Thanks again to my beta reader, Underthenorthernlights, who edited this despite a bad cold... You're the best!
If some of you want to read more of Sandor's POV, you can find a 'bonus scene' in my other fic, 'Two-and-ten' (on Game of thrones' page in this site or on AO3). It will be in chapter 11 as well...
Chapter 11
Eddard
The public execution of the two plunderers Tywin Lannister had generously handed over to Robert was a mummer's farce, only meant to show how strong was the alliance between House Lannister and the Crown. And to shush me, to prevent me from bringing Ser Jaime to justice. Maybe there was another purpose, as Tywin's moves were carefully thought through; as he attended the execution in a wooden gallery hastily made in Fishmonger's Square, Ned had seen fright in the eyes of the Lannister soldiers crowded around the scaffold. Tywin only knows one way to make his men obey: threatening them, feeding their doubts.
Watching the gallows from the place of honor, Robert kept a kingly attitude all along the ceremony. When the two plunderers were but puppets swaying in the air, the inhabitants of King's Landing shouted and bellowed at them, as if these two men had burdened themselves with all the murders, rapes, and thefts that had happened during the Sack.
Afterward, when there was nothing more on the scaffold to entertain the good people living in the capital, Robert stood up and they all acclaimed him. Their cries and their cheers made Eddard sick; a few days before, these men and women praised Aerys and the Targaryens to the skies, and now they were Robert's faithful subjects. I won't stay any longer, he thought. He had made his decision.
His bedchamber was in a mess since Eddard had begun to pack; he had spread out belongings and weapons on his unmade bed, the sheets and furs tossed on the floor adding to the untidiness of the room. Ned, usually so eager to help the servants and to leave his bedroom neat everyday, didn't care this time: he would be gone very soon, and Howland would go with him.
Someone came in and Eddard, kneeling before the chest where he stored his clothes, opened his mouth before raising his gaze.
"Howland, we should hurry-"
Except that it was not Howland. Jon Arryn stood on the threshold, an angry look on his wrinkled face.
"What in Seven Hells are you doing?"
"I'm packing, obviously," Ned answered.
Bringing his hands on his hips, Arryn snorted.
"You can't go. What would your departure look like?" he asked Eddard.
"I'm heading to Storm's End, to rescue Robert's brother. In my opinion, it looks like a damn good deed. Mace Tyrell besieges Storm's End for months and young Stannis must be exhausted."
"We have men to deal with Mace Tyrell. I can send-"
"I don't care who you can send," Eddard cut him off. "I won't stay here more than necessary. You wanted me to gather the Northern host, I did it. You wanted me to win battles for Robert, I did it. You wanted me to let you play your little games with Tywin Lannister? Tywin Lannister is all yours. I warned you about this man and his house, you wouldn't listen to me, so now leave me alone."
In the untidy room, the air was thick with a heavy and dangerous tension.
"Why are you mad at me?" Arryn rasped.
"I'm not mad at you. I just understood I was wrong about you. Robert and you are tired of the search for Lyanna. Actually, I'm waiting for Lord Varys to give me more information about the place where she could be. Lord Varys! Aerys' creature! Your silence and lack of interest for my sister forced me to seek his help."
Arryn took a step forward and shut the door carefully. For a fleeting moment, Ned saw on his weary face the same concern Arryn showed every time he was sick or wounded, then the impassible mask came back.
"We need you here," he said, swallowing hard.
"I doubt that very much. But I know Stannis needs me."
"And what is this stupid idea of hanging around with Howland Reed?" Arryn spat. "He's a Crannogman! If you really want to befriend with someone, why don't you chose a Northerner like Manderly or Umber?"
"Last time I checked, the Reeds were Northerners."
"Oh, please, Ned, you know what I mean. Can't you choose some warrior, instead of that frog-eater who annoys everyone with his silly premonitions?"
Still kneeling by his chest, Ned slammed the lid so abruptly the clack made Arryn jump and before any of them could express their anger, Howland opened the door and froze. The Crannogman had donned his leather boiled armor to face the ride that awaited them, and even with his thick outfit, he looked skinny. He swept the messy room until he found Eddard's furious gaze and he cleared his throat.
"I heard-" he began in a faltering tone. "Well, it doesn't matter... I'll be waiting for you in the corridor, Eddard."
As quickly as he had come in, he stepped back and closed the door, leaving Arryn and his former ward alone. The room went silent again and Eddard picked the furs lying on the tiles, dusted them and eventually put them into the chest. When he stood up, he locked eyes with Arryn, whose saddened expression struck him.
"I'm done here," Eddard mumbled.
Later, that day, he crossed the gates protecting the Red Keep from the hovels and smoking ruins of the city without ever looking back; the sky was lowering on the East and the dark grey clouds would bring rain showers on the Stormlands, but Eddard felt relieved. He was leaving the capital and its court intrigues, heading to a place where someone needed his help; he was riding with chosen companions. On his right side, Howland seemed pleased enough to finally relax on his new mount, and the column of Northerners who had volunteered to rescue Stannis hummed songs reminding them of their homeland. Next turn of the moon, and we'll return to King's Landing. And Varys will tell me where is Lyanna.
"Storm's End has never fallen to any siege or storm," Howland said, trying to keep pace with Eddard's horse.
He smiled; Howland had always stories of all kind about every place in the Seven Kingdoms. On the road to King's Landing, he had told him almost everything about Aegon's arrival in the Crownlands. But Aegon is gone, he thought. And so are his descendants, including the little Aegon.
"You know that the castle is protected by spells, of course?" Howland asked.
"Said spells would shield Stannis and his men from Mace Tyrell's forces, according to you?" Eddard answered, a skeptical grin on his face.
Howland rolled his eyes.
"You're too rational, Ned. I'm trying to reassure you. We'll see the castle as soon as we reach the top of the hill."
The rocky landscape had slowed down their progression, making Eddard more anxious about what they would find in Storm's End.
"It's about time!" he told Howland. "Stannis and Benjen are almost the same age; I would never leave my little brother facing a siege in Winterfell for months before sending him some help."
His accusation was directed at Robert and Howland probably thought he was going too far, for he reached out and put his gloved hand on Eddard's forearm. When he turned his head, Ned noticed Howland's knowing look and he sighed heavily. I know some of my men may be listening, but that's the truth: Robert led his men, won battles and took the Iron Throne, but he never lifted the little finger for Stannis.
The vanguard stopped on the top of the hill and Eddard took the spyglass he kept in his saddle-bag. Despite the uneven surface of the lens that gave him a blurred vision, what he saw was not as disastrous as he expected.
Under the dark clouds, the black and red banners of House Targaryen and the Tyrell sigil with a golden rose on a green field, were visible at the foot of the castle. Not on the battlements. It's not too late. He thought the news of the Sack had come to the Stormlands, bringing hope to the besieged troops and disheartening the attackers.
Eddard swiveled and looked behind him: on the coastal path, a long line of men, some mounted and some on foot, stretched to the nearest hill. The previous battles have tired them out: if only one charge of our horsemen could defeat Mace Tyrell's forces... He put his spyglass back in the saddle-bag and hurtled down the hill; straight ahead, he could see the headland where the first Storm King had built the castle. On both sides of the only path leading to the fortress, the wind-battered cliffs prevented any landing – but didn't allow the attackers to escape by sea, now that the Northern host was here. Most of the men Tyrell commanded were gathered below the outer curtain wall, and only a small group guarded the road. They saw us, they guess we outnumber them.
