The Red Fork flowed beneath the fading light of dusk, its muddy waters reflecting the scorched earth along its banks. The air reeked of burnt grain.
The Westerlands army's encampment spread along the riverbank like a forest of steel and canvas. Banners fluttered in the wind, the golden-red lions glaring fiercely even in the dimming twilight. At the camp's center stood the largest crimson tent, its fabric richly embroidered with gold thread—the command tent of Great Lord Tywin Lannister.
Inside, the air was tense. A detailed map of the Riverlands lay spread across a massive oak table. The Red Fork wound through it like a ribbon of blood, and a golden lion piece pinned down the mark for Pinkmaiden Castle—the focus of all attention.
Great Lord Tywin sat upright in the seat of honor, posture straight as a spear. His pale green eyes, cold and deep as frozen lakes, swept over the Westerlands lords gathered around the table.
"The King's letter."
His voice was calm and steady. He slid a parchment bearing the crowned stag seal to the center of the table.
"His Grace requests that we cease our campaign in the Riverlands and restrain our men."
He placed a deliberate weight on the word "requests," and unease rippled through the knights present. No one believed it was truly a request.
Lord Roland Crakehall snorted. "Restraint? Where was the King's 'request' when our men were kidnapped? Now he takes offense?"
"His Grace has sent Lord Beric Dondarrion to lead a punitive host into the Riverlands," Ser Damion said evenly. "He demands that we surrender Ser Gregor Clegane to face judgment in King's Landing—for crimes committed during the raids."
Everyone knew what Gregor had done. His brutality went far beyond simple atrocities. Yet none objected—he was Tywin's sharpest and most loyal weapon.
A low murmur passed through the tent. Hand over the Mountain? It would not only disgrace House Clegane but openly challenge Tywin's authority.
Addam Marbrand, a shrewd young knight, frowned. "My lord, Lord Beric bears the king's command, and behind him stands King Robert. If we defy this order, I fear—"
"Fear what?"
Tywin's tone did not rise, but the quiet weight of it crushed all further words.
"Gregor is fulfilling his duty. He answers the Riverlands' provocation with blood and fire. He answers that foolish woman Catelyn Tully's kidnapping of my son."
His gaze swept the table, sharp as an eagle's. "As for Beric Dondarrion and that fire-worshiping monk with his rabble, let them play their games with Gregor. They are beneath our notice."
He paused, tapping the map where Pinkmaiden Castle lay.
"Our target is here. Pinkmaiden guards the main pass. Take it, and then seize Acorn Hall—when both fall, the Riverlands will lie open before us. The Tullys' resistance will collapse. Pass the order: at dawn, we march on Pinkmaiden Castle. Within three days, I want Lannister banners on its walls."
The lords exchanged brief glances, then answered together, "Yes, my lord."
When the council ended, the men filed out, leaving only Tywin and Ser Damion.
"Tywin," Damion said quietly, "the King will not let this go. Robert is set on his course this time."
Tywin walked to the table and poured himself a glass of Arbor gold. The liquid shimmered like molten sunlight.
"Robert's resolve cannot halt a lion's vengeance."
He drank. The wine burned on the way down, but it could not thaw the ice in his eyes.
He returned to the map, studying the defenses marked around Pinkmaiden, calculating troop numbers and siege plans in silence. Pinkmaiden must fall. Its capture would break House Tully and prove Lannister might to all Westeros.
Outside, night deepened. The camp's noise faded until only the patrols' footsteps and the distant whinnies of horses remained. Tywin still stood before the map, his goblet empty. The candlelight threw his tall shadow across the tent like that of a silent giant.
He thought through the details of the siege—and of King's Landing. Renly banished. The Tyrells restless. Cersei and Jaime...
At the thought of his children, something complicated stirred beneath the cold armor of his heart. Cersei's pride and short-sightedness, Jaime's reckless impulses—both disappointed him. Yet they were the blood of Casterly Rock. Especially Jaime. He was the Lannisters' only true future. Not that twisted creature who had been taken hostage.
Just then, the tent flap lifted. Tywin's attendant entered, carrying three rolled parchment letters in his hands.
"Lord, this... was just found near the camp gate."
The attendant respectfully placed the letters on the table before Tywin, then stepped back to stand silently in the corner.
