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Jaime Lannister
Dawn broke like a bleeding wound across the sky, revealing the horror that had come to Seagard. Two hundred Ironborn longships choked the harbor, their black sails and iron rams creating a forest of death on the water. Smoke rose from Seatown, the fishing village that sprawled beneath Seagard's walls, where the screams of the dying mingled with the crash of breaking doors and the coarse laughter of reavers.
Jaime Lannister sat atop his destrier at the crest of the hill. Beside him, his father sat motionless as a statue carved from stone, surveying the scene with those cold green eyes that had terrified lords and servants alike for decades.
"They're drunk on plunder," Tywin observed. "They think they've already won."
"They're about to learn otherwise," Jaime said, drawing his sword. The blade sang as it cleared the scabbard. Fourteen days of forced marching, of pushing men and horses to their limits, had led to this moment.
"Remember," Tywin said, not looking at his son, "we need prisoners. Someone knows where the boy is."
The boy. Adrian. The mysterious half-brother whose kidnapping had driven Cersei to tears. Jaime pushed the thought aside. Now was not the time for puzzles and suspicions.
"Vanguard!" Jaime roared, raising his sword high. "With me!"
Five hundred mounted knights answered his call, the cream of the Westerlands' cavalry. They thundered down the hillside like an avalanche of steel and fury, and Jaime led them, his white cloak streaming behind him like a banner of death.
The first Ironborn he encountered was pissing against a burning building, a wineskin in one hand and his cock in the other. Jaime's sword took his head off before he could even turn around. The head rolled into the flames, and the body toppled forward, pissing blood instead of water.
"For House Lannister!" Jaime roared, and his men echoed the cry as they smashed into the scattered reavers like a hammer striking glass.
The streets of Seatown became a charnel house. Ironborn who had been gleefully looting moments before found themselves facing disciplined cavalry instead of terrified fishermen. Jaime's sword was everywhere – opening throats, piercing hearts, removing limbs. A reaver with an axe tried to pull him from his horse; Jaime drove his sword down through the man's skull, feeling the crunch of bone, watching the light die in his eyes as brain matter leaked from the wound.
"Form up!" he commanded, wheeling his horse around. "Drive them toward the walls!"
Above them, the Mallister archers had taken position on Seagard's ramparts. Lord Jason Mallister himself could be seen directing their fire, and when the first volley darkened the sky, Jaime grinned beneath his helm. The Ironborn were about to learn what it meant to be caught between the hammer and the anvil.
"Ser Jaime!" one of his knights called out. "Look there!"
Through the smoke and chaos, Jaime saw him – a warrior in elaborate armor, the kraken of House Greyjoy worked in black iron across his breastplate, commanding a group of reavers trying to form a shield wall.
"Greyjoy," Jaime breathed.
Jaime spurred his horse forward, cutting down two reavers who tried to block his path. One he nearly decapitated, the spray of blood painting the wall of a nearby hovel. The other he opened from shoulder to hip, spilling the man's guts onto the muddy street where they steamed in the cool morning air.
"Greyjoy!" Jaime bellowed. "Face me, you salt-stinking coward!"
The Greyjoy turned, his face a mask of fury beneath his half-helm. "Kingslayer," he spat, raising his sword – castle-forged steel, not the poor iron most of his men carried. "Come then, and let's see if you're as good as the songs say. I, Rodrik Greyjoy, will slay you."
Jaime dismounted. Fighting on horseback gave him the advantage, but this needed to be personal. This needed to be memorable. The Ironborn needed to see their prince fall to understand they'd already lost.
"The songs don't do me justice," Jaime said, and attacked.
The first exchange told Jaime everything he needed to know. Rodrik led with a diagonal cut from shoulder to hip – a sailor's stroke, meant for the deck of a ship where footing was uncertain. Jaime flowed around it like water, letting the blade whisper past his chest while his own sword flickered out, drawing a thin line of red across Rodrik's sword arm. First blood.
Their swords met properly then, in a shower of sparks that danced between them like fireflies. Rodrik fought with the fury of the Drowned God's waves, all crushing power and relentless assault. He brought his blade down in great sweeping arcs, each one meant to split Jaime from crown to crotch.
Where Rodrik hammered, Jaime redirected. The Greyjoy's blade came down; Jaime's rose to meet it, letting the force slide away while he pivoted on his back foot, bringing himself inside Rodrik's guard. His pommel struck the Ironborn's elbow, and for a moment, Rodrik's arm went numb. Jaime could have killed him then, but he wanted the man to know he was being toyed with.
