Some time ago, after escaping from King's Landing, Cersei and her group traveled northward by land and sea under the escort of Addam Marbrand and his knights, eventually reaching Gulltown in the southeastern part of the Vale.
Gulltown was the largest port city in the Vale, handling the majority of its maritime trade, which made it one of the wealthiest cities in the Seven Kingdoms.
Between four and six thousand years ago, the Andal invaders crossed the Narrow Sea from Essos and landed in Westeros. The Grafton family followed the Arryns in their conquest of the Vale, slaying the former ruling Griffin Kings. With House Arryn's establishment of the Kingdom of the Vale, the Graftons were rewarded for their service with fertile lands on the southeastern peninsula of the Vale.
The current head of House Grafton, Lord Gerold, had already prepared a feast to welcome the western guests. Sitting in the great hall of his castle, he idly toyed with the serving girl perched on his lap, waiting for the arrivals.
"Father! Ser Addam has arrived!"
A boy of eleven or twelve ran up to Gerold, speaking with his head lowered, not daring to meet his father's eyes.
Gerold Grafton bore the same name as his ancestor. Broad-shouldered and thick-armed, he was not particularly tall and had a perpetually unkempt mop of golden hair. Despite his crude appearance, he was known for his impeccable manners and boisterous voice. The Vale's nobles often discussed Gerold, not for his wealth or valor, but for his shared fondness with the Freys of the Riverlands—siring an abundance of children. Even his own guards were unsure of how many sons he had, as a new one would appear at the castle from time to time.
Taking a plate of bread and salt from his attendant, Lord Gerold personally walked to the castle gates to welcome his guests.
"Haha! Ser Addam, it's been years! What happened to your eye?"
"Lord Gerold, you haven't changed a bit!" Addam greeted him warmly, making no attempt to introduce the people behind him—after all, their identities were not meant to be disclosed.
"My eye was injured in a duel, but I've replaced it with a false one."
The once-dashing Westerlander knight had become a one-eyed warrior. His eye had been wounded outside King's Landing and had to be removed aboard the ship. Now that the wound had healed, Addam lifted his eyepatch, revealing a gemstone embedded in the empty socket.
The gem had been pried from the pommel of Donnel's sword—Cersei herself had taken it while Donnel slept in the ship's cabin, moved by the sacrifice of her childhood friend.
Lord Gerold grinned. "I have a mage in my castle. Perhaps he could take a look at it for you?"
"Thank you, Lord Gerold, but there's no need. A lost eye is lost forever, and this will serve as a reminder to always be cautious of my enemies."
"Haha! As long as you've come to terms with it! And who are these fine folks behind you?"
Aside from Addam's knights and soldiers, several figures stood close to him, clearly of some importance.
Addam clasped Gerold's arm. "They are friends of mine from the south, traveling with me to explore business opportunities."
Gerold glanced at the group behind Addam but asked no further questions. The turmoil in King's Landing had been enormous, and he had already guessed who these people were. But the more trouble it caused for Robert, the happier he was.
Though old enough to be Addam's father, Gerold treated him like an old friend, pulling him along enthusiastically. "Come inside! We shall feast tonight, and later—"
Addam took a piece of bread from the attendant's plate, dipped it in salt, and ate it while gesturing for the others to follow. Of the three hundred soldiers who had set out from the Westerlands, fewer than two hundred remained. Those without knighthood were directed toward the barracks, while the knights began removing their weapons in preparation to enter the castle for the banquet.
During the feast, Addam was naturally seated beside their host. Per Jaime's orders, Cersei was to be protected at all costs, so Addam ensured she remained close by, seating her next to him.
"This beautiful lady—if this is your first time in the Vale, I, Gerold, would be delighted to take you on a tour in my finest carriage tomorrow!"
Across the long table, Gerold leaned forward, constantly seeking conversation with Cersei.
Lord Gerold had an insatiable appetite for fathering children. The moment Cersei pulled back her hood, his eyes never left her. Upon confirming with Addam that she was not his lover but a widow, Gerold swore to himself that he would have the golden-haired beauty in his bed before the night was through.
