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Drizzling rain fell endlessly from the sky. Mist rose from the waters of the Trident and was carried by fierce winds to loom over Harrenhal, shrouding the ancient ruins beneath a curtain of endless rain.
The towering stone keeps bore traces of moss, green and wet, clinging stubbornly to the weathered walls. The violent gales howled between the five towers of Harrenhal, shrieking as they scraped against the cold stone, their eerie wails echoing like the cries of wandering spirits.
"Are there… monsters here?"
A young Lannister soldier, his armor still gleaming with inexperience, followed close behind his captain—a middle-aged man with a beard streaked in gray—as they patrolled through the grim fortress, which felt more like a tomb than a castle.
The howling wind and the constant patter of rain drummed against his ears, but to the trembling youth, they sounded like the ghastly shrieks of creatures crawling out from the seventh hell, twisting his nerves and feeding his imagination with dread.
They had just passed the highest of the towers, the Kingspyre Tower, when a loose brick came crashing down from above. It struck the ground with a sharp, echoing crack, splashing foul rainwater from a muddy puddle in every direction.
They were fortunate. Had they taken a step slower, that heavy stone, plummeting from such height, would have crushed through their thin iron helmets with ease, shattering their skulls like eggshells beneath a hammer.
"There are no monsters here. The House of Whent lived here for generations, and nothing ever happened to them, did it? Watch yourself. This cursed tower sheds stones like a molting beast. You want your brains dashed out?"
The veteran soldier barked a warning, reaching out to pull his dazed companion aside, away from the black puddle pooling across the floor. No one cared if you soaked your boots in a place like this. And if the dampness lingered long enough, mold would grow in your shoes before anyone even noticed.
Lord Tywin Lannister had led them, his proud men of the Westerlands, marching along the Gold Road, sweeping across the Riverlands like a storm. They had already taken several noble castles, and now the greatest fortress in all the Seven Kingdoms, Harrenhal, lay beneath their banners.
The castle's former masters, the House of Whent, had neither the strength nor the will to defend such a vast and crumbling stronghold against the might of Lord Tywin's army. In truth, even had the lions never come, the family might still have withered away, decaying slowly alongside their ancient home.
Though the Whent family were of noble blood, one single command from Tywin Lannister had driven them from their ancestral seat like wild dogs chased from a feast.
Their lands, their gold, their people, and this once-glorious fortress, once the pride of the Seven Kingdoms, had all become spoils of war for House Lannister.
Now, following a fierce clash against the army descending from the North, Tywin's forces had withdrawn from Lord Harroway's Town and returned to Harrenhal. Here they would rest, regroup, and prepare for the next wave of battle.
At least, that was what the rank-and-file soldiers believed. Men like the two currently patrolling the corridors. But the reality of the situation was far bleaker than they could ever imagine.
Deep within the halls of the Kingspyre Tower, once the great council chamber of House Harroway, the sound of crashing wood broke the silence.
With a violent sweep of his arm, the contents of the rotting war table were hurled to the floor, scattering papers, goblets, and rusted utensils with a loud clatter. The gesture left no doubt—whoever had lashed out was consumed by rage.
And Lord Tywin Lannister had every reason to be furious. Yet beneath that fury, there now stirred an unfamiliar sensation—helplessness.
This morning, a raven had arrived from the castle of Golden Tooth, bearing grim tidings for the Lannister commander on the Riverlands front. The message struck like thunder on a clear day, shaking not only Tywin's pride but the very balance of the war.
The garrison at Golden Tooth had seen it with their own eyes—the banners of the North unfurling outside their gates. From the safety of their walls, they could only watch helplessly as Northern soldiers intercepted and cut down the scattered Lannister troops fleeing westward.
Golden Tooth, the eastern gate of the Westerlands, held barely eight hundred men within its walls. Most belonged to the rear logistics units, and their combat effectiveness was severely lacking. Moreover, there were few cavalry stationed there.
And in the flatlands of the Riverlands, sending infantry to chase mounted riders was a fool's errand. No sane commander would give such an order.
Worse still, the garrison commander of Golden Tooth had no clear picture of the larger situation. If he risked sending his forces out of the castle to aid their comrades and the North had hidden an assault force nearby, Golden Tooth could fall in a single stroke.
Should the castle fall, the entire Westerlands would lie exposed to the Northern host, with nothing left to bar their advance. The risk was far too great.
Thus, with no other option, the commander of Golden Tooth had sent a raven to Lord Tywin, entrusting him to decide their next course of action.
The letter made no direct mention of the fate of the twelve thousand strong army stationed at Riverrun. But Tywin Lannister, seasoned in war, needed only a few hints from between the lines to piece together what had happened on the western bank of the Red Fork.
