Chapter 9
Warning for graphic violence and mentions of rape, murder and child murder. If you feel uncomfortable with these themes, you should probably not read this chapter.
Once more, I'd like to thank Underthenorthernlights for her beta-reading skills and her patience. Your advice on this long chapter was priceless, dear!
Describing events we already know from the books would have no point, so I deliberately skipped the scene when Eddard finds Jaime sitting on the Iron Throne. I tried to 'fill the blanks' and to write about things that happened before or after. As this chapter has been the most difficult to write so far – because of the violence of the Sack and because I wanted to follow the canon as much as I could – any feedback will be appreciated!
Jon
Varys had advised him to join the Golden Company – the only company of sellswords worthy of Jon, according to the eunuch – and so he did.
After learning Rhaegar's death, he had drunk himself into stupors and stayed in the cramped room of the tavern. From the rotten window frame, he heard the distant sound of the harbor; though he had shuttered the window, he could tell the sun was coming up and down thanks to the shades that lengthened and shortened on the dusty wooden floor. That was how he realized he had spent three whole days in the tavern.
Jon wouldn't come back to Westeros, most likely, nor talk to his prince again, nor see the lands his father had given him. He toyed with the idea of dying there – his dagger was sharp enough for that purpose – but suicide was never an option for the Conningtons. I'm still a member of House Connington, after all, even if my dear cousin Ronald now rules my father's lands. For lack of anything better, I can still cling to the customs and values I respected when I was a child. Dying sword in hand was right, though, and the numerous skirmishes and battles the Golden Company fought every year offered him the possibility of a death fitting his own moral code.
On the morning of the fourth day, he rose from his bed, ordered a bath, got dressed and left the tavern. He bought a mare – the old animal had known better days, but he didn't want to waste all his gold – and asked the first Pentoshi he saw where lived the man whose name Varys had written on a scroll of paper.
Illyrio Mopatis. The name felt strange on his tongue and Jon wasn't sure he didn't mispronounce it. The man he had talked to opened wide eyes when he heard Mopatis' name and almost bowed in front of Jon, quitting the condescending attitude he had a few heartbeats before, when he had seen a foreigner mounted on a weary horse. With a profusion of gestures, the Pentoshi explained him he would find Illyrio Mopatis' house not very far from the palace of the Prince and Jon led his mare through the labyrinthine streets of Pentos until he asked another man who finally pointed out a stately porch that stood out against a creamy yellow high wall.
The old servant who opened the heavy door wore a bronze collar, like the maids he had seen in the tavern and like a great deal of people walking in the streets; as soon as he heard Jon stammering in High Valyrian, he answered in the Common Tongue as if welcoming Westerosi visitors was his everyday routine.
The old man led him through the gardens and inside a mansion that revealed how wealthy his host was: marble floors looked fresh under his boots, contrasting with the oppressive sun outside, and the murmuring waters of several fountains accentuated the impression of coolness. In the large room where the old servant left Jon, sunbeams played on the silken wall hangings and on the mahogany furniture. After a few minutes enjoying the scenery where Illyrio Mopatis met his guests, Jon decided the man was a Pentoshi version of Lord Varys: a person who had connections everywhere, eager to show his wealth and refined tastes.
He hardly knew anything about Illyrio Mopatis; at the most he did remember he was a former sellsword who had married the Prince's cousin. He was therefore a respectable man with a less than humble ancestry, like most of the sellswords born in Essos. As a matter of fact, when Mopatis came in and welcomed him with a broad grin, Jon felt both the social success and the difficult childhood; the buxom figure proved he didn't need to rent his sword anymore but the way he mindlessly touched the golden rings circling his plump fingers in a self-reassuring gesture revealed his fear of losing everything he had worked for.
"Lord Varys' friends are always welcomed in my house!" Mopatis bellowed, opening his arms in a theatrical way.
Jon thought it was useful to remind him he didn't come for trivial matters and the situation in Westeros had nothing to do with an amiable farce.
"I guess a well-informed man like you heard the news," he said rather coldly.
The man's wide smile disappeared from his round face and he gestured to a bench seat invaded by an army of silken cushions. Jon sat and Mopatis settled down on the armchair across him.
"Of course, I've heard of Prince Rhaegar's tragic death," he answered softly.
Is it his foreign accent or does he feign compassion? I'm not sure I like his voice.
"Lord Varys probably told you I would give you the latest news from Westeros as well as we would discuss our plans."
Our plans? What in Seven Hells is he talking about? Mopatis must have noticed Jon's furrowed brow for he explained immediately what he meant.
"As an old friend of Varys, I offered him my help. I'm ready to welcome here any member of the Targaryen family, lest their lives were in danger."
"Well, their lives are in danger. The Battle of the Trident was supposed to crush the rebels before they could turn to King's Landing. Now the road is open-"
"Do you think I ignore this threat? Dear Jon – may I call you Jon? – I've heard a lot about you, about your bravery, your skills... your hotheaded behavior. You made miracles on the battlefield, despite your king's lack of gratitude, but you're so ingenuous when it comes to politics. Do you know for how long Lord Varys tried to sway your king's decision about Princess Elia?"
He touched his receding hairline and ran his fingers through the blond strands covering the crown of his head; this nervous gesture made Jon wonder what Mopatis didn't tell him.
"Why doesn't the bloody Spider organize their flight from the Red Keep?" he almost shouted. "Aerys won't change his mind! There's no way out for Elia and the children, except this one: escape. Regardless of the cost."
The chuckle Illyrio Mopatis failed to repress spurred his guest's anger and Jon crossed his arms on his chest, a defiant look in his eyes.
"I"m glad Princess Elia eventually found a champion to defend herself," Mopatis taunted him.
"I don't care about Elia. I just want to keep a promise."
Staying still on the cushions and not throwing himself on the fat man sat across him required more and more efforts; Jon shifted his long legs and locked eyes with his host.
"They don't have time, I'm afraid. Send a message to Varys and tell him to organize their escape without delay. He can disguise them, have some maid take the place of Elia, whatever... I don't care. Rhaegar's children must be saved. For the sake of the Targaryen dynasty."
Mopatis ensconced himself in his armchair and stared at Jon's infuriated face for a while, with the raised eyebrow of a man who gauges his enemy. Jon leaned forward.
"Varys wants me to protect Elia and the children: fine. All he has to do is help them sneak out of the Red Keep; let me sail back to King's Landing and I'll collect them-"
"Do you ignore the meaning of banishment?" Mopatis asked him, as his rings collided with the arm rests in an impatient gesture. "As soon as you land on Westeros, you'll be a dead man!"
"Do you really think death scares me?" Jon retorted with a sarcastic half-smile.
This last remark silenced his host for a while and he touched his forked beard mindlessly before finding the proper answer.
"You'll keep your promise, Jon, and you'll help them. But right now, let Lord Varys and myself handle this. Your skills will be useful sooner or later. For the time being, you'll keep up the appearances of the jaded exiled lord and the Golden Company will provide you the cover you need. I have no doubt you'll dupe your audience with this world-weary expression I read on your face."
This flat refusal incensed Jon who nevertheless kept quiet and glared at the fat man until he took his leave.
Finding the Golden Company was not difficult, in a way. He exited Pentos and crossed the Sunrise Gate leading to the Flatlands where the sellswords' encampment was located. From that moment on, he rode east, for lack of any other indication. His mare's flanks disappeared in the waist-high grass and he believed he was lost when half a dozen horsemen surrounded him. Their impressive outfits mesmerized Jon. Two of them bore inlaid armors; the one who seemed to be their leader had an incredible sword whose handle was set with gemstones; all of them wore silken clothes and heavy torcs of gold. Pulling the reins of his restless mare, Jon remembered the tales about the Golden Company and realized that they had got hold on him before he could find them.
