Author Note: I've been rereading a song of ice and fire and I really wanted to write about the world especially since Winds of Winter probably won't come out for another two years. So for my own curiosity I'm going to write this story, I will be using the events from the books (except for some stuff which I think the show did better which isn't much) so characters will be young like Arya is only eleven in the latest book if you don't like it you can leave. I hope that if you do read this story you will enjoy it
Unknown POV
Men are haunted by the vastness of eternity, and so we ask ourselves. Will our actions echo across the centuries? Will strangers hear our names long after we're gone and wonder who we were? How bravely we fought, how fiercely we loved?
If they ever tell my story, let them say I walked with giants. Men rise and fall like the winter wheat, but these names will never die. Let them say I lived in the time of Daenerys, Mother of Dragons. Let them say I lived in the time of Achilles.
Achilles POV
"So this is Harrenhal," I said, gazing up at the blackened stone walls that reached toward the skies like some hand of a burnt corpse.
A voice sounded out at my right. "It looks much worse than Meereen."
"I mean, sure, the castle isn't as imposing as the Great Pyramid, but it's still pretty good."
Alcimedon spoke from my left, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword. The son of Laerceus had always been quick to find the good in any situation, a trait I found both endearing and occasionally irritating.
"It looks burnt," I replied bluntly, the wind carrying my words across the desolate landscape. The stories of Aegon's dragons had reached even the shores of Essos, but seeing the aftermath of their fury firsthand gave those tales new meaning.
I looked behind me where thousands of my followers trudged wearily forward, their faces etched with exhaustion. Armor clanked against leather, horses nickered impatiently, and wheels creaked under the weight of our supplies. It had been two moons of constant traveling—across the Narrow Sea and through unfamiliar lands—but we had finally reached our destination.
All two thousand five hundred of my men.
All wanting the same thing.
Glory and gold.
The Brave Companions' banners fluttered from one of the towers—a black goat with bloody horns against a field of faded crimson. The goat was here too, it seemed. His "brave" companions had arrived a few days before us.
I stifled a laugh, remembering tales of Vargo Hoat and his band of sellswords and cutthroats. There was little brave about them. They were cruel men who fought for coin, not honor. But then again, who was I to judge? Had I not crossed the Narrow Sea for the promise of Lannister gold?
As we approached the massive gatehouse, I felt two distinct gazes settle upon me.
The first belonged to a figure huddled near the stables—a boy with short brown hair who appeared quite girlish in frame and feature. No, I realized as our eyes met briefly, not a boy at all but a girl disguised in servant's garb. That was curious.
She averted her gaze quickly when she realized I had noticed her, busying herself with some mundane task.
The second gaze emanated from high in a tower, peering through a narrow window. A man with long, straight hair that streamed down across his shoulders—white on one side and red on the other, like blood on snow. Even from this distance.
My gaze settled on him for a few moments, a small smile forming across my face. I wasn't sure if I saw correctly through the distance and fading light, but I could have sworn the strange man smiled back.
Interesting. Very interesting.
A group of servants, led by a scrawny boy, approached us as we passed through the main gate. The massive portcullis creaked ominously above our heads, its iron teeth ready to snap shut at a moment's notice.
"Hi, sirs," the boy said, bowing low. "I am Adam."
He had short, scruffy brown hair and sunken, lifeless eyes the color of mud. His clothes hung loosely on his thin frame.
"I was told to bring Achilles to Lord Tywin," he continued, his voice cracking slightly. "The rest of you will be led to the Wailing Tower, where you will make your abodes."
"Wailing Tower, huh? That doesn't sound ominous at all," Alcimedon muttered behind me, laughter almost escaping his voice.
Some of the men chuckled nervously. Others remained silent, their eyes fixed on the imposing structure that would be their home for the foreseeable future. The tower had earned its name from the sound the wind made as it howled through the cracks in its ancient stones—a sorrowful moaning that some said was the collective grief of all those who had died within Harrenhal's walls.
I turned to Phoenix, my right hand and mentor since boyhood.
"Lead the rest," I instructed him as I dismounted from my stallion, a magnificent beast the color of midnight that had carried me through countless battles. The reins were quickly taken by another servant, a boy no older than twelve with a face full of freckles and eyes full of wonder.
I then turned to Adam. "Well then, lead the way."
The boy nodded quickly, turning around and walking toward what appeared to be the main keep of the castle.
The castle was filled to the brim with people, servants, guards and whoever else resided in it.
