The grating of the key in the lock made the prisoner open his eyes. This sound boded nothing good for him. He was fed through a small window, and the chamber pot was not emptied at all, causing an unbearable stench in the stone sack. If Aerys Targaryen endured the same, it is no wonder he went mad when caught in this trap.
At first, he screamed. Outraged by such treatment, he hurled curses and threats. Screamed until his strength failed him and he no longer cared. Then he began pacing the cell like a caged animal. Then, having driven himself to exhaustion, he surrendered to anxious reflections.
He still did not understand where the fog had come from on a perfectly clear day. Did not understand how enemy warriors managed to get so close to him and cut him off from his own. Did not understand why they acted so confidently in the impenetrable white cloud. In any case, it no longer mattered.
How would his family react? They would certainly try to ransom him, but his captors were unlikely to negotiate. Judging by the rumors that reached him, he was doomed...
He thought of smashing his head against the wall, but could not bring himself to do it, putting it off until the last moment. Well, now it was too late. And the key continued to scratch further, as if the door were locked with a thousand turns.
From the depths of his being rose a firm determination not to give up so easily and to take at least one enemy with him. All that was needed was to throw the shackles around a neck and pull, pull with all remaining strength.
Finally, the door opened, and the prisoner involuntarily squinted from the blinding light of torches. Clinging to the rough wall, he rose to his feet and was about to execute his plan when he met the gaze of the man who first crossed the threshold of his cell.
The visitor was young, no older than himself, and clearly not a jailer. Immediately finding him with his eyes, the youth examined him attentively. Although the prisoner's appearance was infinitely far from pleasant, the mysterious visitor smiled at him affectionately, like an old friend. Fearlessly closing the distance separating them, he took off his heavy fur-trimmed cloak and threw it over the prisoner.
"It is all over, Ser Garlan," he spoke, not ceasing to smile. "Everything will be well now."
. . . . .
Events flew with the speed of arrows loosed by a skilled archer. She had ridden to meet Lord Stark, and now walked the corridors of the Dun Fort to see a king...
Behind lay long weeks of travel: a storm that nearly sank their galley; waiting in the port of Tyrosh while the ship was repaired and the bad weather subsided; a dangerous journey across the Narrow Sea. Once near the Claw they ran onto a reef, miraculously avoiding a breach. The ship jolted so hard that Nymeria nearly fell overboard, but grabbed the strong hands of the captain in time, with whom she had been sharing a cabin for a couple of weeks. And just when they entered the Bay of Crabs and stopped at a small fishing village to replenish supplies, another blow awaited them: it turned out Robb Stark had left Riverrun along with the rest of Stannis Baratheon's host.
Nymeria joked that they could go straight to King's Landing just to be sure not to miss him. Her irony was already nauseating.
Again days of waiting in Maidenpool, until finally the rumor of the taking of Duskendale reached them. They sailed there immediately. Sailed to see banners flying with a crowned direwolf and learn from Stark's messenger—a charming youth with an unknown sigil on his cloak—how the Lord of Winterfell had declared himself king. Another one.
Nymeria said that, properly speaking, they should sail back: she had no authority to negotiate with a claimant to the Iron Throne. To this, Arianne wanted to respond with an irritated tirade, remind her of the plans and the risk already taken, call her a cowardly girl. An exchange of meaningful glances was enough for them to understand each other...
And now, together with Nymeria, they followed the guide through the corridors of the Fort—Nymeria in front, and she—exactly behind her left shoulder, as befits a well-trained servant.
They were received in the Small Hall, whose empty walls screamed that not long ago it had a completely different owner. The young king sat in a high chair, too simple and artless to be called a throne. Beside him froze several Northern and River lords. The attempt to observe emphasized formality and simultaneously keep the negotiations secret was utterly amusing.
"Lady Nymeria," the one already christened the Young Wolf smiled broadly, showing strong white teeth. "Immeasurably glad to make your acquaintance."
The exchange of pleasantries continued for a long time, allowing her to examine him well. Handsome, uninhibited, and undoubtedly narcissistic to the extreme. She had met such boys more than once, intoxicated by first successes and therefore believing in their own immortality. Love with such quickly becomes boring and sets the teeth on edge, and they do not live long: either get bruised and get smarter, or break their necks. True, this boy's luck refuses to leave him.
Judging by the carnivorous gaze he kept on Nymeria, dealing with him would not be difficult.
Robb Stark rose and extended an open palm to Nymeria.
"You have traveled a long way, and the weather is not sweet now. How about mulled wine with spices?"