From the foot of the hill, he noticed a sudden agitation among the soldiers who blocked off the road; the tiny silhouette of a horseman left them and cantered to the Targaryen encampment. Eddard stopped his troops and gave orders so that his men readied themselves for the impending fight. Howland came back quickly after warning the Crannogmen and he positioned his mare next to Eddard's horse.
"Are they going to attack us or will they wait for us to charge?" Howland asked.
"I don't know yet."
In the distance, he sensed the last Targaryen forces' nervousness: men gesturing and probably shouting, though the gusts of wind blew away their words. They disagree. Around Eddard, the Northerners adjusted their mailed gloves and put on their helmets; no need to turn around to know that the archers and crossbowmen were preparing their weapons too. In these moments before a battle, time seemed to stretch out, trying the men's patience and unnerving the younger members of the host. Eddard felt as tense as the bowstring the archers drew. It wasn't until he gave a ragged exhale that he noticed he had been holding his breath for some time.
"Let's go," Eddard said, motioning the Northern cavalry forward.
They need to know we're ready to charge. As far as he knew, Tyrell was a capable man and a skilled warrior. Rumormongers said that he had exaggerated his role during the Battle of Ashford and that it was Randyll Tarly, in command of the royalist vanguard, who had won the fight, but despising Tyrell would be foolish. A man who besieged an impregnable fortress for months couldn't be underestimated.
The Northern cavalry Eddard led had barely covered half the distance between the foot of the hill and the group of men blocking the path when all the Targaryen banners fell to the ground. Ned pulled the reins and shouted, until the last horsemen stopped. Most of the Northerners were within range of the Targaryen bows. As he tried to catch his breath, he thought the whole scene was uncanny: the cavalry hurtling down the slope, hurrying to the path surrounded by rocky cliffs and suddenly stopping fifty yards before the roadblock. The crashing of the waves added to the eerie feeling that took hold of Eddard.
The Northerners gathered around him and began to observe the miserable Targaryen troops; their supply lines had been cut before the Sack, when Aerys tried to reorganize his forces and to protect the capital, and they had most likely run out of food, if their gaunt faces were any indication. Their cloaks, damp with sea spray, hung on their shoulders and made them look pitiable. Behind them, a group of mounted men who seemed as exhausted as the soldiers who blocked the road, slowly approached. Among them, Eddard spotted a young brown-haired man, who looked probably handsome when he lived in his castle and ate his fill. Mace Tyrell.
The commander of the Targaryen forces didn't flinch when he stopped in front of Eddard; he just swallowed hard and slightly nodded, letting everyone know the siege was over.
Whether Stannis watched the scene from the battlements of Storm's End or not, Ned couldn't tell, but all he knew was that this was the end of Stannis' ordeal and that he was himself grateful to the Gods: the Northerners wouldn't have to fight that day, and relief flooded him.
The storms so frequent in this place and the vicinity of the raging waters – the Shipbreaker Bay didn't usurp his reputation – had forced the builders to some adjustments and the windows breaking the monotony of the dark thick walls were long and narrow. They brought a bleak light in the Great Hall, where Stannis welcomed Ned, Howland and the Bannermen of the North who had rescued the seat of House Baratheon.
Ned thought his heart would sink the moment he would see Stannis, because Robert's brother was so young he could only remind him of Benjen, because he had had his share of worries and hardships during the last months but he didn't expect to find a boy whose sullen mood bordered on coldness.
Stannis was sitting on the dais, at one end of the Great Hall, very straight in the high-backed chair the lords of Storm's End had used for decades. Hands gripping the armrests, he seemed both tired and jaded as the Northerners came in and stood before him. Robert's brother thanked them politely, yet in a distant tone, then asked Eddard if they could talk in private. On his way to the solar, Ned met Howland's puzzled look and followed the lanky boy who had held out on Mace Tyrell for months.
Once in the solar, he won't have to pretend anymore, Eddard thought. He'll become again the boy I met during the Tourney at Harrenhal. No matter how hard he tried to stay confident, his hopes crumbled when Stannis closed the door behind them and asked bluntly:
"You did this of your own free will, right, Eddard? Robert didn't send you."
Ned was at a loss. He felt like he couldn't indulge in lying to Stannis, yet he didn't want to cause a quarrel between the Baratheon siblings. Another quarrel. Whenever Robert evoked his brothers, he always mocked Renly's childish behavior and he ranted on about Stannis' fussiness. More than often, he complained about their repeated arguments in Storm's End.
"Don't lie to me," Stannis went on, neither angry nor annoyed. "And forget about your loyalty towards Robert. Being the new king doesn't allow him to let his brother and the garrison he left in Storm's End starve to death."
A servant bringing in mulled wine gave Ned enough time to find the right answer – both wine and spices had come with the Stark host, as a present for the brave defenders of Storm's End. Gesturing to an armchair and settling himself on a bench seat, Stannis clutched the cup between his hands, enjoying the warmth that it emitted.
"King Robert was about to send troops," Eddard said, after burning his tongue while drinking the hot beverage. "I simply preempted-"
"About to send troops?" Stannis chuckled darkly. "Your sense of compromise is insulting, Eddard. I am not a child anymore and I can see Robert's little game. My brother started this war to find the woman he loved and – don't take it personally – along the way, he realized he could get more than a dishonored girl abducted by Rhaegar. The Iron Throne. Anyway, Robert is consumed by his fantasies of greatness; he forgot why this war began. But even before, he had forgotten he had a brother. And loyal soldiers too, defending his home against the Targaryen troops. He never answered to the ravens I sent him. And stop calling him 'King Robert'; we both know that my brother's attitude is not regal. Robert will always be Robert."
Eddard remained silent, astonished by the boy's clear-sightedness; despite his surprise, he felt the urge to explain why he was here, eager to clear up any misunderstanding.
"During the siege, you had enough time to mull over the situation and I don't want you to misjudge your brother or to praise me for bad reasons," he told Stannis. "Don't imagine that I left King's Landing with the idea of lifting the siege of Storm's End and becoming a hero. I needed to quit the capital."
Stannis observed him wordlessly. As the castle had run out of candles since weeks, only the narrow windows provided light in the solar, and the lack of luminosity emphasized the boy's dark circles.
"Well, I thank you for your outspokenness," Stannis replied after a while. "When you said you needed to leave King's Landing, does it mean Robert sent you away?"
"Robert wanted me to stay, as a matter of fact. I decided to leave because... I'm not interested in politics."
Stannis' expression changed and curiosity gave way to disbelief. He slightly shook his head.
"If you don't see to politics, someday politics will see to you, Eddard."
It sounded like an old man's advice and Ned shuddered at the thought that Stannis may be right. Am I making a mistake when I only think of going back North? For a few heartbeats, he imagined himself withering in King's Landing, spending his time in Arryn's shadow: these days, when he was a docile ward in the Eyrie, were gone.
"What about Lord Tyrell?" Stannis asked. "What did my kingly brother decide?"
"If he fought back, Arryn said we had to kill him and his men," Eddard replied. "If he yielded, though..."
