Chapter 7
Jon
The carriage shuddered on the dirt road leading to King's Landing and the slightest jolt hurt his body. Wounded and sore, bumping along like a bunch of dirty linen tossed at the back of a cart, Jon would have given anything to sleep or to forget the past days and what awaited him in the capital.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the shale stairs he had climbed to face Robert, their dark grey color, their flaws, the spots where too many boots and clogs had rubbed, carving the stone. He had even felt the warmth radiating from the shale at that hour of the day. The monumental staircase had lost its luster and that day, the day Robert left his hiding place and finally showed up, it was just the best place to watch the royal army grappling with the rebels hidden under the clothes of commoners so far.
He had fallen on these stairs, when Robert's longsword had hit his shoulder and chest; he had thought he would die there, in front of the bronze door concealing the inside of the sept from curious eyes, because his men had such a hard time with the rebels they couldn't do anything for him. He let his mind wander to the Red Keep, to the yard where he used to train with Rhaegar, then to Griffin's Roost, remembered the first impression he had had on his prince. "How can someone have purple eyes and silver-blond hair?" This inner interrogation had been soon replaced by another "How can a boy be so handsome and yet seem so strong?"
His thoughts had drifted as he genuinely believed he would be dead soon, embracing the beloved shores of the Stormlands and Maegor's Holdfast, the lands of his father and the places he had visited with Rhaegar and finally focused on Rhaegar himself – his figure, the strands of silver hair brushing his cheekbones, the veins so visible on his hands every time he tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword. Jon knew his last breath would bring a single name on his lips, and right when he had accepted his fate, only ruing his failure against the rebellion, two hands had lifted him from the shale stairs and he had thought confusedly he just wanted to die there, like the young archer who had perished, if he couldn't kill Robert and bring back his head to the capital. His savior, though, grunted and lifted him over his shoulder, keeping a hand on the small of his back. Like a fucking damsel in distress.
Being carried away from the square where the soldiers still faced the rebels causing so much pain – and so much shame – he regained consciousness immediately and recognized Ser Doran Allyrion's sigil embroidered on the cloak he wore over his plate – a golden hand on gyronny red and black, mimicking the gesture of a man who stops his enemy – at least, with his head hanging down, he saw a golden wrist on a blur of red and black, as Allyrion hurried to find a maester for Jon and a quiet place for both of them. As they crossed the streets between the sept and the market square, he heard Allyrion giving orders to the loyalists and commanding them to protect their retreat.
They found shelter in a deserted tavern where Ser Doran shouted he would kill anyone who tried to move or to leave; there were only the owner and his two sons inside. They glared at them and cursed in an undertone but didn't resist. As Allyrion had given more orders before storming in the tavern, one of the maesters who accompanied the army finally arrived then took care of Jon and of two other soldiers.
"You'll be turned around within a week, maybe two," he flatly announced once the bleeding stopped. "You need to rest, my lord."
Jon had never heard something more stupid: if he had survived his fight with Robert, he had to organize the retreat of his men. Thus, he gave orders to Ser Doran and the other soldiers who were there, told them to exit the city through the eastern gate, sent two men outside of the town to explain the situation to Lord Yronwood, who was resisting the Stark and Arryn hosts, and to deliver him more instructions.
Five hours later, Jon was lying at the back of a carriage stuck between the carts that once brought food to the army, protected by the rearguard and feeling every jolt. They had successfully retreated from Stoney Sept, if leaving the city without Robert's head in a basket was ever a success. Many men had died, that day, but the losses of the royal army could have been worse; under Yronwood's command, the men fighting outside of Stoney Sept wrought havoc in the North and Vale hosts. But Allyrion died, he thought, wincing. He saved my life, did his best so that we could retreat and one bastard rebel slit his throat as he tried to protect me again.
He remembered the squinting eyes of Ser Doran, giving a strange and almost comic expression to his weathered face. The Dornish knight's corpse was heading to the capital as well, wrapped in his long cloak, in a cart bumping along somewhere behind Jon. He tried to remember House Allyrion's motto and the irony struck him when the words finally popped in his head: No Foe May Pass. Ser Doran was just applying this motto when he died and the treacherous dagger of a rebel rewarded his bravery.
The apartments located in the Tower of the Hand didn't look more familiar to him when he came back than before chasing Robert. So much the better, I guess, now that I have to pack.
