Chapter 8
Eddard
"How many men do we have?" Robert asked, while his squire, a youth who looked like a little boy, compared to the tall and muscular Lord of Storm's End, helped him fasten his armor. Apart from the squire, it was just the three of them in the tent: Arryn, Robert and him, wondering why he was here.
"More than thirty thousand men, according to my calculations," Arryn answered. "I would say thirty-three thousand men, including the Tully host."
Robert grunted and Ned couldn't tell what elicited that sound – some blunder the squire had made or satisfaction?
"And how many are they?"
"It depends," Arryn offered. Ned noticed his baritone voice was a little more faltering than usual. "It depends on how the royalist forces we faced in Stoney Sept reorganized themselves and it depends on the Dornishmen."
"How many?" Robert didn't care about hiding his impatience or showing Arryn the regard he deserved.
"Should the Dornish forces come, we would be outnumbered."
"There's something else." Eddard cleared his throat, deciding what Arryn had told him just before joining Robert couldn't wait anymore. "Peasants spotted Rhaegar on the road to the Trident. He'll command the royal army, most likely."
Robert spun on his heels so abruptly the squire stumbled and fell on his bottom. A wide grin, containing all the resentment and thirst for revenge Robert had stored up since Lyanna's abduction, had spread on his face.
"Best news in days. I'm going to kill this bastard. Really, Ned, you make my day."
Arryn shifted nervously beside Eddard and he thought the Lord of the Vale would say something or try to chide Robert, but he gave up. We all give up; Robert is wilder everyday and we refuse to see that.
"How was Riverrun? How were the brides?"
A bawdy smile pulled up the corner of his lips.
"Both Lady Catelyn and Lady Lysa are charming," Arryn replied. "Ned refused the bedding ceremony on the grounds that he didn't want to break noses on such a day nor scare his young wife."
It sounded like a threat if Robert asked for more details, but he didn't get it.
"So she's lovely, isn't she?" he rasped, laughing. "Does she have big tits?"
Women are the only thing that distract him from war, Eddard mused. Does it work the other way around?
"Eager to fight Rhaegar?" he asked back.
Robert's smile vanished immediately and he grunted again.
"Anything else?" Robert said as the squire tentatively brought his mailed gloves. "No? We'll meet outside then."
And that was all: they exited the tent, Arryn gave an endless sigh like he used to do every time Robert misbehaved and finally turned to him.
"And to say I have to find a proper wife for him," he confessed to Eddard. "I don't know. I really don't know, Ned."
"Can't we just wait the end of this battle to brood over the potential matches? I'm tired of negotiating and plotting."
"Don't be so childish, this is not plotting. Whoever Robert marries, there will be implications and we'd better measure them. Huge consequences."
"If we're able to win over Rhaegar."
Arryn sighed again and his display of annoyance was directed to him.
"We never lost a battle so far. We're blood-tested. We have Robert."
Eddard admitted he was right: their men put their faith in Robert and trusted their commandant so deeply their conversations about him sounded like the superstitious chatter of Northern old women. Mayhap I'm the only one in this host who lost his faith in Robert; his oldest, closest friend, yet the only one who doesn't believe in him.
Eddard was with the Northern forces, as usual, when he saw Mors Umber losing both his sons. He watched this man, a seasoned warrior belonging to the faithful House Umber, sinking to his knees, hiding tears behind a torrent of insults and swearwords. A royalist knight pierced the chest of the eldest boy and several bolts stopped the youngest as he was charging on his garron.
They went on, despite the heat, despite the tiredness that overwhelmed them and made the rattling of steel against plate unbearable. On the riverbanks, there were corpses, dead horses and forgotten weapons everywhere. Then, there were bodies floating on the Green Fork, drifting slowly with the current, cloaks billowing with the water and the gusts of wind, mimicking the sails, turning them in derisory boats.
Rumors spread quicker than he thought on a battlefield; when Ser Lyn Corbray led a charge against the Dornishmen and broke them, they learned the news immediately, even if they were on the opposite side of the rebel host. However, everyone's attention got back to the Trident, precisely to the ford where peasants and tradesmen used to cross with their goods, a place that was part of the battlefield, that day.
"Robert is facing Rhaegar!" one of the Manderlys shouted. "They're fighting in the water."
He had no time to think about it or to worry about Robert, though. Ser Barristan Selmy and a group of men who had survived the Battle of the Bells resisted them fiercely. Ned tightened his grip on the pommel of his swords and parried the blows of the Crownlands knight in front of him before countering. The knight was bathed in sweat and Ned thought he was just as disheveled as him. He nevertheless kept on swinging his sword, waiting for his enemy to get tired, but the knight, whoever he was, didn't give up. They avoided a dead horse, his opponent leaped over a wounded man who feebly asked for help, and their dance went on, regardless of their ragged breath, regardless of Eddard's heart beating wildly.