Neither Arryn nor Robert had uttered a word about that, probably because they expected Tyrell to die fighting. For lack of any instruction, the Northerners and the garrison of Storm's End had locked Mace Tyrell and his officers in the dungeons, before trying to organize an encampment where the Targaryen soldiers would wait for their fate; the archers, crossbowmen and lancers would most likely join the new royal army. Robert needs them.
"Send a raven to your brother and ask him what to do with Tyrell," Eddard advised him. "I suppose Robert will demand that Tyrell make amends and keep a low profile... But I don't think your brother will cut his head; House Tyrell has held the Reach for centuries. No need to lose another part of the Seven Kingdoms. Robert already turned away the Dornishmen when he refused to punish the men who murdered the last Targaryens. The Martell won't forgive Robert for Elia's murder."
Seemingly fascinated, Stannis scooted to the edge of his seat.
"Are you telling me that you, the man whose sister was abducted by Rhaegar Targaryen, you asked Robert to kill Elia's murderers?"
Eddard observed the youth for a while, then nodded. His palms turned to the ceiling, Stannis shrugged in disbelief.
"I didn't have any liking for Elia Martell, I barely met her," Eddard explained. "But is it fair that two murderers who openly admitted their crimes go unpunished?"
Stannis thoughtfully looked back at him.
"I agree with you, Eddard. If I had been in King's Landing instead of rotting in this place, I would have backed you. Do you know what I decided about Davos Seaworth, the smuggler who slipped through the Redwyne's fleet line and therefore saved us from starvation?"
Ned slightly shook his head; despite the semi darkness, he noticed Stannis' feverish gaze.
"I suppose you rewarded him for his help," he offered.
Robert's brother locked eyes with him.
"I knighted him and I gave him lands on Cape Wrath because you would have found the Targaryen banners on Storm's End, without his help. Then I ordered one of my men to cut off the first joint from each finger of his left hand, because no feat could pay for his past crimes."
Eddard clenched his jaw, wondering what to say. In the absence of his elder brother, Stannis had forged his own moral code – at odds with Robert's pragmatism – and he had clung to his duties to endure the hardships of the siege, until the last bits of his innocence disappeared. Benjen could have turned into a sullen, bitter person during my wandering in the South, he mused. I should hurry and go back North to take care of my brother before he becomes as cold and hardened as Stannis. But before, I'll find Lyanna.
Eddard's impatience grew with every league, on their way back to King's Landing; every night, when he visited his men in the encampment, he saw their tired faces and noticed their exhaustion, but at daylight, when the column stretched between the hills of the Stormlands, he champed at the bit, wondering why they progressed at such a slow pace. In the end, he sent a raven to Lord Varys and asked if he had found out where Lyanna was.
The Spider will learn something about her; she didn't disappear without a trace. He tried to reassure himself and Howland's soothing presence became as necessary as the air he breathed. Two days after he sent the raven, he got his answer. The maester who accompanied their host was untying the message to the bird's leg when he nearly threw himself on the old man after dismounting his horse. Ned had left the head of the column as soon as he had seen the raven flying over them and he had turned around, before cantering to the cart where the maester kept his equipment and the birdcages.
"Should we stop?" asked one of the Manderlys, when he saw Eddard.
"No!" he shouted, "Go on! I'll catch up with the vanguard as soon as I'll know what's in this message."
While his assistant shoved the raven in a birdcage, the maester held out to Eddard the scroll.
"Lord Stark,
My little birds finally located your sister. As far as I know, Rhaegar Targaryen left her in a keep named the Tower of Joy and some of the most loyal friends of the late Prince guard her. She's alive..."
He didn't need to read what followed. At least. Hot tears burned the corner of his eyes as he remembered Lyanna's laughter echoing in the staircases of Winterfell, her face framed with dark hair. He remained silent and perfectly still for a moment, then noticed the curious looks of his men.
"She's alive," he simply said.
Any precision was superfluous. The word spread in the column and the Northerners began to rejoice themselves, then a hush fell over the men. Lyanna might be alive, but they all knew she had probably been dishonored and rescuing her wouldn't change anything to that. Am I ready to find her broken? Will I be able to help her? Mindlessly, Eddard crumpled the message; disheartened, he led his horse to the vanguard.
"There's another bird!" the maester's assistant bellowed.
The young man hurried to catch the raven and brought it proudly to Eddard, despite the maester's protestations. Eddard fumbled with the scroll this time, while his horse went on, keeping pace with the maester's cart. He didn't identify the sigil at first, probably because two different kinds of wax had been used; under the sigil of House Arryn, he recognized the deep blue wax used in Riverrun. The message arrived in King's Landing first, before Arryn sent it to me, he thought, as an unexpected pressure constricted his chest. Unfolding the scroll, he recognized Lord Hoster Tully's sloping handwriting.
"Lord Stark,
I have the great pleasure to inform you that your lady wife, my dear daughter Catelyn, is with child..."
The message slipped from his hands and fell on the ground where the maester's assistant diligently picked it up. Walking by Eddard's horse, the assistant called his lord, but never managed to got any reply.
Sandor
Ser Jaime Lannister's golden curls almost formed a halo around his head, contrasting with the dark color of the high-backed chair he was sitting in; a wide smile spread on his handsome features as he observed Sandor who stood in front of him, trying not to gape.
"Ser Jaime," he said politely, wondering what the Kingslayer wanted with him.
Tywin's son had invited Sandor in the Kingsguard's quarters and he had let him enough time to examine the large bedroom furnished with mahogany chairs and table and ancient weapons adorning the walls, before he started talking.
"Have you heard of the Mad King's plan to burn the city?" Jaime asked. "The wildfire, prepared by the Alchemists' Guild and hidden in caches throughout King's Landing? Of course, you have. Father told me you heard about it during his meeting with King Robert. Well, Varys' little birds reported that two pyromancers named Garigus and Belis escaped the Red Keep and now hide in the city. For some reason, Father told me to take you on this mission. Do you know why?"
His detached tone sounded a bit provocative, as if he wanted to test Sandor's reaction, but the boy knew better than to let some knight, even famous, impress him.
"Because I'm good at chasing people," he answered a bit too quickly.
Ser Jaime sneered. He doesn't take me seriously.
"So you're good at chasing people?" he said, stammering in disbelief. "You seem so young... Who did you chase?"
"The plunderers. The two men King Robert hanged in Fishmonger's Square."
The blond knight leaned forward, a half-smile on his lips.
"You mean the poor bastards my father served up to King Robert, in order to save my head?"
Sandor didn't know the correct answer, and the memory of the two men swaying from the gallows pole was too fresh not to make his stomach churn; he therefore decided to avoid Jaime's question.
"Your lord father caught them stealing, ordered them to stop and to follow us. When they gave us the slip, I volunteered and I went after them. With Master Symon."
Jaime sat back and crossed his arms about his chest.
"I talked to the old Symon, Clegane. He said you're a resourceful... and surprising lad."
With that, he drummed his fingers on the table where he had left parts of his armor. Sandor found the jangling of the gorget against the greaves slightly annoying. What did Symon tell him, exactly?
"Done. You'll come with me, Clegane."
