The Crownlands. King's Landing.
The exact moment the War of the Five Kings violently erupted, the massive, vital grain shipments flowing from the Reach and the Riverlands were completely severed. Furthermore, because Roman Rivers had aggressively occupied the northern territories of the Crownlands, the few minor nobles remaining loyal to the Iron Throne were trapped in dire, starving straits themselves, possessing absolutely zero surplus resources to care about the grim fate of King's Landing.
The current situation within the capital was vastly more catastrophic than anyone could have possibly imagined. A massive, apocalyptic famine had violently broken out within the sprawling slums of Flea Bottom. Thousands of impoverished commoners were literally starving to death behind the locked doors of their own rotting hovels.
The horrific accumulation of unburied corpses inevitably caused the city's rat population to multiply exponentially, rapidly breeding and dragging highly lethal pathogens through the filthy, crowded streets.
Ultimately, a devastating plague broke out across King's Landing—and it was not merely a single strain of sickness, but a horrifying cocktail of dysentery and fever.
Tragically, Queen Regent Cersei Lannister had previously waged a petty, vindictive economic war against Harrenhal. In her sheer, psychotic arrogance, she had aggressively targeted and banned Harrenhal's merchants, specifically including those who sold Roman's heavily subsidized, highly advanced medical tonics.
Without the influx of cheap, effective alchemical medicines provided by House Whent, the death rate in the slums of King's Landing skyrocketed to apocalyptic levels.
Ser Kevan and Tyrion Lannister were currently drowning in an overwhelming, suffocating ocean of administrative crises. They were frantically attempting to artificially cap grain prices, organize meager food distribution, and somehow prevent the famine from entirely consuming the city.
Simultaneously, the uncle and nephew desperately had to find a way to contain the rampant plague. King's Landing possessed a densely packed population of half a million people. If the plague was allowed to spread unchecked, Renly and Stannis Baratheon wouldn't even need to draw their swords; the starving, diseased mobs of King's Landing would spontaneously riot and violently tear the Iron Throne down themselves.
Sitting in the Hand's chambers, Tyrion frantically reviewed the ever-increasing infection and mortality reports. He looked up at the trembling royal steward, his mismatched eyes burning with profound impatience.
"Did the Crown not possess a massive, subsidized stockpile of advanced medical supplies in the Red Keep's vaults?!" Tyrion demanded. "How in the seven hells is it entirely depleted?!"
The steward bowed nervously, sweating profusely. "My lord Hand, the late King Robert maintained highly favorable relations with Lord Roman Rivers, which is precisely why the Crown was able to steadily procure Harrenhal's miraculous medicines. However, following the King's death, the Queen Regent officially accused Lord Roman of high treason. Harrenhal's merchants were violently harassed by the Gold Cloaks. Now, absolutely no Riverlands merchant dares to conduct business in King's Landing, and our entire supply of medicine has been completely severed."
Tyrion gritted his teeth. "Can the Grand Maester and the Alchemists' Guild not simply reverse-engineer and locally produce Harrenhal's medicine?!"
"It is fundamentally impossible, Lord Tyrion," the steward replied miserably. "Harrenhal's alchemical and medical technology is vastly, unfathomably superior to our own. The archaic maesters of King's Landing cannot even properly analyze the base ingredients of Lord Roman's tonics, let alone replicate them."
Ser Kevan, his face lined with exhaustion, stepped forward and issued a grim directive. "Go and forcefully requisition every single common herb and poultice available in the city's markets. Treat the dying commoners using the traditional methods. We will deal with the political fallout later. Go!"
After receiving the direct order, the terrified steward breathed a massive sigh of relief and frantically fled the oppressive, suffocating atmosphere of the office.
Kevan poured Tyrion a heavy goblet of Arbor Gold. Tyrion stared at the dark wine, offering a highly cynical, helpless sigh, and the two Lannisters drank together in grim silence.
"Uncle Kevan," Tyrion muttered, rubbing his throbbing temples. "We fundamentally possess zero food and zero medicine. No matter how many brilliant economic policies I draft, it will not save us. We absolutely must find a way to break the blockade and acquire these resources!"
Kevan knew this agonizing reality all too well, but King's Landing was currently an entirely isolated, dying city.
At sea, Stannis Baratheon's massive royal fleet completely blockaded the Blackwater Rush. To the south, Renly Baratheon and the Tyrells were starving the Roseroad. And to the immediate north, the apocalyptic Vanguard of Roman Rivers aggressively held the Kingsroad.
King's Landing was currently relying entirely upon House Lannister to slowly funnel limited supplies eastward via the Goldroad. But this was a highly vulnerable, long-term logistical band-aid that absolutely could not address the immediate, burning crisis. If this massive economic drain continued, both King's Landing and the Westerlands would be completely dragged down into bankruptcy.
"The traitors are actively laughing at us," Kevan growled angrily, slamming his fist on the table. "They are deliberately encircling the capital without actively laying siege, utilizing the famine to violently force us into a humiliating submission!"
