The Riverlands lay trampled beneath iron boots.
At Pinkmaiden, seat of House Piper, both lord and heir had already fled. The castle gates stood open and silent, as if ashamed to resist. House Piper's banner—blue, red, and white, emblazoned with a pink maiden dancing with a white ribbon—lay torn and trampled in the mud. In its place flew the crimson standard of House Lannister, the golden lion roaring in silent triumph.
Red-cloaked soldiers filled the courtyards and halls. The few Piper men who had not escaped hung lifeless from the walls, their bodies swaying gently in the wind like grim ornaments of conquest.
Lord Tywin Lannister had arrived.
With an army of twenty thousand marching along the Gold Road, Tywin had crossed the Red Fork and swept deep into the Riverlands, advancing in concert with the forces led by his son, Ser Jaime. Castle after castle fell or bent the knee. Resistance, where it existed at all, was brief and futile.
Inside Pinkmaiden's council hall, Tywin listened in silence as his brother Ser Kevan delivered his report. His expression was calm, but his pale green eyes—flecked faintly with gold—betrayed irritation.
Bitch's Pool lay not far from here.
"The army's pace has been slower than expected," Kevan said carefully. "And Ser Gregor… was completely wiped out. No bodies were recovered."
Tywin's fingers tightened against the arm of his chair.
"How," he asked coldly, "does Ser Gregor Clegane die without leaving even a corpse?"
Though past fifty, Tywin Lannister still possessed the physical authority of a much younger man. Tall even while seated, broad-shouldered and spare of flesh, he radiated control. His once-thick golden hair had long since thinned; rather than tolerate decline, he had ordered it shaved away entirely, along with his mustache and beard, leaving only thick sideburns framing his jaw. Nothing about him suggested softness.
Kevan, heavier and nearly bald, with a fleshy chin and neatly trimmed yellow beard, bowed his head slightly. Loyal, methodical, and ever reliable, he did not embellish the truth.
"Almost no one survived. By the time the routed men fled, Ser Gregor had already been surrounded."
Tywin exhaled slowly.
"Every lord has dogs," he said. "A useful one is rare. A knight like Gregor is rarer still. No man in the Seven Kingdoms spread terror more effectively."
Then his voice hardened.
"I will avenge my dog."
He lifted his gaze.
"Was the intelligence from King's Landing wrong?"
"No," Kevan replied at once. "Grand Maester Pycelle attended Eddard Stark's council sessions personally. Lord Stark sent barely more than a hundred men. They should not have been a match for Ser Gregor."
"Should," Tywin echoed.
"The ambush succeeded at first," Kevan continued. "Lord Beric's men were trapped. Ser Gregor was on the verge of annihilating them when unexpected reinforcements arrived—black-armored cavalry."
"Cavalry?" Tywin's brow furrowed. "Edmure Tully has already stripped the Riverlands of horse."
"That is what makes it strange. These soldiers were well equipped and disciplined. Veterans. They moved like professionals and wielded custom Myrish five-shot crossbows. They bore no banners or sigils. Their commander used a long spear and fought with exceptional ferocity."
Tywin's eyes narrowed.
"Myr," he said at last. "Across the Narrow Sea."
His voice carried quiet fury.
"That Child has not even been summoned to trouble—and yet he dares bring it to me."
Kevan nodded. "My thoughts exactly. Their strength should not be underestimated. But we do not know where they landed."
"The coastline is long," Tywin replied. "King's Landing, the Claw, the Stormlands. Myrish merchants have smuggled cheese and butter into Westeros for generations. Soldiers are no great leap."
He rose from his chair.
"Warn Cersei. Let her be vigilant."
"King's Landing is well garrisoned," Kevan said. "They will manage."
"They had best," Tywin replied. "If Myr sends more troops, I will not tolerate a second front."
He paced slowly.
"I will not allow that Child to act unchecked. Hire pirates. Buy mercenaries. Rouse former governors—anyone willing to make trouble for him."
Kevan inclined his head.
"Send envoys at once," Tywin continued. "And remind our old friend Pycelle where his loyalties lie. Lys and Volantis both maintain interests in King's Landing. They will not sit idle while Two Cities rise."
He paused, then added, "Have Cersei's spies watch the Claw Peninsula and Dragonstone closely. They are too close for comfort."
"I will see to it," Kevan said.
After a moment's hesitation, he added, "There is also the matter of Robert's will. Word has spread across the Seven Kingdoms."
Tywin's expression turned contemptuous.