Aerys dismissed him, stripped him of his lands and titles and exiled him. The king didn't want to hear him or anyone else about Stoney Sept and the retreat Jon had led despite his wounds; he only focused on the failure, on the fact that Robert was still alive and refused his counselors advice. When the king had announced his dismissal during the Small Council, Jon had met Varys distressed gaze. Even the bloody Spider can't maneuver him. As a token of magnanimity, Aerys allowed Jon's squire to help him pack, since he had not entirely recovered but the result was the same: he had to leave King's Landing before the end of the next day.
His squire was dancing around in the apartments of the Hand, asking him what to do with the candelabras or what clothes he wanted to take with him and Jon watched the boy, helpless, wondering where Rhaegar was. While answering evasively to his squire whose agitation grew by the minute, Jon became aware he wouldn't see Rhaegar before leaving the Red Keep. He felt both furious and doleful when an argument in the corridor made him turn his head. The guards were quarreling with someone who demanded to see him. Before he could reach the door, the intruder had already opened it and he saw Princess Elia coming in, her daughter on her heels. Leaning back against the wall and almost out of breath, she was the shadow of her former self, tired and unsteady on her feet; her olive skin was now white-yellow, with a waxen aspect, and strands of brown hair stuck to her damp temples. Jon caught a glimpse at the anxious lady-in-waiting who had guided her along the corridors and closed the door.
"You shouldn't be here," he said in a reproachful tone, deliberately forgetting salutation and gallantry.
After all, my dismissal means I won't have to play their games anymore.
Her chest heaving, Elia didn't answer and let her eyes flutter about until she found a proper seat; she chose the old armchair where Jon loved to read the History of the Rhoynish Wars with a cup of wine and she nearly collapsed against the cushions.
"We need to talk," she told him, adopting the same straightforward tone.
He dismissed his squire, and as the boy shut the door, he noticed Rhaenys was standing in front of him, smiling and confident. She held out to him a kitten, a tiny animal with a black and white fur.
"Is it for me? You would be the only member of House Targaryen to offer me something," he said bitterly. "King Aerys even refused to reward House Allyrion, after Ser Doran's death. The man saved my life. The king replied he didn't have to acknowledge his bravery for he saved a traitor."
Elia sighed deeply and he decided her sympathy was sincere.
"I knew Ser Doran since I was a child. He was a good man," she told him.
Vaguely disappointed by Jon's indifference, Rhaenys put down the kitten and tugged his top boots.
"Connig," the little girl called. "Connig."
"I tried to teach her the name of everyone living in the Red Keep," Elia commented in an apologetic tone, "but 'Lord Connington' seems too long for my daughter."
As Rhaenys opened her arms for him, he grabbed the little girl's chubby middle and took her in his arms. She squirmed with enthusiasm.
"Red hair, red hair, red hair," she intoned, smiling.
"No, Rhaenys," Elia said, "I told you-"
"It doesn't matter. We're beyond courtesies and titles, now."
Elia considered for a while the man who held her daughter and looked for a place to sit, because in his condition, even the weight of a four-years-old girl was too much for him. He finally closed the chest where his squire had put his belongings and sat down on it. Rhaenys warmth was comforting as she rested on his lap. I will never had children, he thought, and the realization almost hurt him.
"I didn't see him," he confessed, eager to break the silence.
"Neither do I," she replied, fighting back her tears. No need to say who we are talking about.
"He came back after the birth of our son," she added, "He said his name was Aegon and he left. Rhaegar neglects all those who love him, these days."
Her gaze was so insistent it infuriated Jon. Oh, please... Don't act as if we were that similar. However, he knew she was right in that they shared the same sorrow.
"I wonder where is Lord Varys," Elia suddenly whispered.
"Did you tell Varys to come here?" he asked her in disbelief. "Well, I didn't expect to see him before leaving. The more the merrier."
As if he was meant to show up every time someone said his name, a faint knock at the door announced the eunuch's arrival. Smoothing his long turquoise robe, he stared at Jon who still held Rhaenys in his arms. Jon ignored him and lowered his eyes to see Rhaenys light brown hair and rounded cheeks; the little girl leaned back against his chest, unaware of his wounds. He winced but didn't move. Her mother's a fool but I could get along well with this one.
"My lord," Varys told him, "what happened to you is so unfair I can't tell how sorry I am. Your dismissal is just the worst decision the king made..."
No: roasting Lord Rickard was his worst decision. Killing him spurred the rebels on. My dismissal is a non event.
"What do you want from me?" he cut Varys off, exasperated. "How can I be useful now that the king banned me?"