They probably thought of stripping him from the belongings he kept in two saddle bags bought at the same time as the mare; Jon could tell it by their curious looks and their leader's eyes appraising the weight of the leather bags lying on his horse's croup. He told them who he was, asked to talk to their commander; the men laughed and nevertheless led him to their encampment.
A sea of tents bathed in the late afternoon sun welcomed him as he arrived with horsemen on both sides. The Golden Company forces were not larger than those he had commanded in the Riverlands. Ten thousand men, the man with a jeweled sword said: knights, squires, archers. An organization based on Westerosi hosts: nothing that will break my habits. And most of the members, even among the archers are Westerosi, as well. Still... can I stay and fight with them? Is it what I want? Jon knew he didn't have many options left, now that he was an exile.
The jeweled sword dismounted and told him to do so. A boy, perhaps a recruit, took the reins of their horses as they walked toward one of the strangest things Jon had ever seen; in front of a large tent of cloth-of-gold, there were pikes, hammered in the hard soil like standard poles. On top of each pike, something glimmered under the fading sun. Seven save us, skulls, he realized. Gilded skulls hanged from the top of the pikes; as there were at least three or four skulls tied to each pole, they made an uncanny sound with the slightest breeze, something between the thump of bones knocking together and a dainty clang.
"Our late commanders' skulls," the jeweled sword informed Jon, with an amused smile contrasting with his gruff voice. "Ever heard of Maelys Blackfyre's skull?"
In Westeros, people whispered Maelys had killed his twin in the womb and therefore never omitted to call him 'the Monstrous' whenever they mentioned his prowess as a captain-general of the Golden Company. The second head – his dead twin's head – sprouting from his neck was horrifying enough to be an asset on the battlefield. The jewelled sword's question implied the Golden Company had found a way to make Maelys still horrifying after his death, probably by dipping the twin's head in gold and keeping it alongside the commander's skull.
"So you need those kind of trinkets to frighten your enemies?" Jon casually asked the sellsword, to show how jaded he was.
The jeweled sword burst out laughing. He's no sucker, Jon mused.
"A man according to my heart!" the sellsword finally replied. "Come, our Captain-General will meet you."
He first entered the tent, leaving Jon alone, enough time to admire the gilded skulls of the nearest pike so far as one can admire skulls, then let him in.
The display of material wealth inside the commander's tent couldn't be ignored, just like on the sellswords' outfits: the cloth-of-gold that shelter the leader of the Golden Company mirrored the heavy chest of ebony, the silver candelabras and the unwashed silver-gilt dishes someone had put on the thick rug as if it was some ordinary wooden bowl.
In the half-light, Jon didn't see anyone at first, then a tall figure left the darkest corner of the tent and paced toward him. The man's face was not handsome by any standards: he was jug-eared and neither his crooked jaw nor his big nose added elegance to his very common face. He made up on the fine clothes he wore: a silken doublet and, despite the heat, velvet breeches. Like his men, his hands and neck were heavy with golden ornaments. Jon thought he looked like a beggar with his boiled leather and his red stubble.
"This is Jon Connington," the jewelled sword said a bit stiffly to his commander, "Lord of Griffin's Roost, former Hand of King Aerys."
"I knew who he is," the commander retorted, staring at Jon.
"Our Captain-General, Myles Toyne," the sellsword went on.
"My enemies call me 'Blackheart'," Toyne precised, "and I go by the same name, here."
The sellsword understood his presence wasn't necessary anymore and left. The last sun rays came in by the opening of the tent and shone on the commander's rings.
"Illyrio Mopatis says you would be a fine recruit for the Golden Company," Myles Toyne began. "With your experience during Robert's Rebellion. 'One of the best warriors of Westeros,' according to Lord Varys' words."
He turned around and lowered himself to take a scroll inside the ebony chest and held it out. Bloody Spider: whoever I talk to, they always have had a conversation with Varys before. Myles Toyne must have noticed Jon's pout, for he asked if he disagreed with the eunuch.
"Hire me as a sellsword and you'll see," Jon retorted in a defiant tone.
Toyne chuckled and his jaw seemed even more crooked.
"As you wish. This is the shortest discussion I ever had with a recruit," he finally said.
Assuming they were done, Jon showed a clean pair of heels, but the Captain-General's hoarse voice stopped him mid-stride.
"We are all outlaws, here," he said. "Either exiles or exiles' descendants."
He had spoken matter-of-factly, yet Jon took his words as an attempt to comfort him, in the rough, uncouth style of the Golden Company's commander. Exiting the golden tent, he swept the encampment until he found a bunch of men starting a campfire; from now on, his life would be there, on this foreign land, with these men, fighting for rich cities or wealthy people instead of defending a king who had dismissed him. How he would keep his promise now that he was a sellsword, he didn't know; but he felt in his guts that as long as Rhaegar's children would be alive, he could be useful.
Sandor
He was among the men who immediately followed Tywin when he entered the city; Gerion and him were on foot, with a bunch of handpicked knights and a group of archers carrying crossbows. As soon as they showed up and positioned themselves on both sides of Tywin's mount, the sentries began to stiffen and to wonder what their savior, the powerful Warden of the West, wanted. On the livid faces half disappearing under old visor-less helmets, Sandor read their terror and, to his great astonishment, the fear that made one of them cling to his spear roused his own urge to fight and to destroy.
Everyone was silent in front the Lion Gate, except the inhabitants standing further in the street, ready to welcome the Lannister host, and tension filled the small square when Gregor and Ser Amory Lorch finally came on their caparisoned horses. They pulled the reins to stop near Tywin, who nodded in acquiescence.
"To the Red Keep, as I said," Tywin confirmed.
He didn't take the trouble to whisper his orders; Sandor read it as a display of his self-confidence. Tywin, at that instant, had the certainty no one could prevent him from doing as he pleased, not even the Gold Cloaks who stood in front of his mount and whose breathing was more and more erratic. Tywin's face, usually so serious, lighted up with an unwholesome joy. He anticipates what's going to happen and he rejoices in advance. Fuck, what are those orders? Catch the king himself? No, he wouldn't have sent Gregor if he wanted to find the king in a dungeon when he'll arrive at the Red Keep. He knows exactly what my bastard of a brother does. He wants him to kill someone. Probably the king.
At that thought, he felt goosebumps on his arms and the macabre images he left Clegane's Keep with churned into his head. Ivy, ruined and slaughtered on the red tiles of the kitchens, her head resting in a black pool. His father's corpse, lying across the saddle of his black horse, tied like a dead stag at the end of the hunt. Come on, you can handle this. He clenched his teeth and looked away, knowing that at the end of that day he would just have another good reason to kill his brother. When the time comes.
A sadistic smile matching the weird expression on Tywin's face spread across Gregor's lips; he spurred his horse and left, jostling a sentry who looked like he was going to shit his pants. Then Gregor and Amory Lorch were gone, leaving a wake of startled looks and screams among the inhabitants who waited for help and only saw brutish knights. Go away, lock yourself in your houses while you still can avoid this madness.
"M'lord," one of the sentries told Tywin, his voice shaking, "Manly Stokeworth, our commander will be here soon. He wanted to welcome you per-"
"Manly Stokeworth?" Tywin repeated, looking down at the man. "Tell me about it!"
