Chapter 79 — Withdrawal and Resolution
"Who does he think he is—ordering a king!?"
…
"Shameful. Absolutely shameful! Running without a fight, slinking away with his tail between his legs, abandoning the Iron Throne—shame!"
…
"Father would never have done something so disgraceful!"
…
Even with the door shut, Joffrey's shrill shouting at his mother carried clearly down the corridor. It had become his only form of "daily entertainment."
When he wasn't stomping around the Casterly Rock courtyard firing a crossbow at rabbits, he was barging into Cersei's chambers to scream and throw tantrums—though he didn't dare confront the grandfather he so deeply resented.
Jamie Lannister, "uncle" in name but father in truth, should by rights have reprimanded the boy.
But right now, he had no such mind for discipline.
Standing outside the door, he drew several long breaths. His golden hair was disheveled, and fresh scratches marked his face—evidence of a recent scuffle with a certain fiery-tempered woman.
But even those claw marks paled compared to the expression on his face: stunned, shaken, and filled with disbelief.
"How could he do this?"
"Why would he do this?"
"Has he gone mad?"
The moment Jamie had learned the news, the fearless knight—renowned for arrogance and bravado—found himself drifting in a haze of confusion. After standing still for a long time, battling the turmoil in his mind, he finally strode toward his father's chambers.
At the door, even before he entered, soft yet solemn music seeped from within—gentle, elegant, sorrowful…
The Rains of Castamere.
A song composed by a bard praising—or condemning—Tywin's annihilation of a rebellious western house.
In a twisted way, it was the anthem of their "glory," though Tywin almost never listened to it.
"Empty flattery leads men astray," he had once said.
Yet now, Jamie wished his father could get lost in old victories, rather than rationally choose a course as insane as the one he had taken.
Jamie pushed the door open. The music stopped instantly. At his subtle gesture, the singer bowed and withdrew.
Jamie watched him leave, then turned toward the bald old lion seated at the wine-table.
After a moment's hesitation, he spoke.
"I… just learned something."
"About the current political situation?" Tywin asked without looking up. "Or about which whore your brother has managed to charm this time?"
"Neither. I came from Cersei's rooms."
That made Tywin's indifferent expression shift ever so slightly. He lifted his gaze, studying his son in silence before answering with a question of his own—one that clearly avoided the topic.
"The Iron Islands' fleet has shown its hand. The North will be in chaos soon. A juicy piece of meat ready to fall into House Martell's mouth—they'll be far too occupied to meddle elsewhere. Stannis poses little threat. The new head of House Tully is a fool, and Lady Lysa of the Vale is even more witless. Tell me, in all of Westeros, who remains dangerous to us?"
Jamie's jaw tightened.
"And the price for all this stability is… abandoning King's Landing? You can't pretend you don't know what that means. That thing—"
"Jamie, try to understand."
Tywin cut him off. Seated with perfect composure, he ran a thumb along his signet ring and gazed at the only child he considered competent.
"Everything I do is for House Lannister."
…
"For House Lannister…"
Jamie walked away in a daze, staring up at the sky as fragmented memories swirled through his mind. Each recollection tore him between duty and revulsion.
By Tywin's cold logic, his decisions would indeed guide their house to victory.
But Jamie could not suppress one question—
Must he allow this, again?
"What would Tyrion do…?"
His gaze drifted toward another tower of the castle.
…
A chilling wail rose from deep underground—a sound like wind shrieking through stone cracks, but with the unmistakable timbre of spirits crying out.
Dozens of soldiers looked on with pale faces as faint shadows from every direction converged, flowing like flocks of migrating birds into the narrow subterranean passage.
Moments later, a low and eerie roar thundered from below—part beast's snarl, part waking giant's groan, all of it threaded with a strange note of panic.
One cry was followed by a second… a third…
Nineteen in total, before the underground finally fell silent.
A shrill, deathly wail drifted up from the depths below—like wind scraping through stone crevices, yet more akin to the mournful cries of restless spirits.
