A sudden, bloody rebellion cost the Night's Watch Lord Commander Jeor Mormont his life and left more than fifty members of the Watch dead or wounded.
Among the dead—besides the Westermen soldiers who followed Tywin Lannister in launching the sudden revolt—at least three-quarters were originally men of the Night's Watch.
This number also included Alliser Thorne, the Master-at-Arms of Castle Black.
When the battlefield was finally cleared and the men found him, they saw that his head had been smashed into a pulp with stones, and one of his arms had been torn off to gods-knew-where. His death was nothing short of miserable.
The only one who emerged entirely unharmed from the rebellion—and who merely listened quietly as it unfolded—was Maester Aemon, who had always treated everyone kindly.
Huddled in on himself, he opened his blind eyes and waited for the chaos to end.
Tywin Lannister fastened the Valyrian steel sword Longclaw to his belt, then walked unhurriedly toward the Targaryen who had been forgotten by the world at its edge.
"Tywin, you know what you have done—"
Maester Aemon, as if sensing who stood before him, opened his blind eyes and looked toward Tywin Lannister.
"None of this was ever meant for me, Maester Aemon. You only need to do what you ought to do."
Tywin looked at him without expression, speaking in a calm, even voice.
His tone was neither hurried nor slow, as though everything he had just done were entirely justified.
But in the face of his justification, Maester Aemon only sighed and shook his head.
"You said just now that you are not a man of the Night's Watch. But from the day the King judged you, you already were." Aemon spoke, turning his head to look around.
"Lord Commander Mormont wished to have you swear the oath so you could feel the honor that belongs to the Watch."
"But from the very beginning, you betrayed him. You betrayed the Night's Watch. And you betrayed yourself, Tywin."
"And them, as well. They followed you into rebellion, failed, then became men of the Night's Watch, cloaked in black. Yet now you lead them down the wrong path again."
"If I truly stayed here, that would be the betrayal."
Tywin seemed annoyed by Maester Aemon's words, his face showing displeasure. "Enough. I did not come here to argue with you. The Night's Watch has always existed—you are merely mistaken in thinking I belong to you."
As Tywin spoke, his tone grew heavier, and at the end he even addressed Aemon in a commanding voice: "From this moment on, I will requisition all the ravens in Castle Black."
Seeing that Tywin had indeed kept him here for this reason, Aemon shook his head and refused without a moment's hesitation. "I will not help you. This is wrong, Tywin."
"I am of the Night's Watch, and so are you. But I will not aid a killer who has harmed his own brothers."
"You think I am here to negotiate with you?" Faced with the old man's stubborn refusal, Tywin issued a direct threat.
Sensing Tywin Lannister's murderous intent, Aemon remained calm.
"You have already killed Lord Commander Jeor Mormont. One more death means little to you."
"When the Targaryen dynasty fell, it was also by your own hand. Princess Elia Martell, Rhaegar's wife… Aegon… Rhaenys—Tywin, even here at Castle Black, I have heard of what you did."
"You are still a lion, but your pelt is no longer golden. You dyed it black with betrayal, broken oaths, lives, and blood. Such black is not the black of the Night's Watch. The honor of the Watch does not belong to you."
Tywin, whose expression had been merely angry a moment ago, felt his gaze turn instantly cold at Aemon's words, each one aimed to wound the soul.
But just as he was about to have Aemon dragged away and hanged from the high platform, Kevan Lannister stepped in to stop him.
"Brother, if you kill him, what follows will only grow more difficult for us. You do not need to do this."
Kevan understood perfectly what the situation was, and he also knew that they had come to a point where it was victory or death, with no path back.
Even so, they should not continue doing such things—at least, not if the honor of House Lannister meant anything.
Moreover, the care of Castle Black's ravens and the handling of messages were no longer Maester Aemon's responsibility. After all, for a blind man nearly a hundred years old, such work had long since become too difficult.
Tywin certainly understood what his younger brother Kevan meant by his warning; reason was still his greatest weapon.
