At Harrenhal's dawn, the fog lay thick. Yet the visibility was not poor; perhaps because this day was to be fair, the vapors from the Gods Eye drifted off with the wind.
The golden roaring lion banner of House Lannister followed behind the white flag, likewise soaked by the mist, hanging damp upon its pole.
The heavy atmosphere, like the sudden fog, spread across the solemn, desolate battlefield.
The white horse beneath Lord Tywin trod the muddy earth, stirring patches of mire.
It bore its master forward, toward the enemy camp only a few miles away.
That company led by Tywin Lannister moved slowly through the dense fog, as though walking into the gaping maw of some great beast.
...
A while ago…
The silence lasted until all had finished reading the letter's words. The frenzy that once lit their eyes had vanished.
The noble knights, armored and once filled with fervor, now sat slumped on their stools like frost-struck eggplants, drained of all spirit.
Yet at the same time, an extreme, repressed fury pressed upon their hearts.
The letter, already crumpled, now showed signs of tearing.
"If not for this message, if we had truly launched the war we had planned—"
"My lords, that would have been a disaster."
Tywin Lannister gave them time to digest the news.
Only then did he slowly lower his arms, lift his chest once more, and gaze calmly at the company.
"I know among you there are those who feel unwilling, angry, even resentful—resentful toward me, toward House Lannister. For it was I who led you to this point."
"But precisely because of that, I chose surrender."
"And that is why Kevan, though he could have fled, abandoned his life to win us this brief span of time."
"This is the chance he bought for us at the cost of his life."
At Lord Tywin's words, the noble lords who commanded armies and followed him raised their eyes to him, with faint ripples in their gaze.
Tywin, keen-eyed, saw this.
So he drew a deep breath, his gaze hardening to steel.
"It is because of Kevan's sacrifice that we did not press on blindly. My lords, as I said, we have already failed."
"And we cannot endure greater losses. There is no need."
"All of you know well: a battlefield does not yield conclusions in a short span. It is a grinding mill of flesh and blood."
"So to trade life and blood for anger, for unwillingness, to shatter our illusions—it is meaningless. Only by living do we have hope."
What answered Lord Tywin was only silence.
But at this point, those who had been furious, ready to question him, found no words to speak.
Men like Amory Lorch, who had no wits, had no place at Lord Tywin's table.
Weighing gains and losses was something these nobles were born to learn.
They were not knights who could spill their blood for passion, honor, or even for women. They were the heads, the leaders, the lords of their houses.
When they were heirs, it was not such lessons their maesters had taught them.
Thus, for those he had personally chosen to bring here, Tywin calmly observed them with cold eyes.
After a while, a weary sigh sounded in the drafty chamber.
"Indeed, we cannot, for the sake of a moment's courage and anger, lose everything once more within a doomed end. This was Kevan's final cry, the warning he gave me with his life."
"Besides, once we sat at the gaming table, at least we staked our claim, did we not?"
"And if from the start we had not resisted, perhaps our end would not have been any better…"
A lord with golden hair, after a sigh, slowly spoke these words.
And this speech seemed to rouse the company, opening the way.
"Do we still have a chance?" someone asked, confusion in his voice.
"If we surrender, will Robert not kill us?" More than confusion, some felt fear.
"Yes, he will. Of this there is no doubt. He always has."
At these words, Tywin tapped his fingers upon the long table, breaking off their discussion and taking up the matter himself.
Yet as the company's eyes turned from fear to unwillingness, Tywin shifted his tone.
"But Eddard Stark will not."
"..." The man who had flushed, ready to object, opened his mouth, then shut it again.
Tywin gave him only a glance, then turned his gaze back upon the company before him.
"Fortunate it is, my lords, that the King's host is now led forth from the North by Eddard Stark—"
"I believe you all know well what manner of man the Lord of Winterfell, Lord Eddard Stark, is."
His voice rose, edged with disdain.
But this did not break Tywin's speech.
"Our respected Hand will restrain his King."
"This is our chance."