"You fight well," Rodrik grunted, trying to buy time for feeling to return to his arm. He attempted a feint high before sweeping low, a move that might have worked on a lesser swordsman.
Jaime hopped back just enough to let the blade pass, then lunged forward in the same motion, his sword opened Rodrik's thigh to the bone. Through the gap where the mail split to allow movement. Blood didn't seep; it spurted, painting the mud.
"You fight adequately," Jaime replied, circling now like a cat with a wounded mouse. "But then, I suppose that's impressive for an Ironborn. Most of you are only good at killing unarmed fishermen and raping their daughters."
Rodrik roared and came at him with desperate fury, his technique dissolving into wild swings. But the leg wound was already telling. He couldn't pivot properly, couldn't shift his weight, and that spray of arterial blood was counting down his remaining moments like a water clock.
Jaime parried the first strike, catching Rodrik's blade on his forte and guiding it harmlessly past. The second, he deflected with a circular motion. The third he simply stepped inside, letting Rodrik's own momentum carry him past.
On the fourth strike, Rodrik overextended, trying to compensate for his weakening leg with the reach of his arms. Jaime had been waiting for it. His wrist rotated, his blade becoming a silver wheel that caught Rodrik's sword and sent it spinning through the air. It landed point-first in the mud ten feet away.
Rodrik had just enough time for his eyes to widen in understanding before Jaime moved. Jaime's sword point found the gap in the gorget, that tiny space where the armor had to allow for the turn of a head, and drove through.
First the tough cartilage of the larynx, crunching like stepped-on shellfish, then the softer tissues of the throat, parting like wet silk. Jaime felt his blade scrape against vertebrae before punching through the other side in a fountain of crimson that painted the wall of a nearby hovel.
But Jaime wasn't done. He grabbed Rodrik's shoulder with his free hand, holding him upright, keeping their eyes locked.
Rodrik's mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. He tried to speak, perhaps to curse Jaime, perhaps to pray to his Drowned God, but only blood came out – thick, arterial blood mixed with pink foam from his punctured windpipe. It bubbled and frothed, running down his chin, filling his mouth until he was drowning in his own life.
Jaime twisted the blade once, feeling it grind against bone, widening the wound until it was a gaping second mouth beneath Rodrik's chin. More blood, impossibly more, as if the human body was nothing but a wineskin waiting to be punctured.
Then he yanked the blade free with a wet, sucking sound. The sword came away painted red from point to hilt, and a fresh gout of blood followed it, spraying across Jaime's golden armor.
Rodrik Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands, fell to his knees first. His hands went to his throat in a futile attempt to hold in what was already lost. Blood poured between his fingers, and Jaime watched him realize that he was dead, that these were his last moments, that all his dreams of salt and sea and glory were ending in a filthy street in Seatown.
The Greyjoy prince toppled forward into the mud with a wet splash. His body twitched once, twice, then went still. The blood continued to flow for a few moments more, mixing with the sewage and rainwater to create a dark pool that reflected the morning sky.
"Your heir is dead!" Jaime shouted to any Ironborn within earshot, placing his boot on Rodrik's back and raising his bloodied sword high. "Your prince bleeds out in the dirt like the dog he was! Throw down your arms or join him!"
If their prince, their best warrior, could be butchered so easily, what hope did common reavers have? Weapons began hitting the ground with metallic clangs, and soon the surrender spread like plague through the Ironborn ranks.
Kevan Lannister
Kevan Lannister had never been the warrior his brother Tywin was, nor did he possess Tygett's fury or Gerion's dash. But he was steady, reliable, and when the situation called for it, he could be as ruthless as any Lannister.
"There!" he pointed at a ship trying to pull away from the dock, its sails half-raised. "The Sea Bitch – that's Maron Greyjoy's ship. Grapples! Now!"
His men, a mixture of Lannister soldiers and Westerland sailors who knew their way around ships, sent grappling hooks flying through the air. Most caught the rail, and immediately men began hauling on the ropes, pulling the ship back even as its crew tried desperately to cut the lines.
"With me!" Kevan commanded, grabbing a rope himself.
Kevan hauled himself over the rail just as an Ironborn reaver charged at him with an axe. Kevan sidestepped, grabbed the man's wrist, and drove his sword up under the reaver's chin. The blade punched through the soft palate and into the brain, and Kevan shoved the dying man over the side.
"Clear the deck!" he roared, and his men swarmed aboard.
The fighting was vicious and close-quarters. The Ironborn knew they were trapped, and they fought with the desperate fury of cornered animals. Kevan saw one of his men get his face caved in by a mace, the bones crumpling like parchment, blood and brain matter splattering across the deck. Another Lannister soldier screamed as an axe took his arm off at the elbow, the limb spinning through the air to land with a wet thud.
