Tywin Lannister surveyed the victorious battlefield. It was a scene of ruin, with almost no survivors left among the Northern army. Corpses lay everywhere in pools of slowly congealing blood, turning the battlefield into a field of red.
The Warden of the West and Great Lord of Casterly Rock stood in armor that gleamed beneath the sun, elaborate and extravagant. Tywin's red steel armor had been polished again and again until it shone like fire in the morning light. His great cloak was woven from countless threads of gold, so heavy that it barely stirred even during a charge. Once he mounted his horse, it almost completely covered the animal's hind legs.
The Southern army had paid dearly in return. The left flank, used as cannon fodder, hardly needed mentioning, but even Ser Kevan's center had suffered heavy losses from Rickard's death charge. Rickard's army had thrown itself into the spear formation without regard for life, nothing like the rhythm of ordinary soldiers.
"The enemy was made up of old men, or middle-aged and elderly men with no homes. There were very few young ones," Kevan said to Tywin after looking over the grim battlefield. Once the helmets were removed, many among the Northern dead proved to have graying hair. Old men, decrepit men, middle-aged vagrants, and a few very young bachelors and second sons. Some had nothing to their names except the black scale plate Gendry had given them and the blue-steel ringmail taken from the Freys.
"Winter Wolves?" Tywin looked coldly across the ashes of the battlefield, where crows circled overhead and landed to peck at the corpses. The old, the young, the unmarried, the childless, the homeless, and the others who could not support themselves were burdens to the North in winter, yet they also made the finest suicide troops.
"I believe so," Ser Kevan nodded. "This Winter Wolves force meant to cross The Trident at the ford, then look for a chance to scatter through the Riverlands. In short, they were trying their luck, hoping to find somewhere to harry us. Although we gathered at the crossing in haste and had the greater numbers, the Northerners still wanted to take that chance and would not withdraw easily. The Winter Wolves did not have many cavalry, and they were not moving quickly. Once they met us head-on, it became a fight to the death."
Tywin's squire began undoing the clasps of his armor. Ordinary cloak hooks could not bear the weight of his gold-threaded cloak, so they had been replaced by a pair of small lionesses crouched on his shoulders, facing each other as if ready to spring. Their mate was a splendid maned lion standing atop Tywin's massive helm, head raised, one paw reaching into the air, its mouth open in a furious roar. All three lions were made of pure gold, with rubies set as their eyes. His armor was heavy plate steel glazed in dark red enamel, while his greaves and gauntlets were decorated with intricate golden scrollwork. The rondels on his gauntlets were golden sunbursts, and every clasp was gilded.
"The Little Smith gave them no support. The Little Smith and the wolf pup sent these old men south to die and hold our attention. What are they really doing?" Tywin still felt a faint irritation in his chest. "Once they took The Twins, the enemy's whole position became far more alive."
Tywin's original plan had been to control both banks of the great river and block the North's road south. He had hoped those proud young men would stake everything on a decisive battle with him. But his opponent's split forces and quick adjustments left him somewhat bewildered. The Battle at the Crossing could only be called a costly victory. Originally, he should have been facing more than ten thousand Northern soldiers and achieving a much greater success.
"The Little Smith, that ambitious bastard." Tywin stepped across the soft, dark ground. It seemed this Storm was more troublesome than he had imagined.
"We won the battle," Kevan said to Tywin.
"An active challenge and a passive ambush are not the same thing. A few more victories like this, and my army will be dead to the last man. This victory was not worth the price. Foolish Frey." Tywin's face remained expressionless, but his thoughts turned rapidly. The scouts had fixed their attention on this slow, old, disguised pack of Winter Wolves, while the enemy's true elites were nowhere to be found. He did not know where they were preparing the next battle.
"Lord Tywin!" Ser Addam Marbrand dismounted, and Tywin turned to receive him. His horse was foaming at the mouth, blood dripping from its lips. Ser Addam was tall and lean, with shoulder-length dark copper hair. He wore gleaming copper-plated steel armor, and in the center of his breastplate was a burning tree, the sigil of his house.
