Lord Tywin Lannister swept his gaze across the men gathered once more around the table. Had he not spent decades mastering iron self-control, he might have given in to the urge to hang half of them on the spot.
A pity that lords could not freely choose their vassals—at least not most of them.
Inheriting a castle meant inheriting its bannermen as well, and many of those men were worth less than an empty eggshell.
Before him sat Harrenhal Swyft, staring fixedly into his wine cup. The man's shield bore a rooster, and a chicken's heart beat inside his chest.
Beside him was Gregor Clegane—a bloodthirsty beast, though at least he had some use.
Lord Brax was whispering to the man next to him.
Of course, there were a few capable men among them.
Ser Addam Marbrand studied the map intently, while Ser Forley Prester pointed out positions beside him.
Even the Mountain could be useful if employed correctly…
Yet the most capable man at the table sat in silence, as if nothing in the world existed.
Tywin turned his eyes to his brother seated at his side, though the man might as well have been a hundred leagues away.
Kevan should have been commanding near Harrenhal!
He had always been cautious and shrewd, capable of handling most dangers without constant supervision.
But Tywin could barely stand to look at that face now.
The news from King's Landing seemed to have drained every last drop of will and joy from his brother.
Even the order Tywin had sent to Cersei in the name of the Warden of the West—halting Lancel's trial until his return to the capital—had brought Kevan no comfort.
In truth, the lord could understand.
The young fool on the Iron Throne had already tasted real power. Who knew what new idiocy he might commit next.
Kevan barely spoke anymore. When he did answer, his words were short and curt. He only wanted to retreat to his tent and stay away from everyone.
He showed no initiative and paid almost no attention to the progress of the war.
Sending a man in such a state to command troops would be utter madness.
And no one could ever call Tywin Lannister a fool.
His brother could probably not lead a hundred knights right now.
Meanwhile, his eldest son and heir had been kept in King's Landing by his sister's whim, serving as the nominal Hand of a hollow king.
Useful men were growing dangerously scarce.
He had been forced to appoint Stafford as commander—there was simply no better choice by rank—and the lord dared not entrust the siege of the Tully stronghold to his cousin.
Tywin had given him the most detailed instructions possible, yet his heart still felt heavy when he let go.
If the gods truly existed, let them watch over Ser Daven and help his father.
Without that guiding hand, Stafford would struggle.
From the latest reports, Daven was performing adequately. The lands of Blackwood and Piper were already in flames, and Harrenhal had opened its gates to the lions…
"What are the men in camp saying?" Swyft asked in a low voice, thinking only his neighbor could hear.
"They're waiting for battle," Gregor rumbled. "No one's complaining anymore."
"Good…" Harrenhal breathed a sigh of relief. How had Kevan ever fallen for this man's daughter! "Honestly, all that talk of curses and ill fortune was getting tiresome."
Lord Tywin had already dealt with that matter.
The news from King's Landing had unsettled many soldiers—not just the common troops, but even the knights showed clear unease.
Fools had always liked that drunken fool of a king, that much was undeniable. And the man who killed him had been a Lannister…
So rumors began spreading through the camp that the gods' curse would fall upon House Lannister and all who served it—another kingslayer in their blood.
According to reports from the Mountain's men, however, this was not some Tully plot.
Peasants who had never even heard of the Doom of Valyria would happily claim they were the cause of every misfortune.
Stupidity needed no special reason. Ignorant men always invented the most terrible curses and pinned them on their lords.
But… this could not be Hoster Tully's doing.
That did not mean the talk could be tolerated.
The Mountain and his men had handled the twenty loudest cowards in their usual fashion. The complaints had quieted for now…
Then victory followed.
After the fall of the Golden Tooth, the rumors had almost vanished. Once the young Tully was driven back into his nest, the whispers disappeared entirely.
Commoners—and knights who were little better—were fickle in their likes and dislikes.
The clink of loot had long drowned out the funeral bells for the drunkard Robert.
Even those who still mourned him did so in silence and solitude.
Most now sang the praises of their lord and the new king—his grandson.
That was the way of men.
Loyalty had no foundation. Favor shifted like the wind.
You could never rely on true loyalty. Whether in war or peace, the only way to rule them was with both fear and reward.
The last man to enter the tent was Lord Lefford, tall and well-built, responsible for patrols around the camp.
The moment he appeared, conversation died. Once the latecomer took his seat, the Lion of the West finally opened the meeting.
