Once more, a huge thank you to my beta reader, Underthenorthernlights! Without her support, I couldn't have written this.
The events related here take place more or less three months after these of chapter 11.
Chapter 12
Jon
The rustle of poplar leaves, even in this exotic place, even hundreds of leagues away from the Stormlands, reminded him of his childhood. It was his third visit to Illyrio Mopatis' mansion in Pentos and he hadn't paid attention to the gardens so far; he had just walked through to reach the large entrance hall, led by a servant. Why is it different today? Jon could pretend not to care about the motive of his visit, but neither Mopatis, nor himself would believe that story.
He therefore remained under the colonnades, outside of the house strictly spoken yet not in the gardens, and he looked at the poplar trees. In the hot climate of Pentos, Jon had never expected to find poplar trees; he associated them with the water-logged soil of the river banks, or with the chilly winters of the Riverlands and the Stormlands. Now that he had noticed their presence in Mopatis' gardens, he couldn't get his eyes off of their haughty frame. In the warm breeze of the late afternoon, the rustle of the tree leaves was soothing like the voice of a long-lost friend.
"I had no idea you loved so much these gardens, my friend," Mopatis said.
Jon, who hadn't heard his host coming behind him, turned around. Mopatis was not what he would call a friend. At best, he's an ally, nothing more. Our interest in House Targaryen is the only thing we share and I'm not even sure he won't betray their cause.
'Their cause': it sounded both strange and sweet to think 'their' when Jon had thought Rhaegar's son to be the only survivor of House Targaryen. Mopatis was positive, though: if Queen Rhaella was dead, her children, the young Viserys and his baby sister Daenerys, had escaped Dragonstone thanks to Ser Willem Darry. He did what I should have done for Rhaenys: he didn't ask anybody's permission. His nails dug deeply in his palms.
"Are you sure about Prince Viserys and his little sister?" Jon asked, after regaining his composure.
Mopatis chuckled.
"Are all Westerosi men distrustful?" he answered. "Why would I lie to you? My informers in Braavos say they arrived a few days ago, after a long trip, exhausted maybe, but safe and sound. Within ten years, Viserys can sail back to Westeros and claim what he owns by birthright."
Jon remained silent, remembering his last conversation with the young prince, in the Red Keep, months ago. Lord Stark and his son had just been killed and the stench in the corridors was unbearable.
"I was expecting more enthusiasm, Jon," Mopatis added, trying to lock eyes with him.
"You know what smallfolk says about the Targaryens, in Westeros?" Jon replied, looking ahead and still observing the silvery leaves at the top of the poplar trees. "Every time a Targaryen is born, the gods flip a coin. He can be either a great king or a madman. Viserys might have inherited his father's madness."
Mopatis led Jon inside and invited him to sit down of a bench seat. A servant girl brought wine and some dried fruits; Jon accepted a goblet of Pentoshi amber but let his host help himself and nibble at the figs and dates.
"He's still very young," Mopatis observed. "How can you be sure about it?"
"I spent years in the Red Keep," Jon replied. "I came to King's Landing as a squire before Prince Viserys' birth."
"Certainly, my friend, but what makes you say this boy is mad?"
Jon sighed and took a sip of wine; the apprehension in Mopatis' voice sounded like the doubts of an old peasant woman who wanted to buy a cow and feared to make a bad investment. His wavering was not enough to take away his appetite though, and the fat merchant brought another fig to his lips.
"Do death threats count? Because Viserys used to threaten people who lived in the castle. He's seen many ugly things lately, and I'm afraid this war and the loss of his mother destroyed his sanity. Are Queen Rhaella's children going to join the young Aegon here?"
"Of course not!" Mopatis exclaimed, wiping his sticky fingers on a white cloth. "Three Targaryen children in the same place would be too easy to find for King Robert's spies. And don't forget that no one knows about Aegon. If you want my opinion, your brave Willem Darry should keep Viserys with him and send away the baby girl. Someone else should take care of her... But he won't listen. Westerosi knights and lords never listen."
This cutting remark was addressed to Jon, but he pretended not to notice.
"No need to say you shall never meet Ser Willem Darry, Jon. Robert Baratheon is no fool. He could make a connection. Anyway, for everybody's safety, Viserys and Daenerys should ignore Aegon's existence, and Aegon won't know who his parents were before I decide to tell him. Children are very bad liars, when it comes to family matters."
This confession confirmed something Jon already knew: the fat merchant didn't want to put all his eggs in one basket. His opportunist behavior exasperated Jon who wondered what would happen the day both Viserys and Aegon would be old enough to cross the Narrow Sea with an army. Will they fight each other? Will Mopatis take advantage of their division? What does he expect? Gold, lands, once a Targaryen prince reconquer the Seven Kingdoms? He's certainly not helping their cause for free.
Jon scooted to the edge of his seat.
"I want to see him," he suddenly told Mopatis.
"Who do you want to see? Don't tell me you're talking about Ser Willem Darry! Any encounter with him-"
"I want to see Aegon."
"We should not call him Aegon. We should-"
"I'm tired of following your rules, Mopatis. Just let me see the child."
Indignant, Mopatis almost choked on a date.
"You still don't believe me! Well, Jon-"
"I believe you when you say Aegon is here!" Jon nearly shouted. "I just want to see him."
The fat man stared at him in disbelief. If Jon demanded to see the boy, it meant one thing, in Mopatis' world: the exile didn't trust his word. He scowled at Jon, then angrily wiped his plump hands on the cloth and tossed it to the floor with a childish gesture.
"Come with me," he ordered curtly, pushing himself from his armchair.
Jon followed the fat merchant out of the antechamber: at the end of a corridor, Mopatis pointed at a door similar to the others and pushed it open. The room had probably been a library once, for several empty shelves remained. In the mahogany bookcases where Mopatis stored his scrolls and books, the wet-nurse had put the clothes she used for the baby as if it was a linen closet. She welcomed them with a deep bow and a few words of bastard Valyrian Jon could have understood if he had paid attention, but the cradle in the center of the room was all he could see.
Wordlessly, he stepped forward, watched the crib made of wicker, which simplicity contrasted with the mahogany shelves and the expensive rug on the floor. Inside the cradle, a small head and two little fists emerged from the blankets.
"What are you doing?" Mopatis asked, surprised to see a man leaning over an infant with something in his eyes that looked like interest.
