Chapter 9: The Sack
Warning for graphic violence and mentions of rape, murder and child murder. If you feel uncomfortable with these themes, you should probably not read this chapter.
Once more, I'd like to thank Underthenorthernlights for her beta skills and her patience. Your advice on this chapter was priceless, dear!
As this chapter has been the most difficult to write so far – because of the violence of the Sack and because I wanted to follow the canon as much as I could – any feedback will be appreciated!
He was among the men who immediately followed Tywin when he entered the city; Gerion and him were on foot, with a bunch of handpicked knights and a group of archers carrying crossbows. As soon as they showed up and positioned themselves on both sides of Tywin's mount, the sentries began to stiffen and to wonder what their savior, the powerful Warden of the West, wanted. On the livid faces half disappearing under old visor-less helmets, Sandor read their terror and, to his great astonishment, the fear that made one of them cling to his spear roused his own urge to fight and to destroy.
Everyone was silent in front the Lion Gate, except the inhabitants standing further in the street, ready to welcome the Lannister host, and tension filled the small square when Gregor and Ser Amory Lorch finally came on their caparisoned horses. They pulled the reins to stop near Tywin, who nodded in acquiescence.
"To the Red Keep, as I said," Tywin confirmed.
He didn't take the trouble to whisper his orders; Sandor read it as a display of his self-confidence. Tywin, at that instant, had the certainty no one could prevent him from doing as he pleased, not even the Gold Cloaks who stood in front of his mount and whose breathing was more and more erratic. Tywin's face, usually so serious, lighted up with an unwholesome joy. He anticipates what's going to happen and he rejoices in advance. Fuck, what are those orders? Catch the king himself? No, he wouldn't have sent Gregor if he wanted to find the king in a dungeon when he'll arrive at the Red Keep. He knows exactly what my bastard of a brother does. He wants him to kill someone. Probably the king.
At that thought, he felt goosebumps on his arms and the macabre images he left Clegane's Keep with churned into his head. Ivy, ruined and slaughtered on the red tiles of the kitchens, her head resting in a black pool. His father's corpse, lying across the saddle of his black horse, tied like a dead stag at the end of the hunt. Come on, you can handle this. He clenched his teeth and looked away, knowing that at the end of that day he would just have another good reason to kill his brother. When the time comes.
A sadistic smile matching the weird expression on Tywin's face spread across Gregor's lips; he spurred his horse and left, jostling a sentry who looked like he was going to shit his pants. Then Gregor and Amory Lorch were gone, leaving a wake of startled looks and screams among the inhabitants who waited for help and only saw brutish knights. Go away, lock yourself in your houses while you still can avoid this madness.
"M'lord," one of the sentries told Tywin, his voice shaking, "Manly Stokeworth, our commander will be here soon. He wanted to welcome you per-"
"Manly Stokeworth?" Tywin repeated, looking down at the man. "Tell me about it!"
Behind him, most of the Lannister men barked the coarsest of laughters. The man who had talked to Tywin wore black breastplates with four golden disks on it; Sandor realized he could be an officer of the Gold Cloaks, probably the captain in charge of the Lion Gate. The man clad in black took a step further and glared at Tywin, though he was most likely shaking.
"I'm afraid you'll have to wait until Lord Stokeworth arrives, my lord," he said, steadying his breath.
From where he was, Sandor could only catch a glimpse at Tywin's right side, when he looked up at him. On the clean-shaved face, he saw the corner of his lips slowly pulling up in a smile.
"Jonah, is that right? When I'm done with you, Jonah," Tywin said flatly, "your wife won't be able to recognize you, but it doesn't really matter because she won't live long enough to identify your body. You see, in the end, the fact that we first met when I was the Hand of the King doesn't change anything."
Tywin drew his sword and so did all the men around Sandor. Master Symon nudged him so that he did the same. Go away, please, don't resist, Sandor begged silently, even though he knew his pleading was useless. Around their captain, the Gold Cloaks clang to their spears. At first, nobody moved, then Sandor noticed a young Gold Cloak who didn't stare at the Lannister men, nor at Tywin, but looked intently at his horse's chest. Aye, that's what I would do if I had a spear.
Suddenly, a bolt burst out of the Lannister ranks and hit a Gold Cloak's head; Tywin protested, eager to know who had started the fight without waiting for his order, but it was too late. The screams threw both groups into complete and utter confusion.
Although nobody paid the young Gold Cloak any attention, Sandor abruptly shoved Master Symon to reach the reins of Tywin's horse and made him step backwards. The master-at-arms shouted, Tywin yelled and tried to get rid of Sandor's grasp, but the whinnying mount moved in the nick of time and avoided the sharp blade of the Gold Cloak. As the steel head of the spear brushed the horse's chest, a pair of stunned green eyes briefly met Sandor's before Master Symon disarmed and gutted Tywin's assailant.
