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A long time later, when the noise outside had completely died down, a very light knocking sound echoed on the hidden panel of the secret chamber.
Alyce's hushed voice came through the wood, accompanied by a relaxed exhale. "They're gone."
She expertly triggered the hidden mechanism, and the low door of the secret room slid open silently.
A smell mixed with stale dust, strong herbs, and the stifling heat of a sweating body rushed out first—the unavoidable scent of a confined space shared too long with a wounded man.
Alyce leaned in and carefully helped Robert's large but weak body out.
Standing again in the relatively spacious attic under the flickering light of an oil lamp, a flush from the recent tension still lingered on Alyce's cheeks, mixed with a hint of embarrassment from such close contact with this fallen hero. She quickly steadied her breathing, trying to dispel the awkward intimacy in the air, and whispered, "It's safe for now, my Lord. They will likely double back, so I need to change your dressings quickly. You also need to eat something."
Alyce lightly brought over a wooden tray with coarse black bread, a wedge of cheese, a few slices of salty cured meat, and a large mug of ale. Robert took the food and began to wolf it down, his empty stomach finally receiving some comfort.
Between bites, Alyce knelt quietly by his side and whispered, "My Lord, it's time to change the medicine." Her movements were as gentle as a doe brushing against morning dew as she carefully unwrapped the old, blood-soaked bandages. When her fingertips occasionally brushed the skin of his neck, they carried a coolness and delicacy that felt out of place in this rough environment.
She breathed very softly as she cleaned the wound, applied fresh salve, and re-wrapped it carefully with clean linen. throughout the process, her lowered lashes cast soft shadows in the firelight. Her focused tenderness was as if she were tending to a precious artifact.
Robert's muscles, originally tense from pain, unknowingly relaxed under this quiet care. Looking at the splash of red hair before him and smelling the faint, clean scent of herbs on her—so different from the heavy powder and cheap wine smell of the brothel—a strange sense of peace washed over him. For a moment, he even felt that the agony plaguing him had genuinely eased.
Robert raised his hand, his fingertips gently lifting Alyce's chin.
Under the dancing candlelight, Alyce's eyes, usually filled with wariness, now revealed a rare, almost pure luster, like amber dusted clean. His rough thumb brushed her cheek, and then he leaned down, pressing a kiss that tasted of ale and the rust of the battlefield onto her lips.
The kiss started tentatively, then turned into an irresistible plunder. Alyce's slightly stiff body gradually softened, finally melting into a soft sigh as she responded to this sudden tenderness.
In the cramped attic, the previously tense and oppressive atmosphere quietly dissipated, replaced by a silent melody of a different kind.
Heavy breathing replaced the footsteps of pursuers, the slight creak of the wooden bed frame replaced the clash of swords, and the sound of night rain picking up outside the window cast a hazy veil over the fleeting tenderness blooming amidst danger.
---
Jon Connington slammed his fist onto the map-covered table, making the teacups jump. His usually cold face was twisted with rage, his eyes burning with the fire of frustration.
Torture had finally pried open a soldier's mouth, yielding the worst possible news: Before the castle was surrounded, Ser Wilbert Paxton bad already dispatched his fastest messenger to race to Riverrun for help.
"Stoney Sept is only two days' ride from Riverrun!" Jon almost growled the words, his finger stabbing the map between the two points. His mind calculated furiously:
There and back. If Euron Greyjoy, Hoster Tully, and Eddard Stark at Riverrun react fast enough and send their elite cavalry immediately... their vanguard could appear outside Stoney Sept as early as noon the day after tomorrow!
Time had become the deadliest enemy.
Jon had thought he held the absolute initiative, but now he could almost hear the sand rushing through the hourglass. What he found most unbearable was that even now, Robert Baratheon—the grievously wounded primary target who should have been easy pickings—was still hiding like a ghost in some corner of this small town, mocking his incompetence.
"Search! Keep searching! Dig three feet into the ground if you have to, but drag him out for me!" His command echoed in the night sky like a beast's roar. Every passing second added another weight to his taut nerves.
---
Tywin Lannister sat straight as a rock behind the massive stone desk in his study at Casterly Rock.
Spread across the heavy oak surface were letter after letter, falling like autumn leaves but carrying the scent of smoke and blood.
Nearly half of these letters bore the hot wax seal of the dragon from King's Landing.
These "decrees" from the Iron Throne grew more urgent and shrill with each missive. Without exception, they demanded that the Warden of the West, the Lord of Casterly Rock, raise his banners immediately to crush the rebellions across the realm.
In these commanding words, Tywin found not a single phrase mentioning what reward House Lannister would receive, nor even a promise of basic funds or provisions. What made his gaze turn icy was that his only precondition—the most basic request—to release his eldest son Jaime from the Kingsguard and return him to Casterly Rock as heir, had been contemptuously rejected by Aerys II.
In the candlelight, Lord Tywin's face was like a golden mask, devoid of expression. But within his cold green eyes, frost harder than the foundations of Casterly Rock had formed. He placed the Mad King's latest letter down gently, his movement steady without a tremor, as if discarding a piece of useless waste paper.
Yet the oppressive air in the study heralded a storm far colder than any battlefield slaughter brewing in this absolute silence.
Kevan Lannister sat opposite Tywin, a smile of worldly cynicism on his face as he swirled his wine. "If Aerys II, that Mad King, actually agreed to let Jaime strip off the white cloak and return as your heir, brother... would you really march immediately to crush the rebellion for him?"
Lord Tywin's gaze remained fixed on the letters, his voice level and cold, without a ripple. "Help him?" He paused slightly, speaking as if passing a sentence. "If it were the Aerys of twenty years ago, who still had some sanity, perhaps I would consider it. But now..."
Kevan understood his brother's unfinished words, his laugh tinged with bitter amusement. "Then who can accuse the Mad King of being unwise in this? At least keeping Jaime as a hostage in King's Landing does make us wary of throwing in our lot with the rebels."
Tywin finally looked up. There was no warmth in those famous pale green eyes, only a calculated chill. "Wait, Kevan. What we need is patience." He enunciated every word clearly and slowly. "I will let that madman on the Iron Throne use the remainder of his life to thoroughly understand just what price must be paid for slighting a Lannister."
Hearing this, the smile on Kevan's face deepened into certainty. He raised his goblet to his brother, the true ruler of the West, and softly spoke the vow engraved in their bloodline:
"Indeed... A Lannister Always Pays His Debts."
The candle crackled, bearing witness to this understated yet incredibly heavy oath.