From this chapter until the end of this story, there will be some differences between this fic and 'Two-and-Ten', if some of you ever read both.
Warning for underage activities. If you feel uncomfortable with it, you should probably not read this chapter. Now you're warned...
Chapter 10
Jon
Sleep shunned him; he spent his nights tossing and turning on his pallet, under the thick fabric of the tent he shared with two young sellswords. Not that his companions were noisy – they were young recruits, and they barely snored – but his mind simply refused to yield and behind his shut eyelids images of Westeros churned over and over.
At the end of the night, when the moon slowly retreated from the sky, he finally drifted in and out of sleep, drowsing then waking up with the slightest noise. Sometimes, he dreamed and though he couldn't remember anything afterward, he knew it was a bad dream for he always woke up with a start, bathed in sweat and panting.
After a fortnight, his inability to find sleep remained a mystery; he felt awfully tired during daytime yet couldn't rest whenever he had a chance. He sought solace in training and being busy with the usual duties of an encampment, but everything turned out to a chore. Is it Rhaegar's death? In this case, why had he slept so well on his first nights there, with the Golden Company?
He still couldn't explain his sleeplessness the day Myles Toyne asked for him; he walked to the shining tent surrounded by golden skulls hanging from the pikes and ducked his head to came in. Settled on a folding seat, the Captain-general didn't even beckon him to sit down and Jon guessed their conversation would be short.
"Seems like Illyrio Mopatis wants to talk to you, Connington," Toyne rasped. "Take your mount and go to his mansion. Come back before sunset, though. I allow you this little trip to Pentos because I have known Mopatis for a long time and I owe him one, but I'm not indebted to you. And I can't let my men come and go for any reason. Got it?"
Jon nodded silently and felt a jolt of energy: if Mopatis wanted to talk to him, he might need his service. After all, the Spider may have whisked Elia and the children away. Are they hiding somewhere in Westeros or are they already here? The idea of seeing Elia again was definitely not tempting, and he foresaw difficulties of all sorts – Mopatis would give him stupid instructions, the princess would be sick and frail as ever and he had never been traveling with children – but he could keep his promise. He could feel useful again.
His horse's gait seemed incredibly slow that day, as he crossed the grassy plains, staring at the high walls of Pentos. He regretted insomnia had left him so tired; at the same time, he knew Elia's incessant chatter would wear him out and maybe it was the way he would finally sleep. The idea made him chuckle and he let his mount feel his spurs; it was still early in the afternoon, but if he had to go back to the encampment, he'd better not waste time.
Once in Pentos, he rode through the same dusty streets where servants wearing heavy bronze collars vainly sought shade. He dismounted in front of the creamy yellow high wall and knocked at the porch. The same old man who had welcomed him the first time appeared in the half-open door then let him in; Jon found the gardens and the mansion unchanged since his first visit, except that the place had not the same effect on his mind. He felt serene as he came in the large room with small fountains, expecting to wait for his host a good while before seeing him and froze when he saw Illyrio Mopatis there.
The fat Pentoshi pushed himself from his armchair and smiled, his mask of apparent self-confidence cracking when he met Jon's narrowed eyes.
No. Don't tell me the Spider failed again. It can't be true. There was a long silence, as Mopatis gestured to the bench seat across him and faced Jon's curt refusal. Mopatis nevertheless sat down in his armchair and sighed.
"Tell. Me. What. Happened." Jon asked, stressing every syllable and grasping the back of the bench with both hands until his knuckles went white.
He was aware all this looked like he was threatening his host, regardless of the laws of hospitality. Mopatis hesitated, mouth agape for a few heartbeats, but when he would recall their meeting later, Jon would admit to himself the Pentoshi took him seriously enough to begin with what seemed the only good news.
"Aegon is alive," Mopatis finally announced.
It means Elia and Rhaenys are dead. His knees gave out suddenly and he didn't protest when his host reiterated his gesture to the bench seat. Settling himself on the silken cushions, Jon tried to process Mopatis' words. Elia is nothing to me. I hate her, I despise her. But Rhaenys...
"I know it's a hard blow for us all and a terrible defeat for the Targ-" Mopatis said with his smoothest tone.
"A terrible defeat?" Jon roared. "You call that a terrible defeat? She's dead. She was so young..."
"Princess Elia was such a lovely person, no doubt that-"
"I don't give a damn about Elia!" he shouted. "I would have kept my promise to her, but I never liked her, never trusted her. I'm talking about Rhaenys."
Mopatis gave him a blank stare. He doesn't know the little girl's name, Jon realized. He ran his fingers through his red beard, trying to regain his composure and locked eyes with the fat man.
"What happened?" he managed to ask, more courteously that time.
"It seems that King Aerys followed Rhaegar's advice and asked Tywin Lannister's help after the Trident," Mopatis began, his voice revealing weariness. "The Lannisters agreed on defending King's Landing again the rebels. Lord Varys was nevertheless anxious and he settled on switching Aegon with another baby."
Jon fidgeted, ready to cut him off, but Mopatis raised his hand in a soothing gesture.
"Jon, please, don't interrupt me. Varys advised Aerys not to open the gates for the Lannister host, because he didn't trust Lord Tywin, but the Grand Maester, this Pycelle, he reassured the king and... he set the cat among the pigeons. They sacked the whole city, Jon."
Silence descended upon the room and for a while, they only heard the weeping waters of the fountains.
"Tywin Lannister chose the winning side, but he needed something to offer Lord Baratheon," the fat man went on.
"Elia and the children."
"The king was murdered by Lord Tywin's son, Ser Jaime. I suppose you know him. Two Lannister knights were sent to break in the Red Keep during the sack and they killed Princess Elia and her children."
"Who are they? The Lannister knights?" he asked.
His own detached tone surprised Jon, and his host, still expecting a fit of anger, raised a puzzled eyebrow.
"A man named Gregor Clegane... dishonored... and murdered the princess. He killed her so-called son, as well."
Jon's nervous chuckle startled Mopatis who shifted slightly.
