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Blood slid down the front of Christen's visor, dripping in dark rivulets that stained the steel.
Only moments ago, his warhorse had broken through the knot of men blocking the gate of the Westerlands' northern camp.
He himself had followed close behind, long sword raised high, cleaving off a man's head in one merciless stroke before plunging into the camp with the momentum of his charge.
At that moment, the Westerland soldiers' plan to pen in the last four hundred of them outside the palisade was shattered completely.
Behind him, the other Manderly knights thundered forward, their destriers surging through the gate that now yawned wide open.
The knight of Riverspring stationed at the gate, charged with holding the line, had only just managed to pull his men into some semblance of formation. Yet the sight of the northern cavalry hurtling toward him, their armor gleaming like molten steel and their hooves striking the earth like rolling thunder, filled him with a sudden and crushing despair once more.
This time, he thought, he might truly not escape alive.
He clenched his jaw so tightly that blood welled from his gums, then let out a furious shout to steel his own courage. But in that moment of defiance, he failed to notice that the men behind him were already trembling, their weapons shaking in their hands.
The next heartbeat, those men shrieked in panic and scattered in every direction like startled birds.
The knight of Riverspring was consumed with rage, yet at the same time, his face drained of all color. He opened his mouth to curse them, but before the words could leave his tongue, he suddenly realized his vision had lifted, soaring upward into the sky.
His world spun as if he were circling above the battlefield, until at last he saw himself crashing down to the earth. Not far away lay a headless body, familiar even in death.
A chilling realization dawned on him, but before the thought could take shape, darkness swallowed everything.
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At the heart of the northern camp sat two prisoners: a king without a throne, and his mother, the dowager queen without a throne as well. Lord Tywin Lannister had kept them tightly confined here.
Their only purpose now was to stand as living symbols of House Lannister's claim to the Iron throne. Without these two fools in Tywin's custody, all of his campaigns, all the blood and gold he had spent, would lose the very foundation of legality.
A short while ago, King Joffrey Baratheon had flown into one of his sudden violent rages when a maidservant, trembling at her task, accidentally overturned a bowl of water. Snatching up a stout branch, he had beaten the poor girl until she collapsed half-dead upon the ground, her pitiful sobs lingering in the tent long after the blows had ceased. Now the young king sat beside his mother, Cersei Lannister, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps, his cheeks flushed with exertion and fury.
His Grace believed himself the most grievously wronged soul in all the world.
Once, he had been exalted above all, seated upon the Iron Throne in King's Landing, heir to his father Robert Baratheon, the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms. From the moment he had taken the crown, however, though he did not understand why, it seemed that no one had ever truly loved him.
His two uncles had fled the city even before his father Robert drew his final breath. And once Joffrey claimed the throne, they had raised their banners in open rebellion, proclaiming loudly that he was no true son of Robert at all.
At the time, his uncle Ser Jaime was away warring in the field. The furious boy-king had stormed to his mother, the dowager queen who still appeared as youthful and radiant as ever, demanding answers. What he received instead was Cersei's icy stare and her firm, unyielding denial.
From that moment, the foolish king clung to a single conviction: his blood was beyond reproach. Anyone who dared to question it was nothing but a traitor and rebel, and such men should be dragged before him in chains and subjected to the cruelest torments this world could devise.
Yet time and again his so-called loyal hounds betrayed him. Whether it was the Mountain, whom he feared even while he commanded, or his uncle Jaime Lannister, whom he trusted above all, they disappointed him, failed him, and let his armies crumble in defeat, smearing his honor with humiliation.
Barely a year had passed since his coronation, and already this one true and lawful king of the Seven Kingdoms had been driven from his own capital, forced to abandon the Iron Throne he loved most.
Joffrey Baratheon carried that shame like a brand seared into his soul, a disgrace he knew he would never wash away for as long as he drew breath.
And after that humiliation, his grandfather, Lord Tywin Lannister, that cold and detestable old man who had never once truly heeded the commands of his king, had shut him away in this cramped and stifling camp beneath the looming black walls of Harrenhal, as though he were no more than an unruly child to be disciplined.
Day after day, with nothing to do, Joffrey felt as though the weight of the gray and oppressive sky would crush the breath out of him.