Jon didn't listen to him and knelt by the child. As the baby was asleep, he gently wrapped him in the blankets and took him in his arms. This way, Jon could have a better look at his face. At first, he only saw the silver-blond hair that was typical of the Targaryens, then he wondered what he was looking for. His skin was smooth – not like a woman's skin, Aegon's seemed velvety – and it was difficult to recognize Rhaegar's features in such a small face.
The child shuddered and suddenly opened his eyes; for a second, Jon panicked and thought the baby would probably scream when awakening in a stranger's arms. Even my red hair could frighten him. After all, it was the first thing Rhaenys noticed when she looked at me.
The memory of the little princess was still painful, even months after her death. These dark blue eyes her brother had seemed so serious compared to hers. She had dark-brown eyes, sparkling with mischief. She was born to laugh and to drive boys up the wall. Even a man whose true love was another man could see that.
"What are you doing?" Mopatis repeated.
He was right behind Jon this time and towered above him without trying to hide his impatience.
"If I'm supposed to raise this child, sooner or later, we should make acquaintance."
The baby's blue eyes turned to purple with the late afternoon sun; mesmerized by this gaze which reminded him of someone else's, Jon smiled and stood up, holding tightly the heap of blankets. He crossed the room to reach the nearest window.
"Aegon," he whispered.
The child didn't flinch and looked back at him.
"For the time being, he's just 'the baby'," Mopatis announced, with the insistent tone of a man who liked to ruin others' happiness.
Jon wondered if he was happy at this very moment; the lump in his throat and Mopatis' annoying presence pleaded against any sort of pleasure, yet, with Aegon in his arms, he felt different. Raising this child meant to teach him so many things and to protect him from so many dangers it was somehow more demanding than any office in King's Landing. The day Jon would take this boy with him and raise him as his own child, his life wouldn't focus anymore on sellswords' contracts, war elephants or gilded armors. A sellsword's life was pointless; a father's life – for he would be the closest thing the child would have to a father – made him feel dizzy.
When Mopatis cleared his throat, Jon understood he had to leave and turned to the wet-nurse; the tanned dark-haired woman looked at him suspiciously while she took Aegon from his arms, wondering if this stranger who was so eager to hold the baby could be his father. Jon knew his behaviour was surprising and even shocking, but he didn't care.
He soon regained his mask of arrogance and followed Mopatis back in the antechamber, then under the colonnades. The orange and pink hues in the sky revealed how late it already was. Before crossing the gardens to reach the porch, Jon stopped and so did his host, wondering why the exile couldn't just leave.
"What's the matter, Jon?"
"The poplar trees in your gardens... they remind me of my home. I didn't know there were poplar trees in Essos."
His remark made Mopatis chuckle.
"There are not such trees here. They wouldn't survive without the cisterns, my servants bring back water every day to them. Poplar trees are an expensive fancy."
The rustle of the poplar leaves in the breeze lulled Jon and he was glad that Aegon would hear that sound day after day.
"I imported them from your country," Mopatis added, eager to show his wealth. "Uprooted in the Crownlands, I think, carefully transported on a ship and replanted here. Are they not splendid?"
"They are," Jon answered, nodding vehemently.
A servant brought his horse and Jon left Illyrio Mopatis' mansion. Questions tumbled in his head, but as he moved away from the mansion surrounded by creamy yellow high walls, he still saw the top of the poplar trees and their green-silver leaves. Uprooted and exiled, like me, like Aegon. Raising the boy and helping him to reconquer the Seven Kingdoms was much more challenging than anything he had done so far. Strangely, it was not the conquest that worried Jon, but the education he would give Aegon.
Because everything depends on what I teach him, on what kind of man he'll become by my side. He'll have to take my word for it, when I'll tell him what great kings the Targaryens were, now that Robert Baratheon drags their name through the mud. Will he believe me when I'll tell him Rhaegar was brave and wise? Will he forgive my contempt for his mother? Will he believe that I wanted to save his sister Rhaenys and failed? Will he believe that, in Westeros, poplar trees are not watered everyday in some stupid gardens surrounded by high walls but grow strong and free on the riverbanks?
Eddard
Nothing of this seemed real. As a matter of fact, not a single thing that had happened since their arrival in Dorne seemed real or even possible.
It doesn't make sense, Eddard kept repeating to himself. These words had worked their way into his mind when they had dismounted in front of the Tower of Joy, understanding that the last men staunchly defending the Targaryen cause were not in Dragonstone with Queen Rhaella, but there, standing in the way to the tower where Lyanna was waiting for him. Three members of the former Kingsguard, and the Sword of the Morning was among them.
The same feeling that all this was nonsense overtook him when he had pushed the door of his sister's cell and discovered her dying. Her bed looked like the bloodiest of battlefields. And she was there, alone... Ned had cradled her in his arms, whispered to her ear, promised she would recover, but she had smiled sadly. Lyanna knew he lied, yet she didn't protest. We both knew.
His heart pounding in his chest and still clutching her as if his grip could prevent Lyanna from dying, he had sworn what she had demanded. Ned often thought his vows had more value than other men's because he didn't spend his time promising things he couldn't keep, but that time he had no other choice than swearing what had happened in the Tower of Joy would remain secret, before realizing what it meant.
Eddard still didn't size all the consequences of his promise, as Howland and him pulled the tower down so that the stones would cover up the fallen, whether they were members of the Kingsguard or their companions.
It's like looking through the glass walls of the greenhouse in Winterfell when I was a boy. Their uneven surface distorted what was beyond: people seemed bigger or thinner and every move they made acquired a ghostly appearance. One couldn't tell his lord father from the kitchen maid, through the glass walls: it was all a blur. Ned felt the same, except he was not looking at the courtyard of Winterfell through the glass walls; it was just his eyes.
He couldn't see what he was doing and he didn't even know how he ended up holding the greatsword Ser Arthur Dayne usually slung across his back, a blade which milky glow had struck him. He sat on one of the fallen stones of the Tower, sheathed the greatsword and finally sobbed, for there was nothing else to do. For the first time in months, Howland didn't feel the need to sit by his side or to talk to him; the Crannogman was shocked as well, even if he tried to stay strong while Ned fell apart.
"We need to go to Starfall," he told Howland, after a long while.
"Why? What is Starfall?"
"It's- it's a castle. The siege of House Dayne. We can't keep such a fine sword. Can't leave it in these ruins either. Lady Ashara Dayne should have it."
Did Howland remember Ashara's haunting purple eyes? After all, he had only seen her once during the Tourney at Harrenhal. Did his friend remember Eddard had danced with this woman who infatuated so many lords?