"Isn't it ironic? Rhaegar himself dubbed the young Clegane a few months ago. Did he kill Rhaenys?"
"I don't think so. Lord Varys mentioned a Ser Amory Lorch."
Give me a boat and I'll go back to Westeros, find this Amory Lorch and kill him. I'll disarm him and let my blade dig in his abdomen, so that I can watch him die slowly. He doubted Amory Lorch's death could give him solace and well knew the knight's death wouldn't bring back the trusting little girl who mispronounced his name. But I'll avenge her.
All of a sudden, he remembered Varys' plan of switching Aegon with another baby boy and directed his resentment on Mopatis. Sacrificing another child instead of Rhaegar's daughter might be cruel, but if it was the only way to save Rhaenys, he would have gotten his own hands dirty.
"Why didn't the bloody Spider find a low-born girl and disguise her with Rhaenys' dresses?" he growled.
The fat man didn't answer immediately, weighing his words.
"Lord Varys thought about using the same subterfuge for both children, but it's easy to replace a swaddled baby by another swaddled baby," he offered. "Instructing a little girl so that she played the role of Princess Rhaenys was much more difficult; anybody could find out-"
"Save your breath. There's another reason, right?"
Jon wasn't even surprised. Ill-at-ease, Mopatis played with his golden rings.
"Try to convince a mother to let her child go, Connington, and you'll understand. The prospect of putting her son in the care of strangers terrified Princess Elia. She kept repeating she wanted her daughter with her."
"Crazy woman, she doomed her own daughter!" he hissed.
Jon couldn't tell what overwhelmed him; there were no words to express the anger seething inside him, a rage aiming alternatively at the Lannister knights, at Elia, at Varys. There were no words either to describe what he felt for Rhaenys; she wasn't his kin, he barely knew her, had held her once a day, the little girl missed her father and that was all. Yet she had touched him in an unexplainable way and she had aroused emotions he didn't know he possessed.
"Why did he save Aegon instead of her?" he asked, doing his best not to show his fury.
Even if Jon knew the answer, he needed to hear it from Mopatis' mouth. The fat man swallowed hard, aware his words wouldn't soothe his guest's nerves.
"It was the right thing to do. Being Prince Rhaegar's rightful heir gives Aegon all chances to unite the forces still faithful to the Targaryens when the time comes. The loyalists will follow a young man without a second thought. No offense, Jon, but Westerosi people are rather conservative and they always chose men to lead them. I'm not sure they would have followed a girl."
He jumped on his feet and leaned toward Mopatis, a mad look in his eyes.
"You and Varys have this little girl's blood on your hands! Elia should have known, she should have sensed the danger, but she was a foolish woman. Varys... The eunuch could have saved Rhaenys and he didn't! While you'll lie down on your feather bed, hiding your paunch under silken sheets, you'll remember her name and how you refused to help her, causing her death!"
Out of breath, he felt his cheeks burning under Mopatis' cold stare. The display of anger and frustration somewhat repelled the fat man but Jon didn't care about the Pentoshi's contempt.
"I could have saved her," Jon added, forgetting his earlier rage and softening his voice. "I told Elia I could take Rhaenys with me, but she refused. I should have insisted. I should have done it, unbeknownst to Elia." His voice broke. "I would have taken good care of her and she would be alive."
Once he went silent, Mopatis scowled at him.
"I thought you were a warrior, Jon, but you're getting sentimental."
It felt like a slap in his face, and if Mopatis meant to awaken him with this cutting remark, he exceeded his expectations.
"You and Varys want me to crush our enemies so that we can restore the Targaryen dynasty? Fine. I'll crush them. I'll kill the Lannisters and their knights one by one. I'll find this Amory Lorch, open his belly and strangle him with his bowels. I'll burn his keep and destroy every damn trace of his existence. And if you want, I'll chase this beast of Gregor Clegane, cut his manhood and stuff his throat with it. Varys would shiver at that thought. You call that sentimental?"
Jon vaguely knew his chest was heaving while anger contorted his face. The Pentoshi's expression gradually softened and he regained the mask of false empathy that irritated Jon.
"You had more than your share of hardships, lately," he said. "Since your exile and Prince Rhaegar's death..."
"I'm not interested in your feigned compassion, Mopatis. You're wasting your time. What do you want from me?"
No matter how adamant and dry his tone seemed to the Pentoshi, he still struggled to regain his composure as he sat down on the bench seat, putting aside the stupid cushions.
"Aegon is still in King's Landing, hidden somewhere," Mopatis explained. "I wanted you to know about the Sack and I wanted to ask you if you're still determined to keep your promise. Elia's murder changed our plans."
How? Don't tell me you and the Spider didn't consider that Elia could die. You already knew it could happen.
"Aegon will soon cross the sea and he'll stay here, in Pentos, with a wet-nurse. However, he's Rhaegar's heir and someday he'll claim his rights. He'll need someone to protect him and to teach him everything a prince should know about Westeros, about warfare, about the Faith of the Seven. You'll be that man, Jon."
The large room went silent again as Jon pondered on Mopatis' words.
"I'm a sellsword now," he stated flatly.
His new status seemed conflicting with the prospect of raising a child, even a child who would lead men to a battlefield someday.
"Yes, you are," Mopatis retorted. "And you'll stay in the Golden Company for some time. In a few years, Lord Jon Connington will die very conveniently but you will rise as a different man, a father, shielding his son."
The child Mopatis offered him to protect was not the one he cared for and the future he envisioned for Jon was dramatically different from what he expected; he would brood over it for days. They knew it, he suddenly realized. Varys chose me on purpose, because he wanted me to raise Aegon. He felt dizzy, wondering when the eunuch had chosen him, if he had already settled on Jon the day he whispered his name in the king's ear. But he couldn't know I would lose at Stoney Sept, he couldn't know I'll be sent in exile... or could he? Jon felt at a loss; he nonetheless crossed his legs in a casual way and looked at the fat man.
"Is that all?" he asked, keeping up the appearances of the arrogant exiled lord. "I assume our little conversation is over. If you will excuse me."