Thus his anger lasted only an instant before he quickly calmed.
"Take him below and imprison him. Do not let him die."
Kevan hurriedly waved his hand, signaling the soldiers to step forward and escort the old man away.
Once Aemon had been taken out, Tywin shifted his gaze toward Castle Black, which he now effectively controlled.
"As for the former men of the Night's Watch—ask whether any are willing to follow me when I depart. If they are, I can absolve them of their Night's Watch vows in my name. But tell them this: whatever they desire can only be earned on the battlefield."
"Even becoming a knight, or even a noble, is possible—if they can achieve it."
"As for those unwilling to leave, tell them I will not force them. But if they want freedom, they must at least wait until we depart. And whatever happens after that is no concern of mine."
No one knew when the falling snow in the sky had stopped. Tywin Lannister looked at the mottled patches across the training yard and rested his gloved hand on the bear-shaped pommel of Longclaw, his eyes deep and contemplative.
Kevan, faced with his brother's veiled threat, showed no expression at all; he merely nodded calmly.
"I will have someone ask these men of the Watch. Those willing to follow us—we can give them a chance. Bring the ravens under control, and send messages to the other castles. Gather the troops and all the weapons and supplies we can command. We need every ounce of strength we can muster."
Kevan lowered his head in thought for a moment before looking toward Tywin. "We must act quickly. Have Genna and the others completed their final preparations? And Daven Lannister—can he truly persuade the lord of the Dreadfort?"
Hearing this, Tywin fell silent for a moment, watching the busy figures before him. His fingers tapped lightly on the hilt of Longclaw.
Then he let out a cold snort. "If I were Roose Bolton, I would not refuse. But we must show him our sincerity and the strength of our success. Write to Daven—tell him to convey all of this to him."
"And I recall that his son, Domeric Bolton, died of a stomach illness? He has no wife now, only a bastard he brought back to the Dreadfort?"
"Tell him that, if he wishes, Myrcella—or any woman of House Lannister—may become his wife."
"As for Genna—before all this began, I entrusted the Lannister fleet to her. If the Iron Bank does not wish to lose money, and if they wish to recover their investment several times over—tenfold, even a hundredfold—they will not refuse this deal."
"Tell them I need our fleet to secure the Bite. That point is crucial to us."
After pondering for a short moment, Tywin once more reviewed all his calculations in his mind. Once he confirmed that nothing was amiss, he issued his final orders.
With Robert's death, all the plans would activate at the same time.
The first thing he needed to control and conquer was the North. Only by seizing this land and gaining the support of "allies" could he proceed with what came next.
Thus not even the slightest mistake could be allowed.
Everything had to be accounted for.
Both men's hearts and men's interests alike.
Hearing Tywin's words—and seeing the confidence with which he spoke—Kevan could not help but feel steadier inside.
The entire plan before them was one they had been forced to activate only after learning at Harrenhal that the original plan had failed.
And this would now be a do-or-die gamble, burning their ships behind them.
Robert's death was the catalyst. Once Robert died, it was inevitable that the Seven Kingdoms would fall into chaos.
That outstanding bastard of Robert's, the iron-hard Stannis Baratheon, and even Renly, as well as Dorne and the Iron Islands—
However events unfolded, this would be House Lannister's final chance.
"I will personally verify all the messages and guarantee that no mistakes occur!"
Feeling the weight on his shoulders, Kevan could not help but tense up.
Not even when they had just killed Jeor Mormont, nor when steel blades were pointed at him, had he felt as nervous as he did now.
After speaking, Kevan turned to leave.
But at that moment Tywin reached out and seized his brother's arm.
"Mm. Kevan, see all of this done—
at the very least, we must avenge Jaime and Cersei!"
From the look in Tywin's eyes—an anger that had never left him since the moment he learned the news—Kevan nodded, his expression growing even heavier.
Kevan knew how deeply his brother had loved his wife, and how deeply he had loved Jaime.