He looked at Ser Jaime and tried to remember what Fat Jeyne had told him about Tywin's children, when he was in Casterly Rock. 'There's something weird about the twins, Sandor. Never managed to find out what it was... The truth is, they believe they're different. They share some secret and no one, even in the castle, knows what it is. The twins take pleasure in that, they love the idea that no one knows except them. Whatever it is, this secret makes them believe they're superior.'
He frowned. One who saw Ser Jaime or his sister Cersei – their blond hair, their noble features, their stately bearing – couldn't imagine their golden heads harbored a mystery. For some time, Sandor had pondered on Fat Jeyne's words, and thought the darkest secret Cersei could keep was the recipe of the ointment she used to keep her skin smooth. Mayhap I was wrong and she's more than a lady obsessed by her looks.
Jaime pushed himself from his seat and began to check the pieces of armor on the table.
"We'll leave the castle as soon as we're ready," he announced, without ever looking at Sandor. "I'll meet you in front of the stables."
Chasing two men he imagined old, weak and unarmed, hiding in the biggest city of Westeros seemed strange. He did his best to conceal his increasing unease, as he left the room of the Maidenvault he shared with Master Symon, his long strides and the clang of his new armor arousing interest among the members of the Lannister host. Once in the inner yard the Sack had turned into a gigantic and messy encampment for the Lannister, Baratheon, Tully and Arryn troops – the departure of the Stark host to lift the siege of Storm's End barely helped and there were canvass tents everywhere – soldiers and idle Bannermen looked hard at him; he ignored them and he lengthened his stride until he reached the stables. Ser Jaime welcomed him with an approving nod.
"You look better with that armor than with the rusty equipment you wore when you arrived," he commented.
The young member of the Kingsguard made a flourish inviting Sandor to turn around so that he could see all the pieces of armor Sandor had bought in the upper part of the Street of Steel. Symon had helped him choose, and Sandor was rather proud of the armor he had picked; however, now that Ser Jaime made him spin on his heels, he felt like a stupid girl showing her new dress.
"Father says you still grow up. It's a pity that such a fine armor will be soon too small and too tight for you," Jaime sighed.
He was not very comfortable with the idea of Tywin talking about him with his son – about my growth? – and he frowned. As they stayed in front of the stables, Sandor had to shield his gaze from the blinding sun.
"We're not here to talk about armors, are we?" he asked, then he wished he could take back his remark, so insolent towards his liege lord's son.
Jaime chuckled. There was something about him – his constant smile, his eyebrow raised, his haughty casualness – that warned people he might not be serious. Or that he mocks us. Jaime let his eyes fall away, a smile pulling the corner of his lips.
"We're waiting for Symon, boy. I told him to come with us. Three horsemen hurrying through the streets of King's Landing, chasing pyromancers, as if the demons of the Seven Hells had been let loose. Tell me, Clegane, how does it sound?"
Sandor shrugged. He's a fool. Symon finally showed up and they came in the stables to pick their horses Once on horseback, Sandor put his helmet on and followed Ser Jaime.
At the gates, when the young knight explained why they left the castle, the sentries didn't recognize Sandor. They saw the brand new armor, the sparkling greathelm, the fine stallion he mounted, but they didn't saw the scars anymore. He was just a squire Ser Jaime had chosen for his uncommon strength and skills. It felt strange to go unnoticed for a change, under a thin layer of steel. My armor may reflect the sunbeams, it doesn't make me a knight in shining armor. Knights only exist in songs. It's just a lie commoners keep saying because they're buggers and because they like to delude themselves. And lords like it even more, because the stupid idea of a brave knight rescuing people justifies the power they have on smallfolk.
The gates opened and they entered the city. Its hustle and the rancid smell of the streets made him feel dizzy. Beggars and peddlers swarmed about the gates and they soon gathered around the three horsemen, some identifying Jaime and gesturing at him. Once more, the blond knight laughed, while Sandor tried to avoid the tiresome men and women; his horse's hooves slipped on the wet and dirty cobblestones.
"Where are we going to?" he shouted, the beggars' supplications half-covering his high-pitched voice.
"Where would you go, if you were an alchemist on the run?" Jaime retorted, leading his horse through the ragged crowd and seemingly enjoying the commoners' attention.
Jaime smiled at a toothless old woman who held out her hand in a begging gesture, then headed straight ahead to the nearest street.
"To the Guildhall of the Alchemists?" Symon suggested.
As they arrived in the street facing the gates, Sandor had to prick up his ears to hear his companions despite the noise.
"Certainly not!" Jaime answered, greeting a girl who stared at them from her balcony.
The young woman coyly smiled back and leaned against the guardrail, revealing the top of her breasts. Jaime swiveled on his saddle to look at her and bowed theatrically, to the girl's great pleasure. He just knows how to play the game, Sandor mused. The realization sent a pang of jealousy in his chest, before he felt Jaime's eyes on his figure.
"Do you intend to spend the day with your greathelm on?" he asked Sandor while pulling the reins so that the squire could catch up with him.
Sandor reluctantly lifted the visor of his helmet, holding onto the idea that, even without the piece of metal hiding his nose and cheeks, his scars were barely visible. Maybe I should wear it the next time I go to the brothel.
"So where are we going to?" he insisted, narrowing his gaze.
"Why don't you take a wild guess, boy?" Jaime teased him. "Since you're good at chasing people."
Sandor pulled the reins at the end of the street they were in; Jaime followed suit and Symon, turned around to join them as soon as he saw they had stopped.
"The men we're looking for... Do they have family in King's Landing?" he asked Jaime.
The young member of the Kingsguard shook his head.
"As far as I know, Garigus and Belis don't know anyone here."
"So they probably hide in some inn and we're going to check every tavern of the city?" Sandor said.
"You're right, boy! We'd better start right now, for there are lots of places to visit."
"That's something the Gold Cloaks should do!" Symon protested, imagining the number of taverns they would have to search.
"How can I put it, Symon?" Jaime sighed. "The ancient and noble organization of the Gold Cloaks has known some difficulties lately, since my dear father's arrival in King's Landing. It seems that the City Watch has been... decimated. King Robert appointed a new Commander who recruits and trains soldiers, but in the meanwhile, we'll do their job."
A smug smile on his face, Jaime led his horse to the junction of three streets.
"Wait a minute!" Sandor exclaimed, immediately ashamed by the commanding tone he had used with Tywin's son. "We should visit all the jewelers' shops and ask the usurers, instead of searching the taverns."
"Why in Seven Hells should we do that?"
"Because they were in a hurry when they escaped the Red Keep," Sandor explained. "When you're on the run you don't take any chest of gold, if you have one. So they took jewels or precious items they found in the castle and could hide under their clothes, and now they'll try to sell these things, especially if they want to fly from the capital."
Jaime puckered up his full lips, slightly nodding his head. Is he skeptical or does he agree with me?
"The boy is right," Symon rasped.
"Sounds like you already planned your evasion," the blond knight commented, laughing.
Stone-faced under his greathelm, Sandor didn't move and held his stare. Symon cleared his throat loudly, as if he wanted to warn Jaime it was a slippery matter. The clothes and boots I wore were the only things I took from Clegane's Keep, the day I ran away. He shifted nervously on his saddle and clutched to the pommel, trying to regain his composure. The young man seemed to realize his blunder and went serious.