This question seemed to galvanize the eunuch, who briefly smiled.
"You'll be our bridgehead in Essos. Our last resort if the royal army is defeated. Princess Elia's protector should she flee from Westeros."
"King Aerys won't let me go to Dorne," she explained, slowly shaking her head. "His Grace thinks Dorne could join the rebellion if I come back to Sunspear. Hostages: that's what we are, my children and myself."
He lowered his gaze again and met Rhaenys trusting eyes.
"I should steal your daughter, then, and take her to Essos. At least, she wouldn't be a hostage anymore."
He spoke in a mocking tone but once uttered, the suggestion didn't seem so foolish to him. However, Elia panicked and tried to push herself from the old armchair before giving up.
"My children are not going anywhere without me!" she hissed, adamant.
"Are you out of your mind, Connington?" Varys asked, going further. "If Princess Rhaenys leaves the Red Keep, my plan will never work!"
"Your plan?" Jon growled. "You wanted to convince Aerys to allow her to leave and you lamentably failed!"
He delivered this truth with such a strength Rhaenys shivered and clutched his forearm.
"You shouldn't trust him, Elia," he warned her, a sarcastic smile appearing on his lips, "He's the man who whispered my name when the king wanted a new Hand. Look where that got me!"
"Why are you so hateful?" she muttered.
"Will you keep your promise and welcome Princess Elia and the children if need be?" Varys asked.
Jon sighed heavily and nodded.
"I will. But I persist in saying you should let the little girl come with me. I would take good care of her."
The eunuch shook his bald head vehemently, as if he was reasoning with a madman.
"It would destroy Princess Elia's chances... Do you want the king to send her to some dungeon? I didn't want to discuss such matters with you, but she could have died in childbirth! She needs to recover and then, she'll escape the Red Keep. With the children."
Jon saw the eunuch and the princess nodding at the same time, like two children trying to reassure each other, despite the danger threatening them. Bloody fools. Varys stepped forward and planted himself in front of him, holding out a purse.
"I will send you messages so that you know what is happening here. I wish you all the best, my lord."
"I'm not a lord anymore and I don't want your gold."
The Spider wouldn't give up though, and he insisted until Jon took the purse. Then, he tilted his head and Jon read it as a sign of impatience; Varys thought all had been said and it was time for him and Elia to go back to their apartments. Jon pushed himself from the chest, Rhaenys still in his arms. Rhaegar has been gone for so long she could mistake any man for her father, he mused as the little girl rewarded him with a mischievous smile. Her weight nevertheless elicited a painful grunt when he tried to lift her so that her face was close to his; he stroke her brown curls, pinched her cheek and grudgingly let her go. When he stood up straight, Varys offered his arm to Elia who seemed ready to faint.
"Where's the cat?" she suddenly asked, frowning, and Varys, delighted by the distraction it provided, left her to look for the kitten throughout the untidy room.
"Here, Your Grace. He was hiding behind the curtains," Varys announced triumphantly and he placed the animal in Rhaenys arms. Elia had already forgotten the cat and turned to Jon.
"There are so many things I would like to say to you," she said softly. "I know you, I know your pride and the feeling of guilt oppressing you because you think you failed. In my eyes, you didn't fail. And I know I can trust you, despite..."
She stopped short of telling more, embarrassed.
"Is there something you want me to tell my husband, when he comes back?" she added, blushing slightly.
Her solicitude, one of the many things he hated so much about her, didn't infuriate him for once.
"No," he answered flatly. This is the end of everything I fought for and there's nothing to say.
She urged her daughter to bid him goodbye and once again, the little girl mispronounced his name.
"'Jon' is fine," he told Rhaenys, squatting in front of her.
"Jon Red hair," the girl whispered with a gleeful expression, burying her nose in the kitten's fur.
Giving this nickname to Jon enchanted her, probably because it inevitably irked her mother. His wounded shoulder stung when he stood up; he contemplated Elia for a while, took in her bister complexion and her doe-eyed stare.
"Goodbye, Jon. We'll meet very soon, in a different place."
Leaning against the eunuch's arm, Elia gave him a sad smile, took her daughter's hand and left him in the shambles that was his room. He walked back to the chest where he held Rhaenys a moment earlier, sat on it and began to realize what exile meant.
Sandor
The master-at-arms, unshaven, his paunch popping out of his breeches, looked at them solemnly and cleared his throat.