Behind him, most of the Lannister men barked the coarsest of laughters. The man who had talked to Tywin wore black breastplates with four golden disks on it; Sandor realized he could be an officer of the Gold Cloaks, probably the captain in charge of the Lion Gate. The man clad in black took a step further and glared at Tywin, though he was most likely shaking.
"I'm afraid you'll have to wait until Lord Stokeworth arrives, my lord," he said, steadying his breath.
From where he was, Sandor could only catch a glimpse at Tywin's right side, when he looked up at him. On the clean-shaved face, he saw the corner of his lips slowly pulling up in a smile.
"Jonah, is that right? When I'm done with you, Jonah," Tywin said flatly, "your wife won't be able to recognize you, but it doesn't really matter because she won't live long enough to identify your body. You see, in the end, the fact that we first met when I was the Hand of the King doesn't change anything."
Tywin drew his sword and so did all the men around Sandor. Master Symon nudged him so that he did the same. Go away, please, don't resist, Sandor begged silently, even though he knew his pleading was useless. Around their captain, the Gold Cloaks clang to their spears. At first, nobody moved, then Sandor noticed a young Gold Cloak who didn't stare at the Lannister men, nor at Tywin, but looked intently at his horse's chest. Aye, that's what I would do if I had a spear.
Suddenly, a bolt burst out of the Lannister ranks and hit a Gold Cloak's head; Tywin protested, eager to know who had started the fight without waiting for his order, but it was too late. The screams threw both groups into complete and utter confusion.
Although nobody paid the young Gold Cloak any attention, Sandor abruptly shoved Master Symon to reach the reins of Tywin's horse and made him step backwards. The master-at-arms shouted, Tywin yelled and tried to get rid of Sandor's grasp, but the whinnying mount moved in the nick of time and avoided the sharp blade of the Gold Cloak. As the steel head of the spear brushed the horse's chest, a pair of stunned green eyes briefly met Sandor's before Master Symon disarmed and gutted Tywin's assailant.
Sandor held his gaze for a heartbeat, then turned to face the remaining Gold Cloaks; the sentries were already outnumbered, but when a Gold Cloak presumed that the boy who had just saved Tywin's life was too young not to be an easy target and tried to impale him with his spear, Sandor remembered the Master Symon's moves a few moments before.
He forced the Gold Cloak to parry his blows until his spear was less a weapon than a disadvantage; in front of Sandor's fury and fast blows, the man couldn't just drop it and unsheathe his sword, so he took the spear with both hands and held it like a derisory shield.
The wooden shaft wasn't hard enough, even for Sandor's blunt blade: it soon broke, leaving the Gold Cloak with a sort of useless club he waved in front of his enemy. Sandor could read the panic on the man's face, as he had read it before in the squires' gaze, back in Casterly Rock. But today, it's not for a laugh, it's real.
The man lowered his eyes for a heartbeat, just enough time to unsheathe the sword he urgently needed and Sandor seized the occasion to dig in his abdomen. The Gold Cloak gasped, dropping his sword on the cobblestones, and put both hands on his belly in a desperate attempt to hold his bowels. Whereas the man clang onto his life, his fingers grabbing the blade so hard his knuckles went white, Sandor looked at his contorted face. The sword sank in the soft flesh, yet the Gold Cloak resisted and stood there, despite his wobbling legs.
When the shaking figure collapsed on the ground, he thought it was over before an iron grip forced him to his knees. At that point, Sandor couldn't avoid the Gold Cloak's gaze; he saw agonizing pain, then the survival instinct that pushed him to hold on his opponent as long as he could and finally, as the brown eyes glistened with tears, the simple yearning for peace and oblivion. The fingers tightly encircling Sandor's wrist let go and fell on the black breastplate. Suddenly, Sandor realized there were only a pair of glassy eyes, fixed and lifeless and a foul smell coming from the abdomen. Sandor tried to remove his blade from the man's midsection, slowly, inch by inch, as if he feared to hurt him now, and scrutinized the blade. It was red with a brown sticky substance by places: disgusted, he wiped his sword in the golden woolen cloak, leaving a brown-red stain on it.
Getting on his feet turned out to be more difficult than he thought: he staggered and felt like he couldn't glance at the dead body anymore. But I fought him, I looked him straight in the eyes when I dug in his belly, so why is it different now? His hands, contracted on the hilt of his sword all along their fight, suddenly ached and he found a metallic taste in his mouth. Blood. He lowered his eyes to the corpse lying at his feet and the memories of his conversation with the camp follower washed over him. Look around you, boy. This is a host. They are killers. All of them.
He glanced at his sword hand; even if he had wiped it on the cloak, both his palm and fingers were sticky, with red stains. And I'm a killer too. What I just did makes me a killer, like them, like Gregor. His hand looked different, all of a sudden; he knew the broad palm and the long fingers, recognized the scars, old or fresh, marking the back of his hand, and was familiar with the nails bitten and filthy but the blood dripping from the blade made it completely new to him. It wasn't his hand but a paw belonging to a soldier. Belonging to a killer.
Gerion's hand on his shoulder startled him and Sandor spun on his heels, more than happy to turn his back to the accusing corpse. Tywin's brother had a somber expression; his eyes roamed over the squire, taking in the ragged breath, the distraught gaze and the bloodied hands.
"The heart, Clegane. Remember it, next time, and give your opponent a clean death."
Ashamed and keeping his eyes downcast, Sandor nodded.
"Come now, we're done here. Tywin is waiting for us."
When he looked up, the square was full of Lannister knights and soldiers hurrying themselves in different directions; wherever his eyes fell, dead sentries lying on the ground mimicked the one he didn't want to look at. A killer among killers. And I can't do anything about it. Gerion tugged his mailed arm: it was time to go.
It all happened as if I had forgotten about the host and the City Watch, as if there was nobody else, except the Gold Cloak and me. I didn't see nor hear anything while I fought this man; it feels like I missed the skirmish. I have no recollection at all.
Gerion scurried along the narrow streets of King's Landing; Tywin was fifty yards ahead, slowly progressing on his mount, surrounded by a cluster of Lannister knights and archers. Heading for the Red Keep, he talked with Master Symon. Other groups had been sent to Flea Bottom, to the harbor or to the Old Gate where the rebel host was expected to arrive soon. The Baratheon host, he corrected right away. And the Stark forces, probably eager to know about the Stark girl. She's dead now, most likely, and I guess it's just as well for her. Prince Rhaegar didn't abduct the girl to sing her pretty songs and to put wreaths of flowers on her head.
Gerion sped up, forcing Sandor to lengthen his stride, and they finally caught up with the group led by Tywin. Sandor had never traveled previously and didn't even know Lannisport, his father assuming that his burns turned his younger son to a subject of taunting and therefore leaving him at Clegane's Keep whenever he had to go to the biggest city of the Westerlands. King's Landing was like a new world for a boy who had spent the past years in the woods and fields surrounding his father's keep, yet he didn't want to ask any question and look like a country bumpkin. It wasn't the right moment either.
He nevertheless contemplated the timber-frame houses, their porches used for trade, their jettied upper story proudly towering above the street. King's Landing inhabitants had felt the danger and immediately emptied the porches of the goods they contained; for the same reason, shutters hid the windows. He imagined families gathered on the upper floor, locked in their houses and anxiously waiting for the end of the day.