Sandor held his gaze for a heartbeat, then turned to face the remaining Gold Cloaks; the sentries were already outnumbered, but when a Gold Cloak presumed that the boy who had just saved Tywin's life was too young not to be an easy target and tried to impale him with his spear, Sandor remembered the Master Symon's moves a few moments before.
He forced the Gold Cloak to parry his blows until his spear was less a weapon than a disadvantage; in front of Sandor's fury and fast blows, the man couldn't just drop it and unsheathe his sword, so he took the spear with both hands and held it like a derisory shield.
The wooden shaft wasn't hard enough, even for Sandor's blunt blade: it soon broke, leaving the Gold Cloak with a sort of useless club he waved in front of his enemy. Sandor could read the panic on the man's face, as he had read it before in the squires' gaze, back in Casterly Rock. But today, it's not for a laugh, it's real.
The man lowered his eyes for a heartbeat, just enough time to unsheathe the sword he urgently needed and Sandor seized the occasion to dig in his abdomen. The Gold Cloak gasped, dropping his sword on the cobblestones, and put both hands on his belly in a desperate attempt to hold his bowels. Whereas the man clang onto his life, his fingers grabbing the blade so hard his knuckles went white, Sandor looked at his contorted face. The sword sank in the soft flesh, yet the Gold Cloak resisted and stood there, despite his wobbling legs.
When the shaking figure collapsed on the ground, he thought it was over before an iron grip forced him to his knees. At that point, Sandor couldn't avoid the Gold Cloak's gaze; he saw agonizing pain, then the survival instinct that pushed him to hold on his opponent as long as he could and finally, as the brown eyes glistened with tears, the simple yearning for peace and oblivion. The fingers tightly encircling Sandor's wrist let go and fell on the black breastplate. Suddenly, Sandor realized there were only a pair of glassy eyes, fixed and lifeless and a foul smell coming from the abdomen. Sandor tried to remove his blade from the man's midsection, slowly, inch by inch, as if he feared to hurt him now, and scrutinized the blade. It was red with a brown sticky substance by places: disgusted, he wiped his sword in the golden woolen cloak, leaving a brown-red stain on it.
Getting on his feet turned out to be more difficult than he thought: he staggered and felt like he couldn't glance at the dead body anymore. But I fought him, I looked him straight in the eyes when I dug in his belly, so why is it different now? His hands, contracted on the hilt of his sword all along their fight, suddenly ached and he found a metallic taste in his mouth. Blood. He lowered his eyes to the corpse lying at his feet and the memories of his conversation with the camp follower washed over him. Look around you, boy. This is a host. They are killers. All of them.
He glanced at his sword hand; even if he had wiped it on the cloak, both his palm and fingers were sticky, with red stains. And I'm a killer too. What I just did makes me a killer, like them, like Gregor. His hand looked different, all of a sudden; he knew the broad palm and the long fingers, recognized the scars, old or fresh, marking the back of his hand, and was familiar with the nails bitten and filthy but the blood dripping from the blade made it completely new to him. It wasn't his hand but a paw belonging to a soldier. Belonging to a killer.
Gerion's hand on his shoulder startled him and Sandor spun on his heels, more than happy to turn his back to the accusing corpse. Tywin's brother had a somber expression; his eyes roamed over the squire, taking in the ragged breath, the distraught gaze and the bloodied hands.
"The heart, Clegane. Remember it, next time, and give your opponent a clean death."
Ashamed and keeping his eyes downcast, Sandor nodded.
"Come now, we're done here. Tywin is waiting for us."
When he looked up, the square was full of Lannister knights and soldiers hurrying themselves in different directions; wherever his eyes fell, dead sentries lying on the ground mimicked the one he didn't want to look at. A killer among killers. And I can't do anything about it. Gerion tugged his mailed arm: it was time to go.
It all happened as if I had forgotten about the host and the City Watch, as if there was nobody else, except the Gold Cloak and me. I didn't see nor hear anything while I fought this man; it feels like I missed the skirmish. I have no recollection at all.
Gerion scurried along the narrow streets of King's Landing; Tywin was fifty yards ahead, slowly progressing on his mount, surrounded by a cluster of Lannister knights and archers. Heading for the Red Keep, he talked with Master Symon. Other groups had been sent to Flea Bottom, to the harbor or to the Old Gate where the rebel host was expected to arrive soon. The Baratheon host, he corrected right away. And the Stark forces, probably eager to know about the Stark girl. She's dead now, most likely, and I guess it's just as well for her. Prince Rhaegar didn't abduct the girl to sing her pretty songs and to put wreaths of flowers on her head.
Gerion sped up, forcing Sandor to lengthen his stride, and they finally caught up with the group led by Tywin. Sandor had never traveled previously and didn't even know Lannisport, his father assuming that his burns turned his younger son to a subject of taunting and therefore leaving him at Clegane's Keep whenever he had to go to the biggest city of the Westerlands. King's Landing was like a new world for a boy who had spent the past years in the woods and fields surrounding his father's keep, yet he didn't want to ask any question and look like a country bumpkin. It wasn't the right moment either.
