, ill-at-ease.
"There was a nest in the pear tree, on the highest branch," he finally replied. "Banefort wanted to take the nest, and I said he couldn't because it was too high. He climbed the tree... and that's when Clegane showed up and yelled and climbed the tree as well. He threw himself on him, he made Banefort fall."
"Are you hurt, Banefort? Any broken leg? No, or else you wouldn't stand up," Gerion mocked.
"He threw himself on me," Banefort repeated. "I don't even know why!"
"How old are you, Banefort? When do you expect to become a knight?"
"Seven-and-ten, Ser. I hope I'll be dubbed soon, maybe next year."
"Was it some kind of quest, boy? Climbing the tree and seizing the nest, like a trophy, to give it to your lady? Seven Hells, you need to grow up! Now, go away: I could punish you for the nest, but everyone in this castle will soon know you've been beaten by Clegane and that's enough."
He turned to Sandor after sending away everyone, and sighed heavily.
"What am I going to do, with you?"
Sandor shrugged, while Gerion folded his arms in the now silent orchard. A jay chirped in the nearest hazel tree and he suddenly remembered the white speckled eggs once resting in the nest; he didn't need to look to be sure they had crashed on the ground.
"Why did you throw yourself on someone older?"
"Because he took the nest."
"That would be the most ridiculous reason I ever heard to split open someone's lip."
Sandor shrugged again; even if Gerion was not Kevan who had a stiff expression whenever he looked at him, even if he seemed to take Sandor's side, most of the time, he couldn't tell him why he had beaten Banefort. Sandor couldn't even understand his own reaction.
It all began the day Tywin organized a hunt for Gregor; Banefort, as Tywin's squire, was sure he would come with them. He thought it was his right and Sandor admitted his point of view. The night before, as Tybolt later told Sandor, Banefort boasted himself and told everyone he would hunt in the woods near Casterly Rock and find a way to talk with Gregor – Gregor's dubbing by Prince Rhaegar had done a lot for his reputation. However, Tywin's decision of not taking Banefort with him and, above all, the fact that Sandor took part in the hunt, staying with Tywin, provoked the squire's jealousy and since that day, he considered Sandor like an intruder.
At first, Banefort's japes about Sandor's high-pitched voice were not different from the usual scoffing he heard. Then, insults replaced the daily jokes and it became more personal. Banefort repeated 'You don't belong here' every time he met Sandor. The boy clenched his jaw, knowing it was dangerous to take on someone who was more than his match. He knew he didn't really belong to the small world of squires; he talked more to the silly girls working in the kitchens than to his companions. The stupid bet Banefort and Serrett did about the nest infuriated Sandor; he couldn't tell Gerion why without revealing parts of his childhood he tried to forget.
Gregor climbing trees was one of Sandor's first memories about his brother's ill-deeds, probably because when he was a boy of five, watching Gregor playing in the biggest oak near the keep was simply marvelous.
He recalled his own smile, his pride, when Gregor had reached the top of the tree then had looked triumphantly at him. Right after that, Gregor began his descent and took the nest snugly set between the trunk and a branch; he carefully held the nest – a round nest made off dark twigs, very similar to the one Banefort coveted – in his hands when he came back to Sandor to show him what he had found, and to the little boy's surprise, the mass of twigs sang. Four little birds, with their greyish feathers still wet and wings so small they seemed useless, chirped together.
Sandor was fascinated; he asked if he could keep the birds and feed them or if they should put the nest where Gregor had found it. His brother shook his head and smiled, then grabbed one of the nestlings, a tiny greyish bird chirping louder in his hand he threw on the grass. Sandor gasped at the sight of the harmless little bird lying there, sensing Gregor was about to do something wrong and screamed when his brother's heel crushed the bird and put an end to the chirping. As far as he knew, the nestlings had been the first living beings his brother had killed, and until that day, he couldn't stand to see boys destroying nests to have fun. Gregor's recent visit and Banefort's scoffing had done the rest.
As he couldn't confide in Gerion, he stared at the ground and shrugged again, wondering how many days he would spend in the dungeon this time. If things went on like this, people would probably name the dungeon after him, for the weeks he spent behind the bars.
"Come with me," Gerion ordered, frowning.
Eyes downcast, he followed Gerion out of the orchard; they reached the postern, crossed the yard where some squires stared at them, entered the keep and took the spiral staircase leading to the solar. He's going to tell Tywin what I did. Tywin decided to foster me three days ago and I spoiled everything. Gerion didn't utter a word, keeping an impenetrable look until he knocked at the solar's door. He came in, Sandor on his heels, and cleared his throat. Tywin sat behind a long table, reading a scroll with a seal almost as big as the message; Kevan watched his elder brother, arms folded, a bored expression on his face.
"What?" Tywin said in his soft, yet impatient tone.
"I found Clegane fighting with another squire," Gerion explained, hardly concealing his anger. "He won't tell me why."
Tywin put away the scroll and observed him while Kevan rolled his eyes.
