The road is easier when you meet a kind fellow traveller.
(c) Black Abdullah
Lady Catelyn, wife of Lord Eddard, had been acting strangely lately. Or rather, she had been doing many things, some of which were strange to her but natural to others, and others that seemed natural to her but horrified everyone else. For example, rumours reached Catelyn that Jaime Lannister had wounded her husband and that his men had hacked to death several of Eddard's guards, and the next news was a letter from her husband saying that King Robert had died and that the queen and Jaime Lannister, who had been captured, had been sent to Essos. Eddard forgot to mention the fate of Tyrion, who was still travelling across the endless northern expanses, perhaps thinking it obvious that the little man could only be pitied in such a situation, but Catelyn, for some reason, did not think that her husband had more than paid for his wound, and detained Tyrion when he returned from the Wall.
Catelyn had ambitious plans to break Lord Tywin's will by taking the last of his children remaining in Westeros hostage, but that same night, which Tyrion was lucky enough to spend in a warm room rather than a dungeon, Catelyn had an unexpected and surprising thought: what if she wrote to her husband in King's Landing? After all, he was the right hand and protector of the realm, had fought two wars, and had been the Warden of the North for fifteen years. It was a crazy idea: maybe he knew better than she did how to deal with the Lannisters and who to take hostage?
While the raven flew back and forth and Lord Eddard clutched his head, finally realising how he had let the women in his family run wild: both daughters had run away with a paladin, and his wife had taken hostages for no apparent reason. Tyrion and Maester Luwin were crafting a saddle for Bran, while Catelyn gradually realised that the little Lannister was not a bad person, albeit a bit rude.
"Why did you decide to help my son, Lannister?" Catelyn asked as she entered Maester Luwin's room, and Tyrion, whose extensive and intimate acquaintance with women did not include noble ladies and mothers of families, made a mistake.
"My heart is full of tenderness for cripples, bastards, and broken things," Tyrion said in a touching voice, and Catelyn flared up like wildfire.
"So where do you count my son: cripples or broken things?" Catelyn demanded, generously not hearing the third word, for which Tyrion could well have flown out the window and never returned.
Tyrion missed the joke that if a legless man wasn't crippled, then he wasn't a dwarf, because in Catelyn's eyes he saw ice, abysses, and untimely death.
"Forgive me, my lady," said Tyrion, still trying to wriggle out of it with jokes. "I am a bad dwarf and sometimes say terrible things. I have said many cruel and malicious things about the noble lords and ladies of the court. I have wished death upon my lord father and my sister, our kind queen mother..."
"Well, maybe you're not such a bad dwarf after all," Catelyn interrupted him. "Maester, when will the saddle be ready?"
"Who is talking to my lady like that?" Luwin said reproachfully, who, because of Tyrion's mistake, had not even been promised a gift for his good work. "In our world, Lord Tyrion, statements are divided into false and true. In Lady Catelyn's world, they are divided into false and pleasant.
"My lords, I heard a pun," said the silent, red-haired groom, who had been called to bring a saddle for modification and had remained there, bending metal parts with his bare hands for the master and Tyrion. "What is the similarity between a lord's court and cunnilingus? One wrong move with your tongue and you're up the arse."
Maester Luwin dropped the tanner's knife from his hands in surprise, and Tyrion doubled over with laughter.
"You know, Hodor," the maester was the first to recover, "I cured you, you even started talking. But you'd be better off keeping your mouth shut!
"Hodor," Hodor spread his arms, always playing the fool when he was scolded.
"I also heard a pun in the Stormlands about Lord Renly," Tyrion shared with the stable boy, since he was so cultured and knew such words. "A clipper is sailing across the sea, and on the clipper is a skipper..."
The next day, the saddle was ready, Hodor personally placed it on the horse and helped Bran sit down in it — but he mixed up the pun and embarrassed everyone present at a rather inopportune moment. There was a scandal, and for some reason everyone scolded Tyrion. What could you expect from Hodor? Hodor!
After that, Tyrion became known in Winterfell as a good guy, but a big boor. And his other sins were gradually forgotten.
Lord Eddard, unable to gather his thoughts to write a letter home, sent for the storyteller who had recently appeared at court, who usually distracted his right-hand man from his heavy thoughts with funny stories. The storyteller called himself a chronicler, although he lied about his past, resembled the late King Robert in weight and appetite, and, judging by everything, knew much more than he said, reminding Lord Eddard of his good friend Howland Reed. Robert and Jon Arryn were alive in the chronicler's stories, and sometimes the silly plots of these stories were not only better than what had actually happened, but also gave the Hand ideas about the present.