He nevertheless contemplated the timber-frame houses, their porches used for trade, their jettied upper story proudly towering above the street. King's Landing inhabitants had felt the danger and immediately emptied the porches of the goods they contained; for the same reason, shutters hid the windows. He imagined families gathered on the upper floor, locked in their houses and anxiously waiting for the end of the day.
The street weaved between houses so tall with their jettied upper story they darkened the sky and one could have the impression that two men standing on the third floor balcony on either side could easily shake hands. On the ground, although the street they were in seemed rather large and was presumably busy on ordinary days, there was more filth and mud than cobblestones by places, and the men had to avoid the open sewer; Tywin's horse paid close attention not to walk in, like some dainty girl wearing her finest dress.
They had only seen a pig scrounging around for scraps so far; as soon as the skirmish began at the gates, the townsfolk had understood and run away, sheltering themselves where they could and leaving a strange atmosphere in the capital, as if time was suspended. Thus, their group progressed cautiously in the deserted streets.
A faint hope sprouted up in Sandor's mind. Mayhap people are too afraid to leave their houses. They stay where they are; they dare not protest or fight back. If they're smart enough to hide themselves, there won't be any bloodshed. I won't have to draw my sword again. Clinging onto this idea, Sandor felt reassured as they got closer to the Great Sept of Baelor. We've been walking for a good while, now; the Red Keep can't be very far. Suddenly, he remembered his brother and the mysterious orders Tywin had given; he shook his head, refusing to picture what Gregor was doing and who he was hurting at that instant.
Men kept alert in the surroundings of the Great Sept; Sandor caught a glimpse at the marble plaza and the dome-shaped sept, bewildered to see with his own eyes something that was until now a clumsy drawing on the old book he learned to read in. The seven crystal towers sparkled in the afternoon sun, their eerie structure rising into the air.
"We have no time for that," Master Symon growled in a chiding tone, when he noticed Sandor's mesmerized gaze.
"Look at the roofs," Tywin ordered, shifting on his saddle and turning his head over his shoulder. "If the City Watch reorganized its forces, they'll be on the roofs, ready to fire quarrels on us."
Instead of spotting a potential enemy on the roofs, they heard a clamor on their right, once the Great Sept was behind them.
"Could be those you sent to the harbor, my lord," Ser Daven Estren suggested.
Ser Daven was so small and frail Sandor often asked himself how Tywin could have dubbed him and if he had ever been able to joust. He nevertheless was more clever than most of the Lannister knights.
"I told them to stay in the harbor and take hold of it," Tywin retorted, frowning. "We'd better check this out."
With a sweeping gesture, he motioned them all on the right and the men hurried themselves behind him. In this part of the town, the streets seemed awfully narrow compared to the large plaza of the Sept. Narrow and dark, even in broad daylight.
"Is it a fire?" a young archer asked.
He was only three or four years older than Sandor and didn't look very confident; wordlessly, he pointed at a greyish plume of smoke rising behind a cluster of houses and shops. Fire, Sandor thought, breaking into a cold sweat. They heard more shrieks and Tywin's horse sped up, forcing the rest of them to run. The fire was close, perhaps no more than fifty yards on their right, yet the intricate mass of high buildings prevented them from seeing anything; they reached the corner of the street and Tywin stopped abruptly.
The junction of three narrow streets had created a small triangular square; on their left, what had been once the stables of an inn burned and the thick beams supporting its roof collapsed one after the other. The adjoining tavern could be ablaze soon; the prospect of walking past the fire transfixed Sandor.
A gut-wrenching cry made him jump and he turned his head to see who had just screamed, but he only spotted a woman lying on the cobblestones, in front of the tavern; from where he was standing, he discerned the deep red cut on her throat and her hitched up skirts. Ivy, he thought, as a blind fury took hold of him. She's just like Ivy.
Beside her, there was a heap of cloth: a gust of wind unveiled the pink and tiny face of a baby. The child wasn't moving anymore and the realization he was as dead as his mother infuriated Sandor. His turmoil was noticeable enough, for Master Symon put his big hand on his shoulder and squeezed it, as if a simple touch could wipe the image of a slaughtered woman with her dead child. Sandor turned his head over his shoulder and shot Symon a furious and disgusted look. So you think you can protect me from this? Because you're old and seasoned, you believe you can reassure me with a stupid gesture? I don't need no comfort, I already know all this. You would piss your pants if I told you what happened in the woods, when I ran away from Clegane's Keep. Master Symon held his stare, frowning, then dropped his hand.
Suddenly, another shriek resounded in the small square and they all scanned the timber-frame houses on their right, wondering which one sheltered the person who had let out that cry. The shutters of the third house were open, unlike most of the other buildings and they caught a glimpse at a Lannister foot soldier, on the second floor. With his long nose and weak chin, the brown-haired man looked like a weasel; a purse in his hands, he froze as soon as he realized Tywin had seen him. To add insult to injury, they plunder, Sandor mused.
"Get out!" Tywin shouted, with an imperious gesture.
