Chapter 8: The Lion Gate
He didn't try to drink after his terrible headache. Maybe he should have; Gregor's presence never very far from him drove Sandor mad and, night after night, he had bad dreams. Would it be different, if I was drunk? If someone had asked him to tell what he saw behind his closed eyelids, he couldn't describe the dreadful images; he usually didn't remember them, but he knew for sure he woke up with a start every night.
Banefort, who slept beside him, would grunt something about him being too noisy before going back to sleep instantly, leaving Sandor alone with his blurred nightmare and ragged breath. He knew he had to be quiet, since Tywin was lying in the next tent, so he just wrapped his arms around his knees and cradled himself, like the big, oversized boy he was.
Sometimes, after he had had one of these terrifying dreams, he questioned his ability to fight on a battlefield: if the images churning in his feverish head frightened him so much, how could he behave like the warrior Tywin wanted him to be? I don't want to be a craven. However he knew he wasn't like Serrett who had pissed his pants when Sandor had put his blade on the squire's throat. He knew he was different from the swaggering squires who screamed and wept as soon as they saw their enemy; it was just his brother's presence that panicked and infuriated him at the same time.
One of the nights the Lannister host spent in the countryside, by the road leading to King's Landing, Sandor found out that taking care of his mount soothed his nerves, though it never prevented him from having nightmares; whenever he brushed the smooth, shining flanks of his bay horse, he breathed easier, as if the animal's equanimity rubbed off on him. Removing pebbles from the horseshoes required all his concentration because he didn't want to get kicked and eventually he listened to the horse's even breathing until he felt sleepy.
They had been on the road for two weeks when a knight belonging to House Drox stormed in Tywin's tent, right after Sandor brought supper. The fair-haired man had a massive chest contrasting with his short twisted legs. On his gaunt face, Sandor could read both thrill and apprehension as he held out a scroll to Tywin. Tywin's brow raised when he saw the knight's unexpected arrival disturbing his meal and he slowly wiped his mouth with a white cloth, before grabbing the message and unfolding it.
"Ser Gilbert," Tywin said flatly.
Tension filled the tent as the Lord of Casterly Rock took his time to read the scroll; while the knight probably feared to bring bad news, Banefort and Sandor readied themselves to answer Tywin's orders – because a raven coming rather late could only deliver a significant message. Banefort strategically drew closer to the writing set enclosed in a tiny chest, in case that Tywin would answer to the message's sender and Sandor prepared to hurry himself between the tents, if his liege lord wanted him to fetch someone or something.
"Banefort!" Tywin called, eliciting a smug smile on Banefort's lips. "Quill and ink, please."
Sandor felt disappointed as Banefort moved past him, prouder than ever. A look at his master allowed him to notice Tywin's uncustomary agitation.What did he learn? Is it something that could change his plans?
"Clegane," Tywin said, after a while. "I want Ser Gerion here, as soon as possible."
Banefort fumed when Sandor left. The boy ran between the tents, avoided campfires and camp followers hanging about and finally reached Gerion's tent, where Serret, his squire, told Sandor to go away, but he knew better than yielding to a stupid squire who wanted to impress him. Hearing their quarrel, Gerion showed up and followed Sandor after chiding his own squire.
"What is it?" he asked Sandor and as usual, the boy could only shake his head as they hurried to Tywin's tent.
When they came in, Ser Gilbert was gone and Banefort stood by Tywin, pouting, while his master wrote a message. The Lord of Casterly Rock dismissed both squires. Banefort's disappointment was noticeable; instead of joining his friends like he used to do on such occasions, he stayed by the tent and tried to listen to the Lannister siblings' conversation.
"What are you fucking doing?" Sandor whispered.
It was dark now and he wondered where was Talbert, the drummer. Maybe they could find some quiet place to eat some dry sausage and look at the stars.
"I want to know what's going on!" Banefort said with impatience. "Something puzzled Tywin and I want to know what it is."
Sandor remained perfectly still and pricked up his ears. In the darkness, no one could see them; should they get caught, there was no dungeon here to chastise their indiscretion. Tywin's voice exuded restlessness and Sandor could picture him striding in the exiguous tent.
"... said there was a battle in the Trident. Rhaegar himself commanded the royal forces. He's dead."
"But how?" Gerion nearly shouted in disbelief.
"It seems that Robert killed him. A single combat, that what the cocky Lord of Storm's End likes."
"Can't be true," Banefort whispered to himself. "Can't be true. I'll be knighted next year and Prince Rhaegar has to dub me. Just like he did with your brother."