He was permitted to leave his tent, but never allowed to set foot beyond the tightly guarded northern camp.
Joffrey had tried everything: commands, threats, tears, pleading, promises. None of it availed him. The guards would not yield, not an inch. He could not step across that gate, not even once.
His mother, the dowager queen in name, fared no better. She, too, was kept inside, a prisoner dressed in silks.
Joffrey had long since noticed that she no longer smiled as she once did. Her beauty was still striking, her golden hair still bright beneath the dull skies, but her temper grew shorter with every passing day, her patience fraying like worn silk.
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The tent flap was suddenly thrown back with a rough sweep, letting in a gust of cold air. King Joffrey's head snapped up. Standing in the entrance was the Hound, Ser Sandor Clegane, his snarling hound-shaped helm cradled in one arm. He loomed before the boy-king, his scarred face set in a grim and shadowed scowl, while Joffrey's own features tightened into a petulant glare.
"What's the matter, my dog? If you've nothing worth saying, your king has no wish to look upon you!"
Joffrey Baratheon's voice dripped with contempt, his tone heavy with loathing. Yet, bitter irony clung to his words, for this hulking knight before him was perhaps the only man who had remained at his side since the day he was dragged out of King's Landing.
Ser Sandor, well acquainted with the true measure of this king, betrayed no surprise. He had long grown used to insults spilling from the boy's mouth like sour wine.
Bowing stiffly, he addressed both the king, who lounged in his tent with all the arrogance of a tyrant, and the dowager queen, who sat beside him pretending to read a book she scarcely glanced at. His voice was even, almost calm.
"Your Grace, the northerners have broken through the gate. They are running wild in the northern camp. This early morning Lord Tywin took the main host with him. I fear there is no force left here strong enough to hold back the charge of the northern cavalry."
"I beg you both, Your Graces, come with me at once. This place is no longer safe."
The words were courteous, spoken with restraint, yet their true meaning, once stripped bare, was nothing more than this:
'The damned northerners are here. Tywin left no soldiers to guard you. If you want to live, follow me and run!'
But the reactions inside the tent could not have been more different.
The boy-king sat stunned for a moment, then his entire body began to tremble. Sandor thought at first it was fear that gripped him, that the boy was about to collapse. But the very next words out of Joffrey's mouth struck him dumb.
"Wonderful! Those filthy northern swine! I was planning, sooner or later, to march across the Neck myself, to Winterfell, and drag those Starks out of their stinking wolf den. Now they've had the gall to come knocking at my door? They truly don't know their place!"
"Hound! Come, armor your king! Choose me the finest sword you can find. I'll ride out like my father before me, and on the battlefield I too will be invincible!"
In Joffrey Baratheon's emerald eyes burned a feverish light, a gleam not of courage but of excitement sharpened into bloodlust.
Sandor Clegane's mouth twitched, his lips pulling back in a faint grimace. He had half a mind to speak, but before a word could escape him, the queen dowager's gaze cut across him, cold and merciless as the edge of a drawn blade. That single look was enough to clamp his jaw shut.
Cersei Lannister, golden-haired and beautiful, the blue-eyed queen dowager, spoke then. Her tone was sharp as a winter wind, though beneath its icy bite ran the faintest tremor, a weakness so subtle that perhaps only she herself failed to hear it..
"Ser Clegane, I think you owe me an explanation. How did the northerners manage to break in here? What in the seven hells are the soldiers outside even doing?"
"You may wish to go ask them yourself, my queen."
Sandor's voice was blunt, almost mocking, stripped of the deference he once would have forced. He had never stomached this woman. When she still held sway in King's Landing, parading her power and reveling in the fear she commanded, he had no choice but to grit his teeth and follow her orders, no matter how reckless or cruel.
But things had changed. He knew clearly enough that Joffrey Baratheon's throne would stand so long as Tywin Lannister did not falter. The boy might be loathed, but he remained the only vessel through which the Lannister claim to royal power could endure.
Cersei Lannister, however, the so-called queen dowager, her stage had collapsed the instant she left the throne room.
Even if Tywin triumphed in the wars to come, conquering south and north alike, this proud yet fading beauty would not stand beside him in the halls of power. No, Lord Tywin, ruthless and pragmatic to the bone, would use her instead as a piece in his endless game of alliances, marrying her off to whatever house could serve the Lannisters' cause.