Howland's eyes widened suddenly and he opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something, then gave up. He sat across from Eddard and stared at the greatsword in its scabbard resting on his friend's lap. The wind blew from the North-East, in this part of the Dornish Mountains, a chilly wind drying Eddard's tears and bringing more questions when a wailing broke the silence. The child.
The baby was just as red as the Dornish Mountains he was born in, when Howland went back with him.
"How far is Starfall?" he asked Eddard, cradling the child a bit too forcefully, and the screaming increased.
"A few more days South, I'm afraid."
As Howland tried to comfort the child, talking quietly and leaning over the boy's red face, Ned saw tears at the corner of his eyes; Howland wiped them hastily, but he knew they had had the same reaction. The child looks like Lyanna. That's why I can't look at him.
"We'll need goat milk," Howland added, trying to regain his composure.
"Why?"
"For the boy, of course. You don't intend to give him dried meat, do you? Dornishmen must have goats..."
He stood up so abruptly Ned was afraid he would drop his tiny burden – and he realized that, even if looking at this child was painful, he cared for him, much more than he could say – then, with a deliberate slowness, Howland stepped forward and held the baby out.
"What?" Eddard barked, clinging to the remains of his anger.
"He's a Stark," Howland said thoughtfully. "He's your son, now."
These words would haunt Eddard, perhaps for as long as his sister's begging tone, when she had told him 'Promise me Ned'. He's your son, now. His eyes misted over again, but he took the child in his arms all the same and clutched to him.
He's your son, now. Against the absurd events of the last months, against the loss of his sister, against the dubious choices he had been forced to make, this certainty was all he had.
Was Lady Ashara Dayne as beautiful as he remembered her? Ned hesitated for a long time then decided that the last months had caused permanent changes on her face. Her fascinating violet eyes were the same, but dark circles made her gaze feverish; she had always been pale – Southern women's aversion for outdoor activities and sun kept surprising him – yet the light complexion high-born ladies sought so eagerly had turned into a waxy tone. In Harrenhal, he had danced with a fiery woman who carried herself with self-confidence among the nobility and knew how to make the most of herself – the memory of her close-fitting bodice still haunted Eddard's mind. This seductive creature was gone, replaced by a woman whose haggard features matched her loose dress.
Even her expression had changed: he knew she wouldn't grin as she usually did, since he came to Starfall with the saddest news he could give her, but something in her eyes told him that she was absent, as if she had already stomached her brother's death and didn't expect anything from life.
Eddard was alone when he crossed the gates of Starfall; Howland had decided someone should stay outside with the baby. Bringing the child in this place, so few days after the fight at the Tower of Joy could arouse suspicion and Eddard didn't want to take any risk.
As her brother and guardian was not in Starfall, Lady Ashara welcomed Eddard in the castle's Hall. The once smiling, quicksilver lady-in-waiting Princess Elia praised so much was sitting behind a long table, emotionless and hieratic. Under the vaulted ceiling, the time seemed to stand still.
"I thought a blade that had been in your house for so many years belonged here," Eddard finally said, holding out Ser Arthur Dayne's greatsword. "May I-"
As she nodded, he slowly stepped forward and carefully put the sword on the table, so that Ashara could have a look at it. She hardly ducked her head, her gaze caressing the sheath ornate with silver repoussé and the carved pommel.
"Dawn," she simply whispered, as if calling someone she knew.
Eddard remembered 'Dawn' was the name of that greatsword made from a falling star the members of House Dayne guarded jealously; oddly enough, people called Ser Arthur 'the Sword of the Morning' because he carried a sword named Dawn. Every generation, a member of House Dayne received both the blade and that title. How peculiar. It's the sword that gives the man his moniker, not the contrary.
Eddard didn't move, observing Ashara and trying to remember how beautiful she was that night in Harrenhal, when he had danced with her. After Brandon invited her for me. After Lyanna wiped the tears that rolled on her cheeks when Prince Rhaegar played the harp. What kind of spell had fallen upon us that night?
Ashara's long fingers brushed the hilt of Dawn, then she lifted her eyes to Eddard. Under her violet gaze, so intense it made him swallow hard, he felt like the inexperienced boy he was that night. At her mercy.
"Did you kill him yourself, my lord?" she asked steadily.
For a heartbeat, a blast of wind from the sea was all they could heard, then Ned regained his composure.
"Aye, my lady, I must admit that I killed your brother."
What else could he say? Eddard slowly retreated to the spot where he stood a few moments before.
"I heard of your feats of arms during this war, my lord," she added. "My elder brother is on his way to King's Landing, to meet King Robert. He wants to make amends for... for we didn't choose the right side, I guess... Arthur would have never allowed our brother to kneel before the new king, but now that he's dead..."
Her inability to finish her sentences and her faraway look revealed her melancholy. What happened to her? Eddard wondered as she looked through the large window; he sensed that her brother was not the only person she grieved. Eddard felt the urge to talk, to say anything that could break the awkward silence due to her lack of reaction, even it was misplaced.
"Your brother was the truest knight I ever met, my lady."
His remark brought an ironic smile on her thin lips.
"You speak very highly of my beloved Arthur. Coming from the man who slain my brother, the tribute is even more touching."
"My lady... I was looking for my sister Lyanna and your brother was in my way," he countered. "Ser Arthur knew exactly what he was doing when he drew his sword, when he and his friends killed my companions, one after the other. He was a brave knight, perhaps the bravest I ever met, but he was my sister's jailer."
"Brothers, sisters," Ashara said with a saturnine smile. "You would have done anything to find your sister. I can't help defending my brother's memory. Which one of us is right?"
"I have no talent for charades, my lady. Perhaps we are both right."
Convinced they had nothing more to tell each other, Eddard wanted to take his leave, but before he could say anything, Ashara's fluting voice resonated under the vaulted ceiling.
"What are you going to do now that your quest is over, my lord? Are you going back to King's Landing, to advise your dear friend the king? I heard you married that Tully girl. Are you on your way to join her?"
Despite her impassible face, her tone exuded resentment and envy, two feelings he didn't know Ashara was familiar with.
"I came here to bring you a sword that's been in your House for decades, nothing more, my lady," he answered curtly. "I'm on my way to Winterfell, to honor my sister's memory."
"Brotherly love," she commented, pursing her lips.
Ned mumbled something and left her, thinking she would spend the rest of her day blaming him and cursing the Starks. He was wide of the mark.