"Riverrun's defenses are strong. The garrison is commanded by the arrogant Tytos Blackwood. He will not surrender." Lord Tywin wasted no time. "We cannot sit here waiting for the Tullys to starve. The late king's brothers are plotting rebellion, and we still have hard fighting ahead south of the Trident."
This was his usual way.
State the problem. Hear opinions… even though he would ultimately do as he pleased.
"My lord, we have Edmure Tully in our hands," the Mountain spoke first. "Order him brought before the walls, force him to his knees, and give me the sword. Let's see if Blackwood still refuses to yield… then his lord will lose his heir on the spot."
As expected.
In the Mountain's eyes, there was no problem that could not be solved with blood.
But killing Edmure Tully would solve nothing. It would only make the Lannister position worse.
The rightful heir to Riverrun would then become "Blackfish" Brynden.
That man was far sharper and more dangerous than his nephew. He would make them pay dearly.
And when the childless Brynden eventually died in battle or of old age, the inheritance of the Riverlands would pass to the children of one of Hoster's daughters.
The local lords had never liked Lysa. Rumors of her and her young, half-mad Lord Arryn had spread far and wide… and they were all true.
She could offer no real support for any claim and had no friends or allies.
But her elder sister, Lady Catelyn, was deeply loved by her father and his bannermen.
And the North and Riverlands must never be allowed to unite.
Her children might be wolves, but Tully blood still flowed in her veins.
If matters reached that point, the riverlords would likely side with her side.
Clegane saw another chance to spill some wretch's blood.
Tywin saw nothing but endless trouble.
The newly widowed yet still healthy and fertile Catelyn Tully… an interesting thought suddenly flashed through the lord's mind. He suppressed it with great effort.
"No, Ser Gregor. We do not kill captives." Tywin's tone ended the discussion. "But we cannot wait. The Baratheons are sharpening their blades and aiming straight for King's Landing. We cannot be trapped here on the Trident."
"The siege engines are nearly complete, my lord," Lord Brax said. "We can launch the assault by the end of the month. Blackwood has suffered repeated defeats. His forces can hardly number more than five thousand."
"Storming Riverrun will not be easy," Ser Addam objected. "The walls are high and thick, the moat is deep, and the garrison consists of veteran soldiers with nowhere to run."
"These riverlords have been fleeing before us since the border," Harrenhal Swyft said carelessly. "I doubt they can put up much fight now."
"A cornered beast fights hardest," Ser Addam countered. Though young, his mind was worth three men. "We cannot underestimate the Tullys just because of a few defeats. A direct assault would cost us thousands of men—and as Lord Lannister said, we still have to fight the stags."
"My lords, do not forget," Lefford spoke up. "The remnants of House Piper and Vance are still roaming nearby, constantly attacking our patrols and raiding supply trains. With them lurking at our backs, a direct assault on the castle would be unwise."
This news caught Tywin's greatest interest.
Because just today he had received a messenger from House Crakehall claiming they had driven those riverlords dozens of leagues away!
"Explain in detail, Lefford."
"I was late, Lord Lannister," Lefford spoke clearly and calmly. "Because I went to speak with the patrol. They insisted they saw banners north of Riverrun and came back immediately to report…"
"Whose banners?" The Warden of the West asked the only question that mattered.
"They are simple men," Lefford hesitated. "They spoke of a white hand, a white bird… probably some minor knight's sigil…"
The Lord of Casterly Rock's suspicions were now confirmed.
But he could not show it in front of the soldiers, nor could he give orders yet.
"Lord Swyft," Tywin turned to the man beside the scout. "This is your man. He has provided valuable information. I trust you will reward him appropriately."
"Uh…" Kevan's father-in-law finally woke up and understood the lord's meaning. "Yes, two hundred gold dragons. That should keep old Bob comfortable."
"As for you, Will," Tywin turned to the young soldier. "You have proven your eyes and your loyalty. But you must still prove your courage on the battlefield. After the war, come to me. I will knight you, equip you fully, and grant you a good holding."
After all, the Riverlands needed loyal men planted in it.
The two soldiers left with profuse thanks, loudly praising their lord's wisdom.
Let them spread word of today's rewards. Very few would actually receive them, but every fool would fight harder because of it.
And they must fight. They must give everything.
Because…
The northern army—and the riverlords loyal to them—were marching hard toward Riverrun.