"This will be our last training day. We're going to King's Landing with all the Lannister Bannermen. At least some of you will come with us."
The news brought enthusiasm among the squires and pages gathered in the yard, under the morning sun. The oldest squires strutted around, sure they would be part of the host, confident in their skills and bravery. They all dreamed of feats of arms, of rewards, of people calling their names, of songs written about them. While they all gloated over the journey, Sandor didn't move and stayed perfectly silent. Fighting meant giving free rein to his violent urges while he tried to control them daily. He was good at only one thing, people usually forbid him to do it and suddenly, the ban had disappeared and he would be praised for beating and hurting his fellow-men. It was so disturbing he felt dizzy and hardly avoided Serret who jumped and ran about in excitement.
"Pages are not coming," the master-at-arms announced, after shushing them.
A disappointed clamor spread in the yard.
"No! Master Symon!" a boy protested.
"I said...You'll stay with Ser Kevan. War is not for children."
Ser Kevan stays here! Sandor kept himself from leaping like a mountain goat, then panicked: a squire belonged with his master. What if Tywin had decided that neither Kevan nor him would move from Casterly Rock? And suddenly, he felt like everybody attended a feast of which he was excluded.
"Clegane! Where are you?" the master-at-arms rasped. "Stop hiding yourself behind the pages, you pig-head, you're taller than anyone."
Some squires gave a raucous laughter; the pages were too frustrated by the idea of staying in the Westerlands to appreciate any joke, while everybody packed for the capital. Sandor dragged his feet obediently and positioned himself in front of the master-at-arms. Symon told the squires to take their shield and sword for the training and dismissed the pages.
"You'll train with me, today," he explained, sputtering on Sandor's good cheek. "Want to see how you improved on your sword fight."
It sounded more like an attempt to prevent a brawl, as the other squires kept on provoking Sandor and Sandor kept distrusting them.
"Am I going with you to King's Landing?" he asked, trying to conceal his nervousness.
As usual, his high-pitched voice betrayed him and the master-at-arms snorted, conscious of his wish to accompany the host.
"Of course, we'll take you there! You'll be the youngest member of the host, the one who will bring good luck. No need to say you'll have to prove yourself. It's a great honor."
Some people don't understand why Tywin is so generous with me and they'll let me know I don't belong with the host. Now he could read between the lines.
Sandor nodded eagerly and took the sword he had been given; like the rest of his equipment, it was someone else's. The master-at-arms had liberally offered him everything, from the shield to the mismatched armor, picking up discarded weapons and old plate forgotten by some careless squire. His uncommon size had complicated Master Symon's task and Sandor knew he wore the most pathetic armor of the Seven Kingdoms.
"There are plenty of good armorsmiths in King's Landing," Master Symon taunted him, as if he could read his thoughts. "Fencing position, Clegane!"
When he came in the kitchens, he understood she was having a bad day: she shouted at Willa and one of the boys who had spilled some soup on the tiles ran away before she could chide him. All of a sudden, Fat Jeyne turned around, her chest heaving and he met her sad eyes. She already knows.
As he frantically searched his brain for something appropriate to say, he stepped forward, then raised his head to look at her: the girls were gone, as if they sensed their presence was intrusive. He stared at the grey-haired woman, standing hands on her hips in the deserted kitchens and his enthusiasm for their journey to King's Landing immediately vanished.
"So you're leaving," she stated.
Now that his eyes adjusted themselves to the dim light, he could see the wrinkles on her forehead and at the corners of her mouth, and above all, the weariness in her gaze. Whenever a member of his kin died, a feeling of being forsaken had overwhelmed him – soon replaced by a seething rage – and for the first time in his life, he had the impression that he abandoned someone. It was way more disturbing than the prospect of giving free rein to his natural tendency to hit and to hurt.
Somehow, he knew she expected him to talk and he wanted to say something as well, but the words were stuck in his throat, so he simply shrugged.
"Lord Tywin changed his mind overnight," she commented, a bit stiffly. "Didn't think it would be so soon. Are you happy to make war, boy?"
"I don't know."
That was all he was able to say and it was sincere. An uncomfortable silence filled the room as they carefully avoided each other's gaze. Sandor thought of the kitchen maids who were waiting somewhere outside, of Kevan who was most likely looking for him, of how ashamed he would feel if he started to cry, which was likely, but his feet seemed glued to the greasy tiles and he stayed there, silent.