He stood up and left a dumbfounded Mopatis; as he walked away, he heard him mumbling something about ill-mannered Westerosi lords.
Eddard
When the morning fog dissipated in the first rays of light, the inner yard of the Red Keep looked like a pigsty and its ocher sand disappeared under a chaos of tents and camp fires. Two hosts sharing a castle which is smaller than Winterfell, he mused, disheartened by the sight of archers and lancers still sleeping under their rough blankets or getting up to relieve themselves against a wall.
Leaning his elbows on the window ledge made of pale red stone, Eddard observed the improvised camp of the Lannisters, directly below him. Crimson tents and the crimson banners everywhere. At least, they removed the red banners floating above the Red Keep. Tywin's good will gesture didn't soothe Eddard's thirst for revenge though; on the contrary, it increased his need to see the Lannisters punished for what they had done. A Lannister always pays his debts. Well, I'll give them an occasion to prove consistent and pay for their crimes.
He stood up and resumed his walk to the Tower of the Hand, where Jon Arryn had probably taken up residence. After their arrival in the Red Keep, it had been obvious that only Arryn could be Robert's Hand. Robert had offered Ned the badge with a tiny hand carved on it, but he had refused instinctively: it was late, Eddard had finally found a room where he could have some rest in Maegor's Holdfast, and already slept when a drunken Robert knocked at his door. Ned looked fixedly at his old friend begging for his advices and his help to rule the realm, then telling him that, being the Hand of King, he would become rich and powerful. Puzzled by his cold stare, Robert rested his head against the door frame, swallowing hard as he understood Ned could refuse.
"Winterfell is all I want, now," Eddard replied after a few heartbeats. "I did what I did for Lyanna, not for titles."
With that, he closed the door in Robert's face and heard the new king bellowing he would give the badge to Arryn. Eddard hardly slept, after Robert's visit, pondering over the situation and thinking of the better strategy to get rid of the Lannisters' presence. But Arryn will listen to me: he'll understand my point of view and tell me how we can set Tywin Lannister aside from the small council.
As he left Maegor's Holdfast to cross the yard leading to the Tower of the Hand, the acrid smell of smoke reminded him of the dreadful visions of the sack. He winced and kept walking, avoided a foot soldier sobering up and reached the Tower where Arryn had most likely spent the night. Ned was sure that once Robert had gotten over his refusal, he had turned to Arryn. And Arryn had accepted: the Lord of the Eyrie would not let Robert alone. Sometimes, Eddard wondered if Arryn didn't prefer shaping his wards – Robert and himself – to ruling the Vale. Arryn loved to play the part of the wise and seasoned man who advised them when they had doubts and chided them when they misbehaved. Now he will have many reasons to chide Robert.
Another flight of stairs led him to a corridor where he recognized the blue and white banner of House Arryn, several guards and the squire who served Jon. The boy bowed slightly and knocked at the heavy door made of oak banded with black iron to announce Ned's arrival. Arryn's baritone voice asked who paid him a visit so early in the morning and he finally told his squire to let Eddard in.
Since he was a boy, Ned had heard about the Red Keep and the apartments of the Hand; he had imagined large rooms with a solemn atmosphere, not a solar littered with Arryn's belongings – clothes, weapons and scrolls. Arryn wasn't fully dressed; he stood next to the table, his breeches on, while his doublet hanged on the back of a chair.
"You didn't sleep a wink all night," Arryn said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. It was not a question.
"You know me well. Congratulations. You're now the Hand of the King," Eddard replied, sweeping the cluttered room.
"I should have refused. Being Robert's Hand is no bed of roses."
Arryn's honesty forced a smile out of him.
"We need to talk about the Lannisters," Eddard went on.
"Very well. You read my thoughts. Please take a seat, Ned."
His back stiffened immediately; whenever Arryn told him to sit down before discussing serious matters, it meant that he had bad news. He looked at the broad-shouldered man suspiciously and nevertheless settled on a heavy armchair, while his host put his doublet on.
"We must get rid of the Lannisters," Eddard said plainly. "They sacked the city and therefore must be punished."
"They gave Robert the Iron Throne," Arryn retorted, sitting across him.
"I found Jaime Lannister lounging on the Iron Throne!"
"Nobody can lounge on the Iron Throne. The blades-"
"I don't care about the blades!" Eddard roared. "He was sitting there because his father wants to rule the kingdom. The Lannisters won't stop until they get what they want."
"And what do they want?" Arryn asked, sarcastic.
"Power. Tywin wanted to overthrow Aerys as much as Robert, but he didn't want to waste his forces in a war, so he waited until no one could ignore which was the winning side. Why did he arrive just before us in King's Landing, according to you?"
"Because he wanted to give Robert a token of fealty."
"The slaughtered children. And their mother, raped and stabbed. Or strangled, maybe. Howland heard them talk about it, but he was so disgusted he left before getting all the details about Princess Elia's death."
He didn't try to conceal the hatred and contempt he felt. Ill-at-ease, Arryn shifted on his high-backed armchair.
"Please, Ned. Elia was our enemy. Her husband abducted your sister."
"I doubt Elia of Dorne helped Rhaegar when he stole Lyanna. All I know is that she was an innocent woman and those Lannister knights killed her."
Arryn avoided his gaze for a few heartbeats, gathering his thoughts.
"What do you want?" he finally spat.
Annoyance distorted Arryn's features and on his long neck, Eddard saw his jugular vein jutting out.
"Justice," Eddard answered, a challenging look in his eyes. "Of course, the inhabitants of this city won't see justice done. Do justice to the people of King's Landing would mean hang or send to the Wall every member of the Lannister host-"
Arryn's fist hit the table with a thud and he cursed in an undertone.
"So I will ask for one thing, Jon: bring to justice Ser Jaime Lannister for regicide, Ser Amory Lorch for Rhaenys Targaryen's murder and Ser Gregor Clegane for Princess Elia's rape and murder-"
"Are you out of mind?" Arryn rasped. "You want to destroy all I did last night."
Eddard leaned forward, his hands lying flat on the thick table, and when he uttered the question that burned his lips, he sounded almost contemptuous.