The street weaved between houses so tall with their jettied upper story they darkened the sky and one could have the impression that two men standing on the third floor balcony on either side could easily shake hands. On the ground, although the street they were in seemed rather large and was presumably busy on ordinary days, there was more filth and mud than cobblestones by places, and the men had to avoid the open sewer; Tywin's horse paid close attention not to walk in, like some dainty girl wearing her finest dress.
They had only seen a pig scrounging around for scraps so far; as soon as the skirmish began at the gates, the townsfolk had understood and run away, sheltering themselves where they could and leaving a strange atmosphere in the capital, as if time was suspended. Thus, their group progressed cautiously in the deserted streets.
A faint hope sprouted up in Sandor's mind. Mayhaps people are too afraid to leave their houses. They stay where they are; they dare not protest or fight back. If they're smart enough to hide themselves, there won't be any bloodshed. I won't have to draw my sword again. Clinging onto this idea, Sandor felt reassured as they got closer to the Great Sept of Baelor. We've been walking for a good while, now; the Red Keep can't be very far. Suddenly, he remembered his brother and the mysterious orders Tywin had given; he shook his head, refusing to picture what Gregor was doing and who he was hurting at that instant.
Men kept alert in the surroundings of the Great Sept; Sandor caught a glimpse at the marble plaza and the dome-shaped sept, bewildered to see with his own eyes something that was until now a clumsy drawing on the old book he learned to read in. The seven crystal towers sparkled in the afternoon sun, their eerie structure rising into the air.
"We have no time for that," Master Symon growled in a chiding tone, when he noticed Sandor's mesmerized gaze.
"Look at the roofs," Tywin ordered, shifting on his saddle and turning his head over his shoulder. "If the City Watch reorganized its forces, they'll be on the roofs, ready to fire quarrels on us."
Instead of spotting a potential enemy on the roofs, they heard a clamor on their right, once the Great Sept was behind them.
"Could be those you sent to the harbor, my lord," Ser Daven Estren suggested.
Ser Daven was so small and frail Sandor often asked himself how Tywin could have dubbed him and if he had ever been able to joust. He nevertheless was more clever than most of the Lannister knights.
"I told them to stay in the harbor and take hold of it," Tywin retorted, frowning. "We'd better check this out."
With a sweeping gesture, he motioned them all on the right and the men hurried themselves behind him. In this part of the town, the streets seemed awfully narrow compared to the large plaza of the Sept. Narrow and dark, even in broad daylight.
"Is it a fire?" a young archer asked.
He was only three or four years older than Sandor and didn't look very confident; wordlessly, he pointed at a greyish plume of smoke rising behind a cluster of houses and shops. Fire, Sandor thought, breaking into a cold sweat. They heard more shrieks and Tywin's horse sped up, forcing the rest of them to run. The fire was close, perhaps no more than fifty yards on their right, yet the intricate mass of high buildings prevented them from seeing anything; they reached the corner of the street and Tywin stopped abruptly.
The junction of three narrow streets had created a small triangular square; on their left, what had been once the stables of an inn burned and the thick beams supporting its roof collapsed one after the other. The adjoining tavern could be ablaze soon; the prospect of walking past the fire transfixed Sandor.
A gut-wrenching cry made him jump and he turned his head to see who had just screamed, but he only spotted a woman lying on the cobblestones, in front of the tavern; from where he was standing, he discerned the deep red cut on her throat and her hitched up skirts. Ivy, he thought, as a blind fury took hold of him. She's just like Ivy.
Beside her, there was a heap of cloth: a gust of wind unveiled the pink and tiny face of a baby. The child wasn't moving anymore and the realization he was as dead as his mother infuriated Sandor. His turmoil was noticeable enough, for Master Symon put his big hand on his shoulder and squeezed it, as if a simple touch could wipe the image of a slaughtered woman with her dead child. Sandor turned his head over his shoulder and shot Symon a furious and disgusted look. So you think you can protect me from this? Because you're old and seasoned, you believe you can reassure me with a stupid gesture? I don't need no comfort, I already know all this. You would piss your pants if I told you what happened in the woods, when I ran away from Clegane's Keep. Master Symon held his stare, frowning, then dropped his hand.
Suddenly, another shriek resounded in the small square and they all scanned the timber-frame houses on their right, wondering which one sheltered the person who had let out that cry. The shutters of the third house were open, unlike most of the other buildings and they caught a glimpse at a Lannister foot soldier, on the second floor. With his long nose and weak chin, the brown-haired man looked like a weasel; a purse in his hands, he froze as soon as he realized Tywin had seen him. To add insult to injury, they plunder, Sandor mused.
"Get out!" Tywin shouted, with an imperious gesture.
They heard some bustle in the house, foreshadowing the arrival of contrite soldiers. Three Lannister men exited the house and timidly stepped forward, moving past the baby and his mother.
"Who's in charge, here?" Tywin asked. "I sent you with Lord Banefort to hold the harbor!"
"Told us we could push on and go the Great Sept, m'lord!" the weasel-face explained.
"To light candles and pray the Mother?" Gerion hissed, pointing at the dead woman.
The three foot soldiers looked at each other, one of them frantically shaking his head.
"They put up resistance, m'lord," the weasel-face went on, his innocent eyes widening.
In view of his untruthful tale, Sandor's stomach churned. Deep in his throat, he felt the acid taste of bile; he gritted his teeth and instantly clenched his fists. If I ever have a chance to pay you back for what you did...
The hooves of Tywin's horse impatiently resonated on the cobblestones.
"If the Lannister host steals and plunders, people will believe I don't handsomely pay my men," Tywin spat. "They'll imagine there's no more gold in the mines under my control and I'll be pissed off. Is that what you want?"
Fuck, what about the murdered woman?
The three men shook their head and the weasel-face bowed in front of Tywin's mount with a fawning expression.
"Now, come with us," Tywin ordered, leading the group through the small square; they walked past the ablaze stables and the dead bodies. Sandor noticed more corpses further; two dead men, one leaning back against a cart-wheel and one lying on his stomach, a dagger stuck in his back.
"What about the screaming we heard?" Sandor asked Master Symon. "Shouldn't we-"
"Just forget it, boy," the man replied, avoiding his gaze.
The three plunderers followed, a sheepish look on their face. On both sides of the street starting at the small square, the doors were open, revealing soldiers had visited these houses. The group progressed slowly, still expecting some kind of rebellion, although nothing came. Every time he turned to glare at the weasel-face, Sandor found him and his companions further behind the group. The three men whispered to each other, sometimes nodding, sometimes shrugging but always kept a close eye on Tywin.
Now that the Great Sept was behind them, the Red Keep loomed over the city, its assumptive towers rising in the cloudless sky, trumpeting no one could ever take hold of its high walls. But Gregor is out there and whoever Tywin told him to kill, he probably succeeded.
A grating voice suddenly broke the silence and a bunch of Gold Cloaks emerged from an alley on their left, sword in hand. They were only six and most likely knew they couldn't defeat the Lannister men, yet they threw themselves on Tywin before the crossbowmen could draw the bowstring, assuming that once their leader dead the Westerlands host would break down.
The Lannister knights unsheathed their swords and fought back, while the archers let fly their quarrels. Two Gold Cloaks fell at once; far from frightening their companions, their death gave them a surge of anger. One disarmed and stabbed Ser Daven who almost collapsed in Sandor's arms: leaving the wounded knight on the cobblestones, he pounced on the Gold Cloak who didn't realize what was happening before Sandor's blade pierced his chest. Surprised by his own boldness, Sandor held the man's vacant stare until the Gold Cloak's legs gave out, and watched him again as he laid on the ground. I aimed at the heart, like Gerion had said.
