Night fell; bats flitted overhead from time to time.
My lord, please eat." A golden-haired page presented Tywin with a thick slab of tender roast—roast horse, to be precise.
Tywin did not take it at once; instead he looked toward the river nearby.
Thousands of horses drinking at once made a magnificent sight. The bleak autumn wind stirred their manes like withered reeds by the water.
Constant galloping had left many mounts with ribs showing. They had fled in such haste there had been no time to bring grain.
Where they found fields the horses grazed the crops; where they found farms the Soldiers plundered them. By such bestial means Tywin kept his pursuers far behind.
Collecting himself, Tywin turned his gaze to the meat the page offered. Long experience told him it came from a war-horse's haunch.
Their relentless pace had cost them more than a hundred horses; the beasts were not wasted, quickly butchered by the Soldiers for rations.
He took the meat, bit into it, and found it surprisingly tender.
What is your name?"
Addam Hill, my lord."
Addam—"
Hill was the surname given to bastards of the Westerlands. Tywin could not place him; the Lannisters were as prolific as the Frey Family, and forgetting a bastard was only natural.
He did recall that during the Dance of the Dragons House Velaryon's legitimate male line had died out; a bastard dragon-rider named Addam had been legitimised to continue the line.
Seeing Tywin eat, Addam quickly produced some rosemary as seasoning, which improved the old lion's mood.
From their talk Tywin learned the boy's father bore the name Lannister.
It was no surprise Tywin had not known; the Lannisters were as numerous as the Frey Family.
Tell the men they may rest longer. We camp here tonight and ride again tomorrow."
Yes, my lord. Only—"
You fear pursuit?" A rare smile flickered across Tywin's eyes. "Rest easy; I have already set extra guards."
As you command, my lord." With a bow Addam turned to go.
Wait." Tywin spoke again. "When we return to the Westerlands, you will be a Lannister."
Light blazed in Addam's eyes; he dropped to one knee. "Thank you, my lord!" Then he was gone like the wind.
Tywin dared let the men rest because he judged no faction would truly drive him to extinction—especially now that Stannis had been so badly weakened.
Though Jon meant to crown Stannis, even if Stannis took the iron throne he would have no strength to strike outward.
Steel and blood were the only Sharp Weapon for conquest, and Stannis now lacked both.
He might hold the name, but not the power to compel obedience.
The Crownlands and Stormlands might be his in time, yet to gather strength would take three to five years—longer now that summer had ended and autumn had come.
Back in the Westerlands, Tywin would have time to marshal power and build defenses; House Lannister could lick its wounds and grow strong again.
After a while a fine or two would settle the matter.
He glanced east, certain he had given Jon due weight. The whole siege had reeked of strangeness.
First Myrcella and Tommen had been taken; someone must have leaked word, but who?
Varys? How could Varys reach Jon Snow?
That dotard of Rosby? Did he have the spine?
If that puzzled him, Jon's uncanny defense had chilled him outright: ten thousand men fighting like thirty thousand, as though the very sky watched every move.
He thought of the Mountain. What force could blunt heavy cavalry? Even so, Gregor should not have been wiped out to the last man.
Then came the wildfire. He had thrilled to hear Tyrion had used it to break Stannis on the Blackwater Rush—only to find the flames now scorching his own head, burning the brother who shared his blood.
Had Kevan and the picked core not been lost, Tywin would never have spared a glance for Addam Hill.
Kevan, I will avenge you! he swore in silence; the fire of vengeance made the old lion feel young again.
King's Landing knew peace once more—at least for now.
Jon ordered the Red Keep sealed; every room was to be left exactly as it was, with no one save guards allowed in or out.
The Soldiers were barred from brothels and from wandering the city, but in recompense Jon fed them well and brought the High Septon to bless them in camp.
He set up a "temporary military council" beside the Great Sept of Baelor to keep order and run the city's daily affairs.
At night he kept vigil for Eddard Stark.