"May I ask what you did last night?"
"I did my best to bring peace to the Seven Kingdoms."
There had been a time when the man sitting across him was the closest thing he had to a father, a time when he trusted his judgment and admire his noble behavior. This time is gone. Is that what you're supposed to feel when you become a man? Disappointment, betrayal and a taste of ashes in your mouth?
"What title did you promise Tywin Lannister, Jon? No, let me guess: he'll be Robert's Master of Coin. Now you're going to tell me he's perfect for the job."
Arryn shook his head.
"Despite your suspicions, Tywin Lannister doesn't want any title. I promised him a wedding."
No. Not that wedding. Like the fog dissipating in the yard a few moments ago and revealing the crimson tents of the Westerlands host, Tywin's plan appeared clearly in Eddard's mind; he wanted Robert to marry his daughter Cersei, so that she could be queen. Robert's heirs would be Baratheon and Lannisters. Tywin would not only have his revenge on the Targaryens he loathed, but also on the ruling Princess of Dorne, whose daughter had married Rhaegar. Tywin kills two birds with one stone; House Lannister becomes the second more powerful house in the realm and Robert burns his bridges. No need to be very smart to imagine that I will disapprove this wedding and walk away.
"I'm sorry Jon, but you're making a huge mistake," he commented flatly.
"You don't understand anything, boy."
It had been years since Arryn had talked to him so harshly.
"Listen, Ned. There's a time to make war, to be pitiless with your enemies, but a true leader knows when he has to make his peace with someone. That's what we did, last night, Robert and I, while you and your friend Howland Reed were sniveling about the Elia's death! We talked with Tywin Lannister, we tried to make a long-lasting alliance which will save the realm."
"Save the realm?" Eddard repeated, skeptical.
"There is no gold left in the royal treasury. Do you have the slightest idea of how much costs a war? We don't have enough coin to pay our soldiers, we must rebuild the cities destroyed during the battles. I could tell you about the necessary works in Stoney Sept, but you just have to look through the nearest window to see the ruins. And Tywin Lannister can lend the Crown all the gold we need."
Ned chuckled nervously.
"So what? Being rich enough to rebuild King's Landing allows him to sack the city, burn down the houses and rape the women? Tywin's gold mines will buy your absolution?"
"This is not a joke, Ned. These are serious matters."
"I was not joking when I asked you to punish Jaime Lannister and the Lannister knights who killed the last Targaryens."
Arryn sighed heavily.
"What do you suggest?"
"Jaime Lannister could take the black, at the very least," Eddard offered. "It would be a honorable way to pay for his crime."
"No way. Robert can't marry one golden head and send the other one to the Wall. What would it look like?"
"Justice. Impunity is a very bad signal you send to the smallfolk."
"This is not justice: this is politics and you clearly don't understand politics."
There was no more cruelty in Arryn's voice, only a hint of sadness. He's as disappointed by my behavior as I am by his. We should end this conversation before one of us says something he can't take back.
"The two Lannister knights..." Eddard began, swallowing hard, "they're not Tywin's kin. They're pawns. I want them dead. I want Robert to announce they'll be beheaded for their crimes... If you want to make peace, you should think about the Dornishmen. You can't just make an alliance with the Westerlands and forget about Dorne."
He stopped talking for a heartbeat, well aware that his last suggestion would sound like he waived his idea of justice.
"Jaime Lannister is free to go if Tywin delivers Lorch and Clegane. The Martells will never forgive Robert if he let those so-called knights escape justice."
Eddard knew he had reached a sensitive area; Arryn remained silent for a while, observing the grained surface of the table, then raised his head and met Ned's eyes.
"I doubt Tywin will accept such a deal."
"There's only one way to be make sure he'll refuse: we should ask him. I will ask him in front of Robert."
Eddard pushed himself from his seat, waiting for Arryn's reaction.
"Robert is probably still asleep," Arryn observed, glued to his gilded leather armchair.
"A king shouldn't sleep when his realm is but ruins," Ned spat. "Do you think that Tywin Lannister is asleep?"
He walked to the door but Arryn's voice stopped him mid-stride.
"I'll go with you, Ned."
Their encounter took the appearances of a Small Council, not only because Arryn invited them all in the Tower of the Hand. The other members of the former Small Council being either dead or dismissed, the Master of Whisperers, Lord Varys, and the Grand Maester Pycelle attended the meeting, their presence showing that a kind of strange continuity with the Targaryen era existed. Both seemed ill-at-ease; Pycelle smiled a bit too much and Varys remained very silent for a man supposed to know everything, even the more trifling events of the Seven Kingdoms.
Robert was sitting at the head of the table, with Arryn at his right side; Tywin Lannister and his brother Gerion took place on Robert's left while Eddard shared the other end of the table with Varys and Pycelle. Some boys stood near the door, bearing their master's livery: Robert's timid squire, Arryn's beanpole and the scarred boy serving Lord Tywin he had met on the balcony. Clegane's brother. Why did Tywin choose a boy who is neither old enough nor able to make a good impression to squire for him? Does he use the boy, because of his name, as a reminder of what he's ready to do, like ordering the slaughter of a woman and her children?
"Ser Amory Lorch and Ser Gregor Clegane are mine," Tywin answered softly after listening to Eddard's question. "Mine to chastise or to reward. In this case, I'll reward them."
He looked so threatening at this moment, despite his exquisite manners and clear-cut tone, that Pycelle shivered.
"They got rid of three persons who stood in King Robert's way to the Iron Throne," Tywin added. "Your address makes me question your loyalty towards King Robert, Lord Eddard."
A seething rage took hold of Ned. The lion feels in his bones I distance myself from Robert and he'll use our difference of opinion shamelessly.
"I'll lend enough gold to rebuild most of the places ruined or destroyed by battles. It's a good deal for the Crown," he added, glancing sideways at Robert. "No need to say that I would reconsider my offer should my Bannermen be brought to justice."
"Why are we talking about this, in the first place?" Robert asked.
Understanding his old friend wouldn't help him in this, Eddard's heart sank.