Stopping over in King's Landing cost him a lot, but Eddard had no other choice; he needed to tell Robert that Lyanna was dead and he wanted to inform Jon Arryn he was going home. Howland suggested that they would present the child as his bastard son. The situation was new and uncomfortable, not only because he had to lie, nor because lords usually ignored the children they had had with their mistresses and didn't recognize their bastards: Eddard had simply never envisioned the idea of having a bastard – the news from Riverrun a few weeks before had been a shock, even if he knew Catelyn and him would have children of their own someday.
During the few days they spent in the capital, Eddard became aware that the other men's look on him had changed with his new status. He had the reputation of a stern Northerner, of the kind of person they didn't invite to share a night of bender – the exact opposite of Robert, so to speak – and suddenly, he was the man who had come back from Dorne with a bastard boy. Southern lords sneered at him in his absence, imagining the straight man who was a living reproach for them had finally infringed his moral code. There was nothing to do, except clench his jaw and shrug off their japes.
He hastened his departure, once he understood that Lyanna's death and the grief they shared had allowed him to make peace with Robert. The new king was just as miserable as himself, attending the Small Council, but hardly listening to the debates, a forlorn look on his face. The lords of the Stormlands claimed he had lost the appetite for women and that he drank himself into stupors. Ned had doubts at first and, to his great shame, he felt the urge to check if they were right. His wanderings in the Red Keep and a short inquiry among the squires and servants in Maegor's Holdfast confirmed Robert had shut his door to the whores and spent his nights with the sole company of red wine. Will he be more faithful to Lyanna now that she's dead?
When he thought of the past year, Eddard remembered his disappointment when he had understood Robert would never be faithful to his sister – the wench he had found Robert with in the kitchens of the castle of Gulltown only proving what he already sensed – and how he hoped the search for Lyanna would strengthen a friendship their differences broke apart. He had tried to convince himself that if he had lost his father and Brandon, he could at least rely on Robert. His expectations had been ruined, day after day, whether Robert was by his side or not. Every decision, every battle widened the gap existing between them, until he had no other choice than leaving King's Landing to meet another person Robert's behavior had cruelly deceived: Stannis.
Robert wouldn't be more faithful to Lyanna after her death: Jon Arryn saw to put the finish touches to the alliances between the new king and House Lannister. Nobody knew when Cersei Lannister, the girl who fancied herself marrying Prince Rhaegar, would arrive in the capital. Her father Tywin would most likely accompany her himself, but he was still in King's Landing with his men. Eddard didn't want to see more of that mummer's farce.
He left a few hours after a raven arrived from Starfall: Lady Ashara Dayne had jumped from the top of one of the towers. Despite the search, nobody had found her corpse on the rocks below the cliff. What was it? Why was she so sad? Who had hurt her so cruelly? All these questions churned in his head as Eddard led the Northerners out of the Red Keep and through the crowded streets of King's Landing.
Leaving Howland in the Neck was almost painful after months spent together. I owe him so much: my life, for I could have died at the Tower of Joy; my son, for he protected the child during the first days as if he was his own boy. How can I ever repay him?
Both told each other that they would meet again very soon, but they knew it was a lie: Howland was as attached to Greywater Watch as he loved Winterfell. They would stay where their duties called them instead of visiting each other. The thought that he was on his way to see his wife and his younger brother hardly compensate for his sadness to leave Howland.
For lack of his friend, he led his horse to the cart where the maester and his assistant took care of the child. In the basket they used as a crib, tightly wrapped in blankets, the baby slept peacefully, his pale face turned to the clouds. The dark hair covering his head and his grey eyes when he looked at Ned made him a true Stark. That will be his chance and his curse, too. His chance, for as long as he looks like me no one will question his filiation, and his curse, because he will be a bastard for the rest of his life.
The road to Winterfell was a long one; Eddard stole a glance at his son whose sleep wasn't disturbed by the cart bumping along the path and went back to the head of the column.
Winterfell will never be the same without her. Under the cloud studded sky, the towers of Winterfell loomed over the soldiers and servants working in the inner yard as Eddard walked to the crypts, followed by a bunch of craftsmen. Three more tombs in one year in the crypts. And what for? He tried to keep the images of the deceased at bay, but the atmosphere of the crypts and its smell got the better of his determination. The faint smell of humus in the confined space below the castle had always had the same effect on Ned; whenever he took the stairs leading to the crypts, melancholy overwhelmed him, as if the Kings of the North themselves tugged at his sleeve.
The sepulchers of the Starks of Winterfell were there, the likenesses of his ancestors carved in the grey stone, each of them protected by direwolves whose bared teeth threatened anyone who wanted to disturb their eternal rest. I hope Lyanna won't feel alone here; she'll be the first woman in the crypts.
He remembered how they played there, years ago, before his father sent him in the Vale. Lyanna played in the crypts like she had fun on the battlements or in the yard; the darkness and silence down there didn't frighten her. On the contrary, playing in the crypts meant just more fun for her because of the mysterious atmosphere. It meant bringing torches and wrapping yourself in your warmest cloak. More than once, they had shivered, hidden behind one of the tombs while Brandon looked for them. One day, Brandon and him had laughed heartily when Benjen had screamed in the dark, feeling some rat at his feet and mistaking the rodent for one of the dead Starks. He remembered how Lyanna had taken their younger brother in her arms, cradling him while he wept. 'The dead can't harm you, Benjen. Look at them: why do you think they carry a sword? They protect us, you idiot. They're family.'
She belongs here, he decided, his eyes sweeping the row of statues. She belongs here more than anyone.
"My lord..." one of the craftsmen said tentatively, "have you decided where..."
Eddard sighed and gave his orders, insisting on the fact that Lyanna's statue should have the same characteristics than the other Starks, bearing a sword and having a direwolf at her feet. He contemplated the empty spot where Lyanna's sepulcher would be soon while the craftsmen examined it and he turned around when he heard footsteps behind him. His brother Benjen was here, a sad smile on his lips.
When the craftsmen left and went back to their workshops in Winter Town, the Stark siblings took the flight of stairs leading them to the busy yard, then walked to the Great Keep.
"Would you like to come with me see the child?" Eddard asked his brother.
Benjen nodded. There was no need to tell him exactly which child he was talking about; they both knew he meant the bastard son Eddard had brought back with him. Jon. I need to tell Benjen about him, because he was with me and Howland at the Tourney.