Tywin's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly. When had the defenses of the Westerlands become so lax? A letter, left in the middle of the night, of unknown origin, at the camp gate?
He set down his empty goblet and picked up the topmost letter. The paper was plain, yet the handwriting carried a sense of urgency.
It was Jaime!
Between the lines lay Jaime's characteristic agitation and impatience, the kind that surfaced only in moments of crisis. Tywin could almost picture his son's hurried, restless strokes across the page.
Jaime wrote that someone intended to accuse the King—that Cersei's children, Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen, were not sired by the King, but by him. The situation was dire. He urged Great Lord Tywin to hasten to King's Landing.
A chill shot through Tywin's chest, icy dread spreading up to his scalp. His knuckles turned white around the parchment.
Absurd!
Vicious slander!
He nearly tore the letter to shreds—then stopped.
Wait... if Jaime needed to contact him, he wouldn't resort to such theatrics.
Tywin studied the handwriting, and certain irregularities caught his eye. Suppressing the surge of fury and suspicion, he picked up the second letter.
The contents were identical, word for word. Yet this one bore, in the lower right corner, a bold seal of a roaring lion—the crest of House Lannister of Casterly Rock.
Impossible!
Who could have stolen the Lannister sigil?
Could this second letter truly be from Jaime? No. The handwriting didn't match his.
A wave of dizziness struck him. Drawing in a sharp breath, Tywin seized the third letter.
Its contents, too, were exactly the same. But the tone was cold and detached, devoid of emotion, as if merely stating a fact. There was no greeting, no signature, no seal.
"CRASH!"
Tywin's fist slammed against the heavy oak desk. The goblet toppled, and red wine spilled across the map like blood, soaking the mark of Pinkmaiden Castle. The candle flames shuddered violently, casting his furious expression in twisted, flickering light.
Who?!
Who dared mock Tywin Lannister in such a vile way?
A prank? Or a deliberate attempt to sow discord?
His teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. A dangerous hand was behind this. Renly? The Tyrells? Or...
Countless names and possibilities flashed through his mind.
What shocked him even more was the claim itself. True or not, if that drunken brute Robert believed it, what might he do in his rage? The future of House Lannister—everything Tywin had built—could be destroyed in the coming storm.
He forced himself to steady his breathing, to think rationally. His mind was a battlefield.
Reason told him it was likely a trap, carefully designed to draw him from the Riverlands and ruin his impending strike against House Tully. But doubt festered.
What if it was true? If he did not go to King's Landing, Cersei and Jaime would be doomed. The very foundation of House Lannister would shake.
Worse, if Robert acted on this, the Lannisters would be placed on the defensive. He would raise his armies and march on the Westerlands, determined to erase the house that had humiliated him from Westeros itself.
Tywin turned sharply, his voice a low, commanding growl.
"Not a word of this is to be spoken!"
The attendant flinched, trembling as he bowed deeply. "Understood, my lord."
Tywin stood with his back to him, chest heaving as he stared at the map, where the mark for Pinkmaiden Castle was now stained crimson with wine.
Pinkmaiden Castle was important—but it could not compare to the bloodline of Casterly Rock, nor to the survival of House Lannister.
There was no time. Sending a raven to confirm the message would take too long. He couldn't gamble. He had to go to King's Landing himself.
If this was a trap, he would make the one who set it pay a price ten thousand times worse than death.
If it was true... then...
A shadow passed over Tywin's eyes.
...
The next day, Great Lord Tywin appeared unchanged. He moved with his usual command, organizing the siege of Pinkmaiden Castle, issuing orders, inspecting siege engines, and discussing tactics with his lords.
But that night, in secret, he handpicked five thousand elite cavalrymen—each armed and armored with the finest equipment of the Westerlands—and gathered them in the most remote corner of the camp.
The rest of the army he left under Ser Damion's temporary command.
The moon was hidden behind thick clouds, and the world lay in darkness. Tywin took one last look at the dim outline of Pinkmaiden Castle, then turned his gaze toward King's Landing.
He spurred his horse, his black cloak snapping in the wind.
"Advance!"
The deep, commanding order tore through the silence.
Five thousand horsemen, a tide of black steel, moved like shadows from the Westerlands camp. Their hooves, wrapped in cloth, struck the soft earth with muffled thuds as they rode swiftly south, vanishing into the boundless dark.