"Will you agree with me, Lord Tywin, if I say you brought the children's dead bodies to our new King as a token of fealty?" Eddard went on, ignoring Robert puzzled look and the quivering of Pycelle, beside him.
Tywin nodded slowly, his unsettling green eyes locking with his; a few yards behind the Warden of the West's high-backed chair, he noted how furious the young Clegane looked, shifting from foot to foot.
"What kind of loyal liegeman were you when you sacked and burned the capital? When your men killed or raped the townsfolk?"
"Enough!" Robert bellowed.
When Gerion Lannister opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, his elder brother raised his hand in a commanding gesture that shushed the fair-haired man; Gerion sat back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. Beside Ned, Lord Varys kept staring at Tywin, fascinated by his demeanor. The Lord of Casterly Rock let out a sigh expressing his annoyance in front of an assembly so unworthy of his cleverness, rooted his elbows to the table and looked at them over steepled fingers.
"I won this city for King Robert and I prevented the mad king from burning it. Do you think he would have set fire to a bunch of inns like some of my men did? No. If I had not interfered, you would have seen green hues in the sky, green flames devouring houses and people alike. Your host would have waited for one night and one day, until the ashes went cold, before crossing the gates. Nothing of this" – his hand showed the room a sweeping gesture – "would remain. I did save the city."
Undeterred, he scowled at Eddard.
"And what would it look like if the men who got rid of the remaining Targaryens and secured the dynasty your friend King Robert is about to start were beheaded? Smallfolk would not understand such a decision. However, there's something I understand quite well, Lord Eddard. You don't care for the late Dornish princess, nor for her children, nor for my Bannermen. With your accusation, you only mean to harm my son, Ser Jaime."
Eddard got on his feet instantly, startling the Grand Maester who cringed on his seat.
"I will not have you talking to me this way, Lord Tywin. Instead of accusing me, you should consider your own actions. You betrayed the Mad King soon after promising him your help and you butchered the largest city of the realm. As for your son, he discarded the vows he had taken and stabbed the king he once swore to protect. I'm sad to observe that the such a conduct could go unpunished, after a war that meant to free us from the unfairness of the Targaryen era."
A sardonic smile appeared on Tywin's lips.
"Wars aren't won with promises and pledges, Lord Eddard."
"A pledge I made months ago is precisely the reason why I am here today," he retorted.
"I pity you, then."
Tywin's piercing green eyes were set on Ned, as if the Lord of Casterly Rock tried to understand what he considered an idiotic and nonsensical attitude. He thinks fools like me die young. Robert and Arryn remained silent, thus showing they wouldn't take Eddard's side.
"Anyway," Tywin added, "I won't let you punish my Bannermen – let alone my son – but... I wanted to chastise some of my men who overstepped my orders. If King Robert wants to make an example of these men, I'm ready to hand them over. Tell me Gerion, what happened with the plunderers we caught near the Great Sept?"
"Master Symon and your squire took care of them," the second golden head replied. "We should ask Clegane."
Turning around, he motioned the boy to come, while Pycelle and Varys suppressed a shiver. The boy's name will soon be an insult, after what his brother did. Just before the meeting in the Tower of the Hand, he had heard Northerners referring to Jaime as the Kingslayer. 'Kingslayer', 'Clegane' these names will be Robert's reign new spectres.
The tall scarred boy took a few steps forward and stopped in front of his master.
"Where are they, Clegane?" Tywin asked.
"Master Symon and I locked them in the dungeons."
"Wherever you go, Clegane, you can't help visiting dungeons," Gerion commented and it sounded like a private joke.
Whether he enjoyed the jape or not, the squire remained very serious, glancing from time to time to Pycelle who adjusted his lorgnon on his nose to have a good look at the boy's burned cheek.
"Go fetch Symon and bring back these men," Tywin ordered. "Lord Eddard wishes to make an example and I want to oblige him."
The boy turned around and walked away.
"Are we done?" Robert asked.
"I suppose we are," Tywin replied in a casual tone. "As for the feast I intend to regale my host, we already discussed it."
Eddard swallowed his pride, understanding that Robert would not question the alliance Arryn had made with the Lannisters.
"May I ask if I could examine this boy's extraordinary burns?" Pycelle asked, with his quavering voice.
Tywin stared at him for a while, his green eyes glistening with a mix of surprise and anger.
"The boy is mine," he answered curtly, "and he'll go to the maester only if I tell him to do so."
With that, Tywin pushed himself from his chair and took his leave, his brother on his heels.
Eddard was still standing at the end of the table, near a dumbfounded Pycelle. Beside the Grand Maester, Varys let out a deep sigh and raised his gaze to him.
"Lord Eddard, may I have a word with you?"
Myrish rugs covered the floor in the Master of Whisperers' apartments, muffling Lord Varys' footsteps. The Spider offered him to sit down on a couch and chose for himself an armchair upholstered with lilac brocade that almost matched his long silken tunic.
"I may have information for you," the eunuch began, hiding his plump hands in his long sleeves. "When you mentioned that vow you made, during your... tactful debate with Lord Tywin, were you referring to your sister, Lady Lyanna?"
"Can you tell me where she is?"
Eddard didn't even try to conceal the urgency in his tone.
"Would that I could. Alas, my lord, Prince Rhaegar was a cautious young man and I only have hints. I can ask my little birds to find substantial clues, though. I believe she is in Dorne, but I didn't locate her precisely and Dorne is such a large peninsula..."
Ned swept the large room furbished with an exquisite taste and finally set his eyes on his host.
"Are you trying to oust me, Lord Varys? To send me away from King's Landing?"
Unabashed, the eunuch tilted his head and smiled.
"Well, my lord, I didn't know you were so eager to stay in the capital."
"I'm not. Right now, all I want is to get my sister back and to see Winterfell again. However, if you try to keep me out of the Red Keep so that you can resume your little schemes-"
"This place is dangerous, Lord Eddard. Dangerous and hardly compatible with your nature, but you already discovered it. King Robert will probably send you to rescue his younger brother in Storm's End; I can nevertheless gather some more information about your sister before you come back, if you want."