Behind him, the other Gold Cloaks were dead and Master Symon leaned over Ser Daven, a puzzled look on his face. Although the frail knight moved slightly, the master-at-arms swept the little group until he found Tywin's eyes and he shook his head.
"He won't make it," he announced, taking the knight's hand in his.
Sandor stared at Tywin, even if he knew it was rude, and tried to decipher his expression. The Lord of Casterly Rock had removed his mailed gloves and he could see the knuckles turning white on the horse's reins, but his face remained impassible.
Sensing his eyes on him, Tywin looked back at Sandor and tilted his head to catch a glimpse at the result of the boy's fury; he observed the Gold Cloak Sandor had slain, fallen all sprawled out on the ground, then he nodded. His green gaze would haunt Sandor for days and make him wonder what Tywin had in mind at that instant: was it some recognition of the boy's value? Was it a gesture of reassurance directed to a young squire facing his first battle? Or did Tywin simply nod to himself, admitting he had hit the nail on the head about Sandor's skills?
Ser Daven breathed his last breath and Master Symon closed his eyes before covering his body with the knight's cloak. Tywin's men silently gathered around the body and this token of respect somehow hurt Sandor: he had nothing against Daven, but the fact that they took time for him while they had ignored the dead woman and her babe seemed unfair. He felt a lump in his throat, but Master Symon, who stood beside him, misapprehended his reaction and squeezed his arm with a sort of paternalistic concern.
"You'll be just fine," he promised Sandor.
You don't understand anything, old man.
When he raised his eyes, Tywin was scanning the surroundings, knitting his brow.
"Did anyone see the foot soldiers? The thieves?" he asked coldly.
"Fuck, they're gone!" Gerion exclaimed. "They disobeyed; we shouldn't let them go-"
"I'll find them!" Sandor announced and he saw Tywin nodding in acquiescence.
He was already retracing his steps, convinced they would go back to the small square where they had left their loot, when he heard Tywin's voice.
"Symon, go with the boy. I'm pretty sure he'll find them, but I don't want him to get lost."
Tywin's order irritated him more than he could say. And he tells Master Symon to go with me, like a wet-nurse or something! All Symon can do is slow me down. He's too fat to run! Behind him, Symon nevertheless huffed and puffed. Sandor tried to remember which street they had taken before, relying on the painted signs swaying in front of the closed shops. From time to time, he would gave a look at the roofs, to make sure nobody was about to let fly some quarrels, but he could only think of the weasel-face and the shriek he had heard earlier.
When he finally reached the small triangular square where the stables still burned, he had shaken off the master-at-arms. He felt a jolt of anticipation when he spotted a silhouette in the house where they had seen the plunderers, thanks to the open shutter, and ran to the door. The baby and his mother were still there, and he promised to himself he would find some blanket inside the house to cover them.
Once the door shut behind him, he listened carefully. In front of him, there was a flight of wooden stairs and on his left, the workshop of a goldsmith. The workshop seemed empty and the foot soldiers had probably began their search for gold there. He listened again: at first, his heart beat so wildly in his chest he couldn't hear anything, then a creaking noise confirmed there was someone upstairs.
Silently, he removed his worn-out boots and put them near the door, then he slowly climbed the stairs; before he reached the landing, he heard muffled voices and his right hand instinctively grabbed the pommel of his sword. He stopped in front of the first door and pricked up his ears.
"...Told you I heard something!" someone hissed.
"If Lord Tywin is after us, we're dead."
"Cravens. You're just afraid of getting your hands dirty!"
Sandor took a step further, leaned back against the wall, on the left side of the door and slowly unsheathed his sword.
"What was that?" a voice asked, inside.
Before one of the man's companions could answer, Sandor smashed in the door with a single kick and threw himself on the weasel-face. He was aware of the other two foot soldiers' presence in the room, but kept the thought in a corner of his mind and gave in to his blind fury.
Dragging the weasel-face in front of the door in order to stand in the way, he straddled him, punched his face, then grabbed his brown hair and pulled hard until the man's head bent back and his Adam's apple jutted out in his long neck.
"Who killed her?" Sandor asked him, as the other plunderers crawled toward the open window. "Did you?"
"Fuck, who are you talking about?" the man whined, mouth covered in blood. "I- I just wanted to have fun with that woman who owned the tavern. But I swear I didn't killed the girl. It was an accident."
The girl? Sandor watched him, hesitating between utter astonishment and disgust.
"We can share what we found with you," the weasel-face suggested. "We could-"
A dagger digging into his chest cut him off. Before he could realize it, Sandor had killed a third man, not to protect his life, nor to avenge Ser Daven's death, but because he couldn't stand what the plunderer implied. He couldn't tolerate being taken for a thief.
"What kind of monster are you?" one of the foot soldiers whispered, clumsily searching for his knife.
This one was as shortish as the weasel-face was lanky; kneeling beside him, a fat man sweated streams under his helmet. Suddenly, the fat one stood up and tried to escape through the open window. Sandor grasped his belt and tried to prevent him from jumping. While the fat man frantically resisted him, the shortish one ran away and Sandor heard him hurtling down the stairs.
"Seven hells, what are you doing?" someone bellowed outside and he recognized Master Symon's voice.
Still struggling with the fat plunderer who leaned out of the window, he spotted the master-at-arms in the middle of the small square.
"I found them, but one escaped. Try to catch him!" he retorted.
Symon might have been surprised by Sandor's commanding tone, but a few heartbeats later, the puffing and panting of two men fighting in the street announced the shortish man was no more on the run. By the time Master Symon climbed the stairs with his prisoner, Sandor had knocked the fat man down and leaned back on the wall, out of breath and exhausted. As the master-at-arms slowly opened the broken door, Sandor scrutinized the shambles around him and began to understand what had happened there.
The room was rather large, with a fireplace; the goldsmith probably lived here with his family, if the two beds and the long table were any indication. During their search, the plunderers had tossed the goldsmith's belongings on the floor, emptying chests and bags, ripping open the mattresses; all around Sandor, they had left a mess of straw, clothes and dishes. But where is the girl?
Standing on the threshold and still firmly holding the small man, Master Symon contemplated the dead soldier at his feet, the unconscious one lying on his stomach and let his weary eyes fall on Sandor.
"What have you done, boy?"
The question was simple enough, yet Sandor couldn't speak plainly without revealing a part of the sinister memories still haunting him.
"He killed innocent people. He stole them," he finally answered. "He disobeyed Lord Tywin."
He hoped this clarification would convince Symon. The man sighed heavily, hanging his head, and when he spoke again, his voice seemed faltering, as if he didn't believe his own words.
"You can't kill someone of your own army, you know that, right?"
"He murdered the woman and her babe and probably someone else. Ask him."
The shortish man was too scared not to confess everything Sandor wanted him to say; Ragged Tom, the weasel-face, had killed the woman who owned the tavern across the square, her babe, the goldsmith and his daughter, according to him. He explained that him and the big man had begged Ragged Tom to spare the women's lives, in vain. At that point, whether he couldn't bear his lies or feared what Sandor could do to the shortish man if he didn't react first, Symon slapped him in the face.
"I have to find the girl," Sandor said, while the master-at-arms took a discarded rope to tie the soldiers' hands.
"Look, Clegane," Symon replied, "this city is full of dead girls by now. You can't do anything for her."
