We stopped for one of our overnight stays in Lord Harroway's Town—that was its name. Once it had belonged to the proud and fierce House Harroway, but then, after that house died out, the town passed to House Roote, which owned it at present, retaining the old name.
The entire Roote family—stocky and freckled—poured out to greet us and knelt before us. They bore a rather amusing coat of arms: on a wavy field of green and dark green stripes was depicted a horse with a second head in place of its ass! It looked like a Westerosi version of tug-of-war.
The town itself proved not so small. There was a two-story inn, a seven-sided sept, and a large round stone tower covered in lichen.
We remained there for a day, taking advantage of hosts' hospitality. The people reshod the horses, washed themselves, and rested a little.
Throughout the journey, I watched Jaime and the other commanders closely—how they spoke to their subordinates, how they gave orders, what they did and when, what they turned a blind eye to, and what they allowed or forbade their men to do. Such knowledge is extremely important—and useful.
The journey continued. We forded a medium-sized river called Widow's Wash. There was, of course, no bridge, and the water rose almost to the horses' backs. I got thoroughly soaked, and then, closer to evening, I realized that I had caught a chill. I began to shiver, plagued by alternating chills and feverish sweats.
We made camp, and the servants pitched a tent. Jaime applied his preferred method of treatment—red wine mixed with pepper and heated over the fire. I broke into a sweat almost instantly, and afterward we sat for a while, finishing a jug of wine and talking.
Or rather, Jaime did most of the talking—about his life, about his service to the Mad King, and later to Robert.
I do not know why, but it seemed as though the road itself worked some kind of magic on him. The wine likely helped as well. We had spent all those days together, shoulder to shoulder, and learned much about one another. Jaime turned out to be very different from the man I had imagined—there was kindness and warmth in him. True, only toward those he considered his equals in birth and status. And, as one might expect, there are very few such people in Westeros.
And now I found myself discovering yet another new side of Jaime Lannister.
The last inn we visited bore the name the Kneeling Man, and they served astonishingly good ale there.
The following day, around noon, I finally beheld the great castle of Riverrun, standing at the confluence of the Tumblestone and the Red Fork of the Trident.
The day was windy and overcast. The wind drove low clouds northeastward, and from time to time the sun broke through the gaps. In those moments, everything seemed to come alive, and the landscape was painted in bright, joyful colors.
The mighty towers and walls of Riverrun appeared to rise straight out of the water.
The buttresses, barbican, armory, covered passages between buildings, battlements, and the citadel were all built of stone and made a truly majestic impression. Jaime explained that rivers guarded the castle on two sides. In times of danger, the Tullys would open the floodgates, allowing water to fill the moat on the third side of the triangular perimeter, turning the castle into an island. From the walls, the garrison could survey the surrounding lands for many leagues, making any unnoticed approach impossible. And to effectively blockade the stronghold, three separate armies would be required—one on each side of the triangle—along with a fleet to control the waterways.
Before reaching the main camp, on the road near a small grove, we were met by a detachment of two hundred men. At its head stood several richly dressed lords, who dismounted and stepped forward from the formation.
Banners bearing the sigils of lions and twin towers snapped in the wind. Trumpeters—summoned for reasons known only to themselves—played a marching tune.
Jaime and I rode closer, dismounted, and, accompanied by the western lords, guards, and Orm, approached the welcoming party.
Among them, the commander of the army stood out immediately: Daven Lannister. He was huge and broad-shouldered, loud, powerful, with brown eyes and a chin like a brick. Years ago, when the Starks and Tullys slew his father, Stafford, Daven swore not to cut his hair or shave his beard and mustache until he had taken his revenge. He had since avenged himself upon Rickard Karstark, yet he never broke his vow. Now his yellow hair and beard resembled a great mane, billowing in the wind like a banner.
Daven gave a striking impression—at once friendly and fearsome, like a good-natured bear best left undisturbed. He loved to laugh and speak loudly, creating more noise than several men combined. For that, he was called the Noisy.
"Your Majesty!" He stepped forward and bowed.
I extended my hand, felt his crushing grip, and immediately understood that Daven cared little for ceremony or courtly etiquette. "Cousin, it's good to see you. Damn, you look well."
He embraced Jaime with such force that the Lord Commander's bones creaked, and he was even lifted slightly off the ground.
I already knew that Daven had two sons and a daughter, currently residing at Casterly Rock. Living there as well were Gerion's illegitimate daughter, Joy Hill, and Kevan's youngest son, Martyn. And then there was also Tyrek Lannister, son of Tygett, who had disappeared during the riot in King's Landing. And although the search for the young man had yet to yield results, certain signs still gave hope that he might be alive.
Funny, it occurred to me with increasing frequency that the Lannisters were perhaps the most prolific and numerous House in Westeros—second only to the Freys, of course.
(End of Chapter)
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