Nymeria accepted his hand with a meaningful half-smile. The King led her into an adjacent room.
Not taking her eyes off him, Nymeria threw back:
"Anna, wait for me here."
However, the King unexpectedly expressed a desire for Lady Nymeria's servant specifically to attend them, and though his tone was soft as sherbet, it was clear to everyone that it was an order.
When the doors closed behind them, Nymeria and her companion looked around and froze. There were three chairs in the room, and three goblets on a small table.
"Happy to welcome you, Princess," Robb Stark did not hide his amusement.
Arianne Martell, heir to Doran Martell, felt deceived and fooled. This boy knew about her from the very beginning but decided to play along for the time being. However, she had traveled such a long way not to admire him from afar, but precisely for negotiations, only she intended to reveal her incognito much later and on her own terms.
Arianne settled into an armchair, stretching her legs carelessly. With her whole appearance, she said that neither the newfound status of yesterday's Lord Stark nor his awareness were capable of making her worry.
Serving snacks and pouring drinks, as the most untitled of those present, fell to Nymeria, however, she did not lose heart and performed the role of cupbearer assigned to her with her inherent accuracy and dexterity.
The King clearly tried to impress and please them: getting twenty-year-old Dornish wine in the middle of a war was an extraordinary task. However, Arianne's benevolent mood was replaced by wariness and bewilderment when Robb Stark preferred lemon water to such wonderful wine. Setting the goblet aside or demanding a taster was not in her interests, and besides, Stark was unlikely to try to poison her at this moment.
Nymeria solved this problem for her, fearlessly draining the goblet and beginning to lavish praise on the host's refined taste. She had advanced far in the art of recognizing poisons and yielded in it only to Tyene and her father, so her judgment could be trusted.
However, as soon as the King finished with pleasantries and began to talk business, Arianne forgot to think about this minor oddity.
"I have news that will undoubtedly please you, my lady: Gregor Clegane is dead, and Amory Lorch is captured and held at Riverrun. Ready to hand him over to you at the first word."
This youth knew where to start a conversation. This gift would make him an ally if not of her father, then of her uncle for sure.
"You know what to offer House Martell," Arianne could not suppress a smirk, feeling unprecedented excitement.
"Oh, this is only the beginning," the King leaned forward, looking deeply into her eyes. "I can give you far more than the Lannisters promised."
"And what did the Lannisters promise?" Arianne almost did not doubt his awareness.
The King stroked his chin thoughtfully.
"A seat on the Small Council for your uncle—the post of Master of Laws is just vacant—and the opportunity to get a titled hostage is simply ideal. And to show their trust, they will offer you one of their lion cubs. I think a girl: the eldest is already promised to the Tyrells, for the youngest you do not have a princess of suitable age, and some cousin—too petty and not worth attention."
Everything was absolutely correct. She herself was an unwitting witness to the quarrel between Oberyn and her father, during which threats to return to the Second Sons were sounded more than once to avoid accepting the hated appointment. Besides, she knew for certain that her father had already consented to the marriage of Trystane and Myrcella Baratheon. His spinelessness became one of the reasons why she embarked on such an adventure: conspired with Him, secretly climbed onto a ship, and went to the unknown Lord Stark.
"And what does Your Grace intend to offer House Martell?" Arianne asked the decisive question.
Robb Stark answered nothing, only smiled meaningfully, not taking his eyes off her, and this was enough for Arianne to understand.
She was already twenty-three years old and, thanks to her father's efforts, she was not yet married. Previously, she did not understand, was offended by him when instead of Edmure Tully or Willas Tyrell he offered her Walder Frey or another old man without a single tooth in his mouth as a husband, but four years ago she saw a letter that explained everything to her. Father saw Quentyn as his heir. This discovery broke her heart.
With the beginning of the war that flared up in the Seven Kingdoms, Arianne saw it—opportunity. The opportunity not only to quench the thirst for revenge that had consumed many Dornishmen for so many years but also to ensure that her father could not marry her off to an old mossy stump and forget about her forever. At the same time, when she left Sunspear, she did not even count on such a thing: Robb Stark offered her... himself?
Arianne looked at him in a new way. Definitely, had she met him at a tournament a couple of years ago, she would not have been able to distinguish him from dozens of the same young, handsome, titled men. Now, looking into his eyes sparkling in the firelight, looking at his smiling lips, she saw in him the same ambitions, the same thirst for life as in herself. This youth went to free his father, and as a result is one step away from the Iron Throne. Their brief conversation proved that this is not a miracle, not a lucky coincidence, and not the help of a mysterious well-wisher disposed to young Stark and wishing to remain in the shadows. And yet he is only seventeen...
