Three days had passed by quickly enough. Three days of being trapped within these blackened walls, making plans, deductions, and whatever else I could gather and find. We had all fallen into a sort of rhythm here at Harrenhal.
My Myrmidons had been placed on guard duty across Harrenhal, God's Eye, and Harrentown—our first line of defense. Normally they would take shifts of five hundred men at a time, bronze armor gleaming in the pale northern sun.
It was evening when I stood once more before the Old Lion, Lord Tywin Lannister, in his hall, probably where he held council. The old man's cold green eyes fixed upon me as soon as I entered, gods that was creepy.
"You told me you'd have my son back in a week," he said, his voice tight with restraint.
I scratched the back of my head, feeling the rough texture of my white-blonde hair beneath my fingertips. "Yeah, sorry about that. I thought the planning would have gone faster, and I needed the latest report from your scouts which came yesterday." I fixed him with a casual smile that I knew would irritate him. "But don't worry, I'll be setting off before morning light tomorrow."
"It's a five-day ride to Riverrun. You know that, right?" He drummed his long fingers on the desk, each tap deliberate and measured.
"Yes, I do."
"So how many men are you taking with you?" he asked impassively, though I could see the tension in his shoulders, the slight forward lean of his body betraying his interest.
"Men? There are no men, only me."
Tywin's brow furrowed. "Only you?"
"Only me," I confirmed, meeting his gaze steadily.
BAM!
His hand struck the table with such force that a golden cup teetered on the edge before clattering to the stone floor. The crimson wine within spilled like blood across the flagstones. Tywin's eyes gazed furiously at me for a few moments before he mastered himself, though his golden whiskers still seemed to be in a perpetual state of twitching.
"This is my son!" he hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I employed you because I was told you were the best and even had an army to match it. Your stories, while inflated, surely had some truth to them." He leaned forward, the veins in his neck throbbing. "So what is this you're telling me? You alone will go and rescue him? What kind of plan is that?"
I met his fury with a casual shrug. "Look, old coot, I understand that this is your son, but me going alone is the best course of action. I'm quite sneaky when I need to be."
Tywin looked at my snow-white hair, which stood out like a beacon even in the dimly lit chamber. "Somehow I doubt that," he whispered, his skepticism was warranted I guess.
"And even if I fail, get caught and executed," I continued, unfazed by his doubt, "you still have your own hostages, right? Just don't kill any of them, and your son will be fine."
"Fine then," he murmured after a long silence, during which I could almost hear the wheels turning in his head, that was the sad thing about smart men, they were always thinking. "If you didn't arrange this meeting to talk about your plans, what did you want to talk about?"
I leaned back in my chair, stretching my legs out before me. "Simple enough. My soldiers are quite loyal, and they really don't like taking orders from someone who isn't me." I fixed him with a pointed stare. "So if perchance you were attacked in the coming days when I'm not here, or require assistance of any kind, my right hand Phoenix will take charge of the Myrmidons. Any way you want them to move, you must talk to him."
As I finished, the oaken doors swung open with a groan that echoed through the chamber. Phoenix, my right-hand man, entered. He had brownish, almost red-like eyes and balding fiery red hair to match. He was built like a log even in his old age, a bit taller than me but not by much, and a long, almost blackened scar ran along both of his forearms, he hadn't even told me how he got it.
"This is Phoenix," I said, gesturing to my mentor. "You're similar in age, I think? So I'm sure you will have loads to discuss." I rose from my seat, eager to be free of this stifling chamber. "I'll leave him here so you can make preparations with him, as I'll begin packing my things. Your son will be home safe soon. That is a promise."
With those parting words, I left the room and closed the door behind me. I was sure Phoenix and Tywin would get along together—birds of a feather and all that shit. Both were old, cunning, and had seen more battles than most men had seen summers.
I looked for a moment at the two sworn Lannister swords who were protecting the entrance to the Old Lion's hall, I was pretty sure these were the same men I had seen on my first day in Harrenhal though I couldn't be sure, everyone wearing red kind of jumbled up together in my mind. After which I began waking to the Wailing Tower to prepare supplies.
The sound of clattering hooves and the noise of the masses made me stop in my tracks. Curious, I looked through a narrow window, its glass pristine and new, I guessed that the original glass had been melted into liquid when Aegon's dragons burnt this castle to it's current state. Below in the courtyard, I saw what could only be one of those raiding parties returning.
In this one, there weren't any Brave Companions. Instead, they were led by a giant of a man, bigger than even Dothraki Khals. His armor was dull grey in color, and a plate helm with only a narrow slit for vision, atop of which was a stone fist punching up towards the sky. On his massive back was strapped a greatsword that would require two hands for most men to wield. Even from this distance, I could see the dried blood caked on his gauntlets and breastplate.
Interesting.