Ser Addam knelt on one knee before Tywin. "Lord, we have taken Rickard Karstark's head. As for Maege Mormont, I fear she has escaped."
"What of the prisoners?" Tywin asked Addam.
Addam looked troubled. "They are all worthless. Aside from the dead Lord, there are few lords among the captives, and no heirs at all."
"And the two boys?" Tywin asked.
Ser Addam lowered his head. "The two boys were not among them. The Stark boy may have already crossed The Twins and taken the Northern cavalry to reinforce Riverrun. As for the ambitious Gendry, the prisoners say he escorted the Winter Wolves for part of the way, then withdrew back to The Twins that night. Gendry told Rickard to be clever and seize chances to advance or retreat, but it seems that did little good. However, the Northern army is resting and trimming down its main infantry. Gendry will lead them south again."
That left Tywin thoroughly disgusted. A young man who could balance courage with wisdom was terrifying. He could not catch the main forces of those two boys, and he did not dare stretch his lines all the way to The Twins. It was safer to place his troops back at Harrenhal on the far bank.
"Withdraw. Return to Harrenhal. It seems we need to build a new army in the Westerlands," Tywin ordered. "Also, inform King's Landing that we won a victory and inflicted heavy casualties on the Northern army."
"As you command," Ser Kevan said. The gods had shaped him to obey, not to command.
...
King's Landing, the Red Keep.
Sansa watched the long tail of the great comet through the fast-moving clouds, bright and clear, like a bloodstained sword. The flatterers called it "King Joffrey's Comet," but the servants simply called it the Dragon's Tail.
"Hurry up, little bird. Make him wait too long, and he'll hit you even harder," Sandor Clegane warned Sansa Stark. The Hound wore the snow-white cloak of the Kingsguard, fastened at his broad shoulders with a jeweled pin. The white cloak looked oddly out of place over his rough brown homespun tunic and studded leather vest.
The Hound had grown utterly dispirited, like a dog whose spine had been taken from him. Sansa knew why. The Hound had always hated The Mountain and wanted to kill him, but now even that hope was gone.
Sansa wore a blue dress. She had grown used to the Hound's rough, hoarse voice, though his eyes were still frightening. She had dressed beautifully. Joff wanted it that way, and it meant she might be beaten less.
"Tell me, what happened?" Sansa asked the Hound. She walked on his right, staying as far from his burned face as she could.
"It wasn't you. It was your traitor brother. He has a new master now, Blackheart Gendry."
"Robb is a traitor. I have nothing to do with him. Please forgive me," Sansa answered mechanically.
She knew that "Blackheart" Gendry had become the king's nightmare, a terrifying and powerful bastard warrior. She could not help thinking of Jon. The braver and more dazzling Blackheart became, the weaker and more useless the king appeared, as if he were no true stag at all.
The Hound snorted. "Little bird, they've trained you well."
He led Sansa to the lower courtyard, where a crowd had gathered at the archery range. As soon as they saw the two of them, people hurriedly made way.
Sansa knew everyone had grown used to it. She was only the mad king's prisoner. Even stableboys and cooks could stare at her rudely now. She saw the frail, coughing Lord Gyles, and the Redwyne twins pretending not to see her.
"Be brave," Ser Dontos the fool whispered to her. At the tournament on the king's nameday, Sansa had saved the drunkard's life. Since then, he had become a fool who rode a broomstick horse and was no longer allowed on a real one.
"Lady Sansa has arrived," the Hound announced loudly.
"Enough, dog," King Joffrey said impatiently. "I have eyes." The king was already thirteen, well-grown and very tall, with the golden hair and blue eyes of House Lannister.
Joffrey stood in the center of the crowd, flanked by Ser Arys and Ser Boros. In Joff's hands was a splendid crossbow.