At five and thirty, Cersei was at the height of her allure. With her true identity concealed, she only fueled Gerold's desire.
"Lord Gerold, your wife is still watching. Is it proper to so openly invite another woman?"
Cersei was no stranger to indiscretions, but she had her standards—a man had to be handsome. While she enjoyed being pursued, the prospect of bedding a stocky, short man like Gerold repulsed her. In her eyes, he was no different from her brother Tyrion.
"My wife has been dead for over ten years. She was my paramour." Gerold ran a hand through his messy mop of hair as he spoke.
As Addam and Cersei entertained Lord Gerold's advances, Donnel and the Hound sat at another table, watching the exchange.
"That little runt…"
Donnel stabbed his fork hard into the roasted meat, cursing under his breath.
"That dwarf will have to settle for his handmaiden tonight!"
Nearby, the Hound was stuffing himself with meat and ale.
To Donnel, Garold harassing Cersei was a non-issue. He hated Garold because of Addam. And he hated Addam simply because the gemstone he had loved most on his longsword had been pried off and set into Addam's eye.
"Hound! What's this Garold's background?"
After watching for a while, Donnel found it strange that Addam—who dared to lead men in killing Gold Cloaks—did not stop Garold from his harassment, merely diverting the conversation to cover for Cersei.
The Hound, despite his brutish appearance, was sharp enough to notice what Donnel was really asking—why Addam didn't dare to cross Garold.
"This Garold hasn't done much of note. But his father, let me think… Oh, right, Marco Grafton! Robert smashed his skull into pulp with a single hammer strike!" It took the Hound a moment to recall the name, since Marco had died without glory.
"Robert killed him?" Donnel turned to ask.
Since losing his princely status, Donnel blamed Jaime for his incompetence and Wright for his loose tongue, but he had always revered Robert's valor. He often dreamed that if the scandal had never been exposed, he would still be living as a prince of the Seven Kingdoms.
The Hound, now full, wiped his hands with a silk cloth and downed another cup of strong wine before speaking again, taking his time as he recalled the details.
"Back then, the Mad King had murdered the Warden of the North and many other lords. Jon Arryn was sending letters, rallying his vassals to rebel. But Marco Grafton, the Lord of Gulltown, refused to heed the call of the Vale's Lord Paramount and instead declared his support for the Mad King."
"That was treason against his liege, House Arryn!" Donnel had not spent his years in exile entirely idle; maesters had taught him well.
"Treason or not, Marco picked a terrible moment. He didn't realize that Robert and Jon weren't just posturing—they were really going to war."
The Hound grabbed a handful of nuts and began cracking them open. "At that point, Eddard hadn't returned to the North, Robert hadn't gone back to the Stormlands, and Jon Arryn was only gathering his banners in secret. The rebellion didn't officially declare war on the Iron Throne until Eddard was back home and Robert had returned to Storm's End. Even the Mad King himself hadn't openly acknowledged that he faced a rebellion. So what the hell was a little Gulltown lord doing howling about it?"
Donnel asked, "And then Robert killed him with one swing of his hammer?"
"Exactly! Think about Gulltown's location—a peninsula with the sea on three sides. Jon Arryn's forces quickly surrounded it. During the siege, Robert was the first to scale the walls and smashed Marco's skull open with his hammer."
"An honorable death in battle?" Donnel asked.
"And that's the sad part." The Hound almost smirked, but his burned face barely moved. "Marco Grafton was loyal to the Targaryens, but since no banners had yet been raised and the Mad King never acknowledged his sacrifice, he didn't even earn the honor of dying for his cause. He died for nothing. Now do you see why Addam doesn't want to cross Garold?"
Whether Donnel wanted to understand or not, the Hound had said his piece. He took his cup and ignored him, instead glancing toward Garold, now seated at the high table.
The Graftons of Gulltown had never aligned themselves with the ruling king. After Marco's death, his family resented Robert for usurping the throne just as much as they despised the Mad King for abandoning them. But now that the Targaryens were extinct, their only remaining enemy was Robert. If anyone dared to raise the banner of rebellion against House Baratheon, Gulltown would surely be one of the first to join.