As it turned out, the thing that swallowed most of his day was settling an endless stream of lawsuits.
Cases like a cart colliding with a handcart, whose house had been robbed, and even diplomatic issues that touched on international affairs.
After the Battle of the Blackwater Rush, Tyrion had commandeered many foreign ships; now their owners had come demanding compensation from Jon.
It almost made Jon laugh in exasperation—he hadn't even collected on his own merits yet.
Those Myrmen are just like that, insatiably greedy. They got what they deserved, Dondarrion remarked.
Jon decided he would have to set up a lesser court on his lands; otherwise being bogged down by such trifles every day was a waste of time.
At last the day's business was done. Sora came to Jon and said a man with a hideous burn scar on his face wanted to see him.
The moment burns were mentioned Jon knew who it was; when the man entered he saw he was right—Sandor Clegane, the Hound and brother of the Mountain.
Sandor knelt the instant he saw Jon, as though he had steeled himself. My lord, let me follow you from this day on.
Sora studied the kneeling Sandor Clegane; even on his knees the man towered over her. He was ugly, but his muscles strained against his clothes—if Jon could gain such a fierce fighter it would be no small prize.
You are Sandor Clegane, Gregor's brother. I slew your brother, and now you would be my bodyguard—how do I know you won't seize the chance to avenge him?
The instant Sora heard of this connection her hand instinctively went to her sword hilt.
No! No, my lord, never! Sandor shook his head like a rattle, the long hair he kept to hide his scars flying aside, and began a tale from his childhood.
When he was small, for playing with an old toy Gregor had discarded, the enraged Mountain had pressed his face into a brazier—those burns had given him the scars he bore.
Their father, seeking to shield Gregor, claimed Sandor had accidentally set his own bedclothes alight.
My lord, I have no wish to avenge that so-called brother. Your killing him brings me no grief. I know our lands will be forfeit; I own nothing now, but I still have skill at arms. If my face disgusts you, place me among your Soldiers. Sandor spoke earnestly, as though he would not rise until Jon agreed.
Do you truly wish to follow me?
By the gods, my lord! Sandor slid forward on his knees, drawing closer to Jon.
Jon smiled. No need to join my host—come with me to the Wall instead.
The Wall, my lord? The Wall?
Sandor could not grasp it. After such feats Jon was sure to receive broad lands and live as a great lord—why speak of returning to the Wall?
Though no great lord, Sandor knew a man like Jon could never go back to the Wall.
My lord?! After serving Jon so long, Sora knew what the Wall was and what Jon once had been.
Jon had promised the mountain-clan Elders he would find them a new home.
Enough. Go think on it; when you've made your peace, find me again.
Sandor left Jon's tent downcast. I'll drink first, the big man muttered, heading for a brothel in King's Landing.
My lord— Sora began the moment Sandor was gone.
Sora! In future, never lose composure in front of others, Jon said calmly, yet to her ears it rang like a rebuke.
Tell our people: whatever they hear or see in these days, believe none of it unless I stand before them and speak. Whoever breaks this rule may stay forever in the deep Mountains of the Moon.
It was the first time Sora had seen Jon wear so stern an expression, his voice harsher than any she knew.
Jon offered no explanation; she would not understand.
Jon knew that even if Stannis were here and he asked for the Westerlands in fee, Stannis would grant it.
The Westerlands were not in Stannis's hand, and Jon's deeds were too great. What mattered was that Stannis see him as utterly his own man, so Jon could act in the West without fetters.
To pose as one who sought only vengeance for his father and would bolt the instant it was done was the surest way to win that trust.
In short, Jon wanted the Seven Kingdoms to see him as a second Eddard Stark.
Westerosi lords wear heart and want on their sleeves, letting men like Littlefinger thrive by scrabbling in the muck.
Now Jon would enter that same game of crafting a persona.
The Westerlands were nothing; what Jon truly desired was the entire Sunset Sea, half of Westeros.
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