They heard some bustle in the house, foreshadowing the arrival of contrite soldiers. Three Lannister men exited the house and timidly stepped forward, moving past the baby and his mother.
"Who's in charge, here?" Tywin asked. "I sent you with Lord Banefort to hold the harbor!"
"Told us we could push on and go the Great Sept, m'lord!" the weasel-face explained.
"To light candles and pray the Mother?" Gerion hissed, pointing at the dead woman.
The three foot soldiers looked at each other, one of them frantically shaking his head.
"They put up resistance, m'lord," the weasel-face went on, his innocent eyes widening.
In view of his untruthful tale, Sandor's stomach churned. Deep in his throat, he felt the acid taste of bile; he gritted his teeth and instantly clenched his fists. If I ever have a chance to pay you back for what you did...
The hooves of Tywin's horse impatiently resonated on the cobblestones.
"If the Lannister host steals and plunders, people will believe I don't handsomely pay my men," Tywin spat. "They'll imagine there's no more gold in the mines under my control and I'll be pissed off. Is that what you want?"
Fuck, what about the murdered woman?
The three men shook their head and the weasel-face bowed in front of Tywin's mount with a fawning expression.
"Now, come with us," Tywin ordered, leading the group through the small square; they walked past the ablaze stables and the dead bodies. Sandor noticed more corpses further; two dead men, one leaning back against a cart-wheel and one lying on his stomach, a dagger stuck in his back.
"What about the screaming we heard?" Sandor asked Master Symon. "Shouldn't we-"
"Just forget it, boy," the man replied, avoiding his gaze.
The three plunderers followed, a sheepish look on their face. On both sides of the street starting at the small square, the doors were open, revealing soldiers had visited these houses. The group progressed slowly, still expecting some kind of rebellion, although nothing came. Every time he turned to glare at the weasel-face, Sandor found him and his companions further behind the group. The three men whispered to each other, sometimes nodding, sometimes shrugging but always kept a close eye on Tywin.
Now that the Great Sept was behind them, the Red Keep loomed over the city, its assumptive towers rising in the cloudless sky, trumpeting no one could ever take hold of its high walls. But Gregor is out there and whoever Tywin told him to kill, he probably succeeded.
A grating voice suddenly broke the silence and a bunch of Gold Cloaks emerged from an alley on their left, sword in hand. They were only six and most likely knew they couldn't defeat the Lannister men, yet they threw themselves on Tywin before the crossbowmen could draw the bowstring, assuming that once their leader dead the Westerlands host would break down.
The Lannister knights unsheathed their swords and fought back, while the archers let fly their quarrels. Two Gold Cloaks fell at once; far from frightening their companions, their death gave them a surge of anger. One disarmed and stabbed Ser Daven who almost collapsed in Sandor's arms: leaving the wounded knight on the cobblestones, he pounced on the Gold Cloak who didn't realize what was happening before Sandor's blade pierced his chest. Surprised by his own boldness, Sandor held the man's vacant stare until the Gold Cloak's legs gave out, and watched him again as he laid on the ground. I aimed at the heart, like Gerion had said.
Behind him, the other Gold Cloaks were dead and Master Symon leaned over Ser Daven, a puzzled look on his face. Although the frail knight moved slightly, the master-at-arms swept the little group until he found Tywin's eyes and he shook his head.
"He won't make it," he announced, taking the knight's hand in his.
Sandor stared at Tywin, even if he knew it was rude, and tried to decipher his expression. The Lord of Casterly Rock had removed his mailed gloves and he could see the knuckles turning white on the horse's reins, but his face remained impassible.
Sensing his eyes on him, Tywin looked back at Sandor and tilted his head to catch a glimpse at the result of the boy's fury; he observed the Gold Cloak Sandor had slain, fallen all sprawled out on the ground, then he nodded. His green gaze would haunt Sandor for days and make him wonder what Tywin had in mind at that instant: was it some recognition of the boy's value? Was it a gesture of reassurance directed to a young squire facing his first battle? Or did Tywin simply nod to himself, admitting he had hit the nail on the head about Sandor's skills?
Ser Daven breathed his last breath and Master Symon closed his eyes before covering his body with the knight's cloak. Tywin's men silently gathered around the body and this token of respect somehow hurt Sandor: he had nothing against Daven, but the fact that they took time for him while they had ignored the dead woman and her babe seemed unfair. He felt a lump in his throat, but Master Symon, who stood beside him, misapprehended his reaction and squeezed his arm with a sort of paternalistic concern.
"You'll be just fine," he promised Sandor.
You don't understand anything, old man.
When he raised his eyes, Tywin was scanning the surroundings, knitting his brow.
"Did anyone see the foot soldiers? The thieves?" he asked coldly.
"Fuck, they're gone!" Gerion exclaimed. "They disobeyed; we shouldn't let them go-"
"I'll find them!" Sandor announced and he saw Tywin nodding in acquiescence.
He was already retracing his steps, convinced they would go back to the small square where they had left their loot, when he heard Tywin's voice.