Tyrion paced anxiously back and forth, his heavy boots shuffling the expensive Myrish carpet until it was fuzzy and uneven.
"The Reach, the Stormlands, the Riverlands, and the North are all officially our mortal enemies," Tyrion deduced frantically. "Besides our own forces, only the Vale of Arryn and Dorne remain neutral. The Arryns remain completely silent behind their mountains. And as for Dorne... Gods be good! Any hope of diplomatic negotiations with Dorne has been completely annihilated!"
Ever since Roman Rivers had weaponized the Mountain's severed head and broadcasted to the entire continent that Tywin had ordered the brutal murder of Princess Elia Martell, the Dornish people possessed such a profound, apocalyptic hatred for House Lannister that they actively wanted to tear the lions apart with their bare hands.
Recently, in a desperate attempt to gather intelligence on the chaos in King's Landing, Prince Doran Martell had dispatched a small envoy of Dornish nobles to act as advisors to the Iron Throne.
Upon hearing this, the volatile residents of Dorne violently cursed their own liege lord, aggressively accusing Prince Doran of callously selling out his murdered sister's memory merely to secure a pathetic seat on the Small Council.
Prince Doran remained entirely, cryptically silent regarding the furious rumors. However, Tyrion possessed the political brilliance to realize that Doran's absolute silence was vastly more terrifying than any furious outburst. Tyrion simply could not comprehend exactly what lethal trap the Dornish were meticulously weaving in the shadows.
Tyrion felt utterly, completely deflated. Because Roman Rivers had successfully, permanently weaponized the blood-feud between Dorne and Casterly Rock, Tyrion's brilliant political strategy of marrying Princess Myrcella to Trystane Martell to secure a Dornish alliance had spectacularly fallen through.
"Uncle Kevan," Tyrion sighed heavily. "It appears our absolute only hope of survival is praying that my father successfully crushes the Riverlords in the west. Only the massive grain yields of the Trident can possibly alleviate the famine currently strangling King's Landing."
"That is all we can do," Kevan agreed grimly. "We must utilize every man we have to brutally maintain civic stability until Tywin breaks through."
Just as the uncle and nephew were miserably drowning their sorrows, the heavy oak doors of the Hand's office were violently kicked open. The steward rushed back in, entirely covered in a cold sweat, his eyes wide with absolute terror.
"Lord Kevan! Lord Tyrion!" the steward screamed hysterically. "Flea Bottom... the slums have violently rioted! Thousands of armed rioters are aggressively looting every street, and a massive mob is currently attempting to storm the royal granaries!"
The Imp jumped out of his chair in a start. "What in the seven hells is happening?! Did we not just open three new grain relief points this morning?!"
"It isn't a riot over the food, my lord, it's about the plague!" the steward panicked. "This morning, Lord Roman Rivers dispatched a massive swarm of ravens directly to the city squares, publicly offering to dispatch Harrenhal's elite physicians and free medical supplies to King's Landing to entirely cure the plague! But Queen Cersei intercepted the message and publicly, violently cursed Lord Roman in the courtyards! She explicitly commanded the Gold Cloaks to burn the ravens and strictly declared that absolutely nothing from Harrenhal would ever be permitted to enter King's Landing! When the sick, dying commoners heard that the Queen Mother had intentionally rejected a magical cure out of pure spite, they completely snapped!"
Upon hearing this horrific revelation, the thick veins on Tyrion's forehead bulged dangerously, pounding furiously against his skull with each rapid heartbeat. Cersei's sheer, unfathomable stupidity had just doomed them all.
"Gods damn her!" Tyrion roared. "Summon the guards! Let's go!!"
When Tyrion and Kevan, heavily escorted by a massive detachment of Lannister guards and Gold Cloaks, finally arrived at the edge of the lower districts, they were immediately met with an apocalyptic vision of hell.
A massive, uncontrollable riot was violently raging across the entire street. Tens of thousands of diseased, starving commoners were furiously smashing absolutely everything in their path. They were setting fire to the wooden tenements and committing horrific atrocities of robbery and violence in every shadowed corner.
"That damned, psychotic Queen Mother!" a rioter screamed, hurling a cobblestone at the advancing guards. "She sits perfectly healthy in her golden keep, actively blocking our only salvation! How exactly are we supposed to survive this plague without Harrenhal's medicine?!"
"Give us food! We haven't eaten in days!"
"The Gold Cloaks are here! The lions' filthy minions have come to slaughter us!"
"Fight! Kill every last one of them! I absolutely refuse to die in King's Landing! I am breaking through the gates to find Lord Roman!"
The massive mob of King's Landing, upon seeing the heavily armored ranks of the Gold Cloaks and the Lannister red cloaks, showed absolutely zero fear. Driven completely insane by fever, starvation, and profound betrayal, they let out a deafening, unified roar and violently charged directly toward Tyrion and Kevan with suicidal rage.