Those twelve thousand men had most certainly suffered a crushing defeat. Otherwise, there would not be so many fleeing soldiers trying to escape toward Golden Tooth.
And for the North to dispatch a force of over a thousand cavalry to set ambushes along the road while still holding the battlefield spoke volumes. They had won, and decisively so. The Northerners could afford to send such a force with full confidence, without the slightest fear of weakening their own lines.
Tywin's jaw clenched. He had been outmaneuvered by Robb Stark, that young wolf whelp. The Northern host had likely divided its forces as early as the crossing at the Twins.
Even during the previous battle, Tywin Lannister had sensed that something was amiss. The cavalry from the North had been pitifully few, almost nonexistent. At the time, he had feared that the northern horsemen had circled around the field and were lying in wait, preparing to strike from the flank once he was fully engaged with the main Northern host.
Because of that suspicion, he had even dispatched a lord to lead half of the Lannister cavalry stationed at Harrenhal in an effort to scout for any sign of enemy movements.
They had not expected the Northerners to be so bold, to dare charge with only ten thousand infantry against Tywin's main force. Yet they had done exactly that, and in a single decisive battle, they had halted a host of over twenty thousand Lannister foot and horse, rendering it unable to advance.
That outcome had only reinforced his belief that Robb Stark had committed the entirety of his forces to that battlefield.
But now the truth was clear. The real and most formidable cavalry contingent of the North had already broken away unnoticed. Before anyone could respond, they had swiftly maneuvered southward from the Twins and launched a direct assault on the unprepared camp at Riverrun.
Tywin had once held a faint hope that his son Jaime might escape with his life. Had that happened, the losses to the Westerlands might have been limited to around ten thousand men. With the wealth and resources of the Westerlands, raising another ten thousand soldiers would not have been difficult.
However, shortly after receiving the letter from Golden Tooth, the Stark army facing him also delivered a message of their own. Upon reading it, Lord Tywin's vision went black.
The letter stated it clearly and with brutal honesty. Ser Jaime Lannister and all the highborn nobles present in the Riverrun camp had been taken captive. The twelve thousand Lannister soldiers had been nearly wiped out.
Tywin Lannister understood all too well the intent behind the Northern army sending this letter.
From this moment onward, unless he could replicate the surprise attack that had crushed Riverrun, he would no longer dare lay a single finger upon the northern host.
In Tywin Lannister's heart, the only true heir he recognized was his eldest son, Jaime Lannister. Even if Jaime had already donned the white cloak and, in theory, forfeited his right of inheritance as a Kingsguard, that did not change his status in his father's eyes. The old lion had never once seriously considered handing over Casterly Rock, let alone the legacy of House Lannister, to that dwarf son of his.
Thus, the capture of Jaime Lannister had thrown the old lion into a sudden and agonizing dilemma. The balance of power had been upended in an instant.
He paced restlessly back and forth within the council chamber, his boots echoing coldly across the stone floor. The Western lords present at the meeting wore grim, ashen expressions and remained utterly silent. Tywin Lannister swept his gaze over them, the chill in his eyes sharp enough to freeze fire.
"All of you sat in this council hall before, each and every one of you shouting your advice and championing your ridiculous plans. And now? Why are you all so silent?"
The Lord of the Westerlands spoke in a voice that was eerily calm, a stillness so absolute it became terrifying. Those familiar with him knew well that this quiet tone signaled that his fury had reached its peak. No one dared to make a sound. If anyone spoke out of turn and incurred Lord Tywin's wrath now, they might be dragged outside and put to the sword on the spot.
"Speak! That is your liege lord commanding you to answer!"
Tywin's voice continued in that glacial, merciless tone, as though he were torturing the room with every syllable. As the liege lord, his demand left them no room for escape. They had no choice but to brace themselves and respond.
"Uh… My lord, might that little wolf cub be deceiving us?" Sebaston Farman spoke up hesitantly, his voice trembling. "Ser Jaime had twelve thousand men with him. Surely he could not have been taken so easily, could he?"
The moment the words left his lips, he felt the burning heat of Lord Tywin's murderous gaze descend upon him. Then came the cold words of his liege:
"I should have sent you back to Fair Isle the moment you opened your mouth. Let the sea drown you and your wretched little castle, you imbecile, Farman."
Tywin pulled out his chair and seated himself once more, then continued in a low, cutting voice:
"The little wolf cub of the North has no reason to deceive us. Besides, he was not even on the battlefield at Riverrun. The one truly commanding that operation must be someone else entirely. Since only a thousand scattered troops made it back to Golden Tooth, do I really need to explain to you what happened to the rest?"
With those words, the atmosphere in the council chamber grew heavier still, sinking into a silence colder than death.