"Are you the Stark boy?" the knight finally asked him.
"I'm Lord Eddard Stark," he replied, before realizing it was the first time he introduced himself this way.
All of a sudden, Ice felt more real in his hands and his next blow was stronger, making the knight dizzy.
"Son of Lord Rickard Stark." The ancient sword hit the royalist's thigh and the man winced in pain. "Lady Lyanna Stark's brother."
A cry escaped the knight's lips when Ice dug into his abdomen and his longsword hit the ground with a thud. Eddard heard a cracking noise, while they both panted and braced themselves as hard as they could, holding the sword – Eddard's hands on the hilt, the knight's bloodied fingers on the blade – and after a never-ending wait, the man gave up and collapsed on the grass. Ned had to start over to pull off the valyrian steel from his midsection and he finally looked around him, out of breath, wondering how long he could go on like this.
He didn't see any royalist at first – except two dozen who were already dead and lay on the riverbank. The Northerners he was with crowded themselves around a mounted boy who served House Baratheon, then Jon Umber caught a sight of him and called Eddard. He ran to the group.
"Lord Stark!" the mounted youth exclaimed, pulling the reins of his restless horse. He must have shouted and screamed for hours, for his voice was hoarse and croaky. "It's over, m'lord! Robert killed Rhaegar."
Eddard didn't reply and let the Northerners around him rejoice themselves; he was mulling over the man's last words. Robert killed Rhaegar. He couldn't realize what it meant and all the consequences. Robert killed Rhaegar. His friends voices were muffled, barely audible as if he was underwater; an unusual grin enlightened Rickard Karstark's face while all the Northerners exulted. Jon Umber wiped the mix of blood and sweat covering his forehead; Eddard could read on his curling lips that Umber was saying something but he couldn't guess what. Rhaegar is dead. His thoughts went back to the Tourney and to Lyanna.
As far as he remembered, he had never really trusted Roose Bolton, though he couldn't say where this wariness come from. Of course, the man had once implied he loved the tradition of the first night and some people reported with a frightened look he demanded that the peasant girls spend their wedding night in his keep of Dreadfort – but some of the Mountain clans had kept the same brutish tradition as well. That was the kind of stories Benjen and Lyanna told themselves on long stormy nights, shivering next to a big fireplace. Is it something about his eyes? Eddard couldn't tell, but when Howland confessed him he didn't like Bolton either, his friend's intuition strengthened his opinion on his Bannerman. At least, I have one good reason to distrust him now.
Ser Barristan Selmy had been severely wounded near the end of the battle and, as he was a well-known member of the Kingsguard, Robert could have commanded to finish him off – Bolton would have volunteered, Eddard was sure about that – or he could have decided to let him die. Bolton had incited Robert to kill Selmy, whereas Eddard had spoken out against that possibility, reminding Robert of the knight's numerous feats of arms.
They were in Robert's tent and Robert was lying on some bedroll his squire had put on the ground. He was wounded, after his single combat with Rhaegar and though he would heal soon, the after-effects of the battle made him look as weak as a child. The maester, a youth hardly escaped from the Citadel, was tending his wounds, eliciting a few swearwords from time to time; Bolton and Eddard glared at each other and sharpened their arguments. After another plea, Eddard convinced Robert to let Selmy live but it was Robert himself who chose to send him the maester as soon as his own wounds would be tended. Roose Bolton's cold pale eyes glistened with anger; he swallowed his pride, wished Robert a speedy recovery and left.
"The supercilious Lord of Dreadfort," Robert commented, wincing as he tried to lean on his elbows. He soon gave up, and collapsed on his pallet.
"Don't you think he's pretty cheeky?" Eddard complained, barely containing his anger. "He contradicted me as if I was his peer. I'm not his peer."
Despite his condition, Robert gave a hint of a shrug and repressed a smile.
"I'm sorry but he's your Bannerman," he said, pretending to lecture Eddard. "As the Warden of the North, it's your job to make Bolton obey."
Robert's slight frowning was so funny Ned couldn't help chuckle.
"You should be proud, Ned. I thought Bolton was some cold-blooded animal, but you pissed him off in a way he almost showed his emotions."
Ned cackled again. Let's do this. Let's laugh when he makes a jape. We'll stay friends as long as we content ourselves with mirth, with the mere surface of things. I shouldn't delve into the essential with him, or we would argue instantly. He left Robert with the persistent feeling he had already lost his friend.
The smallfolk began to wade in the ford as the body count rose and as maesters hurried themselves on the battlefield, trying to help those who still could be saved. In the meanwhile, the rebels mourned their dead. To Eddard's great astonishment, the story about Robert and Rhaegar's single combat had spread in the countryside and people kept saying Robert's war-hammer had destroyed the Crown Prince's breastplate, sending the rubies adorning his armor in the water. On his way to Robert's tent, Eddard stopped and watched them as they trudged in the muddy water, breeches rolled up to their knees, scrutinizing the river bed but he doubted they could find anything else than human bodies or discarded weapons.