"We have only failed, but we have not lost everything."
Lord Tywin's words were spoken with calm confidence, firm and resonant, his steady gaze revealing an unshakable assurance.
As though—
It were the same as when he first chose to rise in defiance against the Iron Throne's campaign upon the Westerlands.
His conviction in ultimate victory was unyielding.
Confronted with Tywin's calm confidence, the lords looked at one another.
"Then do we still have a chance?"
A voice, tinged with troubled doubt, rang out.
"Perhaps—"
The reply came with a faint upward lilt.
"What we must do now is weather the trial before us. As for the rest—heh."
...
Outside Harrenhal, the host of the North stretched dense as a forest, grim in its might.
King Robert Baratheon, astride his warhorse, cloaked in his great armor, looked upon Harrenhal in the distance with a face filled with conflicting emotions.
He stared at that trace of red slowly nearing through the mist.
The expression on his face shifted ceaselessly—anger, relief, a fleeting sense of fortune, and more besides.
But most of all, unwillingness, and a flickering, murderous intent.
Lord Eddard Stark rode at his side, shoulder to shoulder.
Unlike the King, his look was far more at ease, more at peace.
He too was astride a warhorse, his shoulder covered not with plate but with a great wolfskin cloak, its excess length draped across the horse's back.
Yet though his face seemed relaxed, whenever his eyes fell upon the King, his brow furrowed, heavy with grave concern.
At last, after struggle and hesitation, he once more spoke the words he had first uttered the previous night when the letter from King's Landing arrived, and had repeated in the council at dusk to soothe his King.
"Ahem—"
"Your Grace, you have a fine son."
"He has won this war for us."
After some inner struggle, Lord Eddard Stark finally decided to speak in the name of the one who had won them this war.
Kal Stone—this name had resounded across the battlefield ever since the beginning of the war.
At the same time, Lord Eddard knew well that His Majesty the King was immensely proud of it.
As though all of this had been his doing.
Whether it was Kal Stone's volunteering back in Riverrun, or later his fierce slaying of foes on the Riverlands battlefield, bringing one victory after another and shifting the course of the war in parts, and even to the point of dragging Eddard himself along, securing his support to have his bastard son appointed as Warden of the East, followed by all that he did in the Vale.
Each time the news arrived, King Robert would drink two more casks of wine in delight.
Every time news about Kal Stone came, the King would at night pull him along, ignoring the war still being fought, and drink themselves into a stupor.
Then Robert would drag him along, his drunken eyes hazy, boasting endlessly, leaving Eddard no choice but to listen.
And each round of boasting after wine would always move from women, to Robert's own feats of valor in the past, then to war, and finally, when it circled back again to women, the closing note between the two of them would always be Kal Stone.
Eddard understood clearly that, as for Kal Stone, his King and old friend—after going through such betrayal—now valued him all the more.
Or perhaps, upon Kal Stone, Robert had seen another kind of life, the sort he envied and dreamed of yet could never possess.
Lord Eddard knew well: though only his bastard son, Kal Stone had truly lived the life Robert most longed for.
In Kal Stone, Robert saw another version of himself.
This child who looked so much like him was just as he had been before becoming king.
Whether a free and unfettered sellsword,
or a hero, anything but a king sitting upon a cold, estranging throne, fretting how those beneath would fob him off and deceive him.
And Lord Eddard also knew clearly that all Kal had done had thus made him the child King Robert loved most, and was most proud of.
So after some hesitation, Lord Eddard wisely chose to open the topic in Kal's name, at the same time easing the stifling mood.
"Your Majesty, you have a fine son—he's won us the war outright."
Eddard spoke with a jesting tone; at any other time, he guaranteed Robert would be grinning from ear to ear upon hearing it.
But at this moment, these words could only be used to break the silence, to ease the oppressive mood.
Hearing Ned's words, Robert did not turn his head to look at his old friend.
His gaze still carried thick killing intent, fixed fiercely upon that flash of red in the distance.
The King answered his Hand with silence.
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