The Gods Eye waking in the morning light looked like a silver mirror the gods had left behind in the mortal world.
Leon stood at the edge of the temporary lakeside camp, the bloody smell of last night seemingly still clinging deep inside his nose.
Across the water, Harrenhal's five twisted towers pierced the mist, casting long, misshapen shadows in the rising sunlight.
Like a giant's broken fingers, or some ancient warning.
The Lannister golden lion banner snapped above the largest tent, surrounded by more than twenty uniform crimson tents arranged in a defensive formation.
Lord Tywin's way of doing things was efficient, meticulous, and ever vigilant.
Leon looked down at his hands.
Traces of dried blood remained beneath his nails. Most of the dull ache where a boot had scraped his shoulder blade had faded, but something deeper had remained...
"Young master."
Thea's voice came from behind him. "Lord Tywin's scouts reported a quarter of an hour ago that the Stark and Baratheon parties would arrive before noon. House Tully's people have already camped across the lake, and banners from the Vale of Arryn have been sighted too."
Leon nodded, his gaze still on the lake.
"Where is Father?"
"In the main tent. Young Master Tyrion has arrived and is giving his report." Thea paused. "Pudding Face is there too."
Leon turned and walked toward the center of camp.
Sandor followed silently five paces behind. His greatsword had gained a few new marks last night, but had now been polished until it gleamed again.
The flap of the main tent was open.
Tywin Lannister sat behind a plain oak table, dressed entirely in black. Only the golden lion pin at his collar reflected the morning light spilling through the entrance.
He was reading a roll of parchment and did not look up at the footsteps.
Tyrion sat on a low stool to the left, his boots covered in mud, peeling an apple with a small knife.
Seeing Leon, he raised an eyebrow and pulled a face...
It was an expression that said, "I have a great deal to say, but it will have to wait."
In the shadows in the corner, Pudding Face almost blended into the darkness.
He had washed off his fool's paint and changed into plain gray-brown homespun, looking like an unremarkable servant.
Only his eyes lifted slightly as Leon entered, blinking twice in quick succession... it was the signal for safety.
"Father." Leon came to a halt.
Tywin lowered the parchment, his gaze sweeping over Leon like a scalpel before settling on his face. "You were wounded."
"Superficial wounds. They've been treated."
"How many did you kill?"
"Two. Wounded four." Leon paused. "After Jaime arrived, we dealt with another two together."
Tywin tapped a knuckle against the tabletop once.
It was an acknowledgment bordering on approval, something he rarely expressed.
"Sit. Tyrion was describing the situation in King's Landing."
Leon climbed onto the stool opposite Tyrion.
The low stool was designed for someone of normal height. His feet dangled, but his spine was as straight as his sword.
Tyrion continued his report, speaking faster than usual, as though trying to pour out all the information in one breath:
"...so the wildfire currently stockpiled by the Alchemists' Guild could burn down at least half of King's Landing. Varys knows, but he isn't stopping it. Instead, he's helping the king find more information on 'ancient formulas.'
"Interestingly, the Master of Coin, Chelsted, has suddenly developed an interest in alchemy lately. He allocated funds to the guild to 'research fire-prevention measures.'
"I'd say he's researching how to make the flames burn hotter, then use them to burn certain account books."
"Chelsted's position?" Tywin asked.
"Uncertain. He may be trying to hedge his bets. Publicly opposing the king's preparations of wildfire, while quietly transferring some of his assets to Braavos through Pudding Face's channels."
Tyrion glanced toward the corner. "Our fool uncovered the numbers of his secret accounts at the Iron Bank-three, not one."
Pudding Face silently handed over a slip of paper.
Tywin took it, glanced at it, and tucked it into his clothes.
No thanks. Tools needed no thanks.
"And Harrenhal?" Tywin turned to Leon.
"Oswell said Earl Whent is trying to restore his family's prestige, but lacks the funds."
Leon spoke steadily. "A third of the tournament prizes and feast expenses are funded by loans from the Iron Bank. Prince Rhaegar is also providing financial support behind the scenes.
"His Grace is compelling all the great nobles to attend, both to demonstrate royal authority and to observe which way the great houses lean after Prince Rhaegar's marriage.
"Singling me out by name should be intended to show everyone his control over the 'secrets of dragons'... I am his newly acquired 'anchor.'"
Tywin's face remained expressionless, but Leon caught the faintest hint of satisfaction in his eyes.