Arryn turned back and called him.
"We shouldn't make him wait, Ned. There is news from King's Landing, I think."
Eddard sighed but Arryn's reproachful tone didn't give him the choice; he followed him with a preoccupied air, wondering what the news could be. A negotiation with King Aerys seemed very unlikely, let alone a surrender. When they entered Robert's tent, he was still on his bedroll, leaning against a heap of furs in replacement of pillows and a bandage half covered his broad chest. Robert greeted them, told them to sit on the stools displayed by his squire then got straight to the point.
"We can't waste time," he announced. "Rhaegar's death doesn't mean the end of this war; as long as the king's bony ass is sitting on the Iron Throne..."
What about Lyanna?
"Anyway, ravens arrived early this morning and here are the news. Rhaella and his son are on their way to Dragonstone. However, Elia of Dorne and her children are still in the Red Keep. Aerys ordered preparations throughout King's Landing."
"What kind of preparations?"
"We don't know," Robert replied, heaving a sigh. "That's my point. We can't stay here any longer. And... I received news from the Westerlands. Tywin Lannister gathered his host and is heading to the capital. No need to say that Aerys begged for his help."
"It couldn't have been worse," Arryn said, getting on his feet and pacing back and forth.
"I heard that Aerys had asked for his help weeks ago," Robert went on, "and this Lannister bastard had turned a deaf ear but... it sounds like he changed his mind. We need to stop them. If Tywin arrives in King's Landing before us, we're fucked up. If the remains of the royal army and the Lannister host can use the preparations Aerys already made, we're fucked up."
Robert ran his fingers through his brown hair and stared at Eddard.
"You're the one in charge, now. This fucking maester says I won't be able to ride before a few days and we can't wait this long. You'll command the host, Ned."
Command the host. Be in charge. His head was pounding.
After a while, after the urge of shouting and protesting that he was not qualified for all this stopped tormenting him, he pondered on Robert's decision and realized leading the host had an advantage. A tremendous advantage, as a matter of fact. As long as he would be in charge, Eddard wouldn't allow any unnecessary violence.
Jon
He had always loved storms.
As a child, back in Griffin's Roost, he used to climb in one of the towers to watch the waves crashing against the red stone cliffs. Not the highest tower, the one that overhangs the bay. Diving from its balcony would kill anyone; jumping from there means a quick death on the rocks spattered by white-crested waves. He could stay all night long, listening to the howling wind and staring at the rough waters. There would be a ship, occasionally, rather a cog or a galley than another type of boat, desperately fighting to resist the elements, waiting for the lull. Sometimes, the ship would win. Sometimes not. It's called the Shipbreaker Bay, after all.
The Shipbreaker Bay had always fascinated him and since the day he had left Griffin's Roost to become a squire in King's Landing, he had missed the storms as much as one would miss a member of his family. The same show starting over every time the wind rose, but I never got sated. He loved the wind disrupting the flight of the birds daring enough to fly on these nights and the rain lashing his face.
When the storm broke at daytime, it could be even better, with the greyish skies taking a dark blue color, grey slate or purple, almost as black as ink. He loved to watch the sky clouding over, taking the darkest hues, as the claps of thunder echoed in the bay; when he looked at the stormy sky, it changed by the minute, always surprising him with all the possible color range of greys and blues. Lightning came as a glorious hero, when he least expected it and sent shivers down his spine.
He had always loved storms and this one, turning the Narrow Sea in a chaos of waves and winds, tossing the carrack about, shaking its mast and shattering the sails, was his first real storm since he left his father's castle. Jon had seen storms in King's Landing, of course, but it was never the same when he watched them from the shelter the large balconies of the Red Keep provided. From his apartments, he could barely glimpse at the sea. A storm without the sight of waves crashing against the shore or against a boat is not a real storm.
No, he didn't get the opportunity to watch a storm since he left Griffin's Roost when he was mere child. The years he spent in the shadow of his prince were like a long lull, a calmness that only ended with his dismissal and his exile. If he was as devout as he was during his childhood, he could believe the gods had chosen to remind him this truth by sending a storm that made the ship rock and creak. Thus, the storms he had watched from the tower of Griffin's Roost and this one marked the duration of his years spent by Rhaegar.
The panic striking a part of the crew and all the other passengers left Jon indifferent; they didn't understand, they were not able to catch the beauty of the storm. A cloud as black as night was right above the upper deck of the Laughing Lady, right above his head, bringing a pouring rain. Jon's clothes and hair were already soaked by the previous rain shower and the waves spattering everything that was not sheltered in a cabin. He watched the storm with a feverish gaze, stared at the rough waters hungrily, as if finding again one of his childhood memories could soothe his pain and mend his broken heart.