"Symon, go with the boy. I'm pretty sure he'll find them, but I don't want him to get lost."
Tywin's order irritated him more than he could say. And he tells Master Symon to go with me, like a wet-nurse or something! All Symon can do is slow me down. He's too fat to run! Behind him, Symon nevertheless huffed and puffed. Sandor tried to remember which street they had taken before, relying on the painted signs swaying in front of the closed shops. From time to time, he would gave a look at the roofs, to make sure nobody was about to let fly some quarrels, but he could only think of the weasel-face and the shriek he had heard earlier.
When he finally reached the small triangular square where the stables still burned, he had shaken off the master-at-arms. He felt a jolt of anticipation when he spotted a silhouette in the house where they had seen the plunderers, thanks to the open shutter, and ran to the door. The baby and his mother were still there, and he promised to himself he would find some blanket inside the house to cover them.
Once the door shut behind him, he listened carefully. In front of him, there was a flight of wooden stairs and on his left, the workshop of a goldsmith. The workshop seemed empty and the foot soldiers had probably began their search for gold there. He listened again: at first, his heart beat so wildly in his chest he couldn't hear anything, then a creaking noise confirmed there was someone upstairs.
Silently, he removed his worn-out boots and put them near the door, then he slowly climbed the stairs; before he reached the landing, he heard muffled voices and his right hand instinctively grabbed the pommel of his sword. He stopped in front of the first door and pricked up his ears.
"...Told you I heard something!" someone hissed.
"If Lord Tywin is after us, we're dead."
"Cravens. You're just afraid of getting your hands dirty!"
Sandor took a step further, leaned back against the wall, on the left side of the door and slowly unsheathed his sword.
"What was that?" a voice asked, inside.
Before one of the man's companions could answer, Sandor smashed in the door with a single kick and threw himself on the weasel-face. He was aware of the other two foot soldiers' presence in the room, but kept the thought in a corner of his mind and gave in to his blind fury.
Dragging the weasel-face in front of the door in order to stand in the way, he straddled him, punched his face, then grabbed his brown hair and pulled hard until the man's head bent back and his Adam's apple jutted out in his long neck.
"Who killed her?" Sandor asked him, as the other plunderers crawled toward the open window. "Did you?"
"Fuck, who are you talking about?" the man whined, mouth covered in blood. "I- I just wanted to have fun with that woman who owned the tavern. But I swear I didn't kill the girl. It was an accident."
The girl? Sandor watched him, hesitating between utter astonishment and disgust.
"We can share what we found with you," the weasel-face suggested. "We could-"
A dagger digging into his chest cut him off. Before he could realize it, Sandor had killed a third man, not to protect his life, nor to avenge Ser Daven's death, but because he couldn't stand what the plunderer implied. He couldn't tolerate being taken for a thief.
"What kind of monster are you?" one of the foot soldiers whispered, clumsily searching for his knife.
This one was as shortish as the weasel-face was lanky; kneeling beside him, a fat man sweated streams under his helmet. Suddenly, the fat one stood up and tried to escape through the open window. Sandor grasped his belt and tried to prevent him from jumping. While the fat man frantically resisted him, the shortish one ran away and Sandor heard him hurtling down the stairs.
"Seven hells, what are you doing?" someone bellowed outside and he recognized Master Symon's voice.
Still struggling with the fat plunderer who leaned out of the window, he spotted the master-at-arms in the middle of the small square.
"I found them, but one escaped. Try to catch him!" he retorted.
Symon might have been surprised by Sandor's commanding tone, but a few heartbeats later, the puffing and panting of two men fighting in the street announced the shortish man was no more on the run. By the time Master Symon climbed the stairs with his prisoner, Sandor had knocked the fat man down and leaned back on the wall, out of breath and exhausted. As the master-at-arms slowly opened the broken door, Sandor scrutinized the shambles around him and began to understand what had happened there.
The room was rather large, with a fireplace; the goldsmith probably lived here with his family, if the two beds and the long table were any indication. During their search, the plunderers had tossed the goldsmith's belongings on the floor, emptying chests and bags, ripping open the mattresses; all around Sandor, they had left a mess of straw, clothes and dishes. But where is the girl?
Standing on the threshold and still firmly holding the small man, Master Symon contemplated the dead soldier at his feet, the unconscious one lying on his stomach and let his weary eyes fall on Sandor.
"What have you done, boy?"
The question was simple enough, yet Sandor couldn't speak plainly without revealing a part of the sinister memories still haunting him.
"He killed innocent people. He stole them," he finally answered. "He disobeyed Lord Tywin."
He hoped this clarification would convince Symon. The man sighed heavily, hanging his head, and when he spoke again, his voice seemed faltering, as if he didn't believe his own words.
"You can't kill someone of your own army, you know that, right?"
"He murdered the woman and her babe and probably someone else. Ask him."