Eddard nodded gladly. The prospect of leaving King's Landing and its web of intrigue was all he needed.
Sandor
"You must be over the moon," Serrett told him with a smirk.
Sandor had just left the balcony where he had met Lord Eddard Stark and the pipsqueak from the Neck who was his friend, when he met Serrett on his way to the Maidenvault. The Red Keep still looked like a maze for Sandor, but he knew that Tywin would be in the Maidenvault and would need his service. Serrett was leaving the long slate roofed keep as he called him out. Sandor stopped mid-stride and gazed intently at Gerion's squire, wondering about his remark.
"Why would I be over the moon?" he asked Serrett.
The squire snorted, but as Sandor took one step forward, he noticed the boy's red eyes.
"'Cause Banefort is dead," he spat. "That makes you Tywin's one and only squire. It seems that you have the luck of the devil, Clegane."
He frowned in disbelief, ignoring what Serrett implied.
"But how?" he said.
Banefort will be knighted soon, probably by King Robert. He can't die now.
"Lord Tywin sent House Banefort and loads of crossbowmen to the harbor," Serrett replied, sniffing. "Banefort was among them. Some sailors resisted and Banefort got killed during an ambush."
Serrett went silent, observing Sandor's reaction. After staring at his reddened face for a few heartbeats, Sandor averted his eyes, bobbing his head. So that's why I didn't see him in the Great Hall, when Gregor and Amory Lorch presented the corpses of the Targaryen children to Robert...
He peered at Serrett who seemed furious.
"I'm sorry," he said flatly. "Banefort was a good squire."
"As if I didn't see you fighting with him!" Serrett hissed. "You hated Banefort, you double-faced bastard, so don't tell me you're sorry. Now you'll squire for Tywin. You'll have everything you wanted since the day you arrived in Casterly Rock. Oh, it didn't take you a long time to achieve your ends... Only a few months, fighting with other squires, licking Tywin's ass..."
Sandor stayed perfectly still, slightly shaking, but keeping a grip on himself; after what he had seen in the streets of King's Landing during the day, he felt nauseous enough not to hit the first prick who provoked him. His lack of reaction made Serrett frown; he finally understood that Gerion's squire looked for an excuse to brawl, and he expected Sandor to start the fight. As a way to conjure his sorrow for losing a friend? After all, he had seen stranger things.
"You know what?" he told Serrett, moving past him. "I don't care about your opinion on me. I don't care about squiring for Tywin or for someone else. You're an asshole if you think I rejoice in Banefort's death and-"
Before he could finish his sentence, Serrett jumped on his back and tried to strangle him; the boy kicked and squeezed Sandor's throat with all his might. Even taken unaware, even in the aftermath of the sack – or perhaps because he had witnessed so many horrors that day – Sandor didn't feel like striking back: he seized Serrett's wrists and forced him to release his hold, then shrugged the squire like a useless cloak. Serrett landed on his hands and knees, cursing and choking back tears. The blond boy looked so miserable at that instant, Sandor couldn't help staring at him before walking away.
I'll be responsible for their death. The prospect made his head spin, as he followed Master Symon in the spiral staircase leading to the Red Keep dungeons. After the meeting between the new king, his counselors and the Lannister siblings, Tywin had ordered him to bring back the plunderers they had caught the day before so he could show them to Robert. Robert Baratheon the first of his name... it sounds odd. He'll be the first king in three hundred years not to bear a Valyrian name... The thought disturbed him, but not enough to make him forget about the two poor devils who awaited their fate in the dungeons underneath the Red Keep.
Because of the stairs' uneven surface and the feeble light, Master Symon carried a burning torch. The master-at-arms had first offered it to Sandor, before thinking better of it and silently taking the piece of wood soaked in pitch. The boy was grateful for Symon's attention and kept a reasonable distance between him and the flames. From time to time, they heard droplets falling from the ceiling; receiving some water on the top of his head, Symon cursed and wiped it immediately. As they progressed deeper under the luxurious rooms of the Red Keep, the drop in temperature surprised Sandor who soon shivered in his crimson tunic.
"So the man I talked to said there were four levels of dungeons in the Red Keep," Master Symon rasped, breaking the heavy silence.
"I don't understand," Sandor replied. "When we locked the foot soldiers, we only saw one floor, and most of the cells were empty. Why are there four levels?"
Symon turned around and in the flickering light of the torch, his ugly face took a devilish appearance.
"Seems that we only saw the first floor, where common criminals are confined. Each level has his purpose. The high-born captives stay in the second level, where there are no windows and only torches burning to give them some light; the third level contains black cells, with no windows nor torches. It must be terrible to spend days and nights in the black cells..."
"What about the fourth level?" Sandor asked as the master-at-arms resumed his descent into the bowels of the Red Keep.
"The fourth floor is used to torture prisoners and neither you nor I want to see this."
Sandor repressed a shiver.
"Are they going to torture them, Master Symon?"
"I don't think so, boy. Torture is meant to make people confess their crimes. King Robert doesn't care about what these men did, he just wants to make an example... What?"
He cast a glance at Sandor and noticed his frowning; as usual, he misunderstood the boy's expression.
"Nothing," Sandor answered. "Some men don't use torture to make people confess their crimes. Especially when there are no crimes to confess."
The images he tried to forget had come back without warning, as disturbing as ever. Violence is just Gregor's way to entertain himself, when he's bored. Or pissed off, or whatever. Symon looked at him intently, his self-confidence vanishing in the dark staircase and his jaw dropping with fright when he realized what Sandor meant and who he was talking about.
"We won't visit the fourth floor," Symon told him firmly. "And the plunderers won't be tortured, I give you my word."
"You don't need to promise me anything," he retorted, barely concealing his anger. "Promises are for fools."
Symon put his torch in the nearest sconce and stared at him. The master-at-arms had the same look Sandor had seen in his eyes the day before, as he carried the dead girl to her bed: puzzled, sad and somehow tender. The kind of look that made him feel ashamed; he suddenly wanted to eat his words.