Among the few passengers of the Laughing Lady, he felt like an anomaly rather than a foreigner. There was not a single person he could talk to. But do I really want to talk? One was a red priest, on his way to Pentos; two were tradesmen and the wine they sold offered him the opportunity of talking five minutes with them, no more. The last one was a Bravosi sellsword, and Jon didn't want to discuss with him either. His past built a wall between him and the passengers, as high as the wall existing between him and the people he would meet in Essos; he therefore stayed silent and paced the upper deck under the crew's curious gaze, until Pentos was in sight.
A different continent. A different life. Is it a life worth fighting for?
In the Bay of Pentos, the waters were perfectly still and the carrack seemed to slide on the their iridescent surface. A thud and the sensation that the deck gave way under his feet announced they landed. When the captain shouted that they could come off the boat, he didn't react immediately and remained leaning on the rail. Coming off and setting foot upon this unknown land almost frightened him. Because I don't know what I'm going to find. No, it's worse: I don't care about what I'm going to find.
He sighed, went to his cabin, took his cloak and his purse before asking a ship's boy to carry the chest containing his belongings. Even that simple question, 'Could you carry this chest?' sounded weird. He had always had someone to serve him, to take care of the most simple and boring tasks; now that he was no longer the Lord of Griffin's Roost, no longer the third Hand of King Aerys, he didn't know if he could keep his old habits.
The ship's boy nevertheless followed him with the chest, puffing and panting, put it down on the cobbled pier and left him wordlessly. Dazzled by the pentoshi sun, Jon shielded his eyes with his hand. The wharfs were crowded as the Laughing Lady was not the only ship unloading; sailors, tradesmen and porters hurried themselves from the boats to the warehouses.
Jon decided he needed to quench his thirst before thinking of anything else; carrying his chest himself, he went to a tavern, took a room for the night to come and sat on a bench, alone with a jug of Pentoshi amber. Might as well get used to the local wine.
Inside the tavern, everything was different from Westerosi manners; the building in itself was different, higher and lighter than what he knew, the maids looked more like slaves, with their bronze collars, the language had nothing to do with the Common Tongue. He noticed the customers used different languages, which was rather normal in a harbor like Pentos.
Keeping a habit he had gained a few years ago, when he occasionally ventured to Flea Bottom, he sat in a corner, his back to the wall. On his left, three sailors had a heated discussion; two of them, with their olive skin and their use of bastard Valyrian, were most likely Pentoshi. The third one, a slim youth hiding his freckled face behind dull blond hair, made them repeat everything they said. Jon finally understood the third sailor was from Westeros; his Pentoshi friends kept him informed about his homeland. Despite his shortcomings in high Valyrian and his lack of practice since the age of five-and-ten, Jon noticed they repeated the valyrian word for 'battle' and heard the name 'Rhaegar'. Hesitating, he emptied his cup, the Pentoshi wine leaving a taste of plums and sour blackberries on his tongue.
"Are you from Westeros?" he shouted across to the blond sailor.
The man turned slightly to him and a smile crept over his freckled face.
"You're Westerosi too?" the sailor exclaimed, without concealing his enthusiasm. "'Thought I couldn't find someone speaking the Common Tongue in this damn place!"
"Where are you from?"
"White Harbor, m'lord."
A bloody Northerner. The sailor left the Pentoshi men and planted himself in front of him. Jon gestured to the seat across him and the man sat instantly. He noticed they were of an age.
"I'm not a lord." His tone was adamant enough to prevent any further question.
The sailor frowned, but soon regained his cheerful smile.
"You like this city?" he asked Jon.
"I don't know yet, I just landed. I was on the Laughing Lady, but the journey was long enough to make me wonder about what's going on in Westeros."
"My friends are both sailors on the White Star and they arrived at the same time, though their ship is quicker than yours and didn't stop over. Heard your boat faced a big storm? It didn't help, since-"
"Do they have fresh news from the Seven Kingdoms?" Jon said, too impatient not to cut off the sailor.
"They do. Before they set sail, they heard about the rebellion. There was a battle at the Green Fork of the Trident."
"Who won?"
The sailor leaned forward, as if he was confessing a secret.
"Seven Hells, I still don't believe it, but Mello says it's true and Gods know, he speaks the Common Tongue quite well..."
"What happened?" Jon asked, loosing his temper.
At that moment, the sailor's gaze changed as if he had finally understood what kind of man Jon could be.
"Prince Rhaegar commanded the royal army and he faced Robert," the sailor said flatly. "And Robert killed Rhaegar."