The shortish man was too scared not to confess everything Sandor wanted him to say; Ragged Tom, the weasel-face, had killed the woman who owned the tavern across the square, her babe, the goldsmith and his daughter, according to him. He explained that him and the big man had begged Ragged Tom to spare the women's lives, in vain. At that point, whether he couldn't bear his lies or feared what Sandor could do to the shortish man if he didn't react first, Symon slapped him in the face.
"I have to find the girl," Sandor said, while the master-at-arms took a discarded rope to tie the soldiers' hands.
"Look, Clegane," Symon replied, "this city is full of dead girls by now. You can't do anything for her."
Ignoring his advice, Sandor got on his feet, went back to the landing and stared for a while at the other door before opening it. What he saw made him freeze. The plunderers had come in this room and searched for gold or valuables; in the indescribable chaos that remained, only a thick wooden table emerged. The dead body of a blond girl leaned against the table, her hiked up skirts and torn small-clothes showing her legs and her pale bottom. Her once fine clothes were tattered and bloodied. Sandor couldn't see her face reclining on the table and hidden by strands of golden hair; however, another girl's features melt into hers, even if this one was the healthy daughter of a goldsmith and not some peasant girl so desperate she had accepted to work in Clegane's Keep. Even if the scarf oddly wrapping her neck revealed she had been strangled and not beaten to death.
It's too late. Once more. He was persuaded the shriek he had heard before they first found the plunderers was hers; the certainty he could have saved her at that moment stung. These men were not Gregor: stopping them wouldn't have been so difficult. He clenched his fists and felt the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.
Symon had finally tied the two foot soldiers; when he joined Sandor he couldn't help cursing.
"You can't do anything for her, boy," he repeated tentatively.
Sandor shot him his darkest stare and stepped forward, fighting back tears. Despite his blurred vision, he managed to hide the girl's nakedness with what remained of her skirts and tried to scoop her up in his arms. Her lifeless body was difficult to move: he already knew it and wasn't surprised to fail at first.
"Fuck, what are you doing?" Symon asked while Sandor carried the girl toward the threshold.
He didn't speak like the master-at-arms who bellowed his orders in the yard of Casterly Rock and frightened the pages; his begging tone struck Sandor and made him realize the seasoned man considered him as an equal at that instant, no matter what would happen later. The boy didn't reply; Symon nonetheless stepped aside so that Sandor could go back to the first room.
The foot soldier who had tried to run away gaped at the sight of Sandor holding the dead girl in his arms and carefully laying her down on a bed. He brushed the blond hair from her face and felt the still warm flesh of her cheeks. The realization that she had died shortly before brought back the guilt.I could have done something for her. She could have survived.
He took a sheet the plunderers had tossed on the floor, covered the girl with it and turned to the foot soldiers.
"Where's the goldsmith?"
"He- he's dead," the shortish man stammered.
"I know. Where is he?"
"Downstairs, in the workshop. Tom left him in a corner."
So that's why I didn't notice him at first. Sandor grabbed a blanket and ran down the stairs without ever looking at the weasel-face. As the foot soldier had told him, the goldsmith had been stabbed to death, then dragged in a corner of the room. He simply put the blanket on his body, while Symon went down the stairs with his two prisoners.
Wordlessly, Sandor put on his boots and opened the door, then shoved the foot soldiers outside; the fat one, hardly awake, stumbled and nearly fell. In the small square, the dead mother and her child were still lying on the cobblestones, near the smoking ruins of the stables.
"You've done that before," Symon whispered.
It was more a statement than a question. Sandor turned slightly to look at him straight in the eyes, but the answers he could think of seemed whether unnecessary or painful. Instead of trying to explain something Symon well understood, he stopped near the mother, scooped her up and carried her inside the tavern. Although the smoke made him cringe, he put her carefully on a long and wide table where she could lie with her baby, then he looked around him. The foot soldiers had visited this place, as well; the broken jugs and knocked down stools revealed they had spent some time there before noticing the goldsmith's workshop across the square. He went back to the baby, while Symon and the foot soldiers still watched him, the old master-at-arms with a kind of sad resignation in his eyes, whereas the plunderers seemed dumbfounded.
"Seven save us, who is he?" one of the foot soldiers asked, when he walked again in the tavern, the dead child in his arms.
He lay the baby in swaddling clothes down, next to his mother, and deplore the lack of blanket to protect them. But at least, they're inside. Somebody will find them and bury them properly. He left the tavern, now finding difficult to hold the foot soldiers' stare.
As they walked away in the mid-afternoon sun, they heard a creaking noise coming from the second floor of the house neighboring the goldsmith's workshop; someone who had been observing them for a while had just closed the shutter. The idea that some inhabitants could have seen him carrying the dead woman and her child embarrassed him, even though he couldn't explain why. He sped up. The shortish man who panted behind him cleared his throat.
"Someone else will come, you know. Aye, boy, someone else will come and take their gold. You think the townsfolk are innocent people? They'll just come in and steal their belongings!"
Sandor briskly turned around, ready to fight, but Symon had already seized the man and pinned him against a wall. The foot soldier helplessly opened his mouth as the master-at-arms squeezed his throat.