But the Lannisters had numbers, and they were better at swordfighting than the Ironborns could ever hope to be.
"Rodrik, we need to leave!" a voice called out, and Kevan turned to see Maron Greyjoy emerging from the captain's cabin. The second son of Balon was perhaps twenty, with the harsh features common to the Iron Islands and seaweed in his dark beard. "So the Lannisters have come to play."
"Surrender, boy," Kevan said, his men forming a semicircle around them. "Your brother is dead. Your fleet is broken. There's no shame in living."
"The Drowned God spits on your mercy," Maron sneered, raising his sword. "What is dead may never die!"
"But rises again, harder and stronger," Kevan finished. "Yes, I've heard your words. Let's see if they're true."
Maron came at Kevan with wild swings. Kevan simply stepped aside from the first strike, parried the second, and on the third, trapped Maron's blade with his crossguard.
A quick headbutt broke Maron's nose in a spray of blood, and while the younger man was stunned, Kevan kicked his knee sideways. There was a horrible crack as the joint bent the wrong way, and Maron screamed, dropping his sword.
Kevan put his blade to Maron's throat. "Yield."
"Kill me," Maron gasped through his broken nose and tears of pain.
"No," Kevan said simply. "You're going to tell us everything you know about the boy your uncle took. And if you're very, very helpful, Lord Tywin might let you die quickly."
He had his men bind Maron securely, noting with satisfaction that the rest of the ship was theirs. Around them, the battle was turning into a slaughter.
Sandor Clegane
Sandor Clegane was not a knight. He'd never wanted to be one, not after seeing what knights really were – men who hid their cruelty behind pretty words and shinier armor. But he was a killer, perhaps one of the best in the Seven Kingdoms, and today, he had a debt to pay.
The little lord was out there somewhere, probably scared, probably hurt, maybe dying. Adrian Lannister, who'd looked at Sandor's ruined face without flinching, who'd thanked him politely for his protection, who'd tried to buy him a gift at the festival. The boy who'd stabbed an Ironborn to save Sandor's life, tiny hands shaking as he drove the blade home.
Sandor had failed him. Failed to protect him.
"You three, with me," he growled at a group of Lannister soldiers who looked like they knew which end of a sword was sharp. "We're going hunting."
They moved through the burning streets of Seatown like death itself. Sandor's sword was a butcher's tool today. An Ironborn with a bow tried to put an arrow in him; Sandor caught the shaft on his shield and closed the distance in three strides, bringing his sword down so hard it split the man from crown to groin, the two halves falling apart like a butchered pig.
"There!" one of his soldiers pointed. "That's Quellon Humble's son – the one with the squid on his shield!"
Sandor didn't care about names or houses. He cared that the man wore noble colors, which meant he might know something. The Humble boy saw them coming and tried to run, but Sandor was faster than his size suggested. He caught the boy by his hair, yanking him backward, and drove his knee into the small of his back. The spine snapped with a sound like a breaking branch, and the boy screamed.
"Where's the Lannister boy?" Sandor growled, pressing his sword point to the paralyzed reaver's eye.
"I don't—I don't know about any boy!"
Sandor pushed slightly, and the eye popped like a grape, fluid running down the boy's cheek as he shrieked. "Wrong answer."
"Please! Please! We were just here for the raid! King Balon never said anything about a boy!"
Sandor cut the boy's throat to end his misery. Or perhaps just to shut him up. Sandor wasn't entirely sure himself.
The Ironborn were trying to retreat to their ships now, but the Mallister archers were making that difficult; their fire arrows were raining down like stars, burning the sails of any ship they caught, and the Lannister forces were pressing them from behind. Sandor saw men jumping into the harbor in full armor, sinking like stones, too desperate to think. Others tried to swim, but the weight of their weapons dragged them down, and Sandor watched with grim satisfaction as they thrashed and gurgled and died.
One group of Ironborn had formed a shield wall near the docks, trying to hold long enough for their ships to escape. Sandor gathered a dozen men and hit them from the side, his massive strength breaking their formation. His sword took off a man's jaw, leaving the lower half of his face a ruin of broken teeth and torn flesh. Another reaver he grabbed by the throat, lifting him off the ground and crushing his windpipe with one hand while gutting him with his sword. The man's intestines spilled out, hot and stinking, coiling on the blood-slicked dock.
"The Hound!" someone screamed. "It's the Hound!"