Ignoring his advice, Sandor got on his feet, went back to the landing and stared for a while at the other door before opening it. What he saw made him freeze. The plunderers had come in this room and searched for gold or valuables; in the indescribable chaos that remained, only a thick wooden table emerged. The dead body of a blond girl leaned against the table, her hiked up skirts and torn smallclothes showing her legs and her pale bottom. Her once fine clothes were tattered and bloodied. Sandor couldn't see her face reclining on the table and hidden by strands of golden hair; however, another girl's features melt into hers, even if this one was the healthy daughter of a goldsmith and not some peasant girl so desperate she had accepted to work in Clegane's Keep. Even if the scarf oddly wrapping her neck revealed she had been strangled and not beaten to death.
It's too late. Once more. He was persuaded the shriek he had heard before they first found the plunderers was hers; the certainty he could have saved her at that moment stung. These men were not Gregor: stopping them wouldn't have been so difficult. He clenched his fists and felt the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.
Symon had finally tied the two foot soldiers; when he joined Sandor he couldn't help cursing.
"You can't do anything for her, boy," he repeated tentatively.
Sandor shot him his darkest stare and stepped forward, fighting back tears. Despite his blurred vision, he managed to hide the girl's nakedness with what remained of her skirts and tried to scoop her up in his arms. Her lifeless body was difficult to move: he already knew it and wasn't surprised to fail at first.
"Fuck, what are you doing?" Symon asked while Sandor carried the girl toward the threshold.
He didn't speak like the master-at-arms who bellowed his orders in the yard of Casterly Rock and frightened the pages; his begging tone struck Sandor and made him realize the seasoned man considered him as an equal at that instant, no matter what would happen later. The boy didn't reply; Symon nonetheless stepped aside so that Sandor could go back to the first room.
The foot soldier who had tried to run away gaped at the sight of Sandor holding the dead girl in his arms and carefully laying her down on a bed. He brushed the blond hair from her face and felt the still warm flesh of her cheeks. The realization that she had died shortly before brought back the guilt.I could have done something for her. She could have survived.
He took a sheet the plunderers had tossed on the floor, covered the girl with it and turned to the foot soldiers.
"Where's the goldsmith?"
"He- he's dead," the shortish man stammered.
"I know. Where is he?"
"Downstairs, in the workshop. Tom left him in a corner."
So that's why I didn't notice him at first. Sandor grabbed a blanket and ran down the stairs without ever looking at the weasel-face. As the foot soldier had told him, the goldsmith had been stabbed to death, then dragged in a corner of the room. He simply put the blanket on his body, while Symon went down the stairs with his two prisoners.
Wordlessly, Sandor put on his boots and opened the door, then shoved the foot soldiers outside; the fat one, hardly awake, stumbled and nearly fell. In the small square, the dead mother and her child were still lying on the cobblestones, near the smoking ruins of the stables.
"You've done that before," Symon whispered.
It was more a statement than a question. Sandor turned slightly to look at him straight in the eyes, but the answers he could think of seemed whether unnecessary or painful. Instead of trying to explain something Symon well understood, he stopped near the mother, scooped her up and carried her inside the tavern. Although the smoke made him cringe, he put her carefully on a long and wide table where she could lie with her baby, then he looked around him. The foot soldiers had visited this place, as well; the broken jugs and knocked down stools revealed they had spent some time there before noticing the goldsmith's workshop across the square. He went back to the baby, while Symon and the foot soldiers still watched him, the old master-at-arms with a kind of sad resignation in his eyes, whereas the plunderers seemed dumbfounded.
"Seven save us, who is he?" one of the foot soldiers asked, when he walked again in the tavern, the dead child in his arms.
He lay the baby in swaddling clothes down, next to his mother, and deplore the lack of blanket to protect them. But at least, they're inside. Somebody will find them and bury them properly. He left the tavern, now finding difficult to hold the foot soldiers' stare.
As they walked away in the mid-afternoon sun, they heard a creaking noise coming from the second floor of the house neighboring the goldsmith's workshop; someone who had been observing them for a while had just closed the shutter. The idea that some inhabitants could have seen him carrying the dead woman and her child embarrassed him, even though he couldn't explain why. He sped up. The shortish man who panted behind him cleared his throat.
"Someone else will come, you know. Aye, boy, someone else will come and take their gold. You think the townsfolk are innocent people? They'll just come in and steal their belongings!"
Sandor briskly turned around, ready to fight, but Symon had already seized the man and pinned him against a wall. The foot soldier helplessly opened his mouth as the master-at-arms squeezed his throat.
"Watch your tongue, little shit!" he threatened him. "Lord Tywin told us to find you but he didn't say how many plunderers he wanted back. Right now, I'm the only one who stands between you and the squire's blade."
He let go with him and gave Sandor a knowing look before leading the boy and their prisoners through the narrow and filthy streets of King's Landing.
On their way to the Red Keep, there would be deserted places where one could believe the population had run away and streets covered with corpses, Sandor knew that. He would see dead Gold Cloaks and slaughtered inhabitants, people who had been killed because they wanted to defend their family or their valuables against the Lannister host.
What he had done for the goldsmith's daughter or the woman who owned the tavern didn't change anything to the cruelty of the Sack and he doubted he could ever forget the screech he had heard earlier nor the dreadful vision of the dead girl. All these memories would join the ones he kept in a corner of his mind and vainly tried to erase. Like the burns on his face, what he had been through made him a different person. The memories would come back sooner or later, on a battlefield or in a town like this one; he could not fight them but perhaps could he live with them and not let them destroy him, until someday, he found a way to heal his invisible wounds.
Eddard
Long before the host reached the high walls surrounding King's Landing, he noticed the plumes of smoke concealing the roofs, wreathing the towers in their greyish embrace and curling in the clear sky. His men, the brave soldiers who had faced the royal army in Stoney Sept and at the Trident before making this forced march, began to look at each other and to whisper. They didn't understand what they saw and, at first, he shook his head in bewilderment, remembering what Robert had said about the 'preparations' King Aerys had ordered throughout the town and the harbor. Were these fires in the largest city of the realm the consequences of the king's lunacy? Only a sick mind could plan the destruction of the capital which would kill thousands of innocent people.
However, as Howland and him scanned the horizon, they remembered the tales about Aerys' fascination for fire, especially for wild-fire and Ned realized the dark plumes of smoke were not consistent with what one could expect from the king's precious pyromancers.
When Aerys had chosen Lord Rossart, a member of the Alchemists' Guild, to be his new Hand, a few days earlier, the king had put all his hopes in someone who wouldn't fight like Jon Connington, nor temporize like Owen Merryweather. Rossart had never held a sword before and wasn't famous for his political skills, but he knew more about wild-fire than anyone else in the Seven Kingdoms. Still, this can't be wild-fire.
Wild-fire would burn everything and illuminate the sky with uncanny green hues, blinding the Stark forces as well as the inhabitants. Eddard imagined a terrible heat, charred corpses and an infernal landscape that would give a foretaste of the Seven Hells. What he saw from the hills overlooking the capital was frightening yet completely different: the fires were numerous, but they didn't spread in the city. The plumes of smoke were dark, too dark to result from wild-fire and the sequence of events disconcerted him, as well: Aerys was mad, but he was smart enough to wait for the rebel forces before setting fire to the city. Destroying his enemies obsessed him and Ned took the king's grudge toward the Northerners seriously. He wouldn't let us escape, if he ever had a chance to kill us. Unless someone else who chose the traditional way over the occult sciences set fire to King's Landing.
Shifting on his saddle, he turned to Howland Reed and Wyman Manderly.