"Promise me to take care of yourself, Sandor," she stuttered, placing a dark lock behind his ear. "You're a big boy, now. I'll give you some food, for the journey: dry sausage, cheese... Things you can keep a week or two. I know you're a big eater, but make it last, if you can."
"We'll be back soon," he said, in a derisory attempt to reassure her.
It didn't work and he felt terribly stupid when her lower lip began to tremble.
"I'm an old woman. Who will carry the heavy logs if you're not here?" she asked, trying to laugh. "Your brother will be there, so you'd better stay with Ser Gerion. He's a good man, Ser Gerion. Be careful, Sandor, and come back to me soon."
"Take care," he replied. "Take care and-"
He couldn't finish his sentence and embraced her, the way he would have embraced his mother. She clutched to him, her fingers tangling in his hair, repressing a sob. She smelt of lemons and green peas, that day, a smell that disgusted Kevan and infuriated him whenever Sandor had spent too much time in the kitchens. I'll miss this smell.
She finally pulled away and told him to go, wiping her tears with the back of her plump hands, almost chiding him. When he left her, he felt different. There was a persistent sadness, which made him sigh from time to time, and the intuition that he could never see her again. However, a sort of pride budded inside him: it had nothing to do with his impending departure for King's Landing: it was the thought, very simple yet unfamiliar, that somebody would be waiting for his return.
If someone sings 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair' once more, I swear I'll rip out his tongue.
They had been on the road for five days, now, and everybody kept on telling him how much he would learn during their journey, how many lessons he would receive in such a short amount of time. They thought of lessons about warfare and swordplay and camp life. However, as far as camp life was concerned, Sandor had learned one single lesson he would undoubtedly remember for the rest of his life: he hated groups and couldn't stand the over-closeness with squires, knights and the rest of the Lannister host. He craved for solitude. He missed the thick wooden doors and the bolts which allowed him not to be disturbed. Under the canvas tents, one could never be alone for a long time; there were always men shouting and laughing somewhere.
During the day, as they rode on the River Road, he had ingenuously thought it would be exhilarating to ride and to discover unfamiliar landscapes: and it was admittedly pleasing, but his pleasure vanished every time a squire or a knight began to bellow 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair'.
"Oh I'm a maid,""
And I'm pure and fair,"
"I'll never dance,"
"With a hairy bear,"
"A bear! A bear!"
"I'll never dance,"
"With a hairy bear!"
Sandor couldn't say he had something against that song before; he knew it by heart, even sang it – before becoming aware he had the most twangy voice of the Westerlands – but when Peckledon decided that it would be fun to bawl it whenever they meet someone on the road, Sandor quickly understood why his father always say that silence was golden. Can't someone tell him to shut up? His companions beamed senselessly and sang along. When they all sang together, Bannermen, squires and foot soldiers, the sound was deafening; it was like Tywin's host wanted to be heard leagues away. To threaten our enemies? Don't we have the drum for that purpose?
Sandor had made one friend during the first days of their journey, despite the usual taunting of the squires, and Kevan would have disapproved, for sure: the drummer who accompanied the host, a miner's son from Nunn's Deep. Talbert was ten-and-four, had freckles all over his face and was too scared of the other boys to refuse Sandor's help, the day Banefort and his friends planned to throw him in the nearest river, to make sure the boy couldn't swim.
Somehow, the dry sausages offered by Fat Jeyne helped as well their nascent friendship. They used to chew bits of dry meat at night, by the fire, while men sang and drank away the tiredness of the day. They barely talked, Sandor being too shy and Talbert not wishing to put his new friend's patience to the test; Talbert seemed in awe of his height, his strength and his taciturn behavior.
Sandor was silently enjoying the salty taste of dry sausage and watching the flames when a shrill laughter made him turn his head; there were two women chatting and laughing with a bunch of archers nearby.
"Why are those women here?" he asked Talbert with a suspicious tone.
In his mind, things were quite simple: men worked and fought while a woman's place was in the kitchens. A feminine presence within the camp, among the soldiers, was incongruous.
"They're washerwomen," Talbert replied, pleased to notice he could impress Sandor with his knowledge.
"Washerwomen? This is nonsense; I can take care of my clothes."
That was probably another reason why Kevan wrinkled his nose every time he met him in Casterly Rock. Talbert chuckled, until Sandor's gaze darkened with anger.
"We call them washerwomen, but they don't really wash clothes," he explained. "They're just camp followers. Whores, if you prefer. I'd wager you've never been with a woman."
Sandor stared at his new friend and decided he was getting too bold.