The analysis was correct.
"Your response?"
"I will attend every public occasion, observe proper etiquette, and answer His Grace's questions about ancient texts, but avoid displaying too much of my unusual nature."
Leon paused. "In private, I will approach the members of the great houses who drift on their fringes. The overlooked younger brothers and daughters. They see clearly and say little, but will know much."
His voice was steady. "Those networks of connections are more important than victories and defeats in the lists."
Tyrion whistled, though softly. At last, Tywin gave a slight nod.
"Acceptable. But remember your limits."
He rose and walked to the entrance, looking toward Harrenhal across the lake. "On the surface, House Whent is providing the stage for this tournament. In truth, the king is inspecting his vassals, while the vassals size one another up.
"House Lannister needs to display strength, but not the strength of swords."
He turned, his gaze settling on his two sons. "Jaime will compete. His sword is enough to win glory. You two will win with your eyes and your brains.
"Tyrion, I want you to uncover every competing knight's background, debts, and secrets.
"Leon, I want you to assess the weaknesses and desires of the central figures of each great house."
"Yes," both answered at once.
Just then, a horn sounded outside the camp.
Long and rough, carrying the chill of the North, a sound utterly different from those of the south.
The Starks had arrived.
As Leon followed Tywin out of the main tent, he saw the Stark party slowly approaching the camp.
Gray-brown canvas tents, plain armor, and a direwolf on their banners that seemed truly to run in the wind.
A gray-white field, a silver-gray wolf, so simple it was almost austere.
A tall figure rode forward from the head of the party.
Eddard Stark.
He was far younger than Leon had imagined, barely eighteen, with a face more solemn than someone his age ought to have.
Dark brown hair, gray eyes as clear as water from a deep well in Winterfell, without a ripple.
He wore a simple studded leather coat, without finery or heraldry. There was only the practical two-handed greatsword at his waist, its grip darkened by sweat.
He reined in before Tywin and dismounted in one clean, efficient motion.
"Lord Tywin." Eddard inclined his head, neither servile nor overbearing. "I have long heard of you."
"Lord Stark." Tywin's greeting was equally brief. "You have had a long journey."
The two men's gazes met-one like a mine in the Westerlands, unfathomably deep.
The other like a frozen lake in the North, clear to the bottom.
This man was just as I remembered from my previous life, difficult to shake with anything.
Leon made a mental note.
But just then, another horn blast erupted from the opposite direction.
Louder and more ostentatious than the Starks', as though determined to deafen everyone.
"Robert Baratheon!" someone shouted.
Leon turned to see a party of riders galloping toward them from the Kingsroad.
Their warhorses were tall, their armor bright, and the Crowned Stag banners snapped in the wind. The man at their head all but crashed into camp.
His laughter arrived before he did.
It was loud and full, carrying the wildness of the Stormlands.
Robert Baratheon's dismount was almost completed in the same instant he hit the ground.
He was taller and broader than Eddard, with a tangle of black curls, a thick, unkempt beard, and startlingly bright dark blue eyes.
He wore armor bearing the Baratheon Crowned Stag. Metal clattered as he walked, and he cared nothing for whom he disturbed.
"Lord Tywin!" He strode over and clapped Tywin hard on the shoulder.
Every Lannister guard's muscles tensed instantly at the gesture, but Tywin did not budge. "It's been a long time! I hear your son cut down a few bandits in the Kingswood? Well done!"
His gaze swept through the crowd, and he grinned when it landed on Tyrion. "Ah, the Imp! I hear your tongue is sharper than your sword!"
Tyrion forced a smile and was about to retort, but Robert's gaze had already moved on.
It landed on Leon.
The laughter stopped abruptly.
Robert's eyes widened, his mouth slightly open, as though he had seen something beyond his comprehension.
He strode up to Leon, bent down, and stared closely at his face, then at his pale violet eyes.
He was so close that Leon could smell the mixture of horse sweat, leather, and strong drink on him.
The camp fell silent.
Eddard Stark frowned slightly.
Tywin's face remained as still as water.
The corner of Tyrion's mouth twitched.
Then Robert burst into even louder laughter. He straightened and slapped his own thigh hard.
"Gods! Lord Tywin! This son of yours is prettier than a woman!"
His voice was so loud that Leon suspected they could hear it in Harrenhal across the lake.