Jon shared a room with his wet-nurse, not very far from Eddard and Catelyn's bedchamber. When they came in, the boy slept and the nurse, understanding her presence was not necessary, silently retreated.
"Come," Eddard told Benjen, "have a look at him. I'm pretty sure you didn't look at your nephew since our arrival."
He stopped by the crib and leaned over the baby. Something probably disturbed Jon in his sleep – was it his voice or some sort of gripe? – for he whined and scowled with discomfort.
"You're wrong," Benjen whispered. "I come here at night, and watch him sleeping."
He stepped forward and positioned himself by the cradle, across Eddard.
"A chance he doesn't have his looks," Benjen commented. "Blond hair and purple eyes would have been difficult to explain. Gods, he looks so much like her."
Eddard's heart skipped a beat. He wanted to tell his brother who the child really was and that was why he had suggested this visit to Jon, but he didn't suspect Benjen already knew.
"How did you guess?" Eddard asked, leaning forward.
"I know you. You don't have bastards. You don't make women cry unless you have a very good reason. This child is a damn good reason, Eddard."
But I made Catelyn cry and she won't forgive me.
A few days ago, when he had finally crossed the South Gate, she was waiting for him with her good-brother in the yard, ready to welcome Eddard, even if childbirth had exhausted her. She already knew that Lyanna was dead and expected to find a bereaved husband. She didn't expect him to hurry to the maester's cart and take the basket where a bastard boy feebly wailed, after dismounting. Her gentle smile vanished at once and she stayed there, petrified, unable to utter a word.
On his way to Winterfell, Eddard had had plenty of time to think about it. The more people know about the child, the more risks we take, Howland had said. If he told his wife, it was not only a risk for the child, but for them as well – Catelyn, himself, their son and the other children the Old Gods would give them. She doesn't know what kind of threat you will have to face if someone learns who were his parents, Howland had warned him before their arrival in Greywater Watch. And telling her the truth would be the first breach in the promise he had made to Lyanna.
He knew he had to lie, but he also knew how smart Catelyn was. The slightest hint, the shortest moment of carelessness would put her on the trail. He had to make her blind, to cloud her judgment and he only knew one way: jealousy.
"What will you call our son?" she had asked him, once in their bedchamber.
Unlike Jon, the child she had borne slept in a crib near their bed. Even that difference between the two boys was painful when Eddard thought about it.
"I will call him Robb."
"Like King Robert?"
Her tone seemed detached and almost cheerful but he knew she was hurt. She took their son in her arms and held him out to Eddard. He complied and cradled his son, enjoying the smell of milk and fresh linen. Like Jon.
"My lady, we need to talk."
Her begging look warned him he would have to crush the tiniest hope her heart still harbored. Ned clenched his jaw.
"Jon... my bastard son will stay with us in Winterfell. It was my choice to bring him here so that he could have a good education and it is my decision to raise him with his... true-born siblings."
Eyes downcast and wringing her beautiful hands, she remained silent for a while.
"Is there something I can do to make you change your plans?" she asked suddenly.
"I'm afraid it's impossible."
He saw her shaking, then he noticed the tears at the corner of her eyes.
"What have I done?" she protested. "I know you didn't choose to marry me, you made it clear on our wedding night... but Gods, what have I done?"
His son still in his arms, he held out his hand but even this gesture infuriated her.
"No! Don't touch me!"
She believes my lies, he mused, as contradictory feelings took hold of him: relief, because Jon would be safer so long as she didn't know; guilt, because he had somewhat betrayed her; deception, for she had swallowed his infidelity so easily. She imagines me cheating on her without a second thought, as if I was one of these lordlings who boast themselves about their conquests. The fact that she mistook him for some Northern brute who treated women like playthings hurt Eddard.
"Who is she?" Catelyn abruptly asked, looking at him defiantly. "Is she a noblewoman who welcomed you in her castle after a battle or is she a serving wench who scrubs floors?"
He remembered how his sister was pale on her deathbed and anger overwhelmed him.
"You don't know what you're talking about," he spat.
"Oh, no..." she whispered venomously, "I certainly don't know what I'm talking about, because I stayed in Riverrun, waiting for you, and I only crossed the Neck to give birth to your son, here, in Winterfell. You have a bastard son: very well. Many lords have bastards. What I don't understand is why you want him to grow up here. To tell you the truth, my lord, I can only think of one man who keeps his bastards under his roof even if he has true-born children: Lord Walder Frey, an unsavory character."
Awaken by his mother's high-pitched voice, the baby began to cry and Eddard tried – unsuccessfully – to comfort him.
"Who is this boy's mother?" Catelyn repeated, on the verge of tears.
Her insistence only brought back more images of Lyanna and Eddard felt sick when he remembered the blood soaking her bed and the pale hands he had hold in his to keep them warm. His silence incensed her; she stamped her feet by the crib. If he gave her another reason to blame him, she would be so hurt she would never ask again.
"You have no right to talk about her, my lady," he answered curtly. "You didn't know her and she's dead."
The venom pervading his words immediately had an effect on Catelyn: her big blue eyes widened and the sweet, kind-hearted girl he had married turned into a hopeless creature.
"You loved his mother," she said.
It sounded like a statement rather than a question. She wanted to be sure that her fears were justified, that he had not only slept with another woman but he had also loved her. When I came back to her, she thought it was some kind of youthful indiscretion; now she believes it was a love affair.
All he had to do was stay silent and look at her. He slowly raised his gaze, holding his son tightly and remembering his promise. She meant everything to me. Realizing his sister had been so important in his life was enough to endure Catelyn's jealousy and her anger. At least for a few heartbeats.
Fighting back tears, she stepped forward.
"Very well, my lord," she said coldly. "I won't forget my duties."
Catelyn took the baby from his arms and sat on the edge of the bed, cradling him. Their son had nestled against his chest and his sudden absence left an unpleasant sensation of emptiness and cold. He left and walked to Jon's room, stopped in front of the door, realizing how late it was. In Ned's eyes, the baby slept all day long – like Robb – so another visit wouldn't change anything but the wet-nurse he had found in the Neck certainly needed to rest. He finally decided to go to the Godswood and stayed there, by the pool of black water. That was how he spent his first night in Winterfell after his return.
Now that Benjen looked at him, the memory of his argument with Catelyn ashamed him.
"She's proud," his brother commented. "She won't forgive you easily for what she thinks you've done, but she'll love you all the same. She already does."
"How do you know?"
Benjen chuckled.