Fear was a weapon as sharp as any blade. Some of the Ironborn threw down their weapons rather than face him. Sandor killed them anyway. They had taken the little lord. They all deserved to die.
.
.
By the time the sun was fully risen, the battle was over. The harbor was clogged with corpses and burning ships. The streets of Seatown ran red with blood, and the cries of the wounded filled the air like a chorus of the damned.
Tywin Lannister rode through the carnage like a king surveying his domain, his crimson cloak unmarked by blood despite the slaughter around him. He had directed the battle from horseback, sending troops where they were needed, ensuring no Ironborn escaped who might have information about Adrian.
"How many prisoners?" he asked Kevan, who had brought Maron Greyjoy before him.
"Forty-three, my lord. Including this one. He is Balon Greyjoy's second son, he might know something,"
Tywin looked down at Maron's broken form without a flicker of emotion. "Good. We'll need them all." He raised his voice so the assembled lords could hear. "Lord Mallister, your hospitality would be appreciated. We have questions that need answering."
As they moved toward Seagard's gates, Jaime caught Sandor's eye. The Hound was covered in blood, none of it his own, his scarred face even more terrible than usual.
"He wasn't here," Sandor growled. "I checked every corpse, every ship. The boy wasn't here."
"We'll find him," Jaime said, though he wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Sandor or himself. All he could think of was Cersei's tears, her desperate pleas. Save him, Jaime. Please save him.
Who was this boy who could reduce the proudest woman in the Seven Kingdoms to hysterics? And why did Jaime have the sinking feeling that when he found out, everything he thought he knew about his family would shatter like glass?
The gates of Seagard opened before them, and Lord Jason Mallister himself came out to greet them, his silver eagle banner flying proudly despite the smoke and death surrounding his castle.
"Lord Tywin," he said, bowing deeply. "Seagard owes you a great debt. Without your arrival..."
"The Crown's enemies are my enemies," Tywin said curtly. "We'll need your dungeons for the prisoners. And send ravens – the royal army approaches, as does the fleet. The Iron Islands will learn what it means to wake the lion."
As they entered the castle, Jaime looked back at the burning harbor one more time. Somewhere out there, across the deadly waters, a six-year-old boy with silver-gold hair was waiting to be rescued. Or waiting to die.
Tywin Lannister
Seagard's dungeons had been carved from the bedrock beneath the castle centuries ago, when the Riverlords still remembered what it meant to face true enemies. The stones wept with moisture even in summer, and the air tasted of salt and decay. Tywin Lannister descended the worn steps without hesitation, his footfalls echoing in the narrow stairwell. Behind him came Gregor Clegane, ducking to avoid the low ceiling, and four other men chosen for their particular talents.
The cell at the very bottom held Maron Greyjoy. The boy—for he was little more than that, perhaps twenty namedays—hung from chains bolted to the ceiling, his arms stretched above his head, his toes barely touching the floor. His broken knee had been roughly splinted, enough to keep him conscious but not enough to ease the agony. Blood had dried on his face from his broken nose, giving him a grotesque mask.
Tywin studied him for a long moment before speaking. Twenty years old, and playing at war. The Iron Islands bred them stupid, it seemed.
"Maron Greyjoy," Tywin said. "Second son of Balon. You're going to tell me where my son is."
Maron lifted his head, confusion mixing with pain in his eyes. "What... what son? Ser Jaime is—"
"My heir. Adrian Lannister. The boy your uncle took from Lannisport."
The confusion in Maron's eyes deepened. "I don't... we burned ships. Took plunder. There was no boy."
Tywin nodded to Gregor. The Mountain stepped forward and drove his fist into Maron's stomach. The breath exploded from the Greyjoy's lungs, and he gasped like a landed fish, unable to draw air with his arms stretched above him.
"Let me explain how this will proceed," Tywin said, waiting for Maron to stop wheezing. "You will tell me everything about my son's location. The longer you take, the more creative Ser Gregor becomes. But there are rules—you must remain capable of speech. We wouldn't want you dying before you've been useful."
"I don't know about any boy!" Maron gasped. "I swear by the Drowned God—"
"Your god has no power here." Tywin turned to Gregor. "Begin. Remember the rules."
Five hours. Tywin had climbed back to Lord Mallister's solar, attended to correspondence, reviewed supply manifests, and met with his bannermen. Five hours of screams echoing up from the depths, sometimes sharp and piercing, sometimes low and animal-like. Lord Mallister had gone pale after the first hour. His son had excused himself after the second.