"I'm sorry," he said flatly, eyes downcast. "It's just that they're going to die because of me."
Symon seized his shoulders and forced him to meet his gaze.
"They're thieves and probably murderers. You caught them. I should be the one who feels guilty because I didn't lift the little finger to save this poor girl."
While Symon confessed his weakness, he felt more pressure on his shoulders, as if the man leaned on Sandor.
"Why did no one try to help her? We could have done something before leaving the square."
"We were obeying orders, boy. That's what soldiers do. But I don't want you to feel guilty; they deserve their chastisement. And never forget that Lord Tywin sent you to bring them back yesterday, then decided they'll end up on the gallows, to please King Robert."
The master-at-arms sighed heavily before letting go with Sandor. We're pawns, he thought bitterly. I thought I was doing something good when I chased them in the streets of King's Landing, but I was just a pawn, like the plunderers, in the little game Tywin plays with the new king and Lord Stark.He felt like a cog in a wheel, trapped in a monstrous clockwork. If he didn't want to obey orders, all he could do was run away. The images of his stay in the woods before he arrived in Casterly Rock flooded in. As Symon took the torch and grabbed the keys hanging from his belt, Sandor shook his head. Not now. Someday, when I'm ready.
"You killed your first man before bedding a girl," Symon said with an inebriated voice. "It should be the other way around. The Gods... the Gods have forsaken us. Trust me, Clegane, this world is crazy."
Wine induced tirades didn't really surprise Sandor now that every member of the Lannister host was more or less drunk. Around him and the master-at-arms, the lords, knights and foot soldiers were drinking all kinds of alcohol one could find in King's Landing, from the most expensive wines imported from Essos to the piss-poor ale and cheap strong-wine the commoners loved; the only difference was that the lords and knights drank their Volantene wine in the Queen's Ballroom, while Tywin had bidden the archers and lancers to stay outside, in the Red Keep's inner yard.
Sandor and Symon stood at the threshold of the Queen's Ballroom, between the two worlds observing each other without mixing. The boy was accustomed to the nobility's despise toward him and to the smallfolk's distrust; he simply didn't belong to either group. However, he had never realized Symon felt the same: in fact, he ignored Symon's past.
"Can we stay here with the commoners or should we go inside?" he asked the pot-bellied man.
"As long as I can drink, I don't give a fuck about it, boy."
He took another long gulp and chuckled, almost choking on his wine.
"Are you a knight?" Sandor asked again.
"I'm the youngest son of House Vikary. People said a Reyne bastard founded our house. A Reyne bastard! That makes me less than a shit in Lord Tywin's eyes, since he killed all the members of House Reyne and destroyed Castamere. My father had the strangest idea; the year Tywin came back from Castamere, after he had crushed the rebellion, he sent me to Casterly Rock. I wasn't welcome there, and I was neither good-mannered nor smart. But... I was good with a sword and that's why his father, Lord Tytos, let me stay as a master-at-arms. I knew I could never be a knight, so now I tyrannize the knights-to-be!"
He burst out laughing and poured more wine in Sandor's goblet. Remembering his terrible headache after his first night of bender, the boy resisted – feebly – then took a sip. So Master Symon is not as old as I thought. He's not older than Tywin. Stroking the dark stubble covering the lower half of his round face, Symon looked at him with a bawdy smile.
"Aye, Clegane, it's a shame you killed your first man before bedding a girl. But at least, we can find a solution."
Thanks to the darkness, the master-at-arms couldn't see how red and burning were the boy's cheeks. Sandor swallowed hard, then cleared his throat.
"Girls don't like me. I scare them," he explained.
The master-at-arms patted his shoulder and shook his head.
"You think girls like this?" he asked Sandor, slapping his paunch. "Do you think they want to kiss my big nose? No they don't! That's why we're going to the brothel tonight."
"You said you would take me to the armor-smith," Sandor said, a little too promptly.
He didn't mean it, but he sounded a bit disappointed. Symon let out a raucous laughter, called the nearest group of archers and pointed at Sandor, as if he wanted the men to back him up. The archers ignored what the master-at-arms found so hilarious, yet they burst out laughing all the same. Symon finally calmed down.
"So you're the kind of boy who prefers buying swords than fucking girls? Come on, Clegane, we can do both!"
A look of feigned dignity on his rubicund face, Symon raised his right hand.
"I, Symon of House Vikary, promise to take you to the armor-smith tomorrow, on the condition that you first come with me to a pleasure house. Tonight. You won't keep your sword forever in its sheath, boy."
As Sandor's unease became palpable, the master-at-arms stopped his banter and went serious.
"Listen to me, boy. You don't have to be ashamed. Whores exist for fat men, old men..."
For scarred men?
"I often go whoring, because no woman wants me for free," Symon added. "You can be whoever you want in a brothel. You can pretend you're a handsome youth like Ser Jaime Lannister, if you want. Whores exist for ugly men like me. Or..."
He hesitated, then glanced at Sandor's ruined cheek.
"Or boys like you. I suppose all boys go to the brothel, first. What kind of girl do you like?"
His question puzzled Sandor. He didn't even know men had usually a kind of girl they preferred.
Symon insisted on freshening up before going to the brothel, so he went back to his room, fetched a basin of water and washed hastily. Then he donned his best tunic and joined Symon in the corridor.
On their way to the Street of Silk, a long street housing most of the capital's brothels, the master-at-arms kept talking and ranting under the influence of alcohol and Sandor settled for nodding and not contradicting him. However, the prospect of sleeping with a girl scared him so much he didn't listen to Symon.
He had seen animals in Clegane's Keep, he had heard men talking about women and boasting themselves in the Westerlands and on the road to King's Landing, yet the possibility that he could someday touch a girl was disturbing and remained an abstract idea. Girls don't like me. I scare them, he repeated to himself. They only see the scars.