"That face, those eyes! Seven Hells... if I looked like that, why would I ever need to fight? One smile and the enemy would surrender!"
Leon's [Eye of Insight] worked at high speed amid the laughter.
There was no malice in Robert's laughter, only pure, rough amazement.
His body language was completely open, his heart rate steady. His dilated pupils indicated surprise rather than hostility.
This man was like the sea off the Stormlands, every joy, anger, sorrow, and delight written on his face.
But Leon noticed something else as well.
After sweeping over Tyrion and Leon, Robert's gaze had lingered in a certain direction for half a second...
It was the direction where the Starks were making camp. More precisely, the position of a certain attendant behind Eddard.
Leon did not look in that direction.
He merely filed the information away.
Eddard Stark stepped half a pace forward, his voice steady. "Robert, mind your words." Then he inclined his head to Leon. "My apologies. My friend is accustomed to speaking bluntly. I am Eddard Stark, and this is Robert Baratheon."
"Leon Lannister." Leon responded with due courtesy, his voice far too calm for an eight-year-old child. "I have long heard of you both. Lord Stark's justice and Lord Baratheon's valor are known throughout the Seven Kingdoms."
Robert laughed again, this time with appreciation. "Listen to him! Pretty and well-spoken! Lord Tywin, how did you raise this son of yours?"
He moved closer and crouched to meet Leon's eyes, then lowered his voice, though the entire camp could still hear him. "Hey, lad, come to Storm's End when you're a little older. I'll teach you to use a warhammer! With that face, the enemy will be bound to underestimate you, and then-bang! Their heads burst open! You'll be better at war than your father!"
Eddard tugged his arm. "Robert."
"All right, all right, I'll stop." Robert waved a hand, but his eyes remained on Leon. "How old are you? Eight? Nine? You look like a little elf. Say, can you compete? Jousting? Swordsmanship?"
"I know a little of the basics, my lord. I spend more of my time studying governance and accounts."
"Accounts!" Robert pulled an exaggerated grimace. "Numbers are harder to deal with than wildlings! Eddard, this boy would be suited to managing your stores. That old steward of yours always does the accounts in a way that makes me want to bash my head against a wall!"
The atmosphere eased subtly.
Tywin spoke at the right moment. "Now that you have both arrived, we can discuss the tournament proceedings and security arrangements in detail later. For now, let my sons settle in and rest."
It was a dismissal, but tactfully worded.
Eddard nodded in acknowledgment. Robert laughed and clapped Leon on the shoulder again, hard enough to make him sway slightly, before finally leaving with Eddard.
After a few steps, Robert looked back once more. Not at Leon, but toward the Stark camp.
Leon followed his gaze and saw only a few figures putting up tents.
One wore a gray cloak and had a slender build, their face impossible to make out.
He withdrew his gaze.
The tent flap fell, shutting out Robert's receding laughter and Ned's steady footsteps.
Tyrion let out a long breath and dropped back onto his stool. "Well. The Lord of the Stormlands... he certainly lives up to his reputation. That voice could shatter glass."
Jaime stepped out of the shadows in the corner.
He had returned at some point and had been standing there all along, silent as a gilded statue.
"Robert Baratheon." Jaime shook his head, his tone complicated. "He can smash a boar's skull with one hand, yet can't see how deeply a single remark of his can drive a knife into someone's heart."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "You sound as though you're defending Leon."
"I am." Jaime was direct. He walked up to Leon and looked down at him, but there was no condescension in his eyes, only seriousness. "Don't take that boar's words to heart. That's how he compliments people... in a way that makes you want to stab him to death."
"I didn't," Leon said.
"I know you didn't."
Jaime held his gaze. "But other people will. Those words will spread. Some fools will take them seriously, and some people will look at you with frivolous eyes. When that happens..."
He gripped his sword hilt. "Tell me. I'm your elder brother, and a future Kingsguar-cough... I have a duty to teach certain people to keep their mouths shut."
For the heir to Casterly Rock, the implication of those words was so plain that Tywin lifted his eyes to look at his eldest son.
Jaime seemed to realize he had said too much. He coughed lightly and turned to Tywin. "Father, Eddard Stark told me privately just now that they were harassed by minor Riverlands nobles on the road. He suspects someone is deliberately causing trouble to delay the great houses' arrival at Harrenhal."
Tywin's gaze sharpened. "Details."
"Three 'accidents.'