"You're very observant. Uncle Gerion told me that," he said, by way of apologies. "We're going to Coppersmith's Wynd."
In the usurers shop, the musty smell made the Kingslayer wrinkle his nose. Symon stayed outside with the horses, observing the surroundings while Jaime and Sandor came in to question the usurer. As a matter of fact, there were two men sitting behind a small table, talking quietly. Sandor didn't understand what the men said, and guessed it was Valyrian.
As the only opening was small, darkness engulfed the room in shades of brown, but a tallow candle burning on the small table lit up the usurers. One had deep wrinkles and a grey beard, while the other one was smooth-faced; both had the same piercing gaze under shaggy eyebrows and a rugged jaw line. A father and his son, living and working together. He remembered how the servants kept repeating he looked like Lord Clegane, before he got his scars; neighbors and customers told this young man he was the spitting image of his father, and he probably didn't care about it. Bugger. He doesn't know how lucky he is. As Jaime stopped in front of the table, Sandor felt his fingers slowly curl into balled fists.
"Welcome, Sers. How can we help you?" the son asked with a hint of foreign accent, while standing up.
Perhaps they had recognized Jaime, for the father hastily got on his feet and gave him a nervous bow. A Lannister paying a visit to an usurer was both unexpected and ironic.
"We have a few questions about your customers," Jaime announced. "Did you notice something strange since King Robert's arrival? Something unusual?"
The two men looked at each other, confused. The greybeard asked his son a question in Valyrian and his son immediately turned to Jaime.
"My father asks what you mean by 'strange', Ser."
"A man, rather old, looking like he was going to shit his pants, trying to sell jewels or plates," Jaime explained.
After the Sack, some servants of the Red Keep had reported that the precious tableware Aerys used had disappeared and Jaime had made the connection after Sandor suggested to ask the jewelers and moneylenders. Another muttering in Valyrian forced a smile out of the young knight; he sensed that, after several inconclusive visits in jeweler's shops, they would finally learn something.
Without any warning, Jaime took the purse hanging from his belt and put it down on the table. Hearing the coins jingling, the two men briefly turned to look at the heavy purse, then went on talking. The young knight crossed his arms about his chest and sighed.
"Boredom should always be noisy and demonstrative," he confessed, glancing at Sandor.
"Well, Ser... Such a man came here..." the young man answered.
In the meanwhile, his father extended his arm to take the gold Jaime had left on the table, but the knight's commanding tone stopped him before he could reach the purse.
"Don't be so hasty, old man. I want proofs."
Once more the usurer and his son exchanged a puzzled look, before turning to Jaime. The father touched the young man's arm in an approving gesture and let him go in the back shop. During his son's absence, he stared at Jaime, then at Sandor, caressing his beard and very solemn in his patched tunic. The young man came back with a purse bigger than Jaime's and deftly untied the strings. Then, with a sigh, he emptied the purse on the table, near the tallow candle.
Sandor gaped. A brooch and a golden chain had landed on the worm-eaten table with a jangling sound. The chain's thick links imitated a rope. The brooch depicted the Targaryen sigil, with its tiny rubies forming a three-headed dragon standing out against obsidian. Jaime turned to Sandor, a triumphant smile on his face, then locked eyes with the usurer.
"What did that man look like?" he asked, stepping forward so that he almost towered above the old man who had sat down again behind the table.
"Well..." the young man replied, glancing at the purse. "He was smaller than you, with a short beard... His hair and beard were white."
"Belis," Jaime whispered. "What happened?"
"He said he wanted to sell these jewels and my father gave him a good price."
"It goes without saying," Jaime commented, his voice exuding contempt and irony.
"Then the man walked away and he disappeared."
"But where did he go?" the blond knight insisted.
He glared at the usurers, disappointed by their lack of cooperation.
"We don't know," the old man said firmly, stressing the last word.
It sounded like it was the only sentence he knew in the Common Tongue.
"Was he afraid?" Sandor asked abruptly.
As he had been quiet from the beginning, his question surprised the usurers and Jaime. They all turned to him.
"Did you see him in the neighborhood before his visit or after he came?"
The old man shook his head while his son observed Sandor carefully.
"The man seemed rather... nervous," he said, visibly looking for words. "We had never seen him before that day and we didn't see him since he sold these jewels. He came yesterday."
"When he entered your shop, was he breathless? Or sweating streams?" Sandor asked again.
"No. I don't remember he was sweating."
The young man's eyes fell on the purse again, but Jaime was quicker and seized it.
"I'm afraid that's not enough information, my good fellow. Maybe I'll change my mind if we get hold of this man, but meanwhile I'll save my gold for someone else."
He spun on his heels and went to the door, leaving the two usurers frustrated. Sandor followed in Jaime's footsteps. Outside, Symon welcomed them with impatience and expectation in his eyes; all this vanished when the master-at-arms noticed Jaime's discomfiture.
"Belis was here," Jaime explained, chuckling darkly, "but those fools don't know where he's hiding. Why don't usurers ask questions to their customers?"
"Probably because they are usurers, Ser," Symon offered, patting his horse's neck.
"And what were those questions about a breathless Belis?" Jaime asked Sandor, frowning.
"If you had soldiers after you – including a member of the Kingsguard – would you choose to walk half an hour in the streets or would you go to the nearest moneylender's shop? Would you take your time or would you walk as quickly as you can?"
Sandor's reasoning seemed to convince Jaime, who slightly nodded his head.
"He's not very far," Symon rasped. "We should examine the neighborhood with a fine-tooth comb."
There were half-a-dozen taverns in the streets surrounding the usurer's shop; they searched each one, Jaime asking questions to the owner and one of his companions coming in with him while the other one stayed outside. Symon and Sandor silently agreed on escorting Jaime to the tavern one after the other.
As they visited the fourth tavern – a timber frame house with its façade on the street and the gable on a back alley – it was Sandor's turn to wait in the street, keeping a close eye on their horses. The Sack had been an ordeal for the inhabitants, not only because of the violence they had suffered that day; the destruction and fires had ruined the population, disorganizing handicraft and trade, forcing the poorest fringe to beg and to pilfer. The fine horses of the royal stables, even after exhausting weeks spent on the roads of the realm were tempting for them, and Sandor didn't want one of the animals to end up in a bowl of brown.
All of a sudden, a throaty scream inside the tavern startled him. Then there were more shouting and Sandor wondered if he should come in and help his companions, though Jaime had forbidden him to move away from the horses. When he heard more noise on the third floor of the timber frame tavern, his eyes scrutinized the façade, trying to understand what was going on and if Jaime or Symon were in danger.
"Here he is!" Symon exclaimed.
The master-at-arms' raspy voice came from an open window of the third floor.
"He escaped!" Jaime bellowed in frustration and Sandor immediately spotted an old man bestriding the guard rail of a balcony in the back alley and trying to reach the window of the house across the back alley; it was not completely reckless, even for a man of his age, as the balcony nearly touched the building across the narrow street.
Forgetting Jaime's orders to stay near the horses, Sandor ran to the front door of the house where the pyromancer had sneaked in and he took two steps at a time in the wobbly staircase; he nearly shoved a little girl, but when he heard shouting and protestations on the third floor, he understood that his prey had accidentally met the house's inhabitants.