After what seemed like an hour of constant walking, we finally arrived at a great hall. Two Lannister guards stood at attention outside a set of massive oak doors, their crimson cloaks a stark contrast to the dreary stone surrounding them. Their eyes narrowed as we approached, hands instinctively moving to their sword hilts.
The doors creaked loudly as Adam pushed them open, the sound echoing through the cavernous space beyond. Inside, seated alone at the far end of a long table, was a man with a golden cup filled with deep red wine. The hall itself was sparsely decorated, though banners bearing the golden lion of House Lannister hung from the rafters, adding splashes of color to an otherwise somber room.
He was a tall, slender man with broad shoulders, appearing to be in his fifties but carrying himself with the vitality of someone much younger. His arms were thin but corded with muscle. His head was cleanly shaven, but bushy golden side-whiskers framed his austere face. Most striking were his eyes—pale green orbs flecked with gold that looked at me in cold composed gaze, Tywin Lannister.
The Old Lion himself.
"Take a seat," he said—no, commanded—as he pointed at a chair sitting opposite him. His voice was neither particularly deep nor loud, yet it carried an undeniable authority that filled the hall.
I did as instructed, taking my seat without much care in the world, after all no matter how rich he was, there was no man, creature or god that could kill me in the entirety of Westeros.
The guards closed the doors behind us, leaving Adam outside. Now it was just the two of us—the Old Lion and the sellsword.
Tywin lifted his cup to his lips and drank down his wine in slow, measured gulps. Not a single drop spilled as he set the empty goblet down on the ornate wooden table at the same place where he had picked it up from.
"It's nice to finally put a face to the name," he said, his eyes never leaving mine.
"Oh, I wouldn't have guessed that Lord Tywin would have known about me," I replied, feigning surprise though I felt none, after all how would he have employed my services if he hadn't known about me, although maybe it had been a consultant of his.
"Of course I know about you," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might have been amusement or irritation—it was difficult to tell. "Who wouldn't know about Achilles the Immortal, Breaker of Men, the man who repelled a horde of Dothraki for a dozen nights? They say you cannot be killed."
"That's preposterous," I said, leaning back in my chair.
"How so?" His eyebrow arched slightly, the only visible change in his stoic expression.
"It was twenty nights."
The room fell silent for a few moments. Outside, the wind picked up, almost as if trying to fill the silence with whatever noise it could gather.
"You remind me of my son," Tywin finally said, refilling his cup from a nearby flagon.
"Do I?" I asked, curious despite myself. Much was known about Tywin, the man who shit gold in Essos simply for the fact that he was one of the few men in the world who could compete with the Iron Bank when it came to giving out coin.
"Yes, you do. You both are too prideful for your own good." His tone was flat, matter-of-fact. "But I suppose your pride is what made you so distinguished in Essos."
I smiled at that. "You may be right. I may be too prideful, but so what? I pride myself in my pride. I thought that was a sentiment you would have shared as the Lion of Westeros."
Tywin's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. "Pride is one thing. Experience is another."
"Meh, I'm getting bored of all this chit-chat," I said, deliberately casual. "What exactly do you want us to do?"
"I already mentioned my son, correct?"
"You have."
"Well, I want you to go and get him. Retrieve him."
I blinked, momentarily taken aback. "I'm sorry, what?"
"You see, he got captured and is now being held hostage, I can't act as I wish while Jaime is being held so I want you to take as many of your men as you want and go retrieve my son Jaime in secret. After that, we'll see where to place you in this war. Shall we?" Tywin explained, after which he took another swig of his goblet.
I considered his words carefully. I hadn't expected this, after all we were known for our warfare not really our retrieval skills.
"Hmm, I've performed a few kidnappings in my life," I mused aloud, "so fine. I'll have your son back here in a week. Just hand over all the information on the enemy camp." I paused, remembering my men. "Oh, and make me tons of meat. My men love meat."
The room fell into silence once more. Tywin studied me with those pale green eyes, assessing, calculating. Finally, he gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
"So nothing else?" I asked.
"Nothing else. You may leave. I'll send you the information at a later hour." He paused, giving me a measuring look. "Can you read Common Tongue?"
"I can't," I admitted without shame. I had learnt how to read and write High Valyrian while in my ventures but I had never picked up how to read and write in common tongue as Tywin put it, nor did any of my followers.
"I'll send a servant who can help you."
I nodded at the man one last time, standing up and striding to the oak door. When I pulled it open, the same servant boy, Adam, was waiting patiently outside.
"Did all go well with Lord Tywin?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
I nodded, to the boy before saying.
"Take me to my chambers."