"'Cause you've been with a woman? You don't even have a beard! I bet the last time you saw tits was when your mother still breastfed you."
With that, he sat back and cut another slice of dry sausage; as remorse crept in a corner of his mind, he offered some to Talbert. I should talk to these women and tell them to stay away from Gregor, he thought. He got on his feet so abruptly the drummer looked at him in astonishment and he walked towards the group formed by the archers and the so-called washerwomen.
Feeling terribly awkward, he cleared his throat. One of the two women was already wriggling and laughing in the oldest archer's arms, a plump blonde who seemed to draw every man's attention, so he chose to tug the other woman's sleeve. She turned around to face him, took in his height and broad shoulders but her smile vanished when she saw the unburnt half of his face – thanks to the darkness, she couldn't see the scars hidden by his hair: a child, he read in her surprised look. She was a mere child, as well: a lanky girl with dark brown hair, dark eyes and a flat bosom.
"What is it you want, cutie?" she asked him with a hint of impatience. "I don't do children. Come back in a few years. Please."
He went red bright, at the thought of what she had imagined and tried to ignore her sarcasm.
"I don't ask for anything, I just want to warn you. See the big man on your left, taller than anyone else? Ser Gregor. Stay away from him, don't talk to him, don't... don't lay with him." He realized he was out of breath, mostly because of his uneasiness, and waited for the girl's reaction. "You should tell your friend, too. He's dangerous. I mean it," he added.
She crossed her arms tightly, in a desperate attempt to bring attention on her small breasts.
"Why should I trust you about him?" she asked, cocking her head to the side. "Mayhaps you're just a nasty boy who wants to ruin this young man's night?"
"He's a killer," he whispered, hoping the archers wouldn't hear him. "He's got blood on his hands."
She burst out laughing, throwing back her head, and it sounded quite artificial; he wondered if cheap wine caused this fit of laughter or if she was just exaggerating her self-confidence.
"Look around you, boy. This is a host. They are killers. All of them."
The girl shrugged to show how little she cared about his opinion, and gave him a condescending smile, hoping he would understand and leave her with her new friends. Sandor shook his head in helplessness and saw her expression changing; her eyes were now wide open and disgust made her cringe. She saw my scars. He wanted to run away but he resisted the urge, eager to give the girl one reason to stay away from his brother.
"See my scars?" he told her with as much casualness as possible, "Want to know who did that to me?" He gestured towards Gregor. "Now, believe me or not, I don't give a damn. If you or the likes of you want to get killed, that's your business. I was just saying."
In front of him, the girl hesitated between absolute panic and annoyance; in the end, irritation prevailed.
"I told you to come back in a few years but don't," she said with a malevolent smile."I don't do cripples either."
He clenched his fists and dug his nails deep in his palms not to slap her face. Fortunately, the archers had finally noticed his presence and one of them decided he was old enough to get drunk.
"We're going to see if a big boy like you is able to hold his drink!" the oldest archer exclaimed.
He had left the fair-haired woman with one of his friends and he grabbed Sandor's shoulders unceremoniously. He made him sit by the fire and forced him to drink out of his wineskin. That's how Sandor got drunk for the first time, sharing wine with men he barely knew and sitting across an infuriated girl who had rejected him.
He felt terrible. Terrible and betrayed; nobody had ever told him one could feel so bad, so miserable after drinking. Drinking was supposed to be fun and it had been somehow: after a while – after the first wineskin, precisely – he had completely forgotten the stupid girl who didn't want to believe him, forgotten his brother, as well. He had even thought that the archers were the better companions one could dream of, and told himself it was good to be surrounded by people shouting and singing.
The first rays of light dissipated the well-being he had felt a few hours ago and made his thoughts of the night before seem foolish. Kneeling by the stream, he sprayed himself with some fresh water. Disappointing. He needed something more drastic to get rid of his queasiness so he plunged his head under the water, then shook himself like the dog he was in the eyes of the other squires. He grabbed the bucket he had taken before leaving the place where he had ended up the night before, collected some water and got back to Tywin's tent.
If Tywin wanted to make his relationship with the squires more difficult, he couldn't take a better decision: Sandor had lost his master with Kevan staying in Casterly Rock, so Tywin had settled on having the boy serving him, even if Banefort had been his squire for four years. Thus, Tywin had two squires constantly fighting each other to obey his orders. And that morning, Sandor wanted to take advantage on Banefort who was probably still sleeping it off somewhere. A smug smile creeping on his twisted lips, he slalomed between the tents, the soldiers who had fallen asleep outside and the remains of last night's bender – empty wineskins and suspect puddles smelling of vomit – until he reached his lord's tent.
