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Grand Maester Pycelle, who had been sent by Lord Tywin Lannister, was in the midst of indulging in a poor young maiden when he was abruptly summoned away.
His beard was entirely white, and he walked with a frail and trembling gait. Though old in years, he still retained certain faculties, and had just been preparing to demonstrate once again the vigor of a Grand Maester when the name "Lord Tywin" sent a jolt through him, causing all such intentions to retreat immediately.
"What does His Lordship want with an old man like me? Alas, I am already so aged, and yet still must serve this kingdom..." he muttered as he slowly dressed.
His movements were sluggish and filled with reluctance. Even as he dragged himself toward readiness, he deliberately opened the window, prompting the man waiting for him to scowl deeply, his face contorted in impatience as he barked:
"Move quickly. Lord Tywin has ordered you to go at once to the front lines at Harrenhal. There must be no delay. Make haste and get ready."
Ordinarily, such a tone would be deemed unacceptable when speaking to a member of the Small Council, save for the King or the Hand. However, this Westerland noble, who had come on Tywin's behalf, had been given clear instructions:
"There is no need to show courtesy to that old Maester with the chain. He is a well-trained dog of House Lannister. You are acting in my stead. Speak to him as you would to a servant. He will not resist."
And indeed, Tywin's judgment of his pet proved to be exact. Pycelle had not even completed the thought of calling for the guards when the mere mention of Tywin's name drove his voice back into his throat.
The moment he heard he was being summoned to the battlefield, the withered twig between his legs shriveled up instantly. Terror spread across the old Maester's wrinkled face as he shrank in upon himself and stammered:
"My lord, I—I am very old now. Look at me, I can barely walk. Perhaps... perhaps you might return first, and I will make my way to Lord Tywin slowly, at my own pace?"
Even a fool could discern the meaning behind those words. The Westerland noble, despite being prepared for resistance, had not expected the Grand Maester of the realm to be such a disgrace. No wonder King Robert had died the way he had, and not a bit unjustly, it would seem.
Lord Tywin's commands were absolute. As one of the noble lords who had fought by Tywin's side through countless campaigns, this Westerland knight knew precisely why Pycelle was being summoned. If they waited for this cowardly old man to shuffle to the front lines at his own speed, Eddard Stark's grave would already be overgrown by the time he arrived.
Thus, upon hearing Pycelle's pitiful excuse, the noble's expression turned grim. He rejected the delay without hesitation, his voice cold and cutting:
"When the Lord is at war, his word is law. His commands must be obeyed. Would you like me to assist you? Respected Grand Maester?"
This Westerlander had seen battle. He knew that with men like Pycelle, there was no use in reason. His hand moved deliberately to the hilt of his sword, and though he did not draw it, the threat was as clear as day.
Pycelle knew that crying out for help would be futile. The man had found him here so precisely that there could be no doubt. Queen Cersei must have granted permission and given the location. Otherwise, how could he have known where to look?
"Very well, I shall go, must I not? I trust His Lordship has no improper interest in the body of an old man. Please wait outside the door while I prepare myself."
His eyes flicked about, scheming even now. Only at that moment did he seem to recall his current state of undress, which was hardly becoming of a courtier of the Small Council. Clearly, he was still trying to find a way out.
"No, I shall wait right here. Do not worry. I have no interest in old men. Your backside is perfectly safe. Now, hurry along."
The Westerland noble did not blink, refusing Pycelle's request without hesitation. He knew this old wretch would try to drag things out, so he simply cut off any possibility of escape.
"Fine, fine… My lord, please do not draw your sword. I will go, I will go."
Amidst a rustling and fumbling of cloth and belongings, Pycelle gathered up his potions and herbs. His steps were feeble and his legs shook, but he followed behind the Westerland knight, inching reluctantly toward the door, each movement full of sorrow and hesitation.
Just as they were about to leave, the girl on the bed, clutching a blanket to her bare chest, spoke timidly:
"My lord, you haven't paid yet. You promised... one silver stag."
Pycelle shot her an impatient glare and snapped irritably:
"Next time. I shall pay when I return."
…
By the time Pycelle finally arrived at Lord Tywin's war camp and understood the task assigned to him, his hands trembled violently. Seven hells, he had already been involved in the death of one king, and now they wanted him to add a great lord to that tally.
"My lord, this... this… Seven bless Lord Eddard. I do have a way to bring him back to wakefulness quickly, but the potion, for one so weak and ill, would be... utterly fatal."
That was exactly the effect Tywin desired. He asked directly, without ceremony:
"Tell me the truth. This medicine, how long will it take before it sends Eddard Stark back into the arms of his Old Gods? And Pycelle, you know better than anyone that I can always tell when a man is lying to me."
"Yes, yes, of course, my lord, you are absolutely right," the Grand Maester replied, drenched in sweat. The chain of his office clinked with every trembling breath.