Over the past moons, his body had changed and, in Casterly Rock, Tybolt's curious look whenever Sandor got undressed had confirmed he was not a child anymore; only his high-pitched voice, this embarrassing anomaly, betrayed his age. He was taller than the oldest squires and still growing up; while the other boys of two-and-ten were generally lanky, his muscles allowed him to carry heavy shields and weapons to help Symon. The master-at-arms had even told him he could someday wield a greatsword with one hand and knowing that he would be able to do such an uncommon thing was a source of pride.
But it's not about height and muscles, tonight. He had had disturbing dreams lately, and had woken up in the morning, pouring sweat and feeling odd. Sandor had a vague idea of what was going on, but as he always did when something confused him, he had decided to shrug it off. Yet he couldn't pretend this night was ordinary. Declining Symon's offer now would turn his only true ally away and Sandor rejected that thought, slightly shaking his head. Next turn of the moon, I'll be three-and-ten, he remembered. I'm a grown man, now.
Symon went silent and suddenly stopped in front of a thick wooden door, before tapping the door knocker. Sandor's heart skipped a beat. It's too late, now, I can't avoid it. He realized he felt more afraid than when they had crossed the Lion Gate and he called himself an idiot. Maybe I'm not a craven but I'm a bloody fool. I fear them more than our enemies. Them, the whores, he said in petto, trying to get used to the word.
All of a sudden, as the door creaked open, he saw them. Standing in the entrance hall and half hidden by a red velvet curtain, behind the old woman who owned the place, they were three very common girls, probably born in Flee Bottom or in some village near the capital, chatting and glancing at the visitors. The owner was as short as skinny; under a shock of grey hair, Sandor noticed the deep wrinkles furrowing her pale skin; she looked up at them and grinned when Symon touched the leather purse hanging from his belt.
"Please come in, Sers. Welcome in Naya's pleasure house!"
Her soft, mild voice sounded a bit soapy.
"We're no Sers," Symon protested.
The old woman tilted her head and smiled playfully.
"Oh, what are you, then? Lords? Two men like you can only be knights or lords. Naya can tell."
Symon turned to Sandor and gave him a knowing look. Is it what he meant when he said we can be whoever we want in a brothel? Naya observed them as they stepped in the entrance hall and she closed the door made of dark oak.
"Hmm, let me guess," she said softly, "an experienced warrior like you needs to forget about the terrible battles he fought with a curvaceous woman. A blond, maybe?"
The master-at-arms hesitated for a heartbeat then nodded. Naya gestured to one of the whores and she stepped forward, puckering up in the flickering light of the candles; she was a pale fleshy blond with long braided hair. Like the two other girls, she wore a see-through gown; hers was blue and enhanced the color of her eyes. Symon seemed pleased enough not to bargain the price Naya announced.
"And what about your friend?" Naya asked, as Sandor's good cheek went red. "A young girl. Not too young, though, he needs to be reassured."
How did she know? He sucked in deeply when the old woman brushed aside the dark strands he had flatten on the left side of his face. Despite his humiliation, he tried to stay still and clenched his jaw.
"Hmm-hmm, go fetch Emerald," Naya ordered and he clearly saw the two remaining girls heaving a sigh of relief before vanishing behind the velvet curtain and hurrying in the corridor.
The same old story. He glared at the old woman who cautiously stepped back and turned to Symon.
"I'm afraid there will be an additional cost," she told the master-at-arms.
"An additional cost?" Symon boomed. "What for?"
Naya sighed and tilted her head, ill-at-ease.
"Listen, I don't want to scare my girls. And I think this" - she pointed at Sandor's burnt cheek - "allows me to ask for a compensation."
As the old woman and the blond whore glanced at him – Naya wondering how much she could ask Symon and the blond with a sparkle of concern in her washed-out blue eyes – he was shaking like a leaf. A heavy silence fell on the entrance hall until a brown-haired girl with a surly face emerged from the corridor.
"This is Emerald," Naya announced, smiling and partially recovering her spirit.
As soon as she saw Sandor, Emerald froze; she was a bit taller than Naya and her yellow see-through gown hardly concealed her slim body. Without her sullen expression and her constant frown, she could have been beautiful. She looked hard at Sandor and tugged Naya's sleeve, leading the old woman in the corridor to protest. In the meanwhile, the blond woman grinned and gave Symon her best bedroom eyes.
Although Naya and the young whore whispered, Sandor caught snatches of their conversation and easily imagined what he couldn't hear.
"I said no..." the girl said. "I'm tired...always fucking babes..."
"No way... I already told them... more coin, Emerald!"
"His scars... Disgusting..."
"You don't need to look at him, girl," Naya said, adamant, and they both went back to the entrance hall.
Behind the old woman, the girl looked furious and she glared at the other girls who repressed a chuckle. Naya planted herself in front of Symon and extended the palm of her wrinkled hand; Symon took his purse and gave her the price she demanded: five stags. Finally, the old woman gave a little flourish with both her hands and Symon left Sandor to follow the blond woman, who wriggled her hips and rewarded the master-at-arms with a languid gaze. The boy's heart skipped a beat; in front of him, Emerald folded her arms, and observed Sandor suspiciously.
"Come on, Emerald!" Naya said, grabbing the girl's wrist with a hint of impatience.
Someone had just knocked at the heavy door and the old woman didn't want to lose a customer. Emerald frowned again and exited the entrance hall without ever looking at him. The corridor, half concealed by the red curtain, was long and dimly lit. On either side, Sandor saw wooden doors. Some were closed and probably busy; a few ones were open and revealed the same furniture: a large bed, one console table supporting a pitcher and a basin. On the wooden floor, there was a chamber pot.
Emerald stopped in front of one of the open doors, at the end of the corridor and sighed deeply before entering the tiny room. As he stood on the threshold, she turned around and gave him a condescending look.
"Are you coming, boy? Maybe you want me to call your mama?"
She mocked his young age, but she wasn't much older. Probably no more than eight-and ten, he decided as his mouth went dry. And I'm a grown man. Or at least, I'll be a grown man when I'll leave this room. He stepped in and closed the door.
Thank you for reading! You can find a longer version of Sandor's POV on 'Two-and-Ten' page either on this site or on AO3, but once more, there's a warning for underage activities.