Jon didn't move, nor reply anything. His body felt suddenly numb and he didn't protest when the sailor asked if he could have some of his Pentoshi amber. He saw the man pouring wine and drinking in one gulp, then getting on his feet and leaving him. He couldn't say for how long he stayed like this, perfectly still on his bench, before going upstairs and collapsing on his bed.
Lying flat on the sagging mattress, he stared at the ceiling and tried to give meaning to the news. When Elia had left his apartments after his dismissal, he had understood he would never meet Rhaegar again. The realization had been terribly painful, but he had had the whole crossing to accept this idea. He could still harbor the hope that, one day, after Aerys' death, Rhaegar would rule the Seven Kingdoms and ask for him. Rhaegar was not good at making people happy – Elia's unfathomable sadness and his own broken heart evidenced Rhaegar's failure with the ones who loved him – but he was loyal. The prince wouldn't forget Jon had chosen to stay and fight when he had offered him to go back to Griffin's Roost.
Now that Rhaegar was dead, the faintest hopes had disappeared. As long as he was alive, his heart contained a complete range of emotions, from anger to jealousy, from melancholy to yearning; Rhaegar wasn't by his side, but he was somewhere. His death left a void, huge and cold. There was nothing to fill the deep hole he felt in his chest. Maybe the news are false, maybe it's some gossip the rebels repeat to undermine Aerys' power. Denial tempted Jon for a while, but he knew the sailor was right.
Images churned in his dizzy head: Rhaegar's harp and his fleet-fingered playing, Rhaegar's expressions when they practiced fencing, his habits and a substantial amount of details. The precise color of his hair, the shape of his hands, the way the muscles of his arm jutted out when he held his sword; all these trifles people generally ignored or overlooked were carved in his memory.
However, one memory floated on the ocean of the tiny details about Rhaegar; one moment, fragile and fleeting, that would never sink in the depths of oblivion. Whatever storms and gales life had in store for Jon, no wave would engulf that instant.
They were six-and-ten, no more, and for some reason, Arthur Dayne wasn't there; among the lordlings gravitating towards Rhaegar, Jon was the only worthy opponent. They had spent the day training and fighting. Rhaegar's other companions had left the Red Keep's armory, whether they got tired or they were bored. On the bare walls, ancient weapons were the only ornament; there was room enough for two dozen young men practicing sword fight.
As they were alone and fighting once more, Rhaegar forced him to go backwards across the room, just for fun, then let him counter his blows so they set off back the way they had come. After going backward and forward several times, they were both exhausted but it was Jon who yielded first and fell down. He remembered the cold floor below him, the specks of dust under his clammy hands. Putting his sword aside and still towering above him, Rhaegar graciously offered his hand; Jon grabbed his wrist with a mischievous smile and made him fall. When Rhaegar collapsed on him, they both burst out laughing.
A sort of haziness wrapped up what followed; in high spirits, they couldn't get on their feet, so they stayed there for a while, laughing, Rhaegar half protesting about Jon's trick. In the end, the prince shifted and lay down beside him, repeating how worn out he was. A few chuckles, coming from one or the other interrupted the silence every so often and Jon, because he felt so good that day and above all because he seldom was alone with Rhaegar, decided it would be now or never.
Leaning on his elbow and turning to Rhaegar, he looked at him, memorizing his facial features as they were that evening.
"What?" the prince asked, blowing a strand of blond hair out of his face.
Jon didn't answer, leaned over him and kissed his lips. It was not some deep kiss, given by a feisty young man who couldn't restrain his loving surge. His lips met Rhaegar's and gently pressed them before he pulled away. It didn't last long, a heartbeat at the most.
Rhaegar neither protested nor responded to that kiss; he stayed perfectly still on the floor, and Jon wondered long after about the prince's stolidity. At some point, he decided that Rhaegar was so conscious of his beauty, of the worship he provoked, he accepted all the tributes paid to him, whether they were compliments or kisses, whether they come from men or women. It was his fate, or perhaps his curse: he could be the Prince Who Was Promised, or at least, he would father him. That idea turned him into a different person, apart from the rest: he aroused so much expectations he could only receive tokens of love.
Sometimes, it seemed to Jon that there was a never-ending row of beggars in front of the prince; some praised his qualities, others idolized him or just demanded his attention and Jon was among them. A beggar among so many others. Elia is a fool if she believes she's different from the rest; she's just another mendicant and Rhaegar can't – or couldn't – give her what she's asking for. Is the Stark girl different from us? Who knows? He waged war for her, after all.
Jon didn't need to meet Rhaegar's eyes to know he had lost his prince when his lips brushed his; it was over. Things would never be the same between them. After the armory incident, there was a distance, a coldness in the way the prince behaved and for months, Rhaegar always managed not to be completely alone with him.