"Tywin Lannister," he said flatly.
Brow furrowed, the two young lords looked back at him; while Howland slowly regained his impassible expression as soon as he processed Ned's words, Wyman Manderly cursed in astonishment.
"Tywin fucking Lannister? Seven buggering Hells, Eddard... This would be his... work? It doesn't make sense!"
"On the contrary," Howland replied, shivering despite the warm sun, "it makes sense. Do you think someone like Tywin Lannister would choose to die for a lost cause? For a king who rejected his daughter as a possible match for the Crown Prince? Aerys humiliated Tywin Lannister and this is his revenge. He's burning the city where his daughter was supposed to marry."
"Burning a city such as King's Landing is crazy," Manderly protested, an incredulous smile on his face.
"Call it retaliation, then. Gods, we're not listening to the Rains of Castamere. We're watching this song."
Releasing the reins for a heartbeat, the Crannogman showed the city with a sweeping gesture, then he set his green eyes on the pillars of smoke darkening the mid-afternoon sky, as a strange expression crept over his triangular face.
"King Aerys will die before sunset," he announced.
Eddard glanced at Wyman Manderly, eager to watch his Bannerman's reaction: disbelief lingered on his features and he swallowed hard, but he didn't criticize Howland's prediction, for once. No matter how the other lords rolled their eyes in annoyance, every time Howland foretold an event, he was right.
"We can't waste time, then. Ned, what do you think?"
"We should hurry."
Trying to forget the stiffness he felt in his back because he lacked sleep and couldn't stand his breastplate anymore, Eddard turned to give a look at his men: tired but disciplined, the Northerners, the Tully and Baratheon hosts formed an endless column in the green landscape of the Crownlands, stretching to the horizon. Knights, horsemen from the North, with their mounts, foot soldiers from every part of the realm that questioned the Targaryen king: wherever they came from, their features showed the same resigned weariness. Where do I lead this army? As he didn't have any answer, he let his horse feel his spurs and hurtled down the hill.
He had been clear when he had given his orders – insistent and even uncompromising with Roose Bolton, in fact – and demanded a behavior beyond reproach. No killing, no looting would be tolerated and he encouraged his men to let know any abuse toward women or children – once more he had stared at the pale Lord of Dreadfort who cleaned his fingernails with his dagger to stave off boredom.
His men had followed his instructions to the letter but Ned couldn't tell if they were obedient soldiers or if the sight of corpses lying on the burning ruins of the capital had upset them as much as it devastated him. By the time they crossed the Gate of the Gods, the Lannister host had caused more damages than any other disaster since Aegon had founded King's Landing. The Seven, whose solemn faces carved in white stone framed the Gate of the Gods and reminded the travelers that the Faith protected the city, had forgotten the inhabitants.
By his side, Howland cringed on his saddle every time they moved past a burnt house or a heap of bodies. Nothing prepared him to see slaughtered people, Eddard mused. Not that he was hardened compared to his friend, but Crannogmen lived a simple life; they fished, they hunted, they sometimes fought against the harsh environment of the Neck, but they didn't fight their fellow-men. Northerners grew up with the terrifying stories of battles against the Wildlings or the creatures beyond the Wall, while the tales the old women of the Neck whispered by the fire were about the encounter between the Children of the Forest and strange animals.
We're so different. He glanced once more at Howland and he could have sworn there were tears in the Crannogman's eyes. He's so empathetic; when most of the men in this host see the horrors surrounding us, he feels the victims' suffering as if it was his. And suddenly, Eddard felt ashamed because the violence they witnessed didn't really surprise him.
A squire from the Stormlands caught up with him as they crossed Cobbler Square, an almost cheerful look on his round face. Ned frowned in such a way the squire lost his spirit and lowered his dull blue eyes to the reins of his horse.
"My lord, Lord Robert has been riding to rejoin us and he shall arrive soon," the boy announced with a reedy voice.
He nodded curtly and the squire left him, his puzzled gaze revealing how Eddard's coldness toward such news was disturbing. Hooves resonating louder on the cobblestones warned him someone was behind him and Howland. He turned around just in time to see Rickard Karstark's tight-lipped expression.
"What does it mean, Eddard?" Karstark asked, in his straightforward style. "Did Tywin Lannister decide to claim the Iron Throne for himself?"
"He would have attacked us, in this case. If he let us in the city, he plans an alliance with Robert."
"With us," Karstark corrected.
Ned felt his shoulders sink and he swiveled to face his Northerner friend. Karstark's knowing look washed over him but didn't soothe the anxiety anchoring deeper in his bones as they progressed toward the Red Keep.
"Fuck, I don't like it either," Karstark sighed. "And what are these banners on the Red Keep?"
What happened to the royal family? The question tormented him since Howland had foretold the king's death; when crossing the Gate of the Gods or looking up at the Red Keep, Ned couldn't help wondering what Tywin Lannister would do with the king, his Hand or Rhaegar's wife.
Every time he saw a dead woman lying in the streets leading to the castle, whether she was young or old, fully dressed or almost naked, he thought of the Dornish princess and hoped the Lannisters had simply locked her in some dungeon. Perhaps some Dornish knight had found a way to rescue her; the idea, as comforting as it may be, seemed unrealistic. After all, Elia of Dorne had somehow stolen his daughter's betrothed and Tywin Lannister had no taste for forgiveness.
Yet, I couldn't imagine he would command this.
At first, he had thought that Rickard Karstark might be right when he had asked if Lord Tywin was not claiming the Iron Throne: the Lannister banners flying over the Red Keep, their crimson fabric darkened by the greyish smoke of the fires, made Jon Arryn curse while Ned feared the worst.
After he had found Ser Jaime Lannister from the Kingsguard sitting on the Iron Throne, King Aerys' bloodied corpse at his feet, he felt trapped: no matter how strict his orders had been concerning violence and looting, no matter what decision he would take later, his name would forever be associated to the Sack of King's Landing and the murder of the last Targaryens.
Ser Jaime's betrayal and the sight of Aerys lying in the Great Hall while his murderer, a member of the Kingsguard sat on the Iron Throne made the king's death both ironic and humiliating, but what kind of words could express the disgust and hatred he felt when Robert finally arrived and was given the dead bodies of a little girl and her baby brother as a token of loyalty? Tywin's cunning smile when he glanced at Robert made his stomach churn. Robert looked back at the man who had ordered the slaughter of a woman and her two children, and the relief everyone could read in his eyes hurt Eddard like a stab.
We were friends. A long time ago, we were friends and you spoiled everything: you didn't deserve Lyanna's affection and you betrayed my trust. Many men won battles for you or died in your name! Now your selfish decisions sullied their reputation and mine.
He stormed out of the Great Hall, not bothered by Jon Arryn's reproachful gaze and sought refuge on a large balcony overlooking the gardens; this peaceful vision contrasted so much with the display of violence in the city and the crimson cloaks saturated by the children's blood it made him cringe. He didn't know for how long he stayed there, alone with his guilt. As he clung to the guard rail and braced himself against it, he heard behind him brisk footsteps and recognized Howland. Perhaps the only person who understands my reaction.
Ned turned slightly, locked eyes with his friend and gave him a poor smile: take it out on Howland would be the last thing to do. Howland took a few steps further, leaned his elbows on the guard rail but remained silent; there was nothing to say, even for the wise little man born in the Neck.