When Tywin returned to the dungeon, Maron Greyjoy was no longer recognizable as the proud reaver who'd sailed to war. Gregor had been thorough but precise. Fingers bent but not removed. Ribs cracked but not shattered. Burns that wept clear fluid but hadn't been allowed to char deep enough to cause shock. The Mountain understood his craft.
"Ready to speak truth?" Tywin asked.
Maron's head lolled forward. When he spoke, his voice was broken glass. "Please... please... I don't know about your son. Uncle Euron... he never said... never told us..."
Tywin studied the boy's eyes. Pain could make men say anything, but it also stripped away the ability to lie convincingly. What he saw in Maron's gaze was genuine confusion beneath the agony.
"Your uncle led the attack on Lannisport. He captured my son there. You're saying he told you nothing?"
"He... he came back a week later. To Pyke. No boy. I swear... I swear on my mother's bones, there was no boy."
"What did he bring back?"
"Women. A few merchant daughters. Nothing... nothing special. Father mocked him for it."
Tywin's mind turned over this information like a smith examining a blade for flaws. Euron Greyjoy had specifically targeted Adrian but hadn't informed his own family of the prize he'd taken. Why?
"Tell me about your uncle."
"Mad," Maron gasped. "He's mad. Sometimes he says that he can see the entire world, saying he had been beyond the wall, saying he has seen everything, and it's all his for the taking. Father banished him once, but called him back for the war."
"Where is he now?"
"Iron Islands... when we left. But he spoke of... spoke of meeting someone."
"Who?"
"The Drumm girl. Daughter of Lord Drumm. Said she had... had something he wanted."
"Tell me your father's war plans."
What followed was a litany of stupidity that would have been amusing if it hadn't cost Tywin his fleet. Balon Greyjoy intended to crown himself King of the Iron Islands and raid the western coast with impunity. He believed the realm too divided to respond effectively. He thought the North would stay home, the Vale would remain neutral, and the Reach would dither. He'd somehow convinced himself that Robert Baratheon, who'd won his throne by crushing rebellions, would let this stand.
"Which houses opposed this war?"
"Only... only Harlaw. Lord Rodrik Harlaw. Called father a fool. Father threatened to... to give his daughters to the thralls if he didn't support us."
"And yet Lord Harlaw sailed with your fleet?"
"Had to. Had no choice."
Tywin turned to one of his men. "Bring it."
They unlocked the chains of Maron, and he fell on the floor with a cry of pain as the body was brought inside.
Maron's eyes widened. "Rodrik? No... no, not Rodrik..."
"Your brother is dead. Your fleet is broken. Your rebellion is over." Tywin stepped back. "But you're not going to die. Not quickly."
"Please—"
"You'll remain here. Water will be brought daily. Nothing else."
Maron's eyes darted between Tywin and his brother's corpse, understanding dawning with fresh horror. "You can't... you can't mean..."
"In a week, perhaps two, you'll grow hungry enough. In three weeks, you'll convince yourself it's what he would want—to sustain you, to keep you alive. In a month, you'll feast on him like the animal you are. And then, when he's gone, when you've eaten every scrap of flesh from his bones, you'll realize it only bought you time. There's no rescue coming. No ransom to be paid. You'll die in this cell, Maron Greyjoy, after you've become the monster your father raised."
Maron began to sob, the sound high and broken. "Please... mercy..."
"House Lannister pays its debts," Tywin said. "Always."
Tywin left, and the door of the cell was locked.
As they climbed the stairs, leaving Maron's wails behind, Gregor asked, "Why not just kill him?"
"Death is a mercy," Tywin replied. "And the story will spread. Every reaver will know what happened to Balon Greyjoy's son. Fear is more useful than corpses."
But as Tywin emerged into daylight, he thought of what all of this meant for him and Adrian's location. Euron Greyjoy had taken Adrian but hidden it from his own family. He'd returned to the Iron Islands without the boy, then spoken of meeting with Lord Drumm's daughter. This wasn't random violence or even ransom—this was something else.
Euron was playing his own game, separate from his brother's pathetic rebellion. And Adrian was a piece in that game.
Day 3 - The King Arrives
The royal banners appeared on the horizon like a golden storm. Robert Baratheon arrived at Seagard with all the subtlety of a thunderclap—twenty thousand men, a hundred banners, and enough pomp to wake the Drowned God himself.
Jaime watched from the walls as the king rode through the gates.
"Your Grace," Lord Tywin greeted him in the courtyard, bowing to him.
"Tywin," Robert boomed, dismounting with a grunt. "Heard you killed half the Ironborn fleet already. Trying to win my war without me?"
"Merely preparing the battlefield, Your Grace."
