Casterly Rock fully deserved its reputation as the seat of the richest house in Westeros.
Carved directly from a colossal mass of stone, the fortress rose like a gray fist thrust violently toward the heavens. Its sheer walls and layered structures merged seamlessly with the mountain itself, forming defenses so formidable that even Storm's End paled in comparison.
From a distance, Casterly Rock appeared almost unreal—nearly three times the height of the Wall or the Hightower of Oldtown, stretching close to two leagues from east to west. Within its vast interior lay an entire world: winding tunnels, deep dungeons, immense cellars, barracks capable of housing thousands, grand halls, stables, spiraling stairways, hidden courtyards, airy balconies, and terraced gardens clinging impossibly to the rock face.
As dusk settled, the noise of the bustling stronghold faded into stillness. The golden glow of torchlight replaced the sun, and the only sound that remained was the endless roar of the ocean below, waves crashing relentlessly against the cliffs like a drumbeat heralding war.
Lord Tywin Lannister strode through the Golden Gallery with measured, unhurried steps. At his side walked Ser Kevan Lannister, following half a pace behind, as he always did—silent, attentive, and loyal, like a shadow cast by Tywin himself.
Tywin wore a deep crimson velvet doublet embroidered with a golden lion, its threads catching the torchlight with every movement. His cloak bore the same sigil, flowing behind him like a banner of authority.
"Kevan," Tywin said at last, his voice low and absolute. "I have made my decision. We march into the Riverlands immediately."
"Yes," Kevan replied without hesitation.
Tywin was tall and lean, his posture straight despite his years. Though just past fifty, there was nothing frail about him. Having begun to lose his hair long ago, he shaved his head completely, leaving only thick golden sideburns framing his stern face. His pale green eyes—flecked with gold—were cold, sharp, and utterly merciless.
Kevan, by contrast, was broader and stouter, with a square jaw softened by age and a neatly trimmed beard. His shoulders were rounded, his waist thick, and his expression far gentler than his brother's. Though also mostly bald, his remaining hair and beard retained their golden hue. Where Tywin radiated dominance and severity, Kevan carried patience and restraint.
"However," Tywin continued, "we will not commit the full host. Our dogs will suffice."
Kevan understood at once. The dogs were men like Gregor Clegane—brutal, obedient, and perfectly suited for terror.
"You may wonder why," Tywin went on, "despite Tyrion returning unharmed to King's Landing, I still intend to ravage the Riverlands."
Kevan's brow furrowed slightly. "Tyrion is safe," he said carefully. "That much is true."
A trace of pity flickered across Kevan's face. He knew all too well what Tywin's dogs would do—villages burned, fields destroyed, men butchered, women violated. War, conducted without restraint.
"I do not care whether Tyrion lives or dies," Tywin said flatly. "But the arbitrary arrest and attempted abduction of a Lannister is an unforgivable insult to our house."
His gaze hardened.
"No one mocks the honor of House Lannister and escapes unpunished."
"What happened that day was coincidence," Tywin continued. "Had it not been for those suspicious wildlings, Tyrion would have been carried off by that foolish Stark woman."
"Those wildlings…" Kevan murmured.
"Whether the story is true or false is irrelevant," Tywin said coldly. "What matters is this: House Tully must pay."
Kevan hesitated. "Joffrey's betrothed is Sansa Stark. King Robert arranged the match to bind the great houses together—lion, stag, wolf, falcon…"
"I know precisely what you mean," Tywin interrupted. "But you misunderstand the situation."
He stopped walking and turned to face his brother.
"I will never tolerate a fool's affront to our dignity. Strength silences mockery. That is a lesson our father taught us well."
"As for the Stark girl," he continued, "do not be naïve. There is only one king, but queens can always be replaced. They are not even married."
Tywin's voice hardened.
"I want you to be ruthless in this campaign, Kevan."
Kevan considered this carefully. In truth, he had always trusted Tywin's judgment. From a young age, he had recognized his brother's extraordinary talent for rule and command. Serving Tywin was not a burden—it was his chosen purpose.
"Very well," Kevan said at last.
"I will have Ser Gregor disguised as a bandit," Tywin said. "The Riverlands will bleed, and House Tully will learn the price of defiance."
Kevan nodded, following his brother as Tywin resumed his march down the gallery.
"We must prepare," Tywin continued. "The situation grows worse by the day. They have chosen provocation. I will not tolerate that madwoman and her family."
"What of our forces?" Kevan asked. "Should the North or the Vale respond—"
"They will be slow," Tywin replied dismissively. "Hoster Tully is dying. His heir is a fool. And if the North or Vale move, it will take them time. Our armies are ready now."
"We must win decisively," Tywin said. "Cleanly. Beautifully."
Then, for the briefest moment, a shadow crossed his face.
"What concerns me far more is what lies ahead. Across the Narrow Sea, fleets stir. Robert's bastard and the remnants of the Targaryens will soon contend for the Iron Throne."
Kevan frowned. "That future is not yet upon us."
"No," Tywin said. "But when it comes, we must be ready. Opportunity such as this does not come twice."