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Willas Tyrell fell silent after hearing Jimmy's words.
That was fortunate.
If Jimmy had been speaking to Mace instead of the so-called Lord of Highgarden, the puffed-up lordling he would have walked out immediately.
If Mace had learned Jimmy came from the North, he might well have sent soldiers to seize him and deliver him to King's Landing as a gift to the lions.
Then again, if it had been Mace, Jimmy never would have been summoned for questioning over something as simple as buying grain.
"Northman," Willas finally said, "you've made your case. We have never met. You have never met me. The grain will not be overpriced. But neither will you receive special favors."
Jimmy bowed slightly.
"Lord Willas, your wisdom has earned the North's friendship. And you've earned my personal debt."
Willas waved him off and departed, walking with his characteristic limp.
He had no idea what opportunity he had just brushed past.
…
With Willas's quiet cooperation, Jimmy amassed enough grain to feed fifty thousand men for six months.
Highgarden's wealth was staggering.
Jimmy's purse was now nearly empty. Every gold dragon and silver stag he had was converted into food.
Even the four-legged golden dragon statue from Valyria had been hacked into ingots.
So had the gold he'd earned in the Lonely Mountain.
If he had possessed more coin, Highgarden could have continued supplying him indefinitely.
Jimmy worked in the Reach for over a month.
Meanwhile, Tywin spent that same month uneasy.
Over a month earlier, Gregor's crushed helmet warped into a grotesque shapehad been carried before him.
Tywin knew exactly what Gregor was capable of.
On the battlefield, in full armor, he was a walking engine of destruction.
In a duel, perhaps someone might defeat him.
In a charge?
No one.
Reports trickled in.
One man.
Two blades.
Cut down Gregor's men.
Then killed the Mountain with his bare hands.
Tywin stared at the small wooden shield carved with the laughing tree.
"Who can tell me where this man came from?" he demanded coldly. "One man slaughtered my soldiers—and Clegane."
The foraging parties in the Riverlands had grown hesitant, fearful.
Tywin's temper burned.
"I hear remnants of the Northern army and local peasants have formed something calling itself the Brotherhood Without Banners…"
"I care little for their banner," Tywin snapped. "I would prefer a Brotherhood Without Heads."
He turned sharply.
"Lyle. Take five hundred cavalry. Find them. Bring me their heads."
"Yes, my lord."
Lyle Crakehall bowed and left.
Lyle Crakehall was no small threat.
Tall, immensely strong, loud-voiced, and fearless.
Jaime Lannister considered him the strongest living man in Westeros—though slower than Sandor Clegane and less savage.
Cersei thought him a fool.
But underestimating him would be a mistake.
At the tourney in Lannisport celebrating the end of the Greyjoy Rebellion, Crakehall had been unhorsed by the eventual champion, Jorah Mormont.
Jorah Mormont—who had turned tourneys into personal gold mines.
Three appearances under King Robert.
Three championships.
Losing to Jorah was no shame.
Crakehall was formidable.
Gregor Clegane might have placed second in his own tournaments—but the competition he faced was far less distinguished.
Crakehall, at least, had faced real warriors.
Tywin had deployed one of the few men he trusted to handle this problem.
Ideally, Gregor would have led this purge.
But Gregor was dead.
…
While Tywin prepared to crush the Brotherhood, Robb Stark received devastating news.
Winterfell had fallen.
Bran and Rickon were reported dead.
Robb had sent Theon Greyjoy home to negotiate with his father, offering recognition of Balon as King of the Iron Islands in exchange for an alliance.
The mistake was staggering.
Balon already considered himself king.
Being "granted" the title by Robb was not a gift—it was an insult.
Theon never secured the alliance.
Instead, the Ironborn seized the opportunity.
With Winterfell undermanned, they struck.
Robb's weakness was exposed.
War without overwhelming force always returns to negotiation.
Robb might have been a gifted battlefield commander.
But in politics?
He was his father's son.
And that was not a compliment.
Robb had sought an alternative route home besides the Twins.
He had promised Walder Frey's marriage.
A Frey daughter would become Queen in the North.
In return, the Freys would support his cause and grant passage.
It was a fair exchange.
Strategically sound.
But Robb's heart overruled his head.
He fell for a healer from Volantis.
He married her in secret.
In doing so, he broke his oath.
And in Westeros, broken oaths have consequences.
Without the Freys, the Northern army's path home became uncertain.
And retreat was not an option.
The Riverlands still burned under Lannister claws.
The war had become a tangled mess.
And every faction was bleeding.
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