Jon remembered how jealousy tormented him the day Rhaegar married Elia of Dorne. Only a Targaryen would be worthy of him. And that frail brown-haired girl, with her simpering airs... Elia erupted with joy after the ceremony, and her happiness, coming from a girl everyone extolled for her good manners, looked like an indelicacy. Jon was so jealous he focused on her and on her radiant smile instead of noticing Rhaegar was far from exulting with her. He seemed pleased, of course, but not more pleased than he was when people expressed their admiration for him. Jon should have discerned the prince's restraint, his polite reserve. Elia should have seen it too. We were both fools. We should have known. I suppose she was more stupid than I was, for I always knew he would never belong to me. I never deluded myself. Elia lost everything, now. And the rebels are coming for her. For her, and for the children.
Sandor
He didn't try to drink after his terrible headache. Maybe he should have; Gregor's presence never very far from him drove Sandor mad and, night after night, he had bad dreams. Would it be different, if I was drunk? If someone had asked him to tell what he saw behind his closed eyelids, he couldn't describe the dreadful images; he usually didn't remember them, but he knew for sure he woke up with a start every night.
Banefort, who slept beside him, would grunt something about him being too noisy before going back to sleep instantly, leaving Sandor alone with his blurred nightmare and ragged breath. He knew he had to be quiet, since Tywin was lying in the next tent, so he just wrapped his arms around his knees and cradled himself, like the big, oversized boy he was.
Sometimes, after he had had one of these terrifying dreams, he questioned his ability to fight on a battlefield: if the images churning in his feverish head frightened him so much, how could he behave like the warrior Tywin wanted him to be? I don't want to be a craven. However he knew he wasn't like Serrett who had pissed his pants when Sandor had put his blade on the squire's throat. He knew he was different from the swaggering squires who screamed and wept as soon as they saw their enemy; it was just his brother's presence that panicked and infuriated him at the same time.
One of the nights the Lannister host spent in the countryside, by the road leading to King's Landing, Sandor found out that taking care of his mount soothed his nerves, though it never prevented him from having nightmares; whenever he brushed the smooth, shining flanks of his bay horse, he breathed easier, as if the animal's equanimity rubbed off on him. Removing pebbles from the horseshoes required all his concentration because he didn't want to get kicked and eventually he listened to the horse's even breathing until he felt sleepy.
They had been on the road for two weeks when a knight belonging to House Drox stormed in Tywin's tent, right after Sandor brought supper. The fair-haired man had a massive chest contrasting with his short twisted legs. On his gaunt face, Sandor could read both thrill and apprehension as he held out a scroll to Tywin. Tywin's brow raised when he saw the knight's unexpected arrival disturbing his meal and he slowly wiped his mouth with a white cloth, before grabbing the message and unfolding it.
"Ser Gilbert," Tywin said flatly.
Tension filled the tent as the Lord of Casterly Rock took his time to read the scroll; while the knight probably feared to bring bad news, Banefort and Sandor readied themselves to answer Tywin's orders – because a raven coming rather late could only deliver a significant message. Banefort strategically drew closer to the writing set enclosed in a tiny chest, in case that Tywin would answer to the message's sender and Sandor prepared to hurry himself between the tents, if his liege lord wanted him to fetch someone or something.
"Banefort!" Tywin called, eliciting a smug smile on Banefort's lips. "Quill and ink, please."
Sandor felt disappointed as Banefort moved past him, prouder than ever. A look at his master allowed him to notice Tywin's uncustomary agitation.What did he learn? Is it something that could change his plans?
"Clegane," Tywin said, after a while. "I want Ser Gerion here, as soon as possible."
Banefort fumed when Sandor left. The boy ran between the tents, avoided campfires and camp followers hanging about and finally reached Gerion's tent, where his squire told him to go away, but Sandor knew better than yielding to a stupid squire who wanted to impress him. Hearing their quarrel, Gerion showed up and followed Sandor after chiding his own squire.
"What is it?" he asked Sandor and as usual, the boy could only shake his head as they hurried to Tywin's tent.
When they came in, Ser Gilbert was gone and Banefort stood by Tywin, pouting, while his master wrote a message. The Lord of Casterly Rock dismissed both squires. Banefort's disappointment was noticeable; instead of joining his friends like he used to do on such occasions, he stayed by the tent and tried to listen to the Lannister siblings' conversation.
"What are you fucking doing?" Sandor whispered.
It was dark now and he wondered where was Talbert, the drummer. Maybe they could find some quiet place to eat some dry sausage and look at the stars.
"I want to know what's going on!" Banefort said with impatience. "Something puzzled Tywin and I want to know what it is."
Sandor remained perfectly still and pricked up his ears. In the darkness, no one could see them; should they get caught, there was no dungeon here to chastise their indiscretion. Tywin's voice exuded restlessness and Sandor could picture him striding in the exiguous tent.
