That evening, we gathered for a modest feast in my tent. A couple of lambs roasted slowly on spits, wine flowed freely, and my new cupbearer—a knight named Gunt Holy—performed his duties with diligence and great care.
Songs were sung, I listened to tales of war and campfire stories, and we spoke a little about the hardships and small joys of life. Like Jaime, I did not drink much. The pious Ser Hasty did not drink at all, while Ser Lyle Crakehall, known as the Strongboar, Ser Steffon Swyft, and several other lords drank with considerable enthusiasm.
In the morning, we set out once more. By then, I had a clear understanding of the situation and now knew that, despite current shortage, there were far more than a hundred people in the Holy Hundred. Squires, orderlies, cooks, blacksmiths, and a physician—none of them counted as warriors in the strict sense, yet all were attached to the unit.
Ser Hasty received his first order: to bring the detachment to its new full strength of one hundred and thirteen knights as swiftly as possible. One hundred ordinary knights, ten decurions, two half-centurions, and a commander who was to do everything in his power to ensure that only worthy and proven men were accepted into the ranks.
Thus, sleep-deprived yet inspired to the core, Ser Hasty and all his men—keenly sensing change—took their place behind the royal guards, demonstrating impeccable posture. In Harrenhal, meanwhile, a garrison selected by Jaime was left behind in place of the Holy Hundred.
Ridicule from other soldiers was not lacking. Some in Jaime's entourage remarked that perhaps the Holy Hundred were better at looking impressive on the march than proving themselves in real combat.
I paid little heed to such words. Jaime, who knew an extraordinary number of major and minor details about countless battles and skirmishes fought across Westeros, had already assured me that in every engagement in which the Holy Hundred had taken part, they had acquitted themselves with honor.
We passed Darry Castle, standing directly on the Kingsroad, half a day's ride from the Trident. During the War of the Five Kings, the castle had changed hands several times. When Gregor Clegane seized it, he looted the place and slaughtered the entire Darry family. Later, Roose Bolton set fire to the castle.
I remembered something about this place. It was here that the incident between Joffrey and Arya Stark had occurred—and afterward, Eddard Stark had been forced to kill Lady, Sansa's direwolf.
I spent a considerable amount of time clambering through the half-ruined basements, accompanied by Herald and the guards. In the end, fortune smiled upon me: I discovered a room literally crammed with portraits painted in oil on canvas. Some were torn, others stained, but most were in surprisingly good condition.
The portraits were mainly of Targaryens—the entire ruling dynasty from Aegon the Conqueror to Prince Rhaegar. There were also a few men who had never become kings, as well as about a dozen paintings of women, all executed with remarkable skill.
I knew that the former lords of the castle, House Darry, had once been famous for their unwavering loyalty to the Targaryens. I suspected they had foreseen hard times and gathered the all the paintings into a single room. Perhaps the collection had already been discovered—but who, in war-torn Westeros, had any use for paintings, especially with the Riverlands in flames?
For me, however, they would serve a purpose.
"What do you need this rubbish for?" Jaime asked sourly, watching as the servants carried the portraits out into the open air and put them out in the open air to dry.
"I'm going to found a royal museum," I replied. "I'll gather various curiosities from around the world and simply beautiful things, and then show them to ambassadors from foreign lands and cities, as well as to ordinary people. We already have dragon skulls. There's plenty of ancient armor in the arsenal. I'll collect a few hundred more trinkets from all over Westeros, and that will be enough to begin."
Jaime gave me a strange look but said nothing. That very evening, several wagons set off for the Red Keep.
I hoped that grandma Genna Frey would not be too angry with me for taking what was, in essence, her property, since we had already agreed that after the war this castle would pass to her family. In the canon of history, Lancel had received it, but for objective reasons, it had inspired little enthusiasm in him. Now that Lancel had recovered, I hoped that under the supervision and attention of his father, he would not become what he had been in my memory.
Not far from the Ruby Ford, we turned west and continued along the Trident.
I can say that the river looked truly majestic—there was no other word for it. The opposite bank, thick with forest, dissolved into a bluish haze. Grey, unhurried waves rolled peacefully onto the shore. Countless gulls wheeled overhead. The air smelled of mud and rotting fish. Gentle sunlight flooded everything with warm brightness, and sunbeams danced upon the water's surface.
Here, the river was at least a mile wide, and I asked Jaime incredulously what kind of ford could possibly exist in such a place. Was this some kind of joke?
"It isn't deep here," my father explained. "In some places you can even walk across. The bottom is sandy, with no silt. But a proper crossing for troops—or for women—is only possible with boats or ferries."
(End of Chapter)
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