Robert laughed. "And they took your boy, I heard. We'll get him back, don't you worry. I'll feed Balon Greyjoy his own cock before this is done."
Day 5 - The Tullys
Hoster Tully arrived with less fanfare. The Lord of Riverrun had aged considerably since Jaime had last seen him; he seemed more like a dead man than a healthy one.
"Lord Tywin," Hoster said at the informal gathering in Mallister's solar. "My condolences about your son."
"He's not dead," Tywin replied curtly.
"Of course not. I meant no offense." Hoster paused. "My grandson Robb is about the same age. I cannot imagine..."
"Then don't," Tywin cut him off.
Day 13 - North and Vale
They arrived within hours of each other, as if coordinated. Ned Stark rode at the head of fifteen thousand Northmen, his face grim as northern stone. Jon Arryn brought ten thousand from the Vale, looking every one of his sixty-seven years.
"Lord Stark, Lord Arryn," Robert greeted them in the great hall, pulling both into embraces they clearly didn't want. "Now we can crush these iron fuckers properly."
"Your Grace," Jon Arryn said carefully, "perhaps we should discuss strategy before we speak of crushing."
Day 14 - The Western Fleet and the Council
Three hundred ships flying Lannister crimson filled the harbor. Not as many as they'd lost at Lannisport, but enough. The great hall of Seagard had been cleared of its usual tables, replaced with a massive map of the Iron Islands spread across trestles. Lords clustered around it like crows over a corpse.
"Stannis won't be here for fifteen more days," Jon Arryn was saying. "With the Royal Fleet, we'd have overwhelming naval superiority."
"We have superiority now," Tywin countered. "Three hundred ships from the West, forty from the Riverlands, thirty that survived here at Seagard. More than enough."
"Against the entire Iron Fleet?" Ned Stark asked. "They have five hundred ships at least. We have to wait, and minimize our losses,"
"Minimize losses," Robert spat. "You sound like an old woman, Ned."
"I sound like someone who's seen enough war to know patience wins more battles than haste," Ned replied evenly.
"Patience." Tywin's voice cut through the room like a blade. "Every day we wait is another day my son remains in Ironborn hands. Another day for them to torture him, starve him, or worse."
The hall fell silent. Jaime watched his father work, seeing the calculation behind every word.
"Lord Tywin," Jon Arryn said gently, "we all understand your concern—"
"Do you?" Tywin turned those cold green eyes on the Hand. "Has your son been taken, Lord Arryn? Has Lord Stark's?" He looked around the room.
"The boy's probably dead already," someone muttered from the back.
Tywin turned slowly toward the voice—some minor Riverlands lord.
"Would you care to repeat that, Lord Vypren?"
The man paled. "I meant no offense, Lord Tywin. Only that the Ironborn aren't known for treating prisoners gently."
"My son is alive," Tywin said with absolute certainty. "And we will recover him."
"Of course we will," Robert declared, slamming his fist on the table. "Enough talk. We go now, with what we have. I didn't come here to sit on my ass for another fortnight."
"Your Grace," Ned protested, "if we attack piecemeal—"
"We're not attacking piecemeal," Tywin interrupted. "Look at the map, Lord Stark."
He moved to the table, pointing at various islands. "The Iron Islands are not a unified fortress. They're seven major islands and dozens of smaller ones. We don't need to take them all at once."
"Explain," Robert commanded, though he was already grinning.
"We take Harlaw first," Tywin continued. "Lord Rodrik Harlaw opposed this war—we have that from all prisoners, we sharply questioned all of them, and they all gave the same answer when it came to House Harlaw. He'll turn if given the chance. That gives us a foothold and splits their forces."
"And then?" Jon Arryn asked.
"Then we move on Orkmont and Great Wyk simultaneously," Jaime found himself saying, seeing where his father was going. "They'll have to choose which to defend."
"While a third force threatens Old Wyk," Tywin nodded. "Force them to spread their fleet thin."
"What about Pyke itself?" Robert asked. "That's where Balon is."
"Pyke waits," Tywin said. "We isolate it, cut it off from support. When Stannis arrives with the Royal Fleet, we crush it from all sides."
"I like it," Robert declared. "Ned?"
The Lord of Winterfell studied the map for a long moment. "It could work. But the cost in lives..."
"The cost in lives will be higher if we wait," Tywin said. "Every day gives them more time to prepare, to fortify, to hide prisoners where we'll never find them."
That last point struck home. Jaime saw it in the way Robert's jaw clenched.
"My lords," Hoster Tully spoke up. "Lord Tywin makes a valid point. Speed has its own value in war."