"... said there was a battle in the Trident. Rhaegar himself commanded the royal forces. He's dead."
"But how?" Gerion nearly shouted in disbelief.
"It seems that Robert killed him. A single combat, that what the cocky Lord of Storm's End likes."
"Can't be true," Banefort whispered to himself. "Can't be true. I'll be knighted next year and Prince Rhaegar has to dub me. Just like he did with your brother."
Sandor shushed him with a furious glare; now that they were listening to Tywin and Gerion's conversation, he wanted to know more.
"What are you going to do, now?" Gerion asked his brother.
There was a long silence filled with tension and the waiting gave Sandor enough time to go over the few options his liege lord had: stick to his promise and help the king despite the risk of losing everything or go back to Casterly Rock with his tail between his legs. None is satisfactory.
"I'll tell you when we'll reach the gates."
Tywin's voice had regained its softness and its typical hint of condescension.
"Which gates?"
"King's Landing's gates, of course, the Lion Gate. Now, where is my squire?"
Without a second thought, Banefort rushed to the tent's opening, while Sandor didn't move.
"You're pretty quick, Banefort," Tywin commented. "Were you listening to this conversation?"
By Banefort's confused silence, Sandor could tell the knight-to-be was ashamed of his own foolishness.
I'll tell you when we'll reach the gates, Tywin had said. At the end of the Goldroad, the Lannister host had stopped right in front of the Lion Gate, and the men, raddled after their long journey and exhausted by the oppressive heat, had almost collapsed on the ground. Some foot soldiers had fought to shelter themselves from the sun under the meager trees and finally, a bunch of knights – including a rather nervous Gregor – chased them to claim ownership of the available shade, irrespective of the sunstroke affecting some of the weakest members of the host.
Until now, Tywin didn't utter a single word about his plans and how they would rescue the king. Sandor desperately tried to gather his memories: his father had given him some lessons about strategy and warfare. However, what he saw puzzled him. We should be inside to protect the king and withstand the rebels' attack. We should use the high walls and prepare ourselves to a potential siege. Mayhap we should tell the inhabitants who can't fight they have to go and come back when everything is over. We need more food and water to resist until those bloody rebels lift the siege...
The Lannister host, to his great surprise, didn't prepare anything. Tywin, who he considered to be the most smart and far-sighted man he had ever met, had admitted in front of him they had run out of bread and wine, and that observation didn't seem to startle him.
Thus, they had stopped in front of the huge gate, whose large opening mimicked a wild beast's mouth; two rows of stone lions, bigger than full size, stood guard on each side of the road. Sandor wondered why the doors weren't open yet; they had come to offer their help, after all, but the thick wooden panels remained closed, their dark color reminding Sandor of the threatening mouth of an animal, ready to swallow its prey. Tywin's orders roused him from his thoughtful drowsiness: the Lord of Casterly Rock wanted him and Banefort to prepare his tent.
How long are we supposed to wait here? As he unfolded the thick fabric with Banefort, he couldn't help pondering over the situation. Once the canvas tent was ready, Tywin gave out a sigh and came in, then told his squires to fetch his brother Gerion and the lords of all the noble houses of the Westerlands. While Tywin gave his orders, Banefort and Sandor waited outside, without pricking up their ears, this time: the sun made them blink and anyone could have seen two eavesdroppers in the morning light. The Bannermen all left the tent with a strange expression on their face. Bewilderment? Anticipation? Sandor couldn't tell but it looked like they knew a secret the rest of them – squires, horsemen, archers and lancers – ignored. Finally, Tywin asked for Gregor and Ser Amory Lorch.
They're two of a kind, Sandor mused as they entered the tent. Amory Lorch was smaller than Gregor and not half as strong, but with his bovine look and cruel eyes, he looked like the new lord of Clegane's Keep. Whatever Tywin wanted with the two young knights, it required physical strength and obedience, not wits. While he waited outside of the tent, wiping beads of sweat consistently appearing on his forehead, he caught snatches of conversation.
"... matters greatly... if you want to prove yourself... pledge of allegiance... in Robert's name..."
Despite his efforts, he couldn't hear the rest of Tywin's orders. When Gregor ducked his head to leave the tent, his back tensed immediately; his brother stopped on the threshold and turned around to ask one more question.
"When will they open the gates?" he rasped.
This time, Tywin's voice was perfectly audible, for he didn't need to withhold the answer.
"The rebels are hot on our heels. Soon, I hope."
With that, Tywin called Banefort and Sandor, soon they found themselves face to face with the knights. Sandor held his brother's gaze and finally, after an endless silence, it was Gregor who looked down at him then spat, while Amory Lorch gave out a raucous laughter.
"The Clegane siblings," Banefort commented with a smirk, "the exemplification of brotherly love."