"Watch your tongue, little shit!" he threatened him. "Lord Tywin told us to find you but he didn't say how many plunderers he wanted back. Right now, I'm the only one who stands between you and the squire's blade."
He let go with him and gave Sandor a knowing look before leading the boy and their prisoners through the narrow and filthy streets of King's Landing.
On their way to the Red Keep, there would be deserted places where one could believe the population had run away and streets covered with corpses, Sandor knew that. He would see dead Gold Cloaks and slaughtered inhabitants, people who had been killed because they wanted to defend their family or their valuables against the Lannister host.
What he had done for the goldsmith's daughter or the woman who owned the tavern didn't change anything to the cruelty of the Sack and he doubted he could ever forget the screech he had heard earlier nor the dreadful vision of the dead girl. All these memories would join the ones he kept in a corner of his mind and vainly tried to erase. Like the burns on his face, what he had been through made him a different person. The memories would come back sooner or later, on a battlefield or in a town like this one; he could not fight them but perhaps could he live with them and not let them destroy him, until someday, he found a way to heal his invisible wounds.
The Great Hall of the Red Keep was crowded with knights reeking of sweat and blood, some still bearing their heavy plate or mail, while the others had hastily donned a tunic or a cloak with their house's colors and sigil. Somehow, the musky smell made the ceremony less solemn than expected.
The Stark and Baratheon host had come in the Red Keep with dozens of banners their squires clung to. As the new king was sitting on the Iron Throne – the ugliest and strangest thing Sandor had ever seen – his troops stood at his right side and the Lannister host was on his left, Tywin and Gerion in front of them all, at the foot of the stairs that led to the throne. To his great surprise, Robert Baratheon matched the idea of kingly demeanor he had when he was a boy: tall, broad-shouldered, with a solid appearance. Except that he's not a Targaryen.
Lords talked and discoursed about the victory for such a long time Sandor finally let his mind wander – he felt tired, and more than anything, tired of their false promises. The victory? What victory? Is it a victory to kill unarmed civilians and outnumbered soldiers who thought we were coming to help them? A few yards further he could see Tywin's head with a bald spot hardly hidden by some golden curls; the Lord of Casterly Rock bided his time, his back very straight, while Aerys' former counselors bent the knee before the new king.
All of a sudden, Tywin took a step forward and the room went silent. He congratulated King Robert for his victory, wished him a long and peaceful reign and finally announced he had a gift, a token of fealty to prove House Lannister's support to the Crown. As Tywin turned around, solemnly looking at the back of the Great Hall, the heavy doors creaked open. Everybody looked behind to see what was that proof of Tywin's new allegiance; from where he was and despite the uncommon dimensions of the Great Hall, Sandor recognized instantly the hulking figure who carried something in a red cloak, and his heart skipped a beat. Gregor. Tywin's orders.
Behind his brother, whose obscene smile disturbed some members of the Stark host, Ser Amory Lorch walked proudly, a similar burden wrapped in crimson fabric. It couldn't be the Mad King – Sandor knew Ser Jaime Lannister had stabbed Aerys, though he didn't see his body – so the boy frowned, trying to figure out who it was.
In Gregor's huge paws, Tywin's gift to Robert seemed so small, he thought it could be someone's head, the Hand of the King's, for example. Yet he didn't see the point: the last Hand of King Aerys was an obscure alchemist whose name he always forgot. Tywin wouldn't have sent Gregor and Amory Lorch for him. So who is it and why are there two cloaks?
His brother's long strides allowed him to cross the distance between the doors and the platform in a few instants, even if Gregor slowed the pace to enjoy his moment of glory. He stopped in front of Tywin, looked up at the dais and knelt to put the crimson cloak on the first step. Right after, Amory Lorch did the same with his own cloak.
"Rhaegar's son," Tywin announced. "And Rhaegar's daughter."
The Baratheon and Stark host shivered suddenly. On top of the platform, Robert stood up and glanced at two cloaks, tilting his head as Tywin unfolded the cloak. Sandor's stomach churned when he noticed the new king's relief at the sight of the two dead children, but he was not the only one who felt sick; a tall Northerner lord clad in black and grey left the first row, careless of his friends' reproachful gaze, and he stormed out of the Great Hall.
"This is Lord Stark," someone said behind Sandor. "What the fuck is he doing?"
After a moment of indecisiveness, another lord, small and almost frail in his brown and green clothes, followed him, under the Lannister Bannermen's mocking looks. Before the scrawny lord had reached the doors, Robert thanked Tywin for his gift and Sandor's liege lord bowed deeply in front of the new king.
It was exactly like in his daydream, in Casterly Rock, when Tywin talked about Robert's Rebellion. The Great Hall was even more impressive than he thought with all the Bannermen crowded inside. Tywin was standing at the foot of the platform, the king warmly thanking him for his help, though it was not the king Sandor had imagined, nor the help he thought the Lannister host would provide the Crown. The little children should have been next to the king, in their mother's arms, instead of lying on the flight of narrow stairs leading to the Iron Throne, wrapped in red cloaks with the Lannister sigil.