Under the terrified, trembling gazes of the soldiers, faint shadows gathered from every direction. They converged like flocks of birds returning to roost, surging into the narrow underground passage.
Moments later, a loud yet strangely feeble, bestial roar erupted from beneath—half enraged howl, half panicked awakening. One came after another, second, third… until the nineteenth cry echoed through the stone, and then the subterranean commotion abruptly ceased.
Then, under the soldiers' mix of fear and eager anticipation, a young figure climbed up through a narrow vent-like opening in the corner.
"Milord!" A soldier hurried over.
"Break all the bones down there—shatter them completely. Then bring them out."
"Yes, sir." The man bowed and began ordering others to work.
Charles glanced quietly at his left palm, let out a small breath, and scanned the area.
These soldiers were not the same ones who previously guarded him—and the reason was obvious.
Seeing that his presence was not needed here, he turned and made his way toward the Hand's Tower, where the Lord of Winterfell was finishing the last of his preparations.
Climbing the stairs, he entered the room. Ned Stark was sorting through various documents and personal effects. Without looking up, he spoke:
"Hard to believe everything's gone to hell, and you're still fretting over those piles of bones."
"No matter what happens, life goes on," Charles replied. Then, noticing Ned's dark expression, he added, "The bridge will straighten when you reach it. Worrying won't help."
"Worry? I'm only… shaken."
Ned shook his head with a bitter laugh. "Winterfell was almost taken by twenty bloody Ironborn. If the Frey guards hadn't ignored the decoy ruse, I don't dare imagine the consequences."
He exhaled sharply, self-mockery deepening.
"And the one leading them? My foster son—raised under my roof for ten years. What am I supposed to call that?"
"Raising a tiger to invite disaster," Charles said with a scholarly calm.
"Exactly." Ned sighed again, his expression twisting with complicated emotion.
The truth was grim: the Lord of the Iron Islands had struck Deepwood Motte while the North was defenseless. The news had been so tightly contained that, if not for one fool leading a raid on Winterfell and getting ambushed, the invasion might have remained hidden much longer.
Deepwood Motte itself wasn't the true prize. Anyone with a map could see the Ironborn's true target—Moat Cailin.
The ancient chokepoint of the North: swamps and mires on all sides, impossible for armies to navigate. With just a small garrison, it could halt forces ten—no, dozens—of times its number.
If Moat Cailin fell?
The North's armies would be trapped outside their own homeland.
To prevent that disaster, Robb had already led the vanguard northward. But Ned, as Warden of the North, had to remain behind to oversee affairs and clean up the chaos. It was a bitter, helpless responsibility.
He looked calm—too calm—but Charles could sense the tension simmering in him.
And yet there was nothing Charles could say. Some burdens could only be understood by those who bore them. Empty comfort would do nothing but irritate.
After a long silence, Ned said quietly, "You shouldn't have acted so recklessly."
He was, of course, referring to Charles's arrest. Only a day had passed—no one would simply forget it—though the invasion had overshadowed the uproar.
"If I hadn't escaped, I'd be dead already." Charles shrugged. "I'm more curious—how did you convince that bald king? From what I've seen, he's not exactly… reasonable."
Ned paused, then answered, "I found Varys in the interrogation chamber. After investigating, I learned every charge against you was fabricated. I presented the truth to His Grace."
"And that was enough to release me?"
"It was."
"He isn't holding me accountable for killing so many of his soldiers?"
"His Grace didn't mention it."
Ned continued packing. "Perhaps Lady Melisandre spoke on your behalf. She holds significant authority among the Dragonstone lords."
"And his precious Iron Throne? He just… abandons it? Lets the northern army leave?"
Ned hesitated, then said, "He's a fair and reasonable king."
As Charles helped him move a stack of items, Ned reached out to take them—only to catch sight of something in Charles's palm.
"What is that?"
Charles glanced at the completed pattern in his hand and lied without blinking:
"I've been studying… decorative painting."
"Painting?" Ned echoed, unfamiliar with the term—but not blind to what he saw. He regarded Charles thoughtfully.
"So… you intend to convert to the Seven?"
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