Addam had secretly led men to rescue Cersei and, even while fleeing, was now being hosted as a guest. The fact that Tywin Lannister was so friendly with a potential rebel disturbed the Hound. If not for Jaime and Cersei's scandal, he might have chalked it up to Tywin's broad political alliances. But now, he was starting to believe Tywin was playing a very dangerous game.
That night, Garold did not take the golden-haired beauty to his bed. Instead, he pulled a random handmaiden into his chambers, venting his frustration. For an ugly man like him, Cersei was a woman forever out of reach.
After resting in Gulltown for two days and fully replenishing their ship's supplies, the Westerlands party set sail north once more.
Following the coastline of the Vale, they passed the Fingers and the Three Sisters before landing at the northern end of the Moon Mountains, near the Neck.
The region was inhospitable—on one side, the sea; on the other, steep, rocky mountains. Beyond the jagged paths lay endless swamps. There were no farmlands, no farmers. Their landing site was a small fishing village with only a dozen wooden huts.
The soldiers disembarked first, spears in hand, keeping the curious fishermen at bay.
Cersei, wearing a hood, stepped off the ship and paused. She glanced at the ground, hesitated briefly, then lifted the hem of her skirt with her left hand and extended her right hand outward.
The one-eyed, golden-haired Addam bowed before Cersei, taking her hand and leading her into the muddy terrain.
From the ship, the Hound watched the two behaving so courteously and scoffed inwardly—had Cersei forgotten that the ship's walls weren't soundproof?
Addam had grown up alongside Jaime, riding together, training in combat, and sharing brotherhood. Cersei had long been the "Light of the West," the most beautiful woman in the Westerlands, and many young noblemen had harbored feelings for her. But Addam, knowing that a lesser noble like him could never marry her, had resigned himself to serving as her loyal knight, silently protecting her even after she married Robert Baratheon.
When Jaime was imprisoned by their father, it was Addam who risked everything to rescue Cersei, even committing treason by clashing with the City Watch in open battle.
Yet during their time aboard the ship, Addam had overheard Lancel's voice coming from Cersei's cabin.
Rumors had long circulated among the nobility of the Westerlands, whispers of the Queen's affairs and her entanglements. She was no longer the untouchable figure she had once been, and Addam's father was aging—soon, he would inherit the title of Lord of Ashemark.
Once his mind started down that path, it was impossible to turn back. One night at sea, Addam gathered his courage and knocked on Cersei's cabin door.
A seasoned commander of Lannister cavalry, a future lord, a handsome, tall, golden-haired man with a noble bearing, an eyepatch that only added to his intrigue—along with the debt of a life saved—Cersei did not refuse him.
From that night on, Lancel Lannister, who had only ever had the advantage of being paler than Addam, was no longer allowed into Cersei's bed. He was reduced to a mere attendant, tending to her only after she had used the privy.
Smack!
"What is this godforsaken place?!" Donnel cursed as he stepped off the ship.
His boot sank into a thick sludge of black and yellow mud. The cold drizzle from above only added to his misery.
The Hound ignored him and simply leapt into the muck.
With no horses or carts, and with the ship departing soon, they traded unnecessary baggage for fish from the local villagers. Each soldier carried a pack on his back as they began their march westward.
"Addam, isn't someone supposed to meet us?"
Each step was a struggle, the mud clinging to their boots. After crossing a small hill, Cersei, exhausted, stopped and clung to Addam for support.
"The Freys will send men, but we need to travel along the base of the Mountains of the Moon first. This is wildling territory. The Freys won't dare come this far," Addam explained, taking a swig from a small flask.
He had been to the Neck before, many years ago. Back then, the rain had been just as constant, but it hadn't been this cold. He took another sip, letting the liquor warm his body.
"Give me that," Cersei muttered, grabbing the flask and drinking deeply. The cold was seeping into her bones, and even the strongest willpower was no match for it.
Addam glanced at his pocket watch. "Let's keep moving. If we press on, we should reach an inn before nightfall."
Cersei glanced at the overcast sky and thought for a moment. However unpleasant the inn might be, it would be far better than enduring this miserable weather in the open. She hesitated only briefly before taking Addam's arm and trudging forward.
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