"You should have seen her before your arrival. And now, when she looks at you in the Great Hall... She's angry but she wouldn't be so furious if she didn't love you."
Ill-at-ease, Eddard felt the urge to change the subject and Jon, who opened his eyes and yawned, gave him the opportunity he was waiting for.
"Have you ever hold your nephew in your arms?" he asked his younger brother.
Benjen shook his head and Ned insisted until the baby was snuggling against his uncle's shoulder.
"Tell me brother, how does it feel?" Eddard asked, crossing his arms about his chest and enjoying Benjen's hesitation.
"He's rather heavy, Lord Stark," he said with a mocking smile.
He brushed his nephew's temple, eliciting a tiny wailing.
"I know what you're doing, Ned," Benjen added, looking down at Jon, "but I won't change my mind. Next turn of the moon, I'll ride to Castle Black and join the Night's Watch. Putting a baby in my arms won't prevent me from taking the black."
His blue eyes were so serious Eddard sighed.
"You will have no lands, no family," he told his younger brother. "The Umbers have a girl-"
Benjen shook his head, adamant.
"You decided to take the black because you felt guilty," Eddard protested. "Because of what happened during the Tourney at Harrenhal... You're so young it doesn't make sense! You can't punish yourself like this."
"Says the man who acknowledged the paternity of someone else's child and almost turned away his wife by doing so. It's just the same, Ned. You're going to tell me you protect this boy because it's your way to honor Lyanna's memory and it's true. But you also do it to keep your guilt at bay. This boy is your sacrifice and the Night's Watch will be mine. I don't envy you, brother. The castle, the lovely but jealous wife, the weeping children... they're all yours."
Grabbing Jon's middle, Benjen lifted his nephew in the air, above his head.
"He's heavy," he repeated. "Must be the weight of guilt I'm feeling. Aye, I'm going to Castle Black because some of us need to keep watch on top of the Wall so that chubby boys like this one sleep well at night."
Despite the disenchantment his words conveyed, Benjen seemed serene as he put the baby in Ned's arms.
"Look, brother, he's smiling. He recognizes you."
Of course he recognizes me: I fed him with goat milk and I shared my furs with him for so many nights in Dorne he used to nestle against me when he was hungry, as if I could breastfeed him. I'm his father and his mother. I'm everything he has left.
Maybe Benjen was right when he said Jon was heavy, but the baby was warm too. The sunbeams played on the child's face, making him open his eyes again. He's dark-haired, and grey-eyed. A true Stark.
Sandor
"We'll soon be home!" Serrett exclaimed, as the shape of Casterly Rock appeared on the horizon.
A ragged mist wrapped the rocky spur standing against the greyish sky; on its top, the fortress looked impregnable. Is this place my new home? Sandor was skeptical; Casterly Rock had been a goal to reach when he had escaped Clegane's Keep, then a shelter. He doubted this place, no matter how beautiful it was, overlooking Lannisport and the Sunset Sea, would be more than a shelter for him. It's only temporary, this place doesn't mean much.
Sometimes, he wondered where he would spend the rest of his life: he knew he didn't want to end up in Casterly Rock's armory, like Master Symon, and Clegane's Keep belonged to Gregor. So where will I go? The only rational answer was to let Lord Tywin decide. Sandor was his squire, after all. The day he had collapsed in front of the gates of Casterly Rock, he had given up his freedom to get his liege lord's protection. The proud fortress looming over the sea was not his home; it was just a place where he could stay and be safe until he found something better.
Tywin's decision came the morning after their arrival, as Sandor fought not to rub his eyes. He now slept in what had been Banefort's room, near his master, and woke up at dawn, when Tywin required a basin of water to wash his face and a tray full of fresh food to break his fast. That morning, Sandor had left his pallet with a strange sensation, nearly a lump in his throat, but he couldn't figure out why. Yawning, he shrugged it off and walked to his master's bedchamber.
"You'll join me in the Golden Gallery, once your chores are done," Tywin announced him and Sandor immediately sensed it was some serious matter.
Sitting on the edge of his massive bed, the lord of Casterly Rock only had his breeches on, but the boy thought he didn't need to wear his best armor and finest cloak to look regal. Despite his drawn features, Tywin had a sort of determination in his eyes as if he had woken up with that idea and stuck to it. Sandor bowed and hurried to the kitchens, where he didn't see Fat Jeyne – he wanted to talk to the old cook, but he couldn't get the meeting with Tywin in the Golden Gallery out of his mind.
Still pondering on Tywin's decision about his future, he returned to his master's bedchamber then got rid of his morning duties – opening the window, emptying the chamber pot, cleaning the room, making the bed – before walking to the Golden Gallery. But why the Golden Gallery instead of some other place? The Gallery reminded him of Gregor's visit, when his brother had asked for his return to Clegane's Keep. Gregor was still in Casterly Rock, probably sleeping it off in some corner of the Great Hall. He might ask again for Sandor's return, but Tywin was not the kind of man who reconsidered his decisions.
Sandor knocked at the door of the Golden Gallery and came in once he heard Tywin's even voice. The Lord of Casterly Rock pointed to a spot three steps behind his cross-framed folding seat and told him to stay still. Brow furrowed, Sandor obeyed as Tywin sat down. His master let out a sigh and, from where the boy was, he saw him folding his arms. What is he waiting for?
All of a sudden, a knock at the door partly gave him the answer. The tall and graceful Lady Cersei appeared on the threshold, stepped in and cautiously shut the heavy door behind her. With an incline of her head, she greeted her father, walked to the armchair across his seat and only hesitated when she spotted Sandor next to the windows, in the back light. King Robert's betrothed finally settled down, made sure her blond braid rested on her left shoulder, then smoothed her skirts without trying to conceal her boredom.
"Come here, Clegane," Tywin said. "I want you to meet my daughter. I don't think you've ever met."
"Yes, Father, we met. I told your little squire how his secret attack impressed me when he fought these squires in the yard."
With that, she looked at Sandor and gave him her best sardonic smile. Remembering how she had humiliated him in the kitchens, months ago, he clenched his fists.
"Very well," Tywin went on, "very well."
Something in his honeyed tone suggested that his daughter's remark didn't fool him.
"As soon as we're ready, we'll ride to King's Landing, to celebrate your marriage with Robert Baratheon. But... I won't stay forever with you, my dear. My duty is to rule the Westerlands as the king confirmed my title and I intend to go back to Casterly Rock as soon as I can. Your Uncle Kevan delt with day-to-day matters, but you know him..."