"That letter is nothing but a slander forged by Eddard Stark and Barristan Selmy. Lies do not become truth simply because they are repeated. Those who stain the honor of House Lannister will pay dearly."
Kevan nodded, though unease lingered.
"As long as we win this war," Tywin said firmly, "those accusations will vanish. Victory is the only answer that matters."
He stopped pacing.
"Any word of Tyrion?"
"He is on his way," Kevan replied. "He claims to be bringing gifts."
"Gifts?" Tywin snorted. "His brother wins battles. Jaime smashed Vance and Piper outside the Golden Tooth, then shattered the Tully host beneath Riverrun. Edmure's bannermen are prisoners. Blackwood fled behind Riverrun's walls, and Jaime now besieges it. When Tyrion arrives, he may find nothing left but soup."
"Then only the North remains," Kevan said.
"Robb Stark summons banners like a boy playing at war," Tywin replied coolly. "Marching south takes time. By then, the Riverlands will be ashes. War is not banners and trumpets—it is slaughter. I doubt he understands that yet."
He straightened.
"We advance to Harrenhal. Jaime holds Riverrun. We split the Riverlands in two."
"As you command."
Tywin's gaze darkened.
"I do not fear children or nursing falcons. I fear Stannis. He is iron, and Dragonstone lies too close to King's Landing."
Kevan considered. "Someone must hold the city."
"I thought of you," Tywin said. "But you are needed here."
"Then Tyrion," Kevan suggested.
"Not yet," Tywin replied. "I wish to test him."
Kevan hesitated. "And the young man across the sea?"
"Any blade must be tested before it is feared," Tywin said. "The Screaming Warriors do not yet rival our heavy horse—but Gregor's fate reminds us to be cautious."
He turned away.
"And remember this: that Child is no Baratheon. He is a bastard. A usurper."
---
In the Stormlands, beyond rain-soaked fields and jagged hills, Storm's End rose against the sky, its massive walls blotting out the Narrow Sea behind it.
Beneath those pale gray stones, Renly Baratheon's army seemed pitifully small—banners fluttering like mice tails beneath a giant's heel. His camp sprawled outside the fortress, exposed to wind and rain alike.
Renly's war banner flew highest: gold cloth bearing the crowned black stag of House Baratheon, leaping proudly.
Storm's End had once belonged to House Durrandon, the Storm Kings of old. Through the female line, House Baratheon had inherited the blood, the sigil, and the seat. Songs claimed the castle was raised by Durran Godsgrief himself, who defied gods for love and built walls no storm could break.
Renly gazed up at those walls as gales howled from the sea.
"I pray my cause is as strong as these stones," he murmured.
He wore green velvet, the stag embroidered in gold upon his chest. Storm's End was a marvel: outer walls a hundred feet high, seamless and smooth, without arrow slits or secret doors. At their narrowest, they were forty feet thick—twice that on the seaward side—packed with stone, rubble, and ancient defiance.
Within, kitchens and courtyards stood untouched by storm or wave. Only one tower rose—a colossal bell tower housing granaries, barracks, halls, and noble quarters, crowned with battlements like a giant's outstretched hand.
"My lord," Ser Loras Tyrell said regretfully, lowering his gaze. "The Reach will not send troops."
Renly had already guessed.
His eyes swept the camp: Caron's nightingale, Penrose's feathered goose, Estermont's green sea turtle. Loyal banners—but too few.
Without the Reach—the golden rose, the Fossoway apples, Tarly's huntsman, Oakheart's oak leaves—his strength would never suffice.
"Damn it," Renly muttered.
With only Stormlands support, he could muster perhaps thirty thousand men—and little fleet to speak of.
Yet Renly straightened, his charm intact.
"Have the ravens flown?" he asked Ser Cortnay Penrose.
"They have, my lord."
Renly frowned. "Then the Stormlords hesitate as well?"
"That letter unsettled them," Ser Cortnay admitted. "The sea remembers blood."
"Cowards," Loras snapped.
Renly snorted. "Fence-sitters. Let them wait. I will not."
"What of Edric?" Renly added quietly. "That boy troubles his brother."
Ser Cortnay said nothing and withdrew.
"What now?" Loras asked.
"I will declare myself king," Renly said firmly. "Force Stannis to submit. Momentum decides crowns."
"And the will?"
"I deny it," Renly replied. "It serves to unseat Joffrey, nothing more. He is no heir—only another usurper."
"And Robert?"
"He won his crown with a hammer," Renly said. "That is the only law the realm truly remembers."
His gaze hardened.
"I will strike first. Victory will teach the world who its king is."
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