The situation had become dire. The sudden and complete collapse of the forces at Riverrun had caught the Tywin-led army at Harrenhal entirely unprepared. Judging from the overall strategic picture, his entire host was now practically encircled by the Northern army.
Even though the enemy's numbers were far fewer than his own.
Tywin Lannister now found himself hoisted into an impossible position. Trapped in a predicament with no easy solution. From a purely military standpoint, he ought to begin an immediate retreat southward, withdrawing from the front lines near Harrenhal and escaping the trap.
But that led directly to the next problem. What came after?
The fall of the Riverrun army meant the Westerlands were now dangerously exposed. Their defenses were stretched thin to the point of being nearly nonexistent. If he did not turn his army around and march back west, then the northern cavalry, which had crushed twelve thousand of his men, could very well sweep through the Westerlands unopposed.
That was a blow Tywin Lannister could never accept.
But if he ordered the entire army of over twenty thousand men to ride at full speed along the Gold Road and return to the Westerlands, what would become of that foolish mother and son left behind in King's Landing?
If he were to leave, could King's Landing still be held? Right now, perhaps aside from the Starks, every noble house had set their eyes on the capital of the Seven Kingdoms. Everyone knew full well that the current king was nothing more than a child who understood nothing of ruling.
As for the few thousand gold cloaks guarding the capital, no one placed any real faith in them. If they were truly reliable, then why had the Targaryen dynasty collapsed so thoroughly, leaving only Daenerys clinging to survival across the Narrow Sea?
Whichever path he chose, it was a painful trade-off. He could not afford to lose the Westerlands, but he could not afford to lose King's Landing either. Tywin Lannister wished, more than anything, that he could conjure another two thousand iron-clad horsemen on the spot, to go and crush that mysterious northern cavalry commander with his own hands.
A long and heavy sigh suddenly echoed through the silent hall, drawing every pair of eyes toward its source.
The only man who would dare to sigh at a time like this in front of Lord Tywin was none other than his most trusted aide, his own younger brother, Kevan Lannister.
With great difficulty, Kevan began to speak. The look he gave his elder brother was filled with helplessness and sorrow, and he said slowly, his voice filled with quiet resignation:
"I fear we can no longer continue this war. We… must sue for peace… with that little wolf cub from the North."
These words instantly turned the expressions of many proud Westerland lords. Some, disregarding the cold, piercing gaze from Tywin Lannister, opened their mouths to directly refute Kevan's suggestion.
However, they had barely begun to speak when they all noticed the expression on the Warden's face, eyes blazing with a fury that seemed ready to devour anyone who dared challenge him. At once, the hall fell into an uneasy silence.
"I believe I must remind you all," Lord Tywin said, suddenly raising his voice on the final words. His tone was sharp enough to send a chill through every heart in the room. "They have taken my son."
"No matter how sweet your words may sound, have any of you thought of Jaime? That is my son they're holding, not yours, is it?"
Now everyone understood Tywin Lannister's true meaning. Whether or not there would be peace, one thing was certain: Jaime Lannister, the prized captive held by the enemy, must be retrieved at all costs.
They had once held Edmure Tully in their grasp, and with a few additional hostages, it might have been just enough to match the value of Jaime Lannister.
But now, in light of the devastating defeat at Riverrun, it was almost certain that Edmure Tully had already been rescued. At present, the Westerlands could not produce a single prisoner of sufficient worth to exchange for Jaime Lannister.
For some time now, the Lannister army had scoured the region around the Gods Eye Lake, searching every corner. Yet there had been no sign of the missing Eddard Stark. All they had managed to capture was a man who might possibly know something about Lord Stark's whereabouts.
The Lannisters were working tirelessly to extract information from this prisoner, hoping that under torture he might divulge something about Eddard Stark's location.
After escaping from King's Landing, Eddard Stark had ordered his followers to scatter into smaller groups and flee north in every direction.
Tywin Lannister had managed to capture a dozen of these Northern soldiers, but when he hurried to the locations they described, he found no one. It was clear that either their intelligence was outdated, or they had been lying all along.
Still, Tywin Lannister was convinced the old wolf remained nearby. His troops had completely sealed off all routes leading north, making it impossible for Stark to slip through their blockade.
The most likely scenario was that Eddard Stark had cast aside his pride and was now hiding like a cornered rat in some forgotten mountain hollow.
Although he could not locate him for the moment, Tywin knew that with enough time and relentless searching, the old wolf would eventually be found.
This game between lions and wolves was far from over. Though the wolf pack had seized a young lion cub while the great lion was unprepared, how could the lion possibly swallow such a humiliation?
The cunning golden-maned old lion was already scheming how best to capture the enemy's alpha wolf in return. Only then could this cruel game continue—just as delightfully as before.
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[Chapter End's]
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