The acid taste of bile hit the back of his throat and when he felt like he couldn't stay any longer, he fought his way through the Lannister men and left the Great Hall, then ran until he found a large balcony. From the corridor, the place seemed deserted but when he crossed the threshold he almost ran into Lord Stark and the frail lord who had followed him, before ending up at the opposite corner of the balcony where they stood; bending over the guard rail, Sandor vomited his last meal, then wiped away his mouth with the back of his hand and gave the two men a sheepish glance.
Then, in a heavy silence, he contemplated the garden below the balcony: the square flowerbeds, the ocher paths between neat hedges of box-tree, the gurgling marble fountains. All this scenery had been created so that the king could rest after hours spent inside the Red Keep attending ceremonies or ruling the realm, and under the soft, caressing sunbeams of the late afternoon, the gardens of the Red Keep reached their perfection. Yet, the acrid smell of smoke coming from the ashes of the city found its way to his nostrils.
Now that he was standing up, Sandor observed the Northerners: Eddard Stark, with his tall figure in boiled leather armor and his austere face, looked like a man accustomed to the open air, not like a lord spending his days inside his castle. His companion, a man of lighter build, bore the sigil of House Reed: a black lizard-lion on grey-green. A Crannogman. People say they hide in the swamps like cowards, live in houses made of reed and eat frogs. Despite the Crannogmen's reputation of frog-eaters and their primitive lifestyle, Gerion had talked to this man a few moments before the ceremony in the Great Hall.
Sandor heard the men exchanging a few words, Lord Stark glancing at him suspiciously. In the end, Lord Reed shrugged and walked toward him.
"Are you alright, boy?" the Crannogman asked, with a surprising hint of concern.
He had deep green eyes. Like the Lannisters, he thought. Yet these green eyes didn't glisten with arrogance like Cersei's, nor coldness and detachment like Tywin's. The Crannogman seemed to read his mind and Sandor found the experience quite disturbing.
"I-I'm fine. Thank you my lord. I'm sorry for..."
Ashamed, he stopped short of going into humiliating details. His high-pitched voice surprised Lord Stark who turned slightly and frowned. Ill-at-ease, Sandor shifted from foot to foot, until the Northerner lord finally caught a glimpse at the left side of his face and gasped. I'm a bloody fool; I should have stayed still. He briskly spun on his heels, only showing them the unburnt side of his face.
"It's a long way from the Westerlands," the Crannogman went on.
"Aye, my lord."
"It was your first battle, right?"
"It was not a battle. It was a sack," Sandor spat. His tone was full of contempt and he didn't try to hide it from them.
Sandor looked behind him, wondering if he should stay here with his liege lord's new allies or if he should go back to the Great Hall: his shoulders finally sank and he didn't move.
A gust of wind made Lord Reed shiver, and brought again the smell of smoke. When Sandor lifted his eyes, he discerned small things twirling in the air, like greyish snowflakes fluttering about for a while before landing on the balcony; he extended his hand to touch them. A puzzled look on his face, he scrutinized the snowflakes that would not melt despite the warmth of his palm.
"Ashes," Lord Stark explained abruptly.
Sandor and the Crannogman turned to him at the same time, more surprised by his sudden attempt to break the silence than by his answer. The three of them stood there, watching the evening wind bringing more and more ashes on the dead king's perfect garden, dusting the bright flowers and the box-tree with a greyish substance, until Sandor finally left them wordlessly.
The two men would talk about him after his silent departure; they would discuss his burns, his bad manners, his allegiance to Tywin. Maybe they would realize the man who brought Aegon's tiny body to the new king was his brother. As he crossed the threshold and got back inside, he clenched his teeth.
On his right, he saw the open door moving; Sandor froze when he understood there somebody listened to their conversation. Why would someone spy on them? The Crannogman is neither powerful nor dangerous, but Lord Stark...
In two long strides, he was near the wooden panel; he seized the door handle and the door slowly moved on its hinges. Behind, he saw a boy who wasn't older than him, probably a servant working in the castle, whose begging eyes implored him not to talk. With his pale skin and close-cropped hair, the boy looked like a prisoner. For a while, Sandor hesitated, wondering if he should bring the spy to Lord Stark or pity the boy who listened to the Red Keep's guests for a few copper coins.
Under Sandor's angry gaze, the boy recoiled, sheltering his body in the corner between the wall and the door, his hands raised in a self-protective gesture. The memories of the day flooded in Sandor's mind: the host crossing the gates, his first real fight, the first man he had killed, the dead women in the small square... He had had his share of violence for the present day and Tywin probably waited for him in the Maidenvault, where the Lannister Bannermen would spend the night. Glaring at the servant, he released the door handle and walked away.
To Guest: Thank you! Writing about Sandor's youth is thrilling: he's such an inspiring character! I'm glad you like my version of Tywin, because the man is so complex it's sometimes very difficult to describe him... Let me know your thoughts about this chapter!