He stopped talking and crossed his long legs, observing his daughter's reaction. Sandor still didn't understand why Tywin needed his presence. Standing behind his master, Sandor couldn't see his face but he looked at Cersei. The morning light provided by the large windows played on her golden hair and sent tiny sparks on the silver embroidery of her dress; her eyes narrowed slightly, as if she began to understand what her father had in mind, but still refused to believe it was true. She slowly shook her head.
"Why is your squire still here, Father?" she finally asked, her eyes on her lap. "Doesn't he have some work to do for you?"
Her arrogance barely hid her unease; Cersei suddenly smiled and locked eyes with her father, not without panache, for she well knew that, whatever he had decided, she would have to consent. Tywin uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, as if he was going to tell her a secret.
"I called Clegane because he will be your sworn shield."
The news came across like a bucket of cold water in Cersei's face. Her features stayed perfectly still but she took a sharp intake of breath. So this is it. Her sworn shield.
"No," she simply answered.
Her refusal seemed to embolden her and her green eyes shone with indignation. Sandor cleared his throat noisily.
"My lord, my lady... I should probably leave-"
Without turning around to look at him, Tywin lifted his hand in the air in a commanding gesture.
"No, Clegane, you'll stay."
"Father, do you think his presence will prevent me from saying why I don't want this boy as my sworn shield?" she hissed.
"What do you think? People always remind him he's burnt. He's thick-skinned, he can stomach whatever malicious words you're going to say."
A pawn, again, Sandor thought. But this time it's in the game he plays with his daughter.
"I will be the queen!" Cersei protested. "I will be the most influential person apart from the king and you want me to walk through the corridors of the Red Keep with him?"
With a flourish of her hand, she showed Sandor; her hand fell on her lap when she heard her father repressing a laugh. It was so unusual for her or for anyone who knew Tywin that her eyes widened in surprise.
"May I ask what is it you find so funny?" she asked after regaining her composure.
"Realizing you fancy yourself as one of the most influential persons of the realm, my dear. I thought you were smarter."
He stood up and leaned over her, placing his hands on either side of the back of her armchair, so that she looked like a trapped animal.
"You might be the queen in a few weeks, but you will always be my dutiful daughter. It means you'll follow my decisions. Clegane will stay in Casterly Rock until his training is complete. The day I'll say he's ready, he'll become your sworn shield. When I deprive myself of a loyal, obedient boy and a remarkable warrior, I expect a little more gratitude."
Cersei looked daggers at her father and Sandor, ill-at-ease, contemplated the boots he had bought in King's Landing before their departure. The dark pebble-grained leather contrasted with the polished wooden floor and its glimmering surface, reminding Sandor he was out-of-place.
"You think queens are influential persons, is that correct?" Tywin added, his tone exuding irony. "Pray tell, my daughter, when was the last time Queen Rhaella led her troops to the battlefield? What did she do for the Seven Kingdoms?"
"She gave birth to Prince Rhaegar," Cersei answered defiantly.
As her father slightly turned, Sandor could see his profile and noticed a half-smile on his lips. Bending over, Tywin's head was next to Cersei's but despite their likeness, their expressions were radically different; paler, the girl looked already defeated while he savored his victory.
"She gave birth to Rhaegar. Exactly," he said. "Queens give birth to a bunch of little princes and princesses. If you ever want to have a semblance of power in King's Landing, you'd better give Robert an heir. The sooner the better."
Tywin stood straight and went back to his folding seat.
"Who will be my sworn shield," Cersei asked, swallowing her pride, "until this one comes of age?"
"I don't know yet," Tywin confessed. "When I decided to give you Clegane as a sworn shield, I overlooked this problem. Still, many knights of the Westerlands will fight for the honor of serving you. I'll have an abundance of choices."
She nodded curtly and stood up to take leave.
"Clegane," Tywin called, "See Lady Cersei to her chamber. It will be your duty one day."
Sandor bowed slightly and followed Tywin's daughter as she left the Golden Gallery. Once in the corridor, she briefly turned and looked hard at him, wondering if he would dare to stay on her heels or not. If she thinks I will disobey Tywin, she's wrong.
With a furious rustle of skirts, she rushed forward, forcing a servant to move aside; whatever she did, hurrying in the corridor, Sandor's long strides enabled him to catch up with her. When he heard her ragged breathing on the top of the staircase leading to her bedchamber, he found the situation so absurd it was almost laughable. All he had to do to infuriate Cersei was let his footsteps resonating behind her to remind the girl of his unwanted presence. She gave out a sigh of relief when she reached the door of her bedchamber.
"My lady," he said tentatively, "your brother Ser Jaime asked me to tell you how much he's pleased to see you soon."
She froze, spun on her heels and for the first time, she looked at him straight in the eyes. Jaime had not told him anything about his twin sister, but Sandor wanted to see her reaction.
"So my brother talked to you?" she asked, raising one eyebrow. "Dear old Jaime... He has a knack to make friends with lame ducks and lost dogs."
His eyes narrowed until Tywin's lecture and Cersei's mortification came back to his mind. All of sudden, he remembered what Fat Jeyne had told her the day she had mocked his scars. 'Was your day that bad, my lady?' To her great surprise, he smiled a twitching half-smile.
"Have a good day, my lady," he said before leaving her dumb-founded.
His words strangely echoed Fat Jeyne's cutting remark. Down the stairs and across the corridors, he hurried to the kitchens. I need to see her, I need to talk to her.
He expected to hear Fat Jeyne grumbling under the pointed arch that led to the kitchens, but there were only the high-pitched voices of the boys and girls who worked under her orders. He came in. Smoke crept over the large room, making him cough. An army of boys and girls ran from the hearth to the never-ending table, cursing, shouting, jolting each other like mad hens in a poultry yard. His arrival caused even more confusion, when one of the youngest kitchen maids, a black-haired girl with a thin braid, ran to him.
"Sandor Clegane of Clegane's Keep!" she exclaimed. "I know you would come back. Remember me?"
"Willa of Pansy Mill, is that right?"
The scrawny little girl nodded cheerfully before turning to the others.
"Come here, Maria, he's back! Tomaz, Helory, bring me some bread and soup for him!"
Listening to this girl of ten giving orders made him realize something went amiss in the kitchens.
"Where is Fat Jeyne?" Sandor asked.
"Later," Willa replied, tugging at his sleeve, "sit down and eat."