I decided to take another way, moving quickly through the twisting corridors until I found myself in the courtyard. The smell of horse, sweat, and blood filled my nostrils as the party dismounted. Servants scurried about like ants, taking the horses, bringing water and wine, avoiding the eyes of their masters.
From the corner of my eye, I caught the gaze of someone else looking at the raiding party—Weasel. She was cleaning something outside of the kitchens.
Weasel was... peculiar. First was the whole Syrio Forel deal—how many servant girls would have met one of the Braavos's First Swords and be told their name for that matter? Then there were her hands, calloused not from cleaning but from holding a blade. I was sure of it; after all, I had seen those same blisters hundreds of thousands of times on my own men.
In these past three days, I had guessed she wasn't some lowborn daughter of a stonemason. She was more than likely a highborn, and not one of Lannister's camp if her secrecy was anything to go by. It made sense—after all, no lowborn would have rejected gold if it was offered to them in place of stories of glory.
Although, again, what did it matter? It wasn't my place to pry. There was no glory to be found in exposing a little girl, and I was a man who lived for glory above all else.
I walked over to her, and she seemed to notice me soon enough as her head bowed slightly. It was hard to believe she was also the cupbearer for Tywin Lannister. He most likely had figured out much more about her than I had, after all, brains wasn't something I excelled in. Even if I had been read much information about Westeros these past days, I knew almost nothing in truth.
"So this is where you spend your evenings, cleaning and looking at who comes in," I asked, as we both stared at the raiding party. The giant of a man was barking orders at his underlings, his voice carrying across the yard like thunder.
"Most days," she replied softly, her eyes never leaving the armored behemoth.
"What do they call this man?" I nodded toward the leader.
Weasel's voice dropped even lower. "The large one is their leader. He's called the Mountain. He's bad news—he is freakish big and freakish strong." Her small hands clenched into fists at her sides. "He's also cruel beyond belief. They say that each town he visits, he rapes the women he wants and kills their men."
"Is that so," I muttered, looking at the giant of a man. The nickname Mountain fit him quite well. His shoulders were as broad as the Titan of Braavos, and his arms thick as tree trunks. "Well, thanks for the info, Weasel. Oh, also I'll be leaving tomorrow morning, so you'll have your hands full in the coming days serving cups to the Old Lion. Have fun." I paused, then added with a knowing smile, "Oh, and if you do hold a sword, at least learn both arms."
With those words, I left her and came close to the Mountain, the de facto leader, given how everyone else seemed to fear him. Men scattered from his path like pigeons before a cat.
I didn't have an immediate distaste for the man—I didn't know him, after all—but I didn't really agree with what he did based on Weasel's account. There was no glory to be found in slaughtering common folk, raping women, and burning down villages
Every sellsword had a code of conduct; this was mine, if no glory was to be found, or if it were a coward's glory, then death would be a better alternative. I had killed men for less in my time. So it would be best to teach this man if there was time.
I now stood in front of the Mountain, planting myself directly in his path. He was a few heads taller than me; if Phoenix was built like a log, this man was built like the whole damned forest. I couldn't really see well as he still had his visor on, but I could tell the man was ugly.
"Who are you?" the man questioned, his voice could only be described in one way—stonebreaking. It rumbled from deep within his chest like boulders tumbling down a mountainside.
"Achilles," I replied, offering him a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Pleasure to meet you."
"Why do you stand in front of me?" The Mountain's hand rested on the pommel of his greatsword, a casual threat that would have sent lesser men scurrying away.
"Oh, nothing, just wanted one quick thing," I said, my tone light but my eyes hard. "Just one teensy-weensy, but ever so crucial little tiny detail—if I ever see one of your men or yourself in a raid party, I will tear your throats out and make you choke on your blood."
The Mountain looked at me for a long moment, his small eyes, the only thing I could see thought the visor, narrowing to slits. Then he laughed, a sound like rocks grinding together. His massive hand found its way to the top of my head, covering my skull entirely.
"Is that so?" he said, and then he squeezed.
The pressure was immense, or at least it would have been to lesser men that is. I didn't squirm, didn't recoil, didn't even let out a sound. I simply stared back at him, unflinching, as his fingers tried to dig themselves into my scalp
This went on for a few moments until I finally replied, my own hand finding its way to his wrist, still protected by his armor. My fingers wrapped around the armor-plated joint, finding the gap between the plates where flesh met metal.
"It is so."
Then I squeezed hard. I felt as the man's arm recoiled back in pain, his eyes widening in surprise and in pain. He seemed to anger himself, his free hand moving to the hilt of his blade—and yet when he looked up, he immediately calmed down.
I followed his gaze to see where he was looking. High above us, from a window overlooking the courtyard, Phoenix and Tywin were both staring down at us. The Old Lion's face was impassive, but his eyes were sharp, taking in every detail of our confrontation.
Well, look at that, I thought to myself. It seems even a mountain listens to a lion.
A/N: Final chapter of today, tomorrow we will go back to one a day since I have uni classes lol