They contemplated the square flowerbeds, the ocher paths between neat hedges of box-tree, the gurgling marble fountains; all this scenery had been created so that the king could rest after hours spent inside the Red Keep attending ceremonies or ruling the realm, and under the soft, caressing sunbeams of the late afternoon, the gardens of the Red Keep reached their perfection. Yet, the acrid smell of smoke coming from the ashes of the city found its way to their nostrils. Mayhap the stench was the same the day Father and Brandon died.
"Why are you always right?" Eddard asked Howland, and it sounded like a blame.
The sun was coming down, setting fire to the greenery, turning the yellowish-brown alleys into copper: the intoxicating view abruptly reminded Ned of Howland's prediction.
"About the king's murder?" Howland replied. "I hated King Aerys for what he had done but I wish things were different. He deserved a trial. And a proper execution, but afterward. Besides, Ned, I've made mistakes. I was wrong the day I told you and Benjen the Knight of the Laughing Tree would forever remain a secret."
"What have we done?"
Eddard turned to his friend, trying to regain his composure despite the tears burning his eyelids. As usual, what he saw in Howland's gaze soothed him and gave him the comfort he needed. You can rely on me, the green eyes said.
"We're here for your sister," the Crannogman whispered. "I'll stay by your side until we find Lyanna. Then we'll ride back home: you'll join your brother in Winterfell and I'll go back to the Neck."
Ned could seek solace in the prospect of seeing the high walls of Winterfell again; he nodded vehemently.
"Who are the Lannister men who killed the Dornish princess and her children?" he asked Howland.
Since their ride through the city, an idea had crept in his mind: the Wall needed men and for some of the so-called knights who had killed people and raped women during the Sack, taking the black seemed appropriate. Perhaps too kind, in fact. Elia's murderers deserved the black, at the very least.
"They're both Lannister Bannermen, knighted not long ago. A... Ser Amory Lorch and a man called Gregor Clegane. You can't miss this one. He's so tall and massive he earned an ominous nickname: the Mountain. It was a slaughter, Ned. Amory Lorch stabbed Rhaegar's daughter so many times no servant can recognize her. And the Mountain..."
Howland stopped talking for a while and Eddard regretted his question.
"He found Princess Elia with her son," Howland went on. "People say he took the baby, smashed his skull against a wall. She watched her son die, Ned, and she couldn't do anything. Then he raped her and killed her, but I don't know how, because I couldn't stomach it. You know, it's weird, because... I've fought battles with you, I've seen what they did to this city, but that... those details... I couldn't stomach it."
As Howland tried to collect himself, Eddard cursed in an undertone. They'll pay for these murders. He didn't know yet how to convince Robert, but the crimes would not go unpunished.
All of a sudden, a tall figure leaped out from the corridor leading to the Great Hall and almost ran into Howland before ending up at the opposite corner of the balcony where they stood; bending over the guard rail, the intruder vomited his last meal, then wiped away his mouth with the back of his hand and gave them a sheepish glance.
Now that he was standing up, Eddard could notice the boy's height – he had easily towered above Howland a few heartbeats before – his shoulders breadth, the crimson surcoat revealing he was a Lannister creature and the right side of his face. A squire. Gods, he's young, so young.
"Looks like someone didn't stomach it either," Howland commented in an undertone.
"He's a Lannister," Eddard flatly observed.
Ignoring his remark, Howland walked toward the Lannister squire.
"Are you alright, boy?"
"I-I'm fine. Thank you my lord. I'm sorry for..."
Ashamed, he stopped short of going into humiliating details. To his great surprise, the boy's voice had not broken, which meant he was even younger than Eddard thought. The tiny, almost girlish voice contrasted with his grown-up stature and a kind of wildness his eyes exuded.
As the boy shifted from foot to foot, he finally caught a glimpse at the left side of his face and gasped. He had seen this boy in the Great Hall, somewhere behind the lords of the main houses of the Westerlands, but he was on the opposite side of the room at this moment, and the boy's dark hair partly hid his features.
The burns were so deep, so extended, Ned didn't even know someone could survive them. From hairline to chin, the boy's left side was a mass of scars; the flesh was black by places and Eddard sucked in deeply when he realized the ear had disappeared, leaving a hole his strands of hair barely concealed. He must have felt Eddard's eyes on him, for he briskly spun on his heels, only showing them the unburnt side of his face.
"It's a long way from the Westerlands," Howland went on.
"Aye, my lord."
"It was your first battle, right?"
"It was not a battle. It was a sack," the boy spat. His tone was full of contempt and disgust.
At least, there is one person in their damn host who acknowledges what happened here. The boy looked behind him, wondering if he should stay here with his liege lord's new allies or if he should go back to the Great Hall: his shoulders finally sank and he didn't move.
A gust of wind made Howland shiver, and brought again the smell of smoke. When Ned lifted his eyes, he discerned small things twirling in the air, like greyish snowflakes fluttering about for a while before landing on the balcony; the boy saw them too, and extended his hand to touch them. A puzzled look on his face, he scrutinized the snowflakes that would not melt despite the warmth of his palm.
"Ashes," Eddard explained abruptly.
Howland and the boy turned to him, more surprised by his sudden attempt to break the silence than by his answer. The three of them stood there, watching the evening wind bringing more and more ashes on the dead king's perfect garden, dusting the bright flowers and the box-tree with a greyish substance, until the boy finally left them wordlessly.
"Do you know who he is?" Eddard asked Howland.
Whenever they met new people, Howland always managed to identify these persons and to learn things about them before Ned; besides, he had noticed that his friend had not asked the boy's name, as if he already knew. Howland locked eyes with him, slightly embarrassed.
"His name is Sandor Clegane," he answered with a hint of reluctance.
"Clegane? Like the man who raped and killed Elia of Dorne?"
Eddard's indignant tone made Howland shake his head. You don't understand, the green eyes said.
"He's the Mountain's brother, yes. But you saw his reaction. He's young, very young: just try to imagine what he witnessed today."
"Come on, Howland... If he's the Mountain's brother-"
"He hates his brother," Howland stated, with this solemn voice that roused suspicion and annoyance among the rebel lords.
"How do you know?"
"I've heard he ran away from home after his father's death," Howland replied, ignoring his question. "And there's more. After his son got his scars, Lord Clegane kept saying the boy's bedding had caught fire, but some people put the blame on Gregor. It's an open secret in the Westerlands"
"He would have burnt his own kin? That's monstrous! How did you learn all these details about a boy belonging to the Lannister host?" Eddard asked, frowning.
Folding his arms on his chest, he waited for Howland's response, almost sure he wouldn't appreciate it.
"I've talked with Gerion Lannister."
Cursing, Eddard pinched the bridge on his nose between his thumb and forefinger, then locked eyes with the Crannogman.
"A Lannister, Howland? Are you out of your mind?"
He suddenly didn't care if someone could hear their conversation; his distrust toward Lord Tywin was an open secret, like the origins of the boy's scars.
"Gerion Lannister is not like his brother," Howland explained in an undertone, leaning toward him. "You can't just lump together all the members of the Lannister host. Some disapprove, like you partly disapprove Robert's decisions."
Dismayed, Eddard looked at Howland and understood his words could easily outrun his thoughts if they kept talking.
"I've heard enough," he said, shrugging. "I've seen enough today. So I'm going to... explore this castle until I find a place where I could sleep. A damn place where I'm alone, a place that doesn't remind me of the horrors that happened here. Don't know if such a place exists."
Under Howland's saddened gaze, he chuckled nervously, then left the balcony and went back inside; though he didn't look back, he felt like someone had been hiding behind the open door leading to the balcony, listening to their whole conversation.