"Long ago, in the days of Arryn, when there was order in the land," the chronicler began with his usual opening, and Lord Eddard just shook his head: the chronicler would turn out to be right, as he had been many times before. It would turn out that there would be no order under him, Lord Eddard, and certainly not under this young upstart, who had stolen one of Eddard's daughters and seduced the other, and now rumours were spreading throughout Westeros that were enough to make one cover one's ears. Eddard was most angry with Lionel for involving Arya in his escape. If Lionel hadn't already married Sansa on his own initiative, they would marry them when they returned, and everything would be covered up with a crown. And Arya can't be married off now; such adventures are worse for a young girl than even pies baked with human flesh. They should have at least taken Sandor with them, even though he is an indecent man, but even with him, everything would have looked more decent. The main thing is that Sandor's company cannot compromise any girl, with his face.
Meanwhile, the chronicler looked at his pensive right hand and began again:
"Long ago, back in Arren's time, when there was order in the country, Lord Arren won the civil war — you have to start somewhere to bring order to a country. However, during the capture of the capital, several incidents occurred: The Mad King attacked one of his guards and stabbed him in the back with the tip of his sword, and the prince's family was completely wiped out. Sir Amory Lorch, for some reason, stabbed the king's granddaughter fifty times and stabbed her portrait seventy more times. Lord Arren lamented that he had such fools as subjects, shook his head, and named Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer. Of course, there had never been any kings in Westeros, but Arren tried "Kingslayer" and "Eryslayer," which didn't sound right, and "Princeslayer" sounded better but was inaccurate and already taken since the Battle of the Trident. Kingkiller stuck, much to Lord Tywin's annoyance and Lord Arren's delight. And Jaime, the fool, should be ashamed, but whether he is or not is for others to know.
Long story short, Arren started to take a liking to the Kingslayer, and how could he not when he was standing guard at his door a couple of times a week? And it turns out that he's not a bad guy — a fool, yes, but Arren has had smart subordinates before. Arren doesn't even want to think about his subordinates anymore; the young king who doesn't want to get married is enough for him. Well, not that he doesn't want to, but he doesn't really want to get married. Decent girls don't even bother coming to the Red Keep, and Arren doesn't let the indecent ones in. Lord Arren distinguishes between them as follows: he goes out to the guests and asks, "Do you want to be queen?" And he orders all those who want to turn around: he needs to marry off his ward, not give away the small crown to some queen he has to find a place for. After all, a small crown can be drunk away or pawned, the main thing is not to express such ideas in front of Robert, otherwise he would draw the wrong conclusions. Lord Tywin is annoyed again, Lord Tyrell is also annoyed, only Lord Arren is happy, but the castle is a little empty.
And so Lord Arren calls the two of them, the Prince Slayer and the King Slayer, and gives them a speech: get out of here, and don't come back without brides. But listen: if you bring back the wrong kind of women, the kind I won't allow in my castle, I'll send them back, and you'll be left wandering around Westeros like shit in a hole, or, to put it more politely, like a rose in a field of thistles. Robert, of course, is not afraid of such a threat, but the Kingslayer objects that, as a knight of the Kingsguard, he cannot marry. Robert, of course, laughs: we'll take them both, and I'll get both of them, and he doesn't even see how the Kingslayer is looking at him like a wolf, as if he wants to live up to his nickname. "Oh well," thinks Arren, "we'll sort it out on the road. They're good men, if their families don't weigh them down, if women don't turn their heads, they'll find a common language among themselves."
"And what, did you find it?" Lord Eddard asked in surprise, unable to resist listening in. In the chronicler's cheerful, rambling stories, the plot was always completely different, but the people were still similar to themselves: not exactly the same, but they showed their good side, either as they once were or as they could have been. But here the chronicler had gone too far, Jaime and Robert were very different, even if we forget that they had hated each other all their lives, although in this case it was definitely the woman's fault.
Meanwhile, the chronicler drank and snacked and brazenly recommended that Lord Eddard age his beer for a year or more in oak barrels so that it would be strong like wine and not light like children's urine.
"Found them," the chronicler assured him, "quickly figured out that they had to go their separate ways. The regicide rode off to the West, having learned from Robert that if you can't get married, you don't have to, it's not that important. And no one would have married them to the woman he was going to, and Arren would not have let him back into the castle, and to hell with him, and with the castle, and with Arren, and with everything else. So let there be scandal, let there be an unprecedented affair, for love always makes young hearts purer.
And Robert rode north to see his best friend, to congratulate him twice on his firstborn, and he congratulated him so well that he rode out onto the road afterwards and decided to head for the Iron Islands to bring Baelon Greyjoy back, so he wouldn't have to go back a second time. But the lord got a little lost on the way, wanting to bypass the Kurgan Hills so as not to climb the mountain, and so he headed north until, following the order "take him to the nearest island," he was delivered to Bear Island.