"Lord Commander Selmy," Robert called to where Barristan stood by the door. "Your opinion?"
The old knight stepped forward. "Strike hard and fast, Your Grace. It's what they won't expect. They think we'll wait for our full strength."
"Then it's decided," Robert announced. "We sail in two days. Tywin, you'll lead the assault on Harlaw with the Western fleet. Ned, you and I will take Great Wyk. Jon, you've got Orkmont."
"Your Grace," Jon Arryn protested, "perhaps you should remain—"
"I'm going to war, Jon. End of discussion." Robert's grin was savage. "I'm going to personally cave in Balon Greyjoy's head with my hammer."
As the lords began discussing specifics, Jaime moved closer to his father.
"You planned this," he said quietly. "You knew Robert would want immediate action."
"Robert is predictable," Tywin replied just as quietly. "He wants blood and glory. I simply gave him a path to both."
"And Adrian?"
Something flickered in Tywin's eyes. "Will be recovered. One way or another."
Adrian Lannister
The cell stank of rot and salt and despair. Adrian had learned to breathe through his mouth, shallow little sips of air that didn't carry as much of the stench. His right arm had gone numb hours ago, the iron manacle cutting off circulation where it held his wrist high against the wall. His left hand was free—a small mercy that let him brush away the rats when they got too bold.
Everything hurt. His ribs from where Euron had kicked him two days ago. His head from where it had struck the deck during a storm. His throat, raw from the salt air and lack of fresh water. But pain was just another lesson, wasn't it? Father had taught him that. Pain was weakness leaving the body, or some such thing, lords said to sound wise.
Adrian tried to keep his eyes open; he did not want to close them. He would see them again.
'Tell me everything you see, boy.' Euron had told him, before slicing his blue knife against his hand.
Adrian's eyes felt heavy, and for a moment, he was not here.
'''Adrian saw stone corridors that bled like open wounds, the walls weeping gold instead of blood. A lion crouched upon a throne of broken harps, its mane matted with wine. At its feet, a small man gnawed upon a golden crown, teeth clinking against metal as if it were bone. The lion roared, but the man only laughed, fat drops of red spilling from his mouth as he swallowed the crown whole.
From the man's shadow stretched another shape, larger than him, darker, looming until it smothered the golden cub curled in the corner. The cub whimpered, pawing helplessly as the shadow bent close, whispering words Adrian could not hear. The cub's cries turned to silence, and the shadow's laughter filled the hall, echoing like chains dragging over stone.'''
'''He was in a different place. Adrian wandered through a hall of mirrors, each pane a different sky. In one, a girl with eyes dark as velvet night reached out, her hand brushing his. The glass between them melted like candle wax, and when her fingers touched his, warmth flooded him like the first song ever sung.
Then another face bled through the mirror: a woman with hair of sunlight, her lips painted with honey, and she kissed him, her tongue entered his mouth. She tasted like rot, like biting a bad apple. Adrian choked on poison.
The dark-eyed maiden reached again, her fingers clean, pulling away from the sunlight woman. The woman's arms wrapped tighter, gold chains hissing around his throat. '''
'''A feast stretched endlessly before him, pheasants stuffed with figs, goblets brimming with wine, trenchers piled high with sweetmeats. Lannisters crowded the long table, their laughter ringing sharp as coins striking stone. His father, his uncles, his cousins—each face radiant, each gesture graceful, the very image of wealth and power.
But the longer he stared, the less they seemed men and women. Their skin gleamed too bright, their fingers too stiff. When one raised a goblet, he saw not flesh but hammered gold, hollow and cold. Their mouths opened in laughter, yet no sound came, only the scraping of metal grating on metal.
Adrian looked down at his own trencher. There, sprawled across the plate, lay a lion's carcass, its mane filthy, its head swollen and misshapen, its jaws sagging open as if mocking him. The meat steamed, dripping blood onto the table. With horror he realized his hands were tearing at its flesh, greasy strands of mane clinging to his fingers, its rancid taste crawling down his throat.
Across from him, Tyrion raised his cup, smiling as though they shared some private jest. Yet his eyes were black pits, bottomless, and from them spilled a slow trickle of wine that looked too thick, too dark. Around him, the golden family leaned closer, their stiff jaws grinding, their heads bending, waiting.
Adrian's goblet filled itself, brimming not with wine but a thick, green-black draught that reeked of poison. His hands moved, lifting it high, and the golden faces clattered their approval. Tyrion raised his cup to meet him, and for a moment, Adrian saw corpses everywhere, their cups filled full, and they all drank deep.
