On the long road from Casterly Rock to King's Landing, the banners of the lion fluttered proudly beneath a clear sky.
More than twenty knights clad in crimson Lannister armor advanced at an unhurried pace along the kingsroad. Their formation was loose but orderly, more akin to a noble procession than a military column. There was no sense of urgency—no fear of ambush, no concern for danger.
After all, this was the Westerlands.
At the very front of the group rode Arthas Lannister. Mounted on a tall, powerful horse, he sat straight-backed in the saddle, one hand resting casually on the reins. His long golden hair danced freely in the breeze, catching the sunlight like strands of molten gold.
The party traveled light. There were no wagons weighed down with supplies, no long lines of servants trailing behind.
For House Lannister, such things were unnecessary.
As long as they carried enough Gold Dragons, food, lodging, and comfort would present themselves willingly wherever they went.
Moreover, the Seven Kingdoms had enjoyed many years of peace. With the marriage alliance between House Lannister and House Baratheon firmly established, few would dare trouble a Lannister escort traveling openly along the main road. The journey felt more like a leisurely outing than a political mission to the capital.
Beside Arthas rode Tyrion Lannister.
His horse was noticeably smaller, carefully chosen to suit his stature. Though Tyrion could never become a knight charging into battle with lance and sword, his stubborn will had driven him to master horseback riding through sheer persistence.
The process had been painful.
He had fallen countless times, bruised more bones than he cared to count, and endured endless mockery from stable hands and knights alike. Yet in the end, he had learned to ride—if not gracefully, then at least competently.
"The Old Lion is still the Old Lion," Tyrion said with a sigh, glancing sideways at Arthas.
Seeing the look of mild confusion on his brother's face, Tyrion smiled faintly and lowered his voice.
"With your personality, I truly didn't expect you to obey Father so readily and lead this group to King's Landing," he said. "His methods really are terrifying, aren't they?"
"Heh."
Arthas let out a soft laugh, making no effort to lower his voice.
"That old thing, Tywin," he said casually. "Rather than a lion, he's more like an old fox."
Several nearby knights twitched at the blatant disrespect, but none dared react.
Despite his words, Arthas's thoughts drifted back to the previous night.
Tywin's uncharacteristic humility… that bow… that apology.
Arthas felt contempt—but also a trace of admiration.
The interests of House Lannister stood above all else.
For decades, Tywin had lived by that principle, planning meticulously and sacrificing everything—pride, emotion, even family—for the sake of the house's prosperity. When necessary, he could suppress his arrogance and bow his head even to a son he once despised.
If Arthas placed himself in Tywin's position, he knew he could not have done the same.
As a patriarch, Tywin Lannister was nearly flawless.
Under his rule, House Lannister had grown steadily stronger, richer, and more influential. What they lacked was not wealth or power—but opportunity.
And that opportunity lay in King's Landing.
Arthas narrowed his eyes slightly, gazing eastward. His thoughts crossed mountains and rivers, drifting toward the political heart of Westeros.
"Yo ho ho!"
"Kill them all! Take the grain!"
The sudden clamor shattered his thoughts.
Crude shouts echoed from ahead, mixed with the sounds of panic and violence. Instantly, the Lannister knights reacted, hands moving to sword hilts in near-perfect unison.
Their eyes turned toward Arthas, awaiting orders.
"Clegane."
Arthas did not bother to look at the knights. He spoke a single name.
From the rear of the formation, a massive rider urged his mount forward.
Gregor Clegane—The Mountain That Rides—loomed beside Arthas atop a gigantic warhorse. Even the beast beneath him looked almost comically undersized compared to his enormous frame.
Since the incident at Casterly Rock, Gregor had remained silent, trailing at the back of the group like a brooding shadow.
"This should be Clegane lands," Arthas said coolly, glancing sideways. "If there is trouble in your territory, Ser Gregor, I believe it is your responsibility to deal with it personally."
The Mountain's jaw tightened.
Though he despised taking orders from Arthas, he could not deny the truth. This was his land.
Without a word, Gregor spurred his horse forward. The massive animal surged ahead, its hooves pounding the earth with thunderous force.
The knights watched with faint amusement.
No one worried for him.
Against common bandits, Gregor Clegane was a walking massacre.
Before long, the Mountain returned.
Dangling from one of his massive hands was a thin, blood-soaked man, held aloft like a plucked chicken. With a cruel grin, Gregor tossed him to the ground before Arthas.
"What is your name?" Arthas asked calmly.
"I—I'm Pyke, my lord!" the man stammered, scrambling to his knees. "My name is Pyke!"
"Don't be afraid," Arthas said gently. "Tell me what happened."
Despite the kindness in his voice, Pyke trembled.
"A band of bandits, my lord," he said hoarsely. "They stole our grain… and they defiled my wife, Jeyne."
Tears streamed down his face.
"Bandits?" Arthas asked, genuinely surprised. "In the Westerlands?"
The region was wealthy beyond measure. Taxes were heavy—fifty percent—but still lighter than most of Westeros. Even in the North, Eddard Stark demanded more.
As long as peasants worked hard, starvation was rare.
Banditry should not exist here.
Pyke hesitated, glancing fearfully at The Mountain.
"It's all right," Arthas reassured him. "With me here, Ser Clegane will not harm you."
Encouraged, Pyke finally spoke.
For more than ten years, since inheriting Clegane's Keep, Gregor had raised taxes repeatedly—using his appetite, armor, horses, and soldiers as excuses.
Fifty percent became sixty.
Sixty became seventy.
Until finally… ninety.
Those who could not survive became bandits.
Those who could soon would.
When Pyke finished, silence fell.
Arthas turned slowly toward The Mountain.
"Ser Clegane," he asked evenly, "is this true?"
Gregor snorted.
"Yes."
His eyes were cold, unapologetic.
"As a lord, strengthening my forces is only natural," he said. "I protect them. They should be grateful."
He spat at Pyke's feet.
"I'll kill the bandits soon enough. This will not trouble Duke Tywin."
Arthas's gaze hardened.
"The one making endless demands," he said quietly, "is you, wild dog."
The wind fell silent.
And for the first time, Gregor Clegane felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.