Ser Arys had light brown hair and a face that was not unpleasant to look at. Today, his white silk cloak was fastened at the shoulder with a golden leaf, and the chest of his surcoat was embroidered in shining gold thread with a leafy oak tree, making him look rather dashing.
"Your Grace." Sansa immediately knelt.
"Kneeling won't save you," the king shouted. "Your brother is a traitor. He bent the knee to that bastard. Hmph, the bastard who wounded my uncle Jaime. I'm going to punish you."
"Your Grace, I have nothing to do with my traitor brother. You know that. Please, I beg you, please."
"Pull her up!"
The Hound hauled her to her feet without hurry.
"Ser Boros, tell her what fine deeds her brother has done."
Ser Boros glared at Sansa, without the slightest sympathy or kindness in his eyes. "The ambitious Gendry is a traitor declared by the Iron Throne. In the Whispering Wood, he used despicable means to cut off Ser Jaime's hand, and tens of thousands of brave men were slaughtered in the night without even a chance to raise their swords. And yet your brother has led the Northmen to serve him, trying to cut off Lord Tywin's supply lines and march south on King's Landing."
Fear swept over Sansa. She knew she was going to be beaten again, though at least not in the face.
"Hmph. Bring me my prey," the king announced.
A servant dragged over a foolish little black dog. King Joffrey readied his crossbow.
Whizz! Whizz!
The bolts pierced the puppy's ribs, and the poor thing screamed.
"That is the fate of traitors!" the king roared. Then he aimed at Sansa, lifting the crossbow until it pointed at her face.
"Mercy!"
"Hmph. Your house is as cruel as wolves. That bastard brother of yours, and that wolf-cub sister. Lucky for them they ran, otherwise..."
"They never hurt you, Your Grace. You killed Lady."
"Killed her? Killing her once wasn't enough. I'd kill her a thousand times over. Your wolves, and your family too. They say you can turn into wolves." The king pointed at Sansa, the cold arrowhead gleaming cruelly.
"No."
The king lowered his arm and set the crossbow down. "I was going to shoot you dead, but Mother said that would drive the North completely over to the bastard, so I can only punish you. We'll send a letter to your brother and tell him what will happen to you if he doesn't surrender. Ser Arys, beat her for me!"
"Let me beat her!" Ser Dontos shoved his way to the front and struck the girl with his broomstick horse. He hit her with the broom, shouting, "Traitor! Traitor!" The crowd burst into laughter. Sansa was so grateful she wanted to kiss his ugly face, mottled with stains and tiny broken veins. If laughter was enough, perhaps she could escape this.
"Get that clown out of the way," the king ordered. The white knight Ser Boros stepped forward to drive Dontos off, flinging him aside roughly. The red-faced fool fell sprawling on his back, and the laughter grew even louder.
"I'm sorry, my lady," Ser Arys whispered as he seized Sansa. Then his fist came down.
"Not the face. I want her pretty."
Sansa felt as if she had been pardoned. Today she would be spared the worst of it. Among the white knights, only Ser Arys was courteous, spoke to her sincerely, and struck more lightly. Ser Boros was brutal-tempered, Ser Meryn was cold and merciless, Ser Mandon's strange dead eyes always made her uneasy, and Ser Preston looked at her as if she were a simple-minded child. As for the Hound, he would not strike her.
Thud! Thud!
Ser Arys's fists landed in Sansa's stomach. It looked painful, but he was still holding back.
"Not enough. Hit her body. Use the scabbard," the king ordered.
Ser Arys had no choice but to draw his scabbard and strike the girl hard. Sansa screamed, tears spilling down her face, a slave in a beautiful blue dress.
"Enough," the Hound shouted with a frown.
"She's my traitor," the king said with a snort.
"Your Grace, in my view, this little wolf girl still has some value..." Ser Arys turned back and pleaded.
"Fine. Since the dog has spoken, let her crawl back and rest. Next time, I'll have Ser Boros do it," the king said impatiently.
Sansa left in tears. They were not true knights. The Hound hated knights, and now Sansa understood why.
***
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