That was her last scrap of value. Tywin would never allow her to linger at council, meddling in politics and whispering in Joffrey's ear.
And so now, Sandor Clegane gave her no courtesy at all.
"You—!"
Cersei Lannister's face flushed, her features contorting with rage. She was venomous and cunning, a woman as dangerous as any viper, yet against this hulking brute of a man, unyielding and hard as stone, broad as a bear, she felt herself stripped of all power, her fury crashing uselessly against his sheer immovability.
At last she turned her eyes to her son, the boy who was now her king, the only person left who might heed her words. If she spoke, Joffrey might still lend an ear for a word or two.
But Joffrey Baratheon was already far beyond reach, lost in the glittering dream of becoming another Robert. In his mind's eye he saw himself brandishing a mighty warhammer, striding unchecked across the battlefield, scattering foes before him, and in the end shattering the enemy with a glorious, decisive victory. He saw himself bathed in cheers and adulation, basking in the worshipful gaze of all who beheld him.
It was the most typical of childish notions, measuring triumph and defeat not by the weight of lives or the burden of rule, but only by how brightly others' eyes might shine upon him.
On most days, Sandor Clegane would never have interfered. He knew all too well what kind of boy this was: a spiteful, petty creature, cruel for sport and vindictive to the bone. No matter how unfit he might be, the throne would still be his in the end, for that was the inescapable reality of blood and name.
So, usually, Sandor had no reason to cross him, no reason to risk stirring that temper.
But what time was it now?
The northern cavalry were less than five hundred meters away. The only reason they had this sliver of breathing room was because broken men and wounded soldiers from the camp had been thrown forward, their lives spent as coin to purchase a few desperate moments of retreat.
If they didn't leave now, then when?
"Your Grace," Sandor said, sweat rolling down his scarred brow, "your father King Robert may have been the greatest warrior of his age, but even his victories in battle came with the strength of the armies that fought beneath his banner."
He wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand, feeling the heat prickling under his helm. In his mind, he made a decision: if he couldn't sway this stubborn boy within two minutes, then he would simply knock him senseless and carry him off. As for vengeance afterward… well, if he lived long enough for Joffrey to seek it, then he would deal with that when it came.
With that grim resolve in his chest, he forced himself into a gesture of weary resignation, sighing as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Your Grace," he went on, his voice heavier, slower, almost coaxing, "Lord Tywin has already taken your strongest men to fight that false king raised up by the North. If it is your wish to prove your valor on the field, then it seems to me you should gather what loyal soldiers remain and march on Harrenhal. Capture that false king with your own hands, and then let these northern raiders kneel in the dirt before you. That is what a king does."
Sandor Clegane, who in ordinary moments spoke little and brooded like a stormcloud, had just spun out more words in a single breath than he normally cared to utter in a week. Even he felt the strain of it, as though the effort alone had left him panting.
Deceiving a spoiled brat like this was no task fit for a hardened fighter.
"Enough!" Cersei Lannister snapped, her eyes blazing as she rounded on him. "Ser Clegane, you are a hound. And a hound has no right to lecture His Grace on how to be a king!"
In her mind, the only urgency was to flee, to abandon this place before death closed in from every side. How could anyone speak of chasing honor to Harrenhal, of plunging headlong into that cursed ruin, when their very lives were already hanging by a thread?
But the foolish woman had not grasped what lay beneath Sandor's words. She had missed entirely that what he truly meant was to trick Joffrey, to lure him out of this northern encirclement before it was too late.
With a mother this dull, how sharp could her child ever hope to be?
Sure enough, before Cersei's protest had even faded from the air, her son's voice cut across her words.
"As you say, my dog! We ride to Harrenhal at once! I will lead my army into that fortress, and there I will face Robb Stark, that false king, in mortal combat."
Joffrey's eyes blazed, his face flushed with excitement. He rose to his feet as though already astride a warhorse, already drenched in glory.
"Remember this!" he cried. "Go tell my grandsire, Lord Tywin that this is the king's wager, and no one, no one at all, may interfere!"
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[Chapter End's]
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