Tywin was already awoken and asked Sandor to bring him fresh clothes, not before questioning his damp hair and ungroomed looks. All of a sudden, Banefort stormed in the tent, as disheveled as his young rival. He woke up with a start and thought he would be the first one in Tywin's tent. But I won. Sandor rewarded him with a scowl, then noticed a sparkle of amusement in Tywin's eyes. Maybe he did it on purpose and wanted to see if we would tear each other to pieces.
"Clegane, I need to talk to Ser Gerion. Please find him," Tywin commanded. "Banefort, go fetch some more water."
Even Tywin's orders seemed to acknowledge his morning victory over Banefort and this certitude wiped away the last memories of his hangover; he rushed out of the tent and ran to the opposite side of the camp, where Gerion had settled for the night. Tywin's younger brother was almost ready and welcomed him with a frown.
"Did you try to drown yourself or something? And what's that smell? Seven hells, you've been drinking!"
Eyes downcast, Sandor didn't dare to look at him. Gerion chuckled.
"Was it your first night of bender?" he asked, hardly concealing his curiosity. Sandor nodded and Gerion patted his shoulder. "Tell me, boy, what was it like?"
"Good," he decided abruptly. "It was good."
"Talkative as ever," Gerion commented. "At least, you won't boast yourself about your feats. What is it that my brother wants?"
As Sandor explained he didn't have the slightest idea, Gerion stretched his arms over his head and stared at the meadow where the Lannister host had spent the night; his gaze embraced the tents, the heaps of ashes where soldiers had made camp fires, the lazy forms still curled under a blanket. "I don't like camp life either," he confessed suddenly, before heading to his brother's tent.
Eddard
Jon Arryn had a solemn face, that day, in Riverrun's sept. Standing between the altars of the Mother and the Father, each one of them waited for his bride-to-be and Eddard couldn't decide who was more nervous. Arryn got married twice, aye, but he clicked heels. Several times. Clicking heels was typical of Arryn when he was ill-at-ease and there was something about the hard-faced man that suggested he lacked assertiveness.
Suddenly, Lord Hoster Tully appeared, giving both arms to his daughters and Ned's heart skipped a beat. As they slowly walked down the aisle, he sensed how Arryn's back was tense and almost forgot about the butterflies in his stomach. He glanced at the assembly and saw Howland's familiar features, both serious and comforting; some of the Northerners had accompanied him, but among them, Howland was his only true friend.
Robert was still in the South. It's better like that I suppose. The desperate situation in Stoney Sept – Robert wounded and hidden in besieged town – had turned into a victory for the rebels and Eddard reckoned he had done his part. Robert's attitude had nevertheless incensed him when he boasted about the details of his stay in Stoney Sept and the battle between his men and the royalists. Listening to Robert jesting about the whores who had hidden him during the last night or mocking Jon Connington's look when he had seen Robert standing on the stairs leading to the sept annoyed him. After all, Connington had fought bravely when he could have burned down the city and slaughtered the inhabitants. Ned had even admitted in front of Howland that he was ashamed when people associated his name to Robert's.
They had argued, just after the battle of Stoney Sept, about Cafferen and Grandison, about the battle of Stoney Sept and how Robert intended to use his victory, about what the next goal might be. We argued about everything, yet I was not able to tell Robert that what I can't forgive is his attitude towards my sister. Robert still invoked his love for Lyanna but kept on whoring openly.
It became more and more obvious that their long-lasting friendship, which had begun the day they had met at the Eyrie – they were both homesick orphans, though Eddard still had his father at that time – wore away, like rocks on a wind-battered coast. However, what took ages on the shores of the Narrow Sea had been very quick in their case: one single remark uttered by a disillusioned Lyanna had created the first breach and their differences, which for years seemed to be a strong bond, had done the rest.
The septon's throat clearing brought him out of his thoughts; Catelyn Tully was standing beside him, more gracious and impressive than ever.
In one swift movement, he pushed aside the furs, swung his legs over the side of the bed and stared at the empty fireplace. Fireplaces were no more used in Riverrun, now that the sun was warmer, however, at night, one could catch a cold. Eddard didn't really care and sat there undressed, repressing a yawn. His eyes gradually adjusted themselves to the darkness and when he glanced over his shoulder, he discerned his bride's lying form under the furs. Catelyn's eyes were closed and she was alone in the sanctuary sleep provided her, far from her husband's failures and torments. Somehow, Ned envied her her serenity and the way she always carried herself with self-confidence.