There are no Greyjoys on Bear Island, but there is beauty and plenty of wildlife. There are wild boars, roe deer, and as many hares as you like. The young king wandered through the forests for several days, always well fed, sober, and cheerful. Then he met a girl, or perhaps a young woman, with a hunting bow and a hunting knife, who took aim at him, approaching silently. "Do you know who I am?" asked Robert. "You are a poacher," replied the brave girl. "You look like a knight, but you have encroached on our land without introducing yourself to the lord as a good man. I do not pity the boar, but I will not let you go for the sake of my family. Now move!" King Robert respected the brave and daring, and did not expect to encounter true noble courage in a woman. And the situation was not easy: what other options were there when you were being led to trial before the lord and could be branded a poacher by the king? The only option was to talk her into forgetting her duty and succumbing to his charm. So they returned to Lord Arren in due course, but that is a long story, and not all of it is suitable for telling here.
"What are you getting at?" Lord Eddard asked. "Robert should have married Daisy Mormont?"
"Yes, Lord Hand," agreed the chronicler. "That would have been much better."
"Perhaps it would have been better," admitted Eddard, remembering Lady Daisy: feisty, agile, dark hair, an elongated face. If only Arya had grown up like that. Daisy Mormont is no beauty, of course, and with her temperament she'll probably never marry, but she has charm for those who like her. She would make a faithful wife, unpretentious, strict in some ways, but yielding in others. She would hunt with Robert, drink with him, and fight with him in roadside taverns, smashing them with his hammer and her mace: the Mormonts see such things as a matter of honour, only if they lose, but if they win, then they're ours. And the damage to the treasury from repairing taverns is much less than from constant tournaments, and Robert would have lived against all odds and looked like a fine fellow. And what if she was not ten or twelve right after the war — now there would be little difference in age. The chronicler is right, it's a pity that Arren didn't get to listen to him, even though Arren kept order in the country."Now, please accept this box for your story," the chronicler reminded him, noticing that Lord Eddard was thinking sad but good thoughts. The chronicler did not take the gold, but usually took an empty box and a letter to the storekeeper, filled the box with sturgeon, sweet wine, soft cheese, unusual fruits, and disappeared somewhere with the box for several days, as if to eat all the contents alone. Then he would reappear with his stories, always beginning with a sly smile and the question, "Will the Lord Hand draw the wrong conclusions from this?" And conclusions could indeed be drawn, not only about the past, but also about the present. Now that the chronicler was gone, Eddard's first thought was: young Robert could have fallen in love with the very young Daisy Mormont. Not so much for her beauty as for her courage, her cheerful and restless nature, her loyal heart and strong character. And then he would have noticed her beauty when his heart became attached to her, for who cannot see beauty in the eyes of young lovers?
And then a strange thought occurred to Eddard: Lionel was Robert's real son, he took after him in appearance, and their characters were similar in some ways, especially if one remembered Robert when he was young, not lazy, with youthful ardour and a somewhat bookish concept of honour. And just as the young Robert could have fallen in love with the young Daisy, so Lionel could have fallen in love with Arya. Eddard even whistled cheerfully, as if he had won a bet on a dark horse, knowing our people! And then, of course, he got confused: Lionel is engaged to Sansa, and it seems that Sansa is already in love with him, so why didn't she quarrel with her sister after Lionel found Arya, who had run away, in the city and brought her back to him, Eddard? In short, it's impossible to understand who is to blame and who should be angry at whom. Now they would be alive, and then he would scold all three of them, and maybe even feel sorry for some of them. Does this young adventurer understand that Tywin now needs Tommen on the throne, not him? And the reports coming in about Beric's squad are not victorious, but rather the opposite...
Against this backdrop, Lord Eddard's domestic problems seemed quite simple, and he wrote a letter home, but not to his wife, but to his son.
"Rob!" wrote Lord Eddard. "You are now Lord of Winterfell, but not yet head of the family, and as your father, I ask you: what the hell are hostages doing in Winterfell without my knowledge? I understand that this was your mother's idea, not yours, but I will still ask you. Release the younger Lannister; he is neither a lord nor a general, his father did not prepare him for this, and I have enough of the lesser Lannisters here already. Do not corner your enemy so that you hold all the cards; show him your magnanimity and give him the opportunity to surrender with dignity. And another thing: the North is large, and ravens fly faster than horses. You can catch anyone in the North and cut off their head. So when you see a man for the first time, look at him first, figure out who he is and what he wants, don't grab your sword and don't threaten anyone. Strangers in the North are already in your power.
***
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