Sandor violently pushed open the door, leaving it swinging back and forth on its hinges. From where he was, he saw a woman threatening the alchemist with a poker; a child hung on tightly to her ragged skirts while an old man, older than the pyromancer and probably ill, was lying on a pallet.
"Who are you?" the woman asked Sandor, glancing at him, but still keeping the intruder at bay.
"The king sent us to catch this man. He's... a criminal."
Despite the fact that Jaime seemed to burden himself with the pyromancers' arrest instead of following Robert's orders, Sandor thought preferable not to give her details. Sensing the woman's hesitation was perhaps his only chance, the bearded man stepped forward; she threw herself on him and struck him with the poker; despite his arms raised in a protective gesture, the pyromancer couldn't avoid the blow. The woman missed his head but her makeshift weapon landed on his forearm with an awful noise. The alchemist fell on the floor, screaming, while Sandor subdued the woman: she flailed at first, then stopped moving and dropped the poker.
Still holding her firmly, he noticed the fine lines on her stubborn forehead; she might be still young, but hardships had left their marks on her face. Around him, he saw what most of the inhabitants of King's Landing worked for: a small room, with two windows and its quasi-absent furniture. There was a fireplace near the pallet, with scorched vegetables in a blackened pot. The only ornament was a big green stain on the white washed ceiling, because the roof leaked. That detail reminded him of a saying in the Westerlands: 'rain always falls harder on a leaking roof'. Sandor wondered how they managed to live there. They live on the brink of destitution, he thought. No, they barely survive. The little boy he had seen hanging on his mother's skirts was now huddling up against the old man's side, and his feverish gaze told Sandor that these people didn't eat their fill.
He let go of the woman, who stared at his armor and immediately gave him a sheepish look.
"I didn't know, Ser. Forgive my-"
"I'm no Ser," he answered curtly, wondering how he could help them and realizing that there was nothing he could do.
She took in his face – partly hidden by the greathelm – and gaped when she noticed how young he was.
"Thank you for protecting us from-" she said tentatively, pushing aside her jet-black hair.
"Don't thank me," he replied a bit more stiffly than he intended. "Seems that you protect yourself very well."
He grabbed the alchemist's shoulder and forced him to stand up; the man whimpered softly and hardly struggled as they left the small room to go downstairs. Sandor looked up before reaching the second floor and he saw the dark-haired woman observing him with a curious gaze. She's a fool, he thought. We don't protect anyone, we just let them live their miserable life and look at them struggling for food in a half-ruined city.
Sandor shoved the alchemist out of the building, then inside the tavern where Jaime and Symon waited for him. The customers had deserted the place and the owner stared at them from the kitchens, instinctively putting as much space between himself and Jaime as possible.
"How did you do?" Symon asked him, glancing at the pyromancer's broken arm.
Sandor shrugged and kicked the old man so that he fell on his hands and knees, crying and begging.
"Too late, Wisdom Belis," Jaime announced, stepping forward.
He had unsheathed his sword – one of the most beautiful weapons Sandor had ever seen, though he found it a bit too sophisticated for real fights – and the blade was covered with blood.
"No! Ser Jaime, please... Listen to me!"
The alchemist's protestations sounded like the squeak of a mouse.
"I- I have gold," he stuttered, trying to sit up and looking at his captors one after the other. "I have gold upstairs. Spare me and you'll be rich."
Still holding his sword, Jaime raised one eyebrow in disbelief.
"Remember me, Belis? I am a Lannister. I am as rich as can be."
His way of articulating words was almost precious when he expressed his contempt, as if he took his time and enjoyed this feeling. And his voice is soft, when he addresses someone he despises, like Tywin's.
"Your proposition is nearly an insult," Jaime added.
A desperate look in his eyes, Belis didn't seem to understand his words.
"I have gold," he repeated, pleading.
"And I have steel," Jaime replied, leaning over the miserable pyromancer and stabbing him.
It all happened very quickly, Jaime's left hand seizing the old man while his sword dug deeply in his chest. The man who wanted to destroy King's Landing with wildfire collapsed on the floor and Jaime removed hastily his blade from Belis' torso before wiping it.
"As I said," he shouted to the owner, "I'll send someone with a cart to take the corpses and bring them back to the Red Keep. Don't move the bodies. How did you catch him, resourceful boy?" the blond knight said, turning to Sandor, before walking to the door.
Sandor still looked at the alchemist's dead body; Symon patted his shoulder and led him outside. Jaime's deep green eyes insisted and Sandor complied.
"I didn't really catch him," he explained. "Belis sneaked in a room where there was a woman, a child and an old man. The woman was threatening him when I came in. She broke his arm. I just prevented her from killing him."
"Surprising wench," Jaime commented, straddling his horse. "Was she to your liking?"
"I don't know," Sandor mumbled, making both his companions laugh.
"Do you know what happened upstairs?" Jaime went on, as they led their horses through the dirty streets. "These fools had stayed together. At first, they thought of taking different paths, but Belis was a coward and he finally stayed with Garigus, according to him. Anyway, they arrived together in this tavern, asked for separate rooms and always ate upstairs. The owner was growing curious about them and they would have moved before tomorrow."
He went silent for a short while, as a palanquin sheltering two rich women moved past them.
"Garigus wept for mercy," Jaime added, with a faraway look. "I gave him a quick death, which was rather merciful, compared to his plan to burn down the city."
Jaime stopped talking, but Sandor wondered why; was it because a peddler sang and shouted to sell his fish or because he was not as proud of himself as his words conveyed? He couldn't tell.
Jaime insisted on telling Lord Tywin the good news. Sandor's master congratulated them and, after Jaime and Symon took leave, he gave the boy a purse full of stags, advising him to enjoy his time in King's Landing. Tywin suggested they wouldn't stay forever in the capital.
It was rather early in the night and Sandor decided to go back to Naya's pleasure house. Not that he tried to satisfy some need or endeavored to do what Tywin expected from him; he wanted to prove himself that he could go whoring and behave as a soldier. Sandor felt he had to do this, like a test proving he was as manly as anyone else in the host. Nothing more.
Later that night, on his way back to the Red Keep, Sandor realized it was late when he saw the waning crescent moon high in the sky; most people were asleep or locked themselves in their houses. In the deserted streets, his footsteps echoed strangely and he found the silence comforting. Silence is so rare in King's Landing. For a fleeting moment, he fancied himself in the quiet woods surrounding Clegane's Keep, in the chestnut grove where he had spent hours during his childhood. When he closed his eyes, he could almost believe there were tall trees instead of the lopsided buildings: only the noise made by the soles of his boots against the cobblestones reminded him he was in the biggest city of Westeros and not in the secluded wood he loved so much when he was ten.
He dreamed of feats of arms and chivalry at that time. I was a fool. I thought I could become as good a knight as Florian or Aemon the Dragonknight. The forest was his refuge, his realm, and whenever someone disturbed the peacefulness of the chestnut grove, he knew it could only be Gregor, looking for him. Tracking me, hunting me as if I was a prey. He had learned to go unnoticed in the woods and to stay perfectly silent, hidden in the trees, while his brother lost his temper in the undergrowth. Most children in Westeros loved to play hide-and-seek with their siblings. Not Sandor. For it was not a game.