"Oh, no!" Tyrion panicked, his eyes widening as a tidal wave of humanity rushed toward them. "Uncle Kevan, fall back! Get us the hell out of here!"
Seeing the incredibly dense, furious mob bearing down upon them, Tyrion frantically pulled Kevan backward behind the shield wall. Attempting to violently suppress a riot of this magnitude was completely impossible; if they remained in the streets for another minute, they would be completely torn to bloody pieces.
The Crownlands. Sow's Horn.
While the capital of King's Landing was violently descending into an apocalyptic, burning hellscape, the newly conquered agricultural zones surrounding Sow's Horn were bustling with profound, peaceful activity as the autumn crops were heavily harvested.
Local farmers and residents were vigorously, happily wielding their iron sickles in the golden fields. In a stunning display of civic unity, hundreds of heavily armored Harrenhal Vanguard soldiers had removed their gauntlets and were actively harvesting the grain right alongside the peasants.
Because the Harrenhal soldiers absolutely needed to be permanently stationed on the front lines to aggressively guard against any further counter-attacks from the exiled Crownlands nobles, and because they fundamentally lacked the time to quickly construct massive new military barracks, Roman had successfully negotiated a highly lucrative deal. He had heavily subsidized the local residents with silver, paying them generously to allow the Vanguard soldiers to quarter within their homes.
Beyond their rigorous, daily martial training and heavily organized border patrols, the Harrenhal soldiers actively utilized their massive physical strength to enthusiastically help the local residents with their grueling farm chores whenever they possessed free time.
An elderly farmer from Sow's Horn put down his sickle, wiping the sweat from his brow. He sat down on a grassy slope to drink from his waterskin, offering a profound, emotional sigh as he watched the massive Harrenhal soldiers effortlessly hauling heavy sacks of grain.
"By the Seven," the old man murmured in disbelief. "In all my eighty years, I have absolutely never seen a military force behave like this. Not only do they completely refuse to steal our winter grain or bother our daughters, but they actively volunteer to help us harvest our own fields! And they actually pay solid silver for the goods they consume! With the previous lords, I considered myself incredibly lucky if I wasn't violently dragged away from my family into unpaid, forced labor!"
Suddenly, the old man's young grandson ran up the dirt path, waving his hands excitedly. "Grandpa! Grandpa! Dad is back! He just arrived from King's Landing!"
"Huh?" The old man blinked in confusion. "What is he doing back here so soon?"
"Grandpa! Have you not heard?" the boy gasped. "King's Landing has completely descended into absolute chaos because of that psychotic madwoman, Cersei! Dad said the city is burning and dying of plague! He couldn't stand it for another second, so he grabbed his tools and ran away!"
Upon hearing this terrifying news, the old man struggled to his feet and peered out toward the horizon.
In the far distance, the sprawling Kingsroad was densely packed with a massive, endless, terrifying black line of humanity. Tens of thousands of desperate, starving refugees were violently pouring out of the capital, relentlessly marching north directly toward the safety of Harrenhal's borders.
Back in his command tent, Roman Rivers smirked. He had originally utilized the Apostle ravens to publicly offer free medical aid to King's Landing exclusively as a highly toxic, psychological propaganda maneuver, fully anticipating Cersei's legendary paranoia would cause her to violently reject the aid and make the smallfolk despise House Lannister.
However, the sheer, explosive ferocity of the King's Landing riots had actually wildly exceeded Roman's own expectations. The smallfolk hadn't just rioted; they had actively smashed through the city gates and were now frantically marching north to seek his direct political asylum.
To properly cope with this sudden, massive influx of desperate refugees, Roman immediately mobilized his extensive bureaucracy to rapidly construct massive quarantine zones and deploy hundreds of Harrenhal's elite physicians.
"Listen to me very carefully!" Roman strictly commanded his Vanguard captains. "Pay absolute attention to every single refugee arriving from King's Landing. Regardless of whether they appear perfectly healthy or violently ill, you are to aggressively divert them into the isolated quarantine camps! We will only properly integrate them into our agricultural workforce after our physicians have conclusively verified they do not carry the plague!"
While flawlessly directing the frontline quarantine protocols and actively resettling the displaced masses, Roman was simultaneously exchanging encrypted, high-level intelligence with Harrenhal via raven.
Lord Roman, Fili's neat handwriting read. Our Vanguard scouts have actively confirmed Lord Tywin Lannister's marching trail. He is aggressively pushing his primary host toward the Trident. You must strategically consider returning west to assist the Riverlords.
"Is that so?" Roman murmured to himself, his blue eyes gleaming with dark, predatory amusement. "It appears the Old Lion has finally lost his legendary temper and is making his grand move. Good. I genuinely hope Tywin aggressively slaughters his way through the Riverlands and violently teaches those arrogant, ungrateful Riverlords a bloody lesson. Let them bleed for refusing my Vanguard's entry earlier. I sincerely hope Tywin does not disappoint me!"
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