Smiling back at the King and saluting him with a goblet of wine, Arianne Martell knew she would do everything in her power to take her place beside him on the Iron Throne.
. . . . .
The place was chosen well: in a small clearing in a deciduous grove. Through the bare branches, the deep blue of the sea peeked through. It must be nice here in spring and summer.
Davos Seaworth sat leaning against a tree, not taking his eyes off the mound of earth under which his King lay. They did not take him to Storm's End or Dragonstone—the new King did not burden himself with such trifles as a decent funeral for his predecessor. He was buried quietly, unnoticed, like some criminal. And only a couple of servants, who had the misfortune to become gravediggers for a day, saw him off on his last journey.
Leaning on shovels, cutting into the frozen ground with difficulty, they cursed the approaching winter, the turned-away luck, and the deceased, and then left with thoughts of hot stew and a sip of good ale.
Davos did not see all this, but for some reason was sure that it was exactly so. He lost consciousness at the very beginning of the scuffle on the square, and woke up in a completely different world. Yesterday's fervent R'hllorists took out seven-sided crystals and pendants with a seven-pointed star thrown to the bottom of chests. Proud and arrogant "Queen's men" sat quiet as mice. Storm lords who swore allegiance to Stannis Baratheon bent their knees before the new King.
Even Alester Florent, Queen Selyse's uncle, did not lift a finger to warn his niece about what had happened. Instead of taking refuge with her daughter behind the impregnable walls of Storm's End and gathering remaining forces, she sailed straight into the hands of her husband's murderer.
Yes, much had changed during his unconsciousness and recovery from his wound.
Bitterness spread inside him. It could not be washed down with wine, not soothed by hard work, not removed by sea salt and the whistle of a fair wind. It was unjust: the only truly just man of all he knew met such an inglorious end.
Yes, recent months had hit him hard. Despite this, every time, sitting up late with him over plans and maps and discussing the future, Davos saw the same severe youth met in the starving Storm's End. The only person of all these knights and lords he was ready to follow.
And now he was gone.
Inner devastation swept away thoughts of revenge. And what can he do anyway, the Onion Knight, a former smuggler whom everyone tolerated only because of the King's favor toward him?
He should go home, to Marya. She must be waiting for him.
However, thoughts did not leave the conversation that happened a couple of hours ago.
A servant led him to the chambers that King Stannis occupied just a couple of days ago. It was stuffy in them, smelling of sweat and herbs.
The former Lord Stark sat by the bed, squeezing a thin limp hand. It seems his mother was badly hurt and never regained consciousness. This circumstance made him feel a flash of shameful malicious joy, as if someone else's pain and loss could somehow balance his own.
Robb Stark looked up at him and with a gesture offered to settle at the table.
Davos did not think about the reason for such an invitation. He didn't care anymore.
"Lady Shireen asked about you."
Davos started involuntarily: he expected such a beginning of the conversation least of all.
"What will become of her?" escaped him involuntarily.
"In a couple of days she will leave for Winterfell, away from the war. My brother Rickon is not much younger. I think they will become friends."
Mentally Davos let out a sigh of relief. Robb Stark did not intend to kill the girl, only to marry her to his brother.
"Why did you summon me?" he asked the obvious question.
This youth was younger than most of his sons, but dangerous as a beast lying in ambush. If only he tries to drag Davos into his games...
"I want you to accompany Lady Shireen to the North and spend a couple of years with her in Winterfell until she gets used to it and settles in."
"Why me?" bewilderment overflowed him. "Why not her mother or someone from the Florents?"
The Young Wolf smirked sarcastically.
"To get a secret R'hllorist and an enemy in my own home?" pausing a little, he added much softer. "Besides, I know firmly that you will take care of her better than anyone else."
This sounded extremely sincere, but Davos was not naive enough to take his word for it.
"I will give you a day to think," added Robb Stark. "Naturally, the reward will be generous..."
But it was not about the promised reward that Davos thought, sitting by his King's grave. Not about it at all.
Finally rising to his feet and brushing off his cloak, he made a decision. Marya will have to wait a little longer. The little lady needed him too much to leave her to the mercy of fate.
. . . . .
Ser Olyvar, the eighteenth son of Walder Frey, could not stop smiling. He was close to admitting himself happy.
Could he have assumed two years ago that he would acquire not only knightly spurs but also his own castle? Could he even think that the King himself would grant him a coat of arms? Could he even imagine that the King himself would call him his friend?
Involuntarily, he remembered how his father summoned him to his chair with a careless wave of his hand almost two years ago.
"You will be squire to the Stark boy," he declared, sucking meat from a chicken bone. "Try not to disgrace me."
Did his father choose him consciously or did he simply catch his eye first? One could only guess about this. One thing could be said for sure: because of this decision, Olyvar found a person for whom, without hesitation for a moment, he would sacrifice his life.
Before meeting Robb Stark, Olyvar did not know himself at all. He seemed to himself the same as most of his brothers and nephews, whose only virtues were modesty and deference, beaten in by Lord Walder's harsh temper. Invisible. Submissive. Weak. Another weasel, there or not.
Only becoming Robb Stark's squire did Olyvar feel his significance, the ability to influence something. Very quickly he realized that the war he entered would change the world no less than Aegon's Conquest or the Dance of the Dragons; cast someone into the dust, and raise someone to the heavens. And for the sake of being among the second and ceasing to be just the eighteenth son of the Lord of the Crossing, Olyvar was ready for anything.
Gradually getting to know his patron, Olyvar admired him more and more. It seemed nothing was impossible for Robb. He swiftly went to his goal, effortlessly sweeping away any obstacles from his path. Once the thought even flashed that if Lord Stark wished to conquer Braavos from land, the Narrow Sea would only have to submit and part before his army.
But this was not the only reason for Olyvar's devotion. Lord Stark became a true friend to him, much closer and more loyal than many of his brothers. More than once Olyvar was convinced of this. One incident stuck in his memory especially, which happened in Riverrun a couple of days after their return from the North. Black Walder waylaid him near the Great Hall with his sycophants. He declared that Olyvar had become arrogant and should show more respect to older relatives, for his future would depend on their will.
"You're not even a knight, whatever you think of yourself," he smirked vilely. "Not a single true knight recognizes your 'knighting'."
At this time Lord Stark appeared from around the corner, along with Ser Tully and a couple of other knights and lords. The Young Wolf's gaze flashed lightning.
"Uncle Brynden," he addressed Ser Tully. "I think my martial merits are sufficient for knighthood. Do me the honor and knight me. Right now."
This request surprised and shocked those present quite a bit, but still, the discouraged Ser Brynden fulfilled it. Robb spoke the words of the oath without hesitation, but his eyes were empty and it was clear to everyone: for him, this was an empty formality.
Rising from his knees and adjusting his doublet, Robb Stark smiled at him and beckoned him over. Again Olyvar bowed before him and again took vows to the Seven and to him. Offering him a hand, Lord Stark hugged him tightly and said:
"Well, now no one will doubt your right to be called Ser and wear spurs."
The look he gave Black Walder then reminded Olyvar of the fate of the Bolton bastard...
From the memories, Olyvar's lips stretched into an even wider smile, and his fingers gently, like a newborn babe, stroked the papers lying on the table. On the first was his new coat of arms—a steel gauntlet clutching a flaming heart—and a single word written in calligraphic handwriting. Warmheart. The name of his new House, the founder of which he will certainly become. So now people will call him—Olyvar Warmheart. Not the short grey Frey, which he is forced to share with a hundred other brothers and sisters. His own. Exclusive. The second was a deed in which the Lady of Riverrun granted Ser Olyvar Warmheart the castle of Darry.
At the memory of Lady Catelyn, the smile slid from Olyvar's face. He remembered how Robb, having returned from the square as king, locked himself in the room after talking with the maester and screamed in a wild voice (Naturally, Olyvar did everything so that no one but him heard these screams). Remembered how he entered a few hours later and saw his friend on the floor among overturned furniture and dishes.
"Her spine is damaged," Robb said, raising a gaze clouded with pain to him. "She will survive, but will never be able to walk."
Seeing him like this was unbearable. From the feeling of his own helplessness, his hands dropped.
"It is my fault," Olyvar turned away, not daring to look him in the eyes anymore. "If I had been a little faster..."
"Don't talk nonsense," Robb snapped. "You could not influence this in any way..."
Robb quickly pulled himself together and the very next day took up the royal duties piled on him. He began, of course, by rewarding the distinguished, and also resumed preparations for the march on King's Landing.
Olyvar put the papers in the table and rose to his feet. Adjusted his cloak, clinked his cuirass, took his helmet from the table. The night was coming to an end. The army moved out at dawn.