Inside the lord's solar at Casterly Rock, Tywin Lannister gripped the golden window frame with both hands and roared, "Give me back my fleet!"
The Lord of Casterly Rock stood tall and lean, broad-shouldered, every inch the golden lion. Since his hair had started thinning he'd shaved his head clean, leaving only the thick golden side-whiskers that framed his face. His pale-green eyes, flecked with gold, burned now with pure rage.
He stared southwest. Black smoke boiled up from Lannisport harbor. The pride of the Lannister fleet—the golden warships built and maintained with mountains of gold—was gone. Flames lit the water like a colossal funeral pyre.
Tywin Lannister rarely lost control. This time he couldn't help it.
Kevan Lannister, his brother and shadow, stood beside him and sighed. "The fleet is lost, Tywin. It was the ironborn."
Kevan had grown stout over the years. His head was nearly bald, his jaw soft with fat, his short beard neatly trimmed. His skin stayed smooth, his remaining hair still bright gold.
"It had to be them," Tywin said, forcing his voice steady even as the vein in his temple throbbed. "Only those filthy reavers strike without warning—and they knew exactly where to hit."
He refused to let anger cloud his judgment. The Westerlands had always bordered the Iron Islands. Lannisport had been burned to the ground three times in the old days and sacked more than twenty. The last great raid came during the Dance of the Dragons when Dalton Greyjoy, the Red Kraken, struck while the realm bled.
Tywin walked back to his chair and sat, already calculating the next move. "Balon's gone mad."
"Balon must have lost his mind," Kevan agreed. "He wants to be the new Iron King. Lord Quellon lived too long; Balon's been itching to prove himself to the captains. His older sons are grown men now."
"This is rebellion, plain and simple," Tywin said flatly. "That bastard has been planning it for years. The ships that hit us this morning were bigger, longer, fitted with fire-scorpions and ballistae. Not the old longships. He built a new fleet."
Tywin's voice stayed cold. "He can only raid. He knows he can't stand against the royal fleet or the Redwyne fleet in open battle. The fool."
Disaster had struck. Now came the reckoning.
"Summon the maester," Tywin ordered his squire. "Get every raven in the rookery airborne."
He listed the messages without pause.
"To Fair Isle. Warn the Farman lords. If their castle still stands, they must hold."
"To King's Landing."
"To Seagard and Riverrun."
"To Oldtown and Highgarden."
"To Winterfell."
The ironborn were loose. Every western port was now in danger.
The squire scribbled the orders and ran.
Kevan nodded. "Lannisport's fleet is ash. We don't know about Fair Isle's ships. We'll have to hope the royal fleet and the Redwynes can handle the rest."
Tywin's face had returned to its usual mask of icy calculation. "At least the captains and crews are still alive. Most were ashore when the attack came. Ships can be rebuilt. Good captains cannot."
He sounded like a man pricing goods, not a lord who had just lost half his naval power. Even his own children were weighed, measured, and kept under tight control.
"That's the only good news," Kevan said, relieved. "The ironborn still fear us enough to strike by stealth instead of meeting us in open battle. But without a fleet of our own we'll need Robert."
"My good son-in-law fancies himself a hero," Tywin said with a thin smile. "He'll enjoy crushing this rebellion. And the more gold the Iron Throne spends putting it down, the deeper Robert sinks into our debt."
Kevan nodded. "True."
Tywin unrolled a finely drawn map across the desk and studied the long western coastline.
"Balon chose the Westerlands as his first target. That means his main effort will stay here and in the Riverlands. Neither place has a real fleet right now. The Reach can protect itself with the Redwynes and Oldtown once they get word. The North is nothing but rocks and pine trees."
Kevan asked quietly, "Will Robert commit our army?"
"Unlikely," Tywin answered. "Robert doesn't trust me, and he barely respects Hoster Tully. He leans hardest on Jon Arryn and Eddard Stark—more than his own brothers. He'll probably send Stark north with him and let Stannis command the royal fleet."
"Jon Arryn runs the small council. Eddard is Robert's sworn brother. Cersei is queen, but Robert won't hand me or Jaime any more glory." Tywin's voice stayed level, clinical. "Still, we have eyes and ears everywhere in King's Landing."
Kevan leaned forward. "What about Robert's brothers? Stannis is a hard fighter and a fine sailor. Renly holds the Stormlands."
"Exactly," Tywin said. "We never forget those two. They are the real threats to our grandchildren's future."
The Lannisters had always treated Robert's brothers as the true rivals. Kinslaying rumors had haunted their own house for generations; caution was second nature.
"I'm not helpless," Tywin continued. "Cersei is queen. We have gold. We already have men inside the Red Keep—squires, Kingsguard, even the Grand Maester is an old friend. I've told Cersei to spend gold wisely. The men who serve Robert's table and guard his door can become ours."
Kevan gave a small nod of approval. "You've planned for everything."
Tywin waved the compliment away. "Enough. We survive this rebellion first. Double the watch on Lannisport. Send out the few warships still in the Casterly Rock yards."
"Done," Kevan said.
Ravens burst from the rookery towers of Casterly Rock, carrying word of the burning of Lannisport and Balon Greyjoy's rebellion to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms.