"And then the Red Viper was pulped by the Mountain's bare fists?" Viktor asked, his face a mask of disbelief.
Carlo Schmidt nodded slowly, his expression hollow. He scooped a piece of salted pork from his soup, chewed it methodically, and swallowed before continuing. "Oberyn's steel found a dozen marks. He danced around Clegane, circling like a wasp. The Mountain's helm was a prison; he could barely see the Prince through that narrow slit. Oberyn took full advantage, thrusting and retreating, painting the stone red with Lannister blood."
Clegane's oak shield had been splintered, the black dogs of his house peeking through the painted Seven-Pointed Star like a bad omen.
"He was playing with him," Ser Marin added, his voice tinged with disdain. "'You raped her,' the Prince screamed. 'You killed her children.' He wanted a confession. He wanted the Mountain to say the name. It was vanity. It was foolish."
"Foolish indeed," Carlo agreed, suddenly losing his appetite. "The Mountain caught him. Strangled the life out of him before smashing his skull into the dirt with punch after punch. But even in death, Oberyn pinned him. Clegane didn't walk away—he was carried."
"Then the Lightbringer has nothing to fear from the Mountain for a while," Viktor noted, his posture relaxing.
"Not just a while," Marin corrected. "Clegane's screams are echoing through the Red Keep even now. No mere wound causes a man like that to wail. I'd wager a hundred gold dragons the Viper's spear was coated in something slow and agonizing."
"A viper is nothing without its venom," Carlo sneered. He looked at Viktor. "You could mend him with your magic, couldn't you?"
Viktor's lip curled in disgust. "The Light would abandon me before I even finished the prayer. I would sooner mend a rabid dog."
The next morning, the air in the Red Keep was heavy with the stench of the previous day's carnage. Carlo and Marin, accompanied by Viktor, headed for the Throne Room.
In a wooden shed nearby, a cluster of wealthy merchants sat on low stools, awaiting their summons. In Westeros, the "Justice of the King" was often just a euphemism for taxation or settling trade disputes. These were the elites of the smallfolk—men in purple velvet and mink fur.
"Where do you Lords hail from?" a white-bearded cloth merchant asked.
"The west bank of the Gods Eye," Carlo replied easily. "We heard the Young Wolf was dead and hurried to King's Landing to offer our... submission."
The merchants began a chorus of complaints. The war had strangled the trade routes. The wool from Maidenpool hadn't arrived; the granaries were empty. They spoke of the Imp's taxes during the siege of Stannis and the uselessness of the Gold Cloaks who were better at extorting merchants than fighting battles.
Marin saw his opening. He pointed to a small, polished cedar box at his feet. "We brought a gift for the King. A specialty of our lands. Usually, Lannisport merchants buy our entire stock for the markets of Slaver's Bay."
"May we see?" a plump merchant asked, intrigued.
Carlo opened the lid. Inside lay sixteen perfect, milky-white cubes of refined sugar. They caught the morning light like cut quartz.
"Refined sugar," Carlo said. "The Lightbringer's work. It's as sweet as honey but holds the essence of medicinal herbs. It strengthens the blood."
The plump merchant popped a cube into his mouth. His eyes went wide. "By the Smith... it's pure. It has a bite to it."
"Three silver moons a box," Carlo stated flatly.
"Three moons? That's twice the price of honey!"
"Honey is for peasants," Marin retorted. "This is for the court. And since the trade routes are closed, this is all there is."
The Herald's voice cut through the chatter, calling their names.
"From the Riverlands, vassals of Harrenhal, Ser Carlo of House Schmidt and Ser Marin of House Sharp! Pay homage to the Hand of the King, Lord Tywin Lannister!"
The Great Hall fell silent. Lord Tywin sat on the Iron Throne, leaning back with a deceptive air of leisure. His golden-flecked eyes were sharp as a hawk's.
Carlo pulled Marin down into a kneel. "Your Grace, on behalf of the eleven manors of the Gods Eye, we offer our swords and our lives to King Tommen."
Tywin leaned forward. "Schmidt. I remember the name. I sent the Brave Companions to deliver gold to you at Harrenhal. You took the coin, yet you did nothing when the Northmen occupied the castle. That is a poor definition of loyalty."
Carlo didn't flinch. "Lord Tywin, we were besieged by Roose Bolton's treachery and the Mountain's... overzealousness. Our fields were burned, and our men were slaughtered. Without a Lord to lead us, we did what we could to survive."
Tywin remained unmoved. "You took Lannister gold and gave nothing in return."
"Which is why," Carlo said quickly, "we have sworn a new oath before the Seven and the Old Gods. Regardless of who sits in Harrenhal, our loyalty is to the Throne alone."
Tywin glanced at the box in Marin's hands. "And what is this?"
"Refined sugar, My Lord," Marin said, his voice regaining its strength. "A tribute for King Tommen's ascension. A rarity of the Riverlands, forged through a process of alchemy and fire."
A servant took a box, inspected it for poison, and handed a piece to Marin. Marin ate it without hesitation. Only then did Tywin take a cube, placing it on his tongue.
The Hand of the King narrowed his eyes, savoring the pure, sharp sweetness.
"Not bad," Tywin whispered. He gestured to a Gold Cloak to take the boxes. He looked down at the two knights. "Remember the oath you swore today. The Iron Throne has a long memory, and it does not tolerate betrayal twice."
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