Sandor elbowed him bluntly; now that they were listening to Tywin and Gerion's conversation, he wanted to know more.
"What are you going to do, now?" Gerion asked his brother.
There was a long silence filled with tension and the waiting gave Sandor enough time to go over the few options his liege lord had: stick to his promise and help the king despite the risk of losing everything or go back to Casterly Rock with his tail between his legs. None is satisfactory.
"I'll tell you when we'll reach the gates."
Tywin's voice had regained its softness and its typical hint of condescension.
"Which gates?"
"King's Landing's gates, of course, the Lion Gate. Now, where is my squire?"
Without a second thought, Banefort pushed the tent flap aside and came in, while Sandor didn't move.
"You're pretty quick, Banefort," Tywin commented. "Were you listening to this conversation?"
By Banefort's confused silence, Sandor could tell the knight-to-be was ashamed of his own foolishness.
I'll tell you when we'll reach the gates, Tywin had said. At the end of the Goldroad, the Lannister host had stopped right in front of the Lion Gate, and the men, raddled after their long journey and exhausted by the oppressive heat, had almost collapsed on the ground. Some foot soldiers had fought to shelter themselves from the sun under the meager trees and finally, a bunch of knights – including a rather nervous Gregor – chased them to claim ownership of the available shade, irrespective of the sunstroke affecting some of the weakest members of the host.
Until now, Tywin didn't utter a single word about his plans and how they would rescue the king. Sandor desperately tried to gather his memories: his father had given him some lessons about strategy and warfare. However, what he saw puzzled him. We should be inside to protect the king and withstand the rebels' attack. We should use the high walls and prepare ourselves to a potential siege. Mayhap we should tell the inhabitants who can't fight they have to go and come back when everything is over. We need more food and water to resist until those bloody rebels lift the siege...
The Lannister host, to his great surprise, didn't prepare anything. Tywin, who he considered to be the most smart and far-sighted man he had ever met, had admitted in front of him they had run out of bread and wine, and that observation didn't seem to startle him.
Thus, they had stopped in front of the huge gate, whose large opening mimicked a wild beast's mouth; a row of stone lions, bigger than full size, stood guard on each side of the road. Sandor wondered why the doors weren't open yet; they had come to offer their help, after all, but the thick wooden panels remained closed, their dark color reminding Sandor of the threatening mouth of an animal, ready to swallow its prey. Tywin's orders roused him from his thoughtful drowsiness: the Lord of Casterly Rock wanted him and Banefort to prepare his tent.
How long are we supposed to wait here? As he unfolded the thick fabric with Banefort, he couldn't help pondering over the situation. Once the canvas tent was ready, Tywin gave out a sigh and came in, then told his squires to fetch his brother Gerion and the lords of all the noble houses of the Westerlands. While Tywin gave his orders, Banefort and Sandor waited outside, without pricking up their ears, this time: the sun made them blink and anyone could have seen two eavesdroppers in the morning light. The Bannermen all left the tent with a strange expression on their face.Bewilderment? Anticipation? Sandor couldn't tell but it looked like they knew a secret the rest of them – squires, horsemen, archers and lancers – ignored. Finally, Tywin asked for Gregor and Ser Amory Lorch.
They're two of a kind, Sandor mused as they entered the tent. Amory Lorch was smaller than Gregor and not half as strong, but with his bovine look and cruel eyes, he looked like the new lord of Clegane's Keep. Whatever Tywin wanted with the two young knights, it required physical strength and obedience, not wits. While he waited outside of the tent, wiping beads of sweat consistently appearing on his forehead, he caught snatches of conversation.
"... matters greatly... if you want to prove yourself... pledge of allegiance... in Robert's name..."
Despite his efforts, he couldn't hear the rest of Tywin's orders. When Gregor ducked his head to leave the tent, his back tensed immediately; his brother stopped on the threshold and turned around to ask one more question.
"When will they open the gates?" he rasped, still holding the tent flap.
This time, Tywin's voice was perfectly audible, for he didn't need to withhold the answer.
"The rebels are hot on our heels. Soon, I hope."
With that, Tywin called Banefort and Sandor, soon they found themselves face to face with the knights. Sandor held his brother's gaze and finally, after an endless silence, it was Gregor who looked down at him then spat, while Amory Lorch gave out a raucous laughter.
"The Clegane siblings," Banefort commented with a smirk, "the exemplification of brotherly love."