When the cups touched, the sound was not a chime but a scream, echoing through the hall as the golden masks of his family began to melt, one by one, dripping into pools at his feet.'''
The door creaked open, and he was once again in the ship. Adrian didn't look up. He'd learned that lesson too—don't give them the satisfaction of seeing fear.
"Still alive, little lion?" The voice was wet, phlegmy, like the man was speaking through a mouthful of spoiled porridge. "That's good. That's very good."
A fish—or what had once been a fish—landed at Adrian's feet with a wet slap. The smell hit him immediately, worse than the cell itself. Decay and rot, the flesh gray-green and crawling with things Adrian didn't want to examine too closely.
"Your supper, m'lord," the man giggled. Actually giggled, like this was the funniest thing in the world. "Fresh from the kitchens."
Adrian kept his eyes on the wall. Count the stones. Twenty-three in the row at eye level. Twenty-three stones between him and—
A hand touched his arm, fingers pressing into the flesh above his elbow.
"Shame you're not three or four years older," the man said, and his breath was almost as bad as the fish. "We'd have such fun together, you and I. Such fun."
The fingers moved to his leg, squeezing his thigh through the torn fabric of his breeches. Adrian bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood but didn't make a sound. Don't give them anything. Not fear, not anger, nothing.
"Silent treatment, eh?" The man giggled again. "That's alright. I like the quiet ones. Less fuss."
The hand lingered for another moment, then withdrew. Footsteps retreated, the door slammed shut, the lock clicked into place.
Only then did Adrian allow himself to shake. Just for a moment, just three breaths' worth of trembling, then he forced it down. Locked it away with all the other fears and terrors that wanted to crawl up his throat and emerge as screams.
He looked at the fish.
It was a cod, or had been once. Now it rotting, flesh sloughing off in places, bones beginning to protrude through the decay. But bones... bones were interesting.
Adrian reached out with his free hand, careful not to stretch too far and pull his right arm. The fish fell apart at his touch, flesh sliding away like overcooked meat. But there—a rib bone, long and thin, still attached to the spine. And there, even better, one of the larger bones from near the head, curved and sharp at one end where it had broken.
He pulled it free carefully, wiping the worst of the rot away on his breeches. The bone was maybe four inches long, thin as a needle at one end, thicker at the other where he could grip it. He tested the point against his thumb, pressing just enough to—
Blood welled up, a perfect drop of crimson in the dim light filtering through the door's barred window. Sharp. Very sharp.
What had Sandor taught him? "A knife's no good if they know you have it," the scarred man had said during one of their training sessions. "Hide it until you need it. Then use it fast and without hesitation."
He could hide it in his sleeve, but the fabric was too torn, too loose. It might fall out. His boot? No, he couldn't reach it properly with only one hand free.
The waistband of his breeches. Yes. He worked the bone carefully into the fabric, point down, until it was secure but easy to reach. Just another part of the seam unless someone looked closely.
But what then? He couldn't pick the lock—he'd never learned how, and besides, it was on the outside. He couldn't fight his way out, not against grown men. But he could... what? Stab someone when they got close? And then what? They'd kill him, or worse, chain both his hands.
Unless...
Adrian thought of Uncle Tyrion, always thinking three moves ahead in cyvasse. "The threat of violence is often more powerful than violence itself," Tyrion had said. "Make them think you're capable of anything, and they'll treat you with more care."
Or he could use it on himself. The thought came. If things got too bad, if the man came back and wanted to do more than touch... A quick thrust to the right place and it would be over. Father would be disappointed, but Father wasn't here. Father wasn't chained to a wall with men who looked at him like...
No. That was the coward's way, and Lannisters weren't cowards.
"My name is Adrian Lannister," he whispered to the darkness. "Son of Tywin Lannister. I am six years old, and I will be seven on my next nameday. I live at Casterly Rock. My favorite food is honeycakes. My best friend is Joy Hill. Brother Tyrion taught me to read. Uncle Tygett and Uncle Gerion make me laugh. Aunt Genna is kind, and sometimes she tells me stories of her childhood to make me laugh. Brother Jaime is in the Kingsguard. Sister Cersei is the Queen."
"A Lannister always pays his debts," he said, louder this time, and felt the bone's weight against his hip like a promise.
Somewhere above, footsteps crossed the deck. Somewhere beyond that, his family was coming for him. They had to be. His father wouldn't let this insult stand. The might of House Lannister would fall on the Iron Islands like a hammer on an anvil.
He just had to survive until then. Had to be smart, be strong, be ready.
The bone pressed against his skin.
"A Lannister is no Coward. A Lannister is always calm, and A Lannister always pays his debts,"
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