During the festivities, she had played her part with gentleness and dignity, searching his gaze, answering with grace to every question, sometimes looking at her sister with a hint of concern: exactly what he expected from her. But I'm far from fulfilling her expectations. He had been distant with Catelyn and he had read in her eyes his coldness saddened her.
Once alone in their bedroom, she had been disappointed by his absent-minded behavior, by his lack of tenderness, yet she didn't complain nor forget her good manners. The realization that he couldn't give her more affection, that he was so terribly clumsy with her infuriated him. She doesn't deserve this. She's beautiful and sweet and I should take care of her instead of acting like a northern brute.
His thoughts drifted to the war stirring the realm. What will happen if we fail? I'll probably lose my head and Winterfell will be given to some royalist Southerner. And what about her? He glanced at Catelyn again, who shifted slightly in her sleep. Ned shook his head to reject the worst eventuality. Hoster Tully is no fool; he wouldn't have given both his daughters to rebel lords if he wasn't sure we are going to win this war. But what will happen then?
Robert had already claimed the Iron Throne for himself should the rebellion triumph. It was a stumbling block between them and at the same time, Eddard felt relieved no one thought of him to rule the Seven Kingdoms. At some point, he had suggested Viserys, King Aerys younger son, could sit on the throne, provided that someone else – Jon Arryn, for instance – ruled in his name. Robert had laughed at the thought and Eddard had finally understood he meant to destroy the Targaryen family. The prospect frightened him; he foresaw the hostility of the smallfolk and didn't know how he would react if they were all banned.
This is crazy, he thought, cradling his head in his hands. Why am I doing all this, marrying a girl someone else chose for me, fighting people I don't even know, taking responsibilities in a war of which conduct I disapprove? I'm so obsessed with this war I can't even talk or behave properly with my wife. Why? All of a sudden, the answer emerged in the form of a young girl with a pale skin and long dark hair. Lyanna. She's the reason why I did what I did, even if I have doubts, even if Robert strings bad decisions together. His heart in his throat, he remembered how he loved to talk to his sister, how good he felt whenever they met. Where are you, now? Where does Rhaegar keep you?
Ned heard Catelyn sigh behind him and the heap of furs on his left moved slightly as she sat up.
"What's wrong, Eddard?"
Her voice exuded gentleness and when he felt her fingers timidly brushing his upper arm, he realized how concerned she was. All this affected her, as well, and he shouldn't forget it. Her father had decided who she would marry overnight, then events tumbled out: the alliance between House Tully and the rebels, the wedding, their first night together and when dawn would come, his leaving. This war had turned her life upside down and she accepted the changes with a bravery one could only praise.
Eddard turned slowly to face her and what he saw, thanks to the moon rays escaping the heavy curtains, would have delighted him in other circumstances: she was sitting, holding a pelt with both hands to cover her breasts, her long hair partly concealing her slender shoulders, and she lifted a timid gaze toward him. Do I deserve her affection?
"How do you feel, now?" he asked her tentatively, as if wedding night was some illness.
"Fine," she answered softly. "I just wonder what's in my husband's mind and prevents him from sleeping. Did I do something wrong?"
One of her hand let go of the fur and he felt her cool fingertips running over his arm; there was such a tenderness in her gesture he decided to be honest with her. He shook his head.
"You didn't do anything wrong, my lady. I was thinking of my sister Lyanna, that's all."
Thoughtful, she avoided his gaze for a few heartbeats, then she locked eyes with him again.
"You always think of your sister, don't you?" she whispered.
Ned nodded instantly. She's a quick learner. We barely know each other but she understands everything.
"I know you love your sister and you want her back... All your efforts to find her impress me. However... Eddard, can I ask you something?"
Her voice suddenly revealed a hint of anxiety as her fingers stopped running down his arm and froze on his wrist. Ned took her hand in his and squeezed it gently.
"I realize how you care for your sister and I wonder... is there some place for me in your heart?"
It was not a rhetorical question only meant to prompt a love declaration; she didn't expect him to protest he worshiped her. Her interrogation sounded genuine, and only showed her doubts about their relationship. He stared at her and saw his own reflection in her eyes: a man caught in a war he didn't approve, so worried and grief-stricken he couldn't return his young wife's endearment.