Tywin's smile had only ever bloomed before his wife.
But now Tywin had lost his wife, and even the son he treasured above all else—Jaime—had been lost at Winterfell. One could imagine how furious Tywin truly was.
Yet he had never spoken of it, not until now.
Kevan Lannister understood perfectly the weight and resolve contained in those words once they came from Tywin's mouth.
"Tywin, I will stand with you—!"
...
The Dreadfort was the castle of House Bolton, located on the eastern side of the Northern continent, standing on the bank of the Weeping Water.
Today, this castle—known for horrors capable of frightening a crying child into silence—
welcomed a caravan.
Ramsay Snow tilted his head, puzzled as he watched this rather unusual caravan enter the Dreadfort.
Though they were here to deliver various supplies ordered by House Bolton—household goods, horses, armor, weapons—
For some reason, Ramsay Snow simply felt that something was off about them.
At his feet, his hounds barked madly at the caravan—shrill, savage.
He had only come to the castle a little more than a year ago, for after his father—the current Lord of the Dreadfort, Roose Bolton—lost his trueborn son, Domeric Bolton, to illness, they had brought him to the Dreadfort and made him its heir.
For now, Lord Roose Bolton had no other children besides him.
But Ramsay Snow, after arriving here, had treated everything in this place as his own home.
Thus he paid close attention to every single thing that happened within the castle.
When Roose Bolton followed Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark to fight in the Riverlands, Ramsay was the master of the castle.
Until his father, Roose Bolton, returned laden with spoils.
"Come. Let us see what this caravan has brought us."
Perhaps he had thought of something amusing—as he looked at the caravan delivering supplies to the Dreadfort, a chilling smile spread across Ramsay Snow's face.
He spoke affectionately to his hounds, then fastened iron chains around their necks and approached from afar.
Within the caravan, besides the wagons and mule carts carrying supplies, there were even carriages made specifically for passengers—mysterious-looking ones.
It was precisely these carriages that made Ramsay Snow feel something was off.
Because, by all logic, such a caravan had no need for elaborate, ornamental passenger carriages.
They seemed more like the sort of conveyance used when important guests paid a visit.
Yet in the North—at a place like the Dreadfort—what guests would ever come to House Bolton?
Reaching the carriage, Ramsay Snow wore a smile.
Suddenly, he unfastened one hound's chain and called out: "Go, Sara. Help me see what's inside."
Ramsay Snow enjoyed releasing naked girls into the forests of House Bolton and then hunting them with a pack of vicious hounds.
For the girls who gave him a comfortable thrill, he would grant them a quick death (of course, only after raping them), and then he would flay their corpses.
And to "commemorate" such girls, he would name his hounds after them.
For example, the hound he now called Sara.
But the moment his hound named "Sara" howled viciously and lunged toward the carriage concealed beneath a cloak, an iron sword thrust out from inside—piercing straight through the hound's mouth with perfect precision.
The poor hound gave a few muffled whimpers, and the surging blood filled its throat, silencing it forever.
Facing this sudden scene, both the merchants in the caravan and the soldiers of the castle froze as if someone had pressed a pause button, staring in terror at what had just happened.
The hound's body still twitched and spasmed while the sword withdrew back into the carriage.
The smile vanished from Ramsay Snow's face, replaced by a dangerous look.
Only then did a man step slowly out of the carriage, wearing a thick wool cloak and a hood.
He descended unhurriedly, wrapping his cloak casually around his iron sword to wipe away the dog's blood.
"This hardly seems like the proper etiquette for welcoming a guest."
The hooded man looked at Ramsay Snow, displeasure in his voice.
From those words, Ramsay Snow heard a message.
He narrowed his eyes, loosening his grip on the chains of his remaining hounds—only to tighten them again.
"How am I supposed to be sure you are truly a guest of the Dreadfort?"
"A 'guest' who doesn't dare show his face?"
---
I will post some extra Chapters in Patreon, you can check it out. >> patreon.com/TitoVillar
---