"I already told you, brother," Kevan sighed. "Too many squires-"
"Shut up: the squires will be useful soon." Then he turned to Gerion. "You said the boy didn't want to tell you why he attacked a squire? Look at me, Clegane, and tell me why you beat him."
Sandor remembered the nest, the little birds killed by his brother years ago and thought his explanations weren't worthy of his liege lord.
"I can't tell you, my lord," he answered sheepishly.
"See!" Kevan exclaimed. "Undisciplined, violent and always acting before thinking of the consequences. This boy is out of control! And you decided he would be my squire? Next time you want to make a squire of some boy, please forget about me!"
"If you don't want to take care of him, I'll do your job. Don't complain if the responsibilities I give you don't suit your talent, though."
Tywin's cutting remark irritated Kevan who left without a word. The lord of Casterly Rock sighed deeply, as if his brother was just another unruly child he fostered because he wanted to do a favor to his family.
"So, Gerion, what did you see? Who was this boy Clegane attacked and who was winning the fight when you intervened?"
"Your squire, Banefort. Clegane had already split his lower lip when I stop the fight."
"It seems this lad has a taste for beating older boys," Tywin commented. "You see, mayhaps the motives are not that important. It's like this rebellion in the Stormlands; why did all this began? Because of a pretty girl disappearing in the North? I don't know if Lyanna Stark is the reason why half the realm fights against King Aerys and frankly, I don't care. Instead of trying to understand why something happen, we should always consider the facts. Who wins? Or the consequences. What will happen if the rebels lose? What if they overthrew the king?"
He pushed himself from his armchair and walked around the table to face them.
"Maybe the fact that Clegane attacked an older boy and had the upper hand on him tells us more about him than the reason why he threw himself on Banefort," he added. "Leave us, Gerion. I'll take care of him."
Gerion didn't react, at first, and slowly retreated from the solar, leaving them alone in the long room from where Tywin Lannister ruled the Westerlands. Sandor felt so ashamed he once more looked at his feet while Tywin walked back to his armchair and lowered his gaze on the mysterious scroll. He read it again, and Sandor wondered why a message so short – it was smaller than Tywin's hand – captivated his overlord. From time to time, he would put the scroll on the table and glanced through the mullion windows, but kept silent. Sandor almost believed he had forgotten about him when Tywin set his green eyes on him.
"My brother Kevan is convinced you're stupid and useless. He says you always smell of onions and manure because you spend your time either in the kitchens or in the stables," he began. "I suppose his conversation with Ser Gregor the other day backs up his analysis. On the other hand, Gerion praises your skills. I wonder if you will be a good swordsman or if you are more than that. What would you say?"
His question took Sandor unawares and he felt an uncomfortable warmth creeping over his cheeks.
"I don't know, my lord."
"Do you know what this message I was reading is about? Of course, you don't but let's play a game. I could send you immediately to the dungeon or tell Symon to flog you until you bleed. Or... I could let you go after lecturing you. It depends on the advice you'll give me. If your advice is good, it means you're able to understand and dungeon is probably not necessary."
Tywin brandished the scroll and the red ribbon hanging from the huge seal brushed his forearm.
"I won't tell you a secret because within a few hours everyone in this castle will know what this message is about; still, I do you a favor asking your opinion about it. It comes from King's Landing; King Aerys faces difficulties with the rebels fighting in the Stormlands and now in the Riverlands. He asks for my help. What should I do? Remember if your answer doesn't suit me, you'll sleep in the dungeon tonight."
Sandor swallowed hard and asked himself if Tywin's boredom was the reason why he needed to play such games.
"Well, my lord... You should probably do what's best for the realm. What's best for the Westerlands," he added, remembering Tywin only cared about the lands he ruled.
"What if the interest of the realm is different from the interest of the Westerlands?" Tywin retorted.
Sandor felt dizzy: the Seven Kingdoms, the Westerlands, the rebellion stirring the country... He remained silent for a while, hesitating until his eyes found the sigil adorned with a roaring lion, painted on a shield.
"I suppose... you should do what is best for House Lannister," he replied abruptly.
Tywin stared at him for a few heartbeats, then nodded. In his face few people were able to read, Sandor saw a hint of amusement but not a single trace of irony.
"This is wiser than what I expected from you, Clegane."
Though he seemed satisfied with this answer, he kept his promise and lectured Sandor about fits of anger, before letting him go.
"One last thing, boy. I'll speak to the master-at-arms and tell him to watch over you; expect him to be uncompromising with you. We'll fight sooner or later and you'd better be ready."
He'll help the king, Sandor mused. He'll help Aerys and try to gain something worthy for House Lannister. As he stopped on a balcony to give a look at the yard where squires were still training, he imagined himself rescuing the king.
Later on, that same day, when someone told him Tywin had refused to help the crown defeat the rebels, he didn't understand. He recalled every detail of their conversation but couldn't give any sense to Tywin's decision; he nevertheless kept his thoughts for himself and decided to focus on what Tywin had said: training.