The sentries let him cross the gates without asking any question now that he was known as Lord Tywin's squire and he made his way through the Tully tents sheltering soldiers of the Riverlands. As he progressed toward the Maidenvault, he heard people singing and laughing; as Talbert the drummer had said, there was another feast celebrating the so-called victories of the Lannister host.
He almost sneaked in to avoid the drunken men who would certainly ask him where he was and why he came back so late. Now that he had left the brothel, he wondered what Fat Jeyne would have said about his wanderings in the Street of Silk. She's a fool as well. She behaved as if she could prevent all these things to happen to me, but she couldn't. The man who will make me a better person isn't born yet.
Once the biggest room of the Maidenvault and his noisy occupants were behind him, he relaxed his shoulders. It was only when he heard music and roaring laughs coming from an open door on his left that he realized there was more than one feast in the Maidenvault that night; he lengthened his stride.
"No, Clegane, please come!" a merry voice suddenly shouted as he walked past the door.
He stopped mid-stride, realizing it was Jaime; ignoring his liege lord's son was not an option. Maybe I can just come in and stay in some corner, before escaping once they'll be in their cups. He cautiously stepped in the vaulted room, where servants had brought trestles and benches. Apart from the musicians, there were only members of the noble families of the Westerlands, eating and drinking with Jaime. At least, Gregor isn't here. He noticed Lord Marbrand and a maid, engaged in heavy petting in the darkest corner of the room. Sandor stayed by the door, leaning against the wall, observing Jaime's guests, but the tipsy blond knight clearly wanted to draw attention on him.
Forgetting the flagons of wine he had knocked back, Jaime got on his feet and walked around the trestles to have a good look at Sandor; all the Bannermen's eyes were on him as he welcomed Sandor with a drunken grin. Tywin's son's golden curls stuck to his damp forehead.
"Where have you been, boy?" Jaime asked him. "We were waiting for you!"
If the contemptuous gaze of Lord Sarsfield and the sneering laugh escaping Lord Hamell were any indication, Jaime Lannister might be the only man of the assembly who really enjoyed his presence. Sandor shrugged and the raucous laughter went on.
"Dear friends," Jaime announced, turning to his guests and patting Sandor's shoulder, "I know some of you thought that he's young and inexperienced. I made the same mistake at first... But he has a good nose for certain things, he knows how to find a runaway, how to track him down."
One of the lords barked loudly, making the assembly laugh.
"Congratulations, boy!" another one exclaimed, apparently impressed.
"My lords, may I- may I present you the younger son of the late Lord Clegane," Jaime added, the heavy dose of alcohol he had drunk making him stammer.
Some men barked along, like their sons did in Casterly Rock whenever they wanted Sandor to get pissed. Jaime swayed and leaned on Sandor for fear of collapsing on the glazed tiles; then, the boy saw the blond knight's smile widened in anticipation of his next joke.
"May I introduce the young Clegane!" he shouted. "The boy who hunted down Aerys' creatures in King's Landing with me, who proved to be as gifted for hunting as the dogs of his sigil... My lords, I give you the Hound!"
Bewildered, Sandor turned to Jaime who patted his back and congratulated him. People had given him various names: 'Monster', 'Freak', 'Burnt boy' but no one had called him 'Hound' so far. In Jaime's mouth it could be either a good jape or the recognition of his skills; with his constant smile, nobody could tell.
"The Hound! The Hound!" the guests bellowed, slamming the table with their fists.
Sandor was at a loss, ignoring if it was an insult or a nickname, or both. All he knew was that once a member of the host earned a nickname, he kept it for years. Might as well get used to it.
"The Hound! The Hound!"
With a mischievous smile, Jaime tousled his hair, nearly scratching the area behind his good ear. Like a dog.
Jon
The elephants should be an asset, not a burden.
The Tyroshi forces the Golden Company fought were a rather strange association between sellswords and the small army the city possessed. They had three dozens of turreted elephants; on the animals' tusks, the Tyroshi had put sharp points of brass. The red metal glimmered in the sun and threatened to impale anyone who was in their way. The loud trumpeting of elephants could have startled any soldier, except that the members of the Golden Company were not ordinary men.
As soon as their scouts had spotted the Tyroshi with their elephantry, Myles Toyne had asked Jon to prepare the impending battle and to take charge of the counterattack. The fact that Jon had seen elephants only once, in the menagerie of King's Landing, didn't bother the captain-general. If he wants me to prove myself, I'll do it without ever asking a question. Thus, Jon had tried to remember what he had read years ago in The Life of the Triarch Belicho. He knew the famous triarch of Volantis had once fought elephants, but the main difficulty was to recall how he had overpowered them. The Golden Company had been hired by Myr in the perpetual war for the Disputed Lands; a fair amount of gold was at stake and the Company couldn't afford a defeat.
Jon had spent the two days before the battle examining closely the resources of the Golden Company, thinking about traps for elephants and other devices. He soon forgot about traps – digging holes big enough to make the elephants fall in would be time-consuming and the success seemed uncertain – and turned to the lancers. If they closed ranks and managed to hurt the animals with their spears, they could face the Tyroshi. Jon therefore chose to stay with the lancers, even if the cavalry was far more respected, even in Essos, and commanded the foot soldiers Myles Toyne had positioned in front of the elephantry. What was about to happen would seal Jon's fate and make him either a remarkable officer or the embarrassment of the sellswords' company.
He sighed deeply, bathed in sweat under the gilded armor that was the officers' uniform. His horse had sensed his nervousness and whinnied from time to time, while the lancers readied to charge. In front of them, the gigantic beasts seemed determined to run over them: the massive figures merged with the mountain, their ornamented tusks being the only splotch of color in the greyish rows of the elephantry. The horn broke the heavy silence between the two armies and the rocky landscape of the Disputed Lands was soon filled with a deafening clamor.
While the cavalry of the Golden Company charged, the three dozens of elephants trumpeted again, more loudly this time, and they rushed forward, the ground shook under their footsteps and a dust cloud wrapped the monstrous animals.
"Don't move!" Jon shouted to the lancers. "Let them come!"
The lancers of the Golden Company were not like the brave, loyal, yet inexperienced troops he had under his command during the War of the Usurper; the Westerosi foot soldiers were often peasants or fishers recruited only weeks before. Elephants would have terrified them, while the mercenary lancers had seen many fights and therefore closed ranks.
Despite the furious charge of the elephants and the constant shouting of the elephant drivers, they stayed still and held tightly their weapons. Their spears were twenty-feet long and by the way the first three ranks held them, any enemy would impale himself on their sharp iron head, on the condition that they took the blow. What would happen when their spears would meet the elephants' massive body? Jon was not very confident.
"Now!" he screamed. "Make way for them!"
All of a sudden, the lancers stepped aside, letting some of the animals enter the lines of the Golden Company; understanding there was something wrong, the elephant drivers tried to stop their mounts, but it was too late. The charging beasts couldn't be stopped and Jon knew it was one of the weaknesses of war elephants.