The two boys working in the kitchens brought a bowl of soup and some bread. Sandor sat down on the bench and looked suspiciously at the blackened crust, while all the kitchen boys and girls gathered around him, taking the occasion not to work.
"Helory forgot the bread in the oven, but it's good once you dip it into the soup," Willa said encouragingly.
Sandor did as she commanded and swallowed the bite of soaked bread; the bread was overdone and the soup had a watery taste. Then, the kitchen boys and girls began to throw questions tick and fast.
"So what have you seen?"
"Did you see the Red Keep?"
"Did you see the king?"
"Is it true you killed a man?"
"No, he didn't kill a man! Talbert is a liar."
"Gods, let him taste the soup!"
Around Sandor, their ugly and somewhat grotesque faces formed a merry circle where he was but a stranger they admitted once in a while, because Fat Jeyne liked him or because he could be useful. They tolerated him, perhaps more easily than the other squires who were high-born off-springs, but he was a stranger nonetheless. If his horseman boots were out-of-place in the Golden Gallery, they also looked incongruous on the greasy red tiles of the kitchens. I don't belong here, he thought.
"You look taller," a feminine voice commented.
This one, dark-haired, older, and almost pretty for a kitchen maid, was Maria. He remembered a skinny girl, with bony limbs and a flat chest, who couldn't look at his scars, but Sandor wasn't the only one who had changed during the last months. A bit less gaunt, she had tits now and she held his gaze, unless he looked hard at her. Noticing how he leered at her, Maria blushed and Willa elbowed her friend.
"Older, mayhap," she went on, biting her lip.
They chuckled and one of the kitchen boys whispered to the other something that sounded like a saucy jape. Maria rolled her eyes, mimicking one of Cersei's favorite expressions.
"How old are you?" one of the girls asked Sandor, shoving Willa.
"I'm-"
He stopped short of saying 'two-and-ten' when he remembered his name day just before leaving King's Landing. Nobody had greeted Sandor that day, because nobody knew. Why would my name day be different from the other days?
"I'm three-and-ten," he finally answered. "And you, girl, how old are you?"
Ignoring the blond-haired girl who had asked for his age, he looked at Maria.
"A bit older," she said, puckering up. "I'm four-and-ten."
"I know what it is," Willa exclaimed. "It's your voice. You don't speak like a little girl anymore. Your voice broke!"
Excitement made her talk faster; Sandor frowned and push aside the bowl of soup.
"You didn't notice it?" she went on, surprised. "Come on, say something!"
"I- I don't know," he said.
"Look!" Willa said triumphantly. "Like I said: his voice broke!"
He couldn't tell if his voice had changed during the past months and the members of the host who had spent their days with him had not mentioned it. Nobody noticed the transformations that happened from day-to-day; one had to leave people for a few months to measure the changes that affected them. The realization made Sandor wonder if this change was a good one, if his voice sounded better now, when Maria's question got him out of his pensive mood.
"Did you- Did you really kill a man?"
She glanced at him like she imagined a noble lady would do with knights and lords, except that she underestimated Sandor's despise for simpering airs.
"I killed several men," he simply answered, wiping his mouth.
"How many?" one of the boys eagerly questioned him. "What was it like?"
Sandor went silent and contemplated the bowl. Some soup, as watery as broth, remained inside.
"Dirty. It was pretty dirty."
He abruptly pushed himself from the bench, making a girl cringe, and looked around.
"So where is Fat Jeyne?" he asked.
"She's gone," Willa explained. "Ser Kevan sent her away."
"But why?"
"Oh, you know Fat Jeyne. She always says what she has in mind. Lady Cersei came here to complain, one day and Fat Jeyne put her in her place... Then... Lady Cersei probably told Ser Kevan to dismiss Fat Jeyne, for she left the day after."
"Where did she go? Is she in Lannisport?"
Willa shook her head.
"Don't think so. Fat Jeyne is not from the Westerlands, you see; she always said Lord Tywin had come back with her when he left King's Landing. Must be somewhere on the Goldroad."
He clenched his jaw, realizing he would most likely never see her again. I could have met her on our way back to Casterly Rock, but now it's too late. When he imagined her waddling along the Goldroad, her meager belongings in a bundle, he felt a lump in his throat.
"Another cook came," the little girl added, "an old man, he was. Didn't stay, though... So we're on our own and we do our best. Do you think my soup was good?"
Behind Willa, he saw the girls whispering and giggling. Two of them finally shoved Maria so that she ended up in front of Sandor, blushing.
"Can you help us?" Maria asked. "I mean... We need more wood for today's luncheon with the Bannermen. Can you help us and carry some more logs? Like you did, once."
By the way she positioned herself in front of his right side and avoided to look at his burns, Sandor knew she intended to use him without giving anything in return. She will smile and tilt her head and pucker up to get what she wants, but I'll always be scarred and ugly. He chuckled darkly.
"I have my own chores. I'm Lord Tywin's squire, now." Then he turned to Willa. "That soup is watery, girl."
Sandor was about to leave when he rued his bluntness. He liked the sensation of being in the kitchens, with people who didn't understand him but didn't judge him either. Fat Jeyne's absence wouldn't change that.
"Willa," he called, softening. "I'm sure you can do better than that."
The little girl's eyes widened as he walked to the door. Outside, squires were already training in the yard, listening to Symon's husky voice.
Since the day he had arrived in Casterly Rock, exhausted and starving, people had treated him like a pawn, like a freak, like a curiosity who defeated older boys. The squires rejected him; the maester wished to know more about his scars; Tywin wanted him to become a warrior – the Warrior made flesh, Symon had told him once. Even the master-at-arms who had shared so much with Sandor, saw the boy as a companion when he wanted to go whoring more than a comrade in arms. Among the keep's inhabitants, Fat Jeyne had been the only one to treat him like a child, sometimes unbeknownst to him. I didn't understand it at that time, but that was what she was doing when she gave me some food after the dungeon, or the day Cersei humiliated me. The day I told her I was leaving... He didn't want to think about that moment now and his nails dug deeply in his palms. These days are gone. I'm on my own, now.
He suddenly looked down at his boots standing out against the ocher sand; for the first time that morning, he could say that they didn't seem out-of-place. If he didn't belong to the Golden Gallery, nor to the kitchens, he certainly was at his place in the yard.
There was only one thing to do, now that Fat Jeyne had left Casterly Rock: carry on and not become attached to anyone. He had learned this lesson the hard way: people could vanish into thin air, or die, or simply disappoint you. And the end, you're on your own.