He stood there, deep in thought, rummaging through every scrap of memory from his days in the Citadel. After much careful consideration and internal weighing, he finally gave a number.
"My lord, if I give Lord Eddard this medicine, it will keep him alive for no more than a month at best. That is the most generous estimation. At worst... perhaps only half that time."
Tywin Lannister took a moment to consider this timeframe. Based on what he understood of the Northmen's hearts, once they had taken Eddard Stark back into their hands, they would surely make haste to send him to the safety of the North.
If the estimate proved optimistic, then Eddard Stark would likely perish somewhere near the Twins. If longer, then perhaps the moment he set eyes on Winterfell again would also be the moment he drew his final breath.
But no matter the outcome, Tywin and his army would be free from the mire of the Harrenhal battlefield. Once the wolves had lost their bite, it would be difficult for them to come south again with the same fire in their hearts.
"Very well. But you must ensure that Eddard Stark appears no different from a man in full health. If you fail in that, then do not bother returning to King's Landing. Another Grand Maester, one more suited to the role, will take your place, my dear Pycelle."
For Tywin Lannister, carrying out such a threat would be effortless. He only needed to devise a simple means for the aging Grand Maester to pass away quietly. There were plenty of maesters who coveted his position.
Scholarship may know no family, but maesters still did. Tywin recalled a maester from White Harbor who had been born into House Lannister. Had that old eel shown just a bit more vigilance and revealed Clay Manderly's true nature earlier, perhaps everything would have turned out differently.
Grand Maester Pycelle agreed readily, his voice for once lacking the usual timidity of a lapdog, now that the conversation had turned to a field in which he held true expertise.
"My lord, once this medicine is administered, Lord Eddard will awaken swiftly and with remarkable clarity of mind. In fact, he will be more lucid than any ordinary man. That is because the medicine forces his body to burn through its remaining vitality. The cost is, indeed, very high."
Tywin did not care about the intricacies of the medicine's composition or effects. All he cared about was the result. He gave a nod, then turned and left with a single parting sentence.
"You had best wake Eddard Stark soon. Otherwise, you will regret ever coming here to see me."
…
Clay and Robb returned to the main camp and shared the details of the negotiation with the Northern lords, who had been waiting anxiously for any news. Whether the outcome would be war or peace now hinged entirely on the report brought back by these two men.
Compared to the original timeline, the Northern nobility had suffered far fewer casualties in this war against the Westerlands. Because of that, the ranks of zealous warmongers, driven by bitter hatred, were notably fewer.
In any case, their efforts had not been in vain. Though it was a pity that they had not been able to plunder the wealthy Westerlands, the spoils from Clay's victories at Riverrun and the Maidan's Valley were considerable. Even just the armor and weapons captured from those battles, once distributed among the noble houses, made for a handsome gain.
The North's lack of good quality arms and armor was no secret throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
"So you're saying the only point of contention is the ransom for those unlucky Westerland lords, and the rest has all been agreed upon? Then what is that old lion dawdling around for?"
Lord Karstark asked eagerly. In his eyes, a few captured lords from the West were of no real consequence. That Tywin Lannister would stall negotiations over such a trivial matter seemed absurd. Did he, of all people, truly lack a few gold dragons?
"That seems to be the case," Robb replied. "However, Lord Karstark, we must not grow complacent. Not until we have taken back my father and moved our forces into Harrenhal can we afford to relax."
"The old lion is not to be trusted. He once betrayed the Targaryen family, which shows that to him, an oath means nothing. We must remain alert and be wary of any treachery he may plan."
Robb Stark's words were met with nods and murmurs of agreement. To the Northern lords, this was the final darkness before dawn. Once the exchange was complete and both sides agreed to a ceasefire, they could finally return home. The autumn harvest was waiting for them, after all.
The feast that had been planned was promptly canceled. The scouts of the two Northern armies remained on high alert, scattered throughout the surrounding area to watch for any suspicious movements.
To Tywin, however, all of these efforts by the North were meaningless. For at this moment, he no longer had the time or attention to spare for matters concerning the North. Once the negotiations concluded, he has received dire news:
Renly Baratheon, who had been feasting and drinking in the South, appeared to have grown tired of his childish game of playing king. Three days ago, he had begun a swift march northward with a force of one hundred thousand men, making straight for King's Landing.
At the same time, his older brother, Stannis Baratheon, another claimant to the throne of Westeros, had finally emerged from his lair on Dragonstone. He had begun summoning his fleet on the island, though his intentions remained unclear.
If the two brothers of House Baratheon were to engage in some reckless scheme to seize the capital, racing each other in a contest of "whoever reaches King's Landing first shall be king," then Tywin had more pressing concerns than anything happening at Harrenhal. Beyond doing his utmost to stop such nonsense, his priority would be to rush back to the capital and fortify its defenses. That would be the true emergency burning before his eyes.