He still didn't understand why his brother and Amory Lorch wore their plate and had their horses caparisoned as if they readied themselves for a tourney, nor why the two knights were waiting in front of the Lion Gate, despite the heat. When Tywin told Banefort to join his house, and ordered Sandor to bring his heavy plate armor, he was still puzzled. Why does he want heavy plate? The fancy armor would be more appropriate for an entry in the capital. When he brought the last mailed glove, Tywin locked eyes with him and he realized his liege lord was about to say something important, so he froze.
In the dim light, Tywin's face had a curious expression: determination, thrill, hope. And maybe a hint of nervousness, like someone who bet his fortune on the throw of the dice. His green gaze wandered on Sandor's figure, appraising the width of his shoulders and his muscles.
"This is an important moment, boy," he said softly after a long silence. "Your first battle. Though it won't be on a proper battlefield, but who cares?"
Sandor nodded slightly, wondering what Tywin would tell him next and he deftly fastened the mailed glove.
"We're not going to protect this city, we're not going to rescue the king. I hope you didn't fancy yourself saving Aerys' life, because it's not what I have in mind. As we are talking, the lords of all the noble houses of the Westerlands gather their men to tell them we're going to take this city, but you don't belong to a noble house and your brother has other fish to fry, so here I am. We'll sack King's Landing and take possession of the Red Keep before these rebel hicks show up."
Sandor felt suddenly dizzy; from the day he split Banefort's lip and got lectured by Tywin, he had thought his overlord would help King Aerys; he had pictured Tywin and Gerion – and perhaps himself – receiving the king's thanks, before the court. So all this was bullshit? The efforts he had made while training in Casterly Rock, the swordplay lessons given by his father, the fact that he was born in a keep and therefore was meant to fight, all this had to end up in the sack of a city. He felt betrayed, even if he was not the king who swindled by false promises, even if he stood beside the traitor. If he ever noticed his inner turmoil, Tywin didn't say a word about it.
"Do they have soldiers, inside?" Sandor heard himself ask.
"They're civilians, they're not supposed to defend themselves." His tone was cold, emotionless. "They have some soldiers," he added, "but I doubt they will be a threat. You'll stay with Ser Gerion, though. You're an investment and I hate losing my investments."
Under the outward detachment and cold humor, Sandor realized Tywin was more concerned by his safety than he thought. However, he didn't care about Tywin's games to develop rivalry between him and Banefort, he was tired of his liege lord's paternalistic attitude. We are all pawns he can play with or discard as he pleases: Gregor, the host, myself, the people of this city, even the king.
"Why?" he asked, and his angry tone made any precision unnecessary.
A despising smile curled up Tywin's lips. With his heavy plate armor, he looked more threatening than ever.
"Where will you go, Clegane, if I send you away? If you want my protection, there's but one rule to remember. Never question my orders."
He deliberately stressed the last words, staring Sandor down.
"Ser Gregor never questions my orders," he said, slowly shaking his head.
Sandor wondered what it meant, what could be these orders his brother had received and the interrogation sent shivers down his spine.
A few minutes later, every member of the Lannister host was ready for the impending battle, though the lords had told them to hide their armor or their weapons under their cloaks. They all held tightly the thick fabric that looked incongruous under the warm sun, sweating and cursing in an undertone. On top of the high walls, on either side of the Lion Gate, sentries looked down at them, unaware of the danger. Gold Cloaks, most likely. Bloody fools, Sandor thought, as he walked toward Gerion. As soon as the gates open, you'll be dead men. Gerion was tense, his long cloak concealing his sword hand already on the hilt; he gave Sandor a curt nod, whispered he should always stay by his side and stared at the closed gates.
Sandor spun on his heels; the lords of all the noble houses of the Westerlands had gathered their men around them, and if the lords were mounted, most of the horsemen and knights were on foot, to make their progression easier in the narrow streets of King's Landing. Even that detail didn't seem to startle the sentinels standing on the rampart walk.
Finally, he heard men shouting on the high walls and around the Lion Gate; then, after a few heartbeats, a loud, creaking noise revealed the sentries had removed the bar locking the heavy door: a shiver of anticipation spread across the host. Sandor's mouth went dry when the hinges slowly grated; the dark wooden panels moved inch by inch, showing the dirty cobblestones paving the broad street, a foot soldier, shyly looking at them and some inhabitants, ready to welcome their saviors.
With a deliberate slowness, Tywin's mare went forward, moved past Gregor and Ser Amory Lorch, and finally cross the Lion Gate. As his mounted figure was still under the arches of the gate and without turning around on his saddle, Tywin raised his right hand and motioned his men in. It was small gesture and the sentinels didn't even notice it. However, Sandor knew it would seal these men's fate and beyond that, the fate of all the men, women and children who had sheltered themselves behind the high walls.