"Bridge planks had been sawn through, a water source was contaminated with dead livestock, and there was a night attack. But the attackers fled as soon as they saw House Stark's forces."
"The work was crude," Jaime said. "Not like a professional killer. More like... a probe."
"A probe of each house's vigilance, and of how they respond to help one another," Leon added. "Who would benefit?"
"Whoever least wants to see the great lords arrive at Harrenhal united would benefit."
Tyrion had already pulled out a small notebook and begun taking notes. "House Whent themselves? They want to control the pace of the tourney. Or... the king? He wants to see the lords suspect one another. Or a third party, someone hoping to profit from the chaos."
"Arthur Dayne mentioned yesterday that unfamiliar faces have recently been active along the border between the Kingswood and the Riverlands. They dress like merchants, but their hands have the calluses of men who have held swords for years," Jaime added.
A brief silence fell over the tent. The fragments of information began to fit together.
Tywin finally spoke. "Jaime, coordinate with Ser Barristan Selmy and inform the Kingsguard about the attack on the Starks. Tyrion, keep digging into the leads in King's Landing. Leon," he looked at his youngest son, "have your eyes and ears ready. Harrenhal will not be peaceful."
"Yes," all three answered.
Before leaving, Jaime glanced back at Leon and made a gesture as though gripping a dagger.
It was their private signal, meaning "be careful, but don't be afraid."
Leon's tent stood on the eastern side of the camp, next to Tyrion's, with Thea and Sandor responsible for keeping watch.
He had just lifted the tent flap when he saw Cersei standing in the middle of the tent.
Her back was to the entrance, and her deep crimson gown, covered in gold embroidery, shone dazzlingly in the candlelight.
Her golden hair was pinned up in an elaborate style, exposing her long neck. At the sound of footsteps, she slowly turned.
A perfect, icy smile rested on her face.
"My dear little brother."
Her voice was as sweet as honey steeped in poison. "I hear you distinguished yourself in the Kingswood? And even caught the king's special attention? Oh, of course! There was also Robert, Lord Baratheon's 'praise.'"
She approached and looked down at Leon.
The height difference at fifteen forced her to lower her head, but the posture was full of menace.
"Prettier than a woman." Cersei repeated Robert's words, each one seeming to grind out between her teeth. "Do you know what it will do to the Lannister reputation if that gets around? What it will do to my reputation?
"I will most certainly be the future queen, while my brother is an... elven dwarf people compare to women?"
Leon calmly tilted his head up to look at her.
"You worry too much, sister." Leon's voice was level. "Lord Baratheon is a forthright man. He meant no harm.
"As for the Lannister reputation, it rests on gold and steel, not on other people's idle chatter."
Cersei's sneer froze on her face.
She suddenly reached out, seemingly intending to seize Leon's collar, but stopped an inch short.
Her gaze fell on the gauze bandaging Leon's shoulder, then shifted to his calm purple eyes.
Something darker stirred in her eyes.
"You will regret this, little monster." She lowered her voice, each word carrying the weight of a curse. "You will regret leaving your tower, regret letting everyone see that face of yours, regret... being alive."
She turned and left, her skirts sweeping the ground like a flowing trail of blood.
Leon stood alone where he was, motionless for a long time.
Tyrion's low voice came from outside the tent. "Do you need me to come in?"
"No," Leon said.
He walked over to the basin, cupped some water, and splashed it onto his face.
It was bone-chillingly cold.
The fury on the verge of erupting gradually subsided.
He returned to the edge of the tent, lifted a corner of the flap, and gazed at the lights of the distant Stark camp.
The Eye of Insight operated at low load, catching every fragment of information in the night wind:
That distant figure in a gray cloak...
She was standing at the edge of the Stark camp, facing Harrenhal, utterly still.
In the moonlight, Leon saw her face.
She was very young, no more than a few years older than him.
Long brown hair fell over her shoulders, and her features bore the distinctive angularity of the people of the North. In her eyes was a clarity like a frozen lake, something rarely seen among southerners.
Lyanna Stark.
Eddard's sister.
She seemed to sense something and suddenly turned to look toward the Lannister camp.
Leon did not hide. He simply watched her in silence.
Their gazes met across the darkness, for only an instant.
Then she turned and vanished into the shadows of the tents.
Some seeds had already been planted that day.
Outside the window, the soft sound of the waters of the Gods Eye drifted in, like some ancient lullaby.
The storm had already arrived.