On Jon's left, some lancers tried to resist the mass of grey flesh towering above them and pierced the animal's chest; a terrifying clamor resounded as the elephant shook his head, his trunk waving in the air, but in the end, the wounded beast mercilessly trampled on several men. However, behind him and the ranks of lancers, their revenge appeared as a group of crossbowmen and lancers who had volunteered to use javelins. At first, the crossbowmen fired the elephants, then the lancers ran toward them and threw their javelins, aiming their unprotected chest.
At this point, the impressive beasts had gone furious and out of control: no matter the efforts of their drivers – some shouted at their mounts, other pointlessly beat them with a stick – the elephants just tried to avoid the blows and to get back to their position, bringing chaos on the battlefield.
Jon led his horse to the last row of lancers, for it was time to deal the death-blow.
"Now!" he shouted, pointing at the elephants.
These men had left their spears and shields for a less noble weapon; two by two, they pushed forward the dozens of old carts Jon had bought in Myr, so that the elephants could not ignore the huge fire pots they carried. Filled with pitch, the pots had been set ablaze to terrify the beasts. After cursing because he couldn't recall how the triarch Belicho had gotten rid of legions of elephants, Jon had finally remembered this fact. Hundreds of pages and countless hours spent reading this old book and finally one tiny detail will be helpful. If I knew how important it would be someday, I would have paid more attention while I studied it.
At the sight of the fire pots, the other elephants trumpeted again and tried to flee, despite their drivers protestations. One of the elephants collapsed on the ground, while reckless lancers threw themselves on his carcass to finish him off. His driver, thrust out of the turret, had landed on the dirt and didn't move anymore. Most of the men of the Golden Company, understanding things would be over soon, made way for the furious elephants and kept still, observing how their enemies' plan backfired. With every elephant trampling on the Tyroshi and their sellswords, Jon knew that they were closer to a significant victory. Myles Toyne probably enjoyed that sight. And Rhaegar would have been impressed.
Under the shining canvas of the captain-general's tent, Jon suffocated. Myles Toyne, more than happy after their victory against Tyrosh in the Disputed Lands, had invited him to eat and to talk about Jon's future in the Golden Company.
Casually sitting on silk cushions, they ate the spicy local cuisine – stews and marinated meat so hot the Dornish food seemed tasteless in comparison – and Jon found himself drinking more than eating, but the flagons of wine didn't seem able to quench his thirst.
"It was brilliant," Toyne summed up after singing the praises of Jon's decisions during the battle. "Of course I expected you to be a remarkable officer, but when you joined us you seemed so-"
He stopped short of telling more, seemingly looking for the right word. Desperate, Jon thought. The exact word would be 'desperate'. He knew Myles Toyne could take umbrage of his faraway look and sullen face but sometimes he simply wasn't strong enough to pretend.
"Can I ask you a question?" Jon said, still avoiding the captain-general's gaze. "Did you- did you ever lose a battle that meant so much you wanted to die?"
Toyne stayed silent for a few heartbeats, running his big hand through his hair.
"People said this damn city was a trap," he finally told Jon. "With Robert's forces hidden inside the walls and the Stark host at the gates, you were not supposed to leave Stoney Sept alive. Yet you retreated in good order."
Jon chuckled darkly, putting aside his silver goblet before spilling some green nectar of Myr the Magisters of the city had given to the Golden Company.
"If only the king had seen the battle through your eyes..." he answered, his nervous laughter still shaking him. "Do you know why King Aerys choose me?"
Myles Toyne poured some more wine in his own goblet, after Jon politely refused.
"The king knew your skills and he needed a change after this bungler he called his Hand," the captain-general replied.
"I brewed over his decision for days and nights," Jon explained, wiping beads of sweat on his forehead. "It didn't make sense. At first, I thought Prince Rhaegar had whispered my name in his father's ear, then I learned that my promotion was Lord Varys' idea."
He sighed deeply, hoping that the pressure of the battle would go away, but Jon knew the pressure he had felt because of the threatening presence of the elephants was nothing compared to the weight he had on his shoulders since the day of Stoney Sept. That feeling, a mix of guilt, shame and loss, would last until his death and follow him like his own shadow.
"The bloody Spider had the idea, but Aerys needed a good reason to agree."
"Like I said," Myles Toyne offered, "he was aware of your skills."
"I doubt that. What he wanted was a new Tywin Lannister. He would have named Lord Tywin, if he could and somehow he should have. Tywin Lannister would have won the Battle of the Bells. He would have killed Robert. Not himself, like I wanted to – a terrible mistake, now I see it – but he would have gotten rid of Robert."
The tent remained silent for a while and the only noise Jon heard was the footsteps of the men outside and the gloomy cries of night birds.
"And tell me how Tywin Lannister would have won this battle you lost so miserably," Toyne said with a challenging tone.
That time, Jon was forced to lock eyes with him. The captain-general's ugly face with his protruding chin and oversized ears looked like a gargoyle. Were there gargoyles pulling faces and mocking me from the roofs of the Sept, as I climbed the stairs where Robert waited for me?
"Tywin Lannister is no fool," Jon answered, "he would never tried to kill Robert himself, as if battles were single combats. I lost because I was too damn proud."
"Is that all?" Toyne asked, his voice exuding irony.
Jon frowned.
"I'll tell you what Lord Tywin would have done, then. He would never have entered Stoney Sept, nor searched the houses, nor questioned the inhabitants, like you did. Nothing of this ever interested him."
"May I ask what makes you believe he would never have searched the houses and taverns?" Jon asked, losing his temper.
"The Rains of Castamere."
"The Rains of Castamere! How can you base your reasoning on a song?"
"Sometimes, songs tell us the truth," Toyne retorted. "Did you ever notice that many songs come from battles and feats of arms?"
"What happened in Castamere is not a feat of arms. It was a slaughter."
"Precisely, Connington. Lord Tywin acquired a certain experience in slaughters. That's why he would have stayed outside of Stoney Sept. I'm not even sure he would have tried to negotiate with the inhabitants. He would have ordered to burn the city down."
He stopped for a while, observing Jon's reaction. The exile wiped his forehead again, wondering if the hot weather and the spicy Myrish cuisine were the only reasons why he was bathed in sweat.
"The day you crossed the gates of Stoney Sept, you were just as determined as anyone else to catch Robert Baratheon and to kill him," Toyne explained. "But you would never lower yourself to butcher an entire city. That's the main difference between Tywin Lannister and you. Somehow, you're a victim of the noble education your lord father gave you. And so is Rhaegar. If he had stayed behind his troops at the Trident, he'd still be alive. But he was a prince, and when he saw that Robert wanted to face him in single combat, he didn't dare to refuse."
Jon's eyes fell on his lap.
"Do you know what this war you call the War of the Usurper is?" he added. "It's the victory of pragmatism against the traditional education lordlings receive. Who won? A philanderer who hid himself in the brothel of Stoney Sept and a man who betrayed his king and decided to sack the capital. Your values are at odds with theirs. I asked you to prepare our counterattack against the elephants for one reason: I wondered what you would do in such a situation, if you could forget what you learned about strategy and warfare in Westeros. You succeeded. You're learning to put aside your noble education and the old habits that made you lose the Battle of the Bells. What was it about, today? Craftiness, dissimulation... You waited for the elephants with the lancers and only stroke when it was necessary. Exile is an education, Connington. Not the kind of education you yearn for, of course, but it will give you what you need to get back to Westeros, someday."