Duke Tywin Lannister had shattered the Riverlands' first defensive line with astonishing ease. The initial clash, meant to test the Old Lion's strength, had instead become his effortless triumph. What surprised him most was not the victory itself—victory was expected, after all—but how unchallenging it had been. It was as if the Riverlands had laid down their weapons the moment his banners appeared on the horizon.
The win came so smoothly that even Tywin, meticulous and calculating, was forced to revise parts of his long-term strategy just to thoroughly exploit this early advantage. A victory handed so cheaply deserved to be milked for all it was worth.
The remnants of Edmure Tully's vassals scattered like frightened birds. Many were cut down in the chaos; the rest were swept up in the relentless cavalry pursuit. Those who survived were taken prisoner, dragged back in chains like cattle, their morale crushed, their spirits broken.
Five days passed after the bloody massacre at Golden Tooth City before Edmure Tully finally came face-to-face with Tywin Lannister.
He had not fled back to Riverrun, though he desperately wished to. The Lannister riders hunted him and the survivors relentlessly—day and night, without pause. Only when their horses collapsed beneath them, foaming and dying on the road, and when hunger hollowed out their bellies and exhaustion blurred their sight, did the lions finally pounce.
Unlike Lord Vance, they were not slaughtered where they fell. No—Tywin still had use for them.
And so, Edmure Tully found himself locked inside a large, iron-barred cage—a cage sturdy enough to hold a dozen grown men. Inside were Riverlands lords, bruised and starving, huddled against each other like sheep awaiting shearing. Each night, the guards tossed scraps of stale food into the cage, barely enough to stave off death.
It was humiliating. It was degrading.
But it was very much Tywin Lannister's style.
The massive cage wagon, pulled by four weary horses, now traveled with the main Lannister host. Edmure could tell from the surrounding terrain that they were heading toward his home—Riverrun.
The realization stabbed his heart deeper than any blade.
When the Old Lion finally approached, Edmure clung to the bars, his voice cracking but full of fury.
"Duke Tywin Lannister! Do you even understand what you're doing?!"
His clothes were torn, his face unshaven, and his body weakened from hunger and thirst. But indignation still lit his eyes.
Tywin said nothing at first. He sat tall on his warhorse, clad in crimson armor that gleamed even beneath the overcast sky. A golden lion snarled across his breastplate, and his vast cloak—woven from gold thread—billowed in the wind behind him like the wings of some fearsome beast.
Helmetless, unflinching, and cold as carved stone, Tywin Lannister looked every inch the man the realm feared—the man who had once ended a dynasty with fire and steel.
When Edmure shouted, Tywin finally nudged his horse forward.
"To be honest," Tywin said in a voice calm enough to chill blood, "I do not understand your thinking."
His gaze swept over the cage, lingering on Edmure with mild disdain.
"But if I were in your position—caged like an animal—I would certainly not waste my strength asking such foolish questions."
Tywin never smiled. Even when mocking someone, his tone stayed flat, as if he were reciting dry facts from a ledger. That unwavering composure made Edmure burn with shame and fury. He shoved aside another lord in the cage and pressed his face against the bars, veins bulging in his neck.
"You killed Lord Vance! You butchered our men!" Edmure roared. "Have you no honor?! No conscience?!"
"If someone placed a freshly baked loaf directly in front of your mouth, would you resist taking a bite?" Tywin responded, voice still eerily calm.
The implication struck Edmure like a slap.
"You are a sinner!" he shouted hoarsely. "The gods will not spare you!"
Tywin's patience began to fray. He tilted his head slightly, examining Edmure as if he were some particularly dim-witted livestock.
"Ser Edmure," Tywin said, "I have neither the time nor interest to debate morality with you. Honor, virtue—these are luxuries for men who have not seen real war. They became empty words long before King Robert raised his banners against the Targaryens."
Tywin leaned forward slightly.
"And I did not come here to listen to you preach. Remember that."
Edmure's body sagged. Hunger, exhaustion, and defeat finally overwhelmed his desire to lash out. He turned away, sinking back into the straw-littered floor of the cage.
"Then why are you here?" he muttered bitterly. "Have you come to kill me? Or simply to humiliate me further?"
"I came to make a deal."
Edmure let out a humorless laugh.
"A deal? What—are you planning to ransom me for three hundred gold dragons? Or perhaps wring a hefty sum from my father?"
Tywin shook his head.
"The transaction I'm proposing is related to your ransom, but gold is irrelevant. My family mines more gold than the rest of Westeros combined. To me, a dragon is worth little more than a mound of horse dung."
Edmure barked a sarcastic laugh.
"So I'm horse dung to you now?"
Tywin didn't even blink.
"The Northern army is marching south!" Edmure suddenly shouted, mustering what remained of his energy. "The King has summoned all loyal lords to crush you! Why continue this pointless resistance?"
He clung to the bars, staring desperately at Tywin.
"You know what Robert Baratheon is! He hates your family! If you surrender now—if you beg for mercy—perhaps he'll allow you to take the black!"
For a moment, Tywin's expression flickered.
Then he chuckled—a dry, humorless sound.
"Confess?" he echoed. "Beg Robert for mercy?"
Tywin's eyes hardened.
"He would sooner smash every Lannister skull with his warhammer."
Edmure recoiled.
Tywin continued, voice low and dismissive:
"You are a child trying to understand a game played by men. I have indulged you long enough."
He pointed at the huddled Riverlands lords in the cage.
"The deal is simple: I will exchange your life—and theirs—for Riverrun."
Edmure froze, stunned.
Then he let out a hollow laugh.
"Who was it that called me stupid earlier?"
He gathered the phlegm in his throat and spat through the bars. It fell just short of Tywin's boot.
"Tywin, you will never get what you want," Edmure snarled.
"Just wait—Duke Eddard Stark's Northern army will crush you. The Reach, the Vale, even the King's own brothers will march against you!"
Edmure's voice grew stronger, fueled by rage.
"You will not take the black. Robert will kill you himself. And the more blood you spill now, the angrier he will be!"
He gripped the bars until his knuckles turned white.
"You Lannisters have ambition—everyone knows it. But ambition is not enough. In the end, all of this—everything you're doing—is nothing but wishful thinking!"
Tywin looked at him calmly, like a man observing a tantrumming child.
Then he turned his horse without another word.
The cage rattled as the column began to move once more, the sound of marching boots and clanking armor drowning out Edmure's final curse.
The Old Lion did not look back.
He didn't need to.
He already knew the outcome of this war.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)