He still didn't understand why his brother and Amory Lorch wore their plate and had their horses caparisoned as if they readied themselves for a tourney, nor why the two knights were waiting in front of the Lion Gate, despite the heat. When Tywin told Banefort to join his house, and ordered Sandor to bring his heavy plate armor, he was still puzzled. Why does he want heavy plate? The fancy armor would be more appropriate for an entry in the capital. When he brought the last mailed glove, Tywin locked eyes with him and he realized his liege lord was about to say something important, so he froze.
In the dim light, Tywin's face had a curious expression: determination, thrill, hope. And maybe a hint of nervousness, like someone who bet his fortune on the throw of the dice. His green gaze wandered on Sandor's figure, appraising the width of his shoulders and his muscles.
"This is an important moment, boy," he said softly after a long silence. "Your first battle. Though it won't be on a proper battlefield, but who cares?"
Sandor nodded slightly, wondering what Tywin would tell him next and he deftly fastened the mailed glove.
"We're not going to protect this city, we're not going to rescue the king. I hope you didn't fancy yourself saving Aerys' life, because it's not what I have in mind. As we are talking, the lords of all the noble houses of the Westerlands gather their men to tell them we're going to take this city, but you don't belong to a noble house and your brother has other fish to fry, so here I am. We'll sack King's Landing and take possession of the Red Keep before these rebel hicks show up."
Sandor felt suddenly dizzy; from the day he split Banefort's lip and got lectured by Tywin, he had thought his overlord would help King Aerys; he had pictured Tywin and Gerion – and perhaps himself – receiving the king's thanks, before the court. So all this was bullshit? The efforts he had made while training in Casterly Rock, the swordplay lessons given by his father, the fact that he was born in a keep and therefore was meant to fight, all this had to end up in the sack of a city. He felt betrayed, even if he was not the king who was swindled by false promises, even if he stood beside the traitor. If he ever noticed his inner turmoil, Tywin didn't say a word about it.
"Do they have soldiers, inside?" Sandor heard himself ask.
"They're civilians, they're not supposed to defend themselves." His tone was cold, emotionless. "They have some soldiers," he added, "but I doubt they will be a threat. You'll stay with Ser Gerion, though. You're an investment and I hate losing my investments."
Under the outward detachment and cold humor, Sandor realized Tywin was more concerned by his safety than he thought. However, he didn't care about Tywin's games to develop rivalry between him and Banefort, he was tired of his liege lord's paternalistic attitude. We are all pawns he can play with or discard as he pleases: Gregor, the host, myself, the people of this city, even the king.
"Why?" he asked, and his angry tone made any precision unnecessary.
A despising smile curled up Tywin's lips. With his heavy plate armor, he looked more threatening than ever.
"Where will you go, Clegane, if I send you away? If you want my protection, there's but one rule to remember. Never question my orders."
He deliberately stressed the last words, staring Sandor down.
"Ser Gregor never questions my orders," he said, slowly shaking his head.
Sandor wondered what it meant, what could be these orders his brother had received and the interrogation sent shivers down his spine.
A few minutes later, every member of the Lannister host was ready for the impending battle, though the lords had told them to hide their armor or their weapons under their cloaks. They all held tightly the thick fabric that looked incongruous under the warm sun, sweating and cursing in an undertone. On top of the high walls, on either side of the Lion Gate, sentries looked down at them, unaware of the danger. Gold Cloaks, most likely. Bloody fools, Sandor thought, as he walked toward Gerion. As soon as the gates open, you'll be dead men. Gerion was tense, his long cloak concealing his sword hand already on the hilt; he gave Sandor a curt nod, whispered he should always stay by his side and stared at the closed gates.
Sandor spun on his heels; the lords of all the noble houses of the Westerlands had gathered their men around them, and if the lords were mounted, most of the horsemen and knights were on foot, to make their progression easier in the narrow streets of King's Landing. Even that detail didn't seem to startle the sentinels standing on the rampart walk. Finally, he heard men shouting on the high walls and around the Lion Gate; then, after a few heartbeats, a loud, creaking noise revealed the sentries had removed the bar locking the heavy door: a shiver of anticipation spread across the host. Sandor's mouth went dry when the hinges slowly grated; the dark wooden panels moved inch by inch, showing the dirty cobblestones paving the broad street, a foot soldier, shyly looking at them and some inhabitants, ready to welcome their saviors.
With a deliberate slowness, Tywin's mare went forward, moved past Gregor and Ser Amory Lorch, and finally crossed the Lion Gate. As his mounted figure was still under the arches of the gate and without turning around on his saddle, Tywin raised his right hand and motioned his men in. It was small gesture and the sentinels didn't even notice it. However, Sandor knew it would seal these men's fate and beyond that, the fate of all the men, women and children who had sheltered themselves behind the high walls.