chapter 152 part 2
Glyn mumbled, "House Westerves..."
He thought for a moment, then added, "A handful of silver coins? Tyrion, that's a very unfamiliar and strange house name."
Tyrion said angrily, "Lord Glyn, this is the first time I've ever resented a clever man!"
...
...
Red Keep, Throne Room.
The Iron Throne was a grand and ancient chair forged from steel, bristling with savage spikes and oddly twisted metal.
Legend has it that Aegon the Conqueror had Balerion the Black Dread use his dragonflame to melt a thousand swords surrendered by his vanquished foes. Only then could the throne be forged. After fifty-nine days of hammering and shaping, the final product was this jagged, thorny, hunched black monstrosity, its edges as sharp as razors and covered in barbs and twisted metal.
Lord Eddard sat upon the high Iron Throne. He wore a white linen doublet with the direwolf of House Stark embroidered on the breast. A black woolen cloak was fastened at his shoulder by the silver clasp of the Hand of the King, the badge of his office.
The crowd of petitioners gathered near the great doors. Knights and noblewomen stood beneath the tapestries, while the common folk stood in the aisles. Fully armored soldiers surrounded the Throne Room, standing tall and imposing with gold or grey cloaks draped over their shoulders.
The back of the Iron Throne was a tangle of sharp points that made it impossible to lean back. *This chair can kill a man,* Lord Eddard thought. And if the stories were true, it had.
Lord Eddard felt that, just as Robert had warned him, it was a monstrously uncomfortable chair.
It was said that when Aegon the Conqueror commanded his smiths to forge a throne from the swords of his vanquished enemies, he had declared that a king should never sit easy.
The longer Lord Eddard sat, the harder the seat beneath his arse became.
*Damn that arrogant Aegon,* he thought.
*And damn Robert and his hunting.* With the king away, Lord Eddard had no choice but to take his place on the Iron Throne and hear the smallfolk's petitions.
...
Below the throne, Varys said softly, "Are you certain they are not brigands?"
A group of smallfolk knelt before the dais—men and women, old and young, all in ragged, bloodstained clothes, their faces etched with terror.
The middle-aged knight who had brought the villagers snorted. "Brigands? Well said, Lord Varys. Of course they're brigands! They are House Lannister's brigands!"
The tension in the Throne Room thickened. Everyone present, highborn and low, held their breath and listened.
The knight made his accusation, and the villagers gave their testimony.
A village on the northwestern border of the Reach had been burned and looted, allegedly by the Mountain's former men.
The middle-aged knight's eyes were filled with sorrow. Pointing to the kneeling villagers, he said, "Lord Hand, these are all that is left of the entire village. All the others are dead."
Lord Eddard swept his gaze over the group below and commanded, "All of you, rise."
The wolf of the North never trusted the words a man spoke on his knees.
The people struggled to their feet. An old man among them had to be helped up.
"My lord, the masked men set fire to the houses. They tried to kill me too, but they couldn't catch me."
"They came from the north in the dead of night. They burned the fields, the houses, everything!"
"Anyone who dared to stop them was killed. But my lord, they weren't robbers. They weren't there to steal. After they slaughtered my milk cows, they just left the carcasses for the flies and crows."
"They trampled my boy to death. They were on their warhorses, laughing, chasing him back and forth and jabbing at him with their spears like it was a game. The boy just ran and screamed, until he finally fell, and one of them ran him through."
"My lord, they killed my mother too. And then they... they..."
The middle-aged knight added, "They did not even spare women with babes in their arms."
Varys gasped. "Oh, how dreadful. How could anyone be so cruel?"
Lord Eddard leaned forward, his voice laced with anger. "What proof do you have that these were Lannister men? Did they wear red cloaks or fly the lion banner?"
The villagers shook their heads as one.
The middle-aged knight replied calmly, "Lord Hand, they all rode warhorses and wore steel plate. They carried longspears and swords of good steel, and the battle-axes they used to slaughter the villagers."
He then pointed to one of the villagers. "You. Yes, you. It's all right. Tell the Lord Hand what you told me."
The villager lowered his head. "My lord, they were all riding warhorses. I worked in stables for many years, I can tell the difference. Not one of their horses had ever pulled a plow. I swear it on the gods' names."
Below the throne, Pycelle said with a tremor in his voice, "Lord Hand Eddard, those horses could have been stolen from elsewhere by the brigands."
Lord Eddard ignored Pycelle and addressed the villagers. "How many of these raiders were there?"
"A lot."
"Fewer than the villagers, but they had many horses."
"Fifty... maybe."
"Hundreds of them, my lord!"
The villagers all spoke at once.
The middle-aged knight waved for silence before speaking. "Lord Hand, there were at least a hundred men, every one of them mounted."
"You said they carried no banners... what of their armor? Did any of you note any device or decoration? A sigil on a shield or helm?"
The middle-aged knight shook his head. "Lord Hand, from what I know, their armor was all of a common sort. But..."
He looked around at the crowd and declared in a loud voice, "During the burning and killing, they were heard to shout several times... 'Vengeance for Lord Mountain!' Only the Mountain's own men would call Gregor Clegane 'Lord Mountain'!"
A murmur went through the hall.
Whispers arose from beneath the windows and at the far end of the great hall. Anxious chatter spread from the aisles outside.
Grand Maester Pycelle's chain of office clinked. "Ser, that form of address might be known to others. Someone could have shouted it deliberately."
Varys chimed in as well. "Indeed. This puts our Lord Hand in a difficult position. It would be best if you had more direct proof."
Lord Mace Tyrell, who had been sitting quietly to one side, rose to his feet. The golden rose of his sigil gleamed, and all eyes turned to him. The hall gradually quieted.
Lord Mace's face was grim. He puffed out his chest and said coldly, "Pycelle, Varys, your doubts are irrelevant! Lord Stark, House Tyrell maintains the king's peace in the Reach. Regardless of whether the ones who broke that peace were Lannisters or not, I demand satisfaction in the name of the Lord of Highgarden, and justice for the people of the Reach."
(end of chapter)