Of course, the North had not yet received this news. Otherwise, had they chosen to delay just a little longer, Tywin Lannister would never have dared to show such arrogance. In that case, he would have been the one begging for peace, desperate to rush south and extinguish the fires threatening his house.
"We will speak again tomorrow. As for the finer details, I wish to send someone in my stead — a man of experience and steady judgment. My lords, may I trouble you to help me choose someone suitable?"
It was the proper course of action. Now that the great lords had agreed upon the key points, the remaining details could be handled by a capable envoy skilled in negotiation.
At this moment, the de facto second-in-command of the Northern forces was none other than Clay Manderly, who commanded a large and disciplined host. However, Clay had already made it clear that he would not take part in the follow-up talks. Robb could not force the matter and had no choice but to find someone else for the task.
"I recommend Lord Bolton. If one person is not enough, then Lord Cerwyn may accompany him."
Someone offered this suggestion. During the time that Clay had been absent, Roose Bolton had distinguished himself in the war with a cautious and deliberate demeanor. With the two most prominent lords opting out of the talks, he naturally became the next best choice.
As for why Lord Cerwyn's name was mentioned, it was a matter of saving face for Clay. After all, the situation in the North had taken on an unusual air. Robb Stark was the commander of the army, yet on the battlefield, he had merely succeeded in pushing Tywin back.
In contrast, Clay Manderly, with significantly fewer troops, had surrounded and slaughtered over ten thousand Lannister soldiers, completely reversing the tide of war. And even now, he had not rejoined them, which gave rise to the impression that he was growing too powerful for comfort.
Yet Robb Stark treated him as dearly as a true brother. Clay Manderly himself showed no signs of overstepping his bounds, which allowed the current atmosphere to remain one of harmony and calm.
Even so, no one dared to disregard the greatest hero of the North's southern campaign. According to the latest word, his grandfather, Wyman Manderly, had already arrived in the Twins with members of the family in tow.
Ostensibly, they had come to take charge of the family's newly awarded lands. But the location of the Twins, lying close to the Kingsroad and beside the North's main supply and retreat routes, made the visit seem all the more suspicious.
Therefore, whatever private thoughts the northern lords might hold, at present they could only elevate this young deity of a man, not yet twenty years of age, and pray he did not one day turn on them.
"I believe this is a fine suggestion. What do the rest of you think?"
Robb Stark smiled as he looked around at his gathered vassals. With the talks nearing their end and the prospect of reuniting with his father on the horizon, his mood had naturally lightened.
Everyone was keenly aware that all eyes were now flicking toward one person, yet Clay remained still and silent. Though he had shown unparalleled strength on the battlefield, now was not the time to flaunt it, especially not before Robb Stark, a young lord known for his soft heart and trusting nature.
Before him stood a group of petty-minded northern nobles and schemers from outside their lands. Behind him was Catelyn Tully, ever ready with what seemed like one wise counsel after another. Clay had no desire to someday be summoned to Winterfell by Robb Stark and find himself at the center of some trap hidden beneath an overturned goblet.
So, although everyone was waiting for him to speak, he said not a single word. This left the room cloaked in awkward silence, understood by all present—except Robb Stark, who remained oblivious.
Especially uncomfortable were Roose Bolton and the newly suggested Lord Cerwyn. The two men exchanged a glance, each seeing the same confusion mirrored in the other's eyes.
What is the meaning of this? Clay Manderly, if you do not wish to claim this final honor, why say nothing when others propose us instead? You've made things awfully hard on the both of us...
In the end, it was Robb Stark who stepped in to ease the tension. Though he did not understand why everyone had fallen silent and was staring at one another, he could still feel the cold that had settled in the room. After giving the matter further thought, he concluded that the two men were indeed the most suitable candidates and made a firm decision:
"Very well, it is settled. The two lords shall prepare to meet with the Lannisters once again tomorrow."
Seeing that Clay still had not spoken, the others finally understood—he had no intention of offering any opinions today. With that clarity, it became a simple matter. The decision was met with light applause.
Clay too gave a gentle tap on the table, signaling his agreement. The war had, for now at least, come to an end—at least for the North. And Clay, the commander who had risen to prominence through sheer force, no longer bore the same intimidating air as before.
The soldiers under his command, no matter how devoted they remained to Clay in their hearts, would soon be disbanded if a truce was reached between the North and the Westerlands. They would return home with their spoils of war.
Back in their fields, golden wheat awaited harvest, a bounty to be stored away for the long winter ahead. There could be no carelessness in such times.
Moreover, the honeymoon between Clay and House Stark of the North was approaching its end. For with the existence of Gaelithox, the Manderly family would never again find peace. When wings of a dragon once more shadowed the skies, the entire realm of the Seven Kingdoms would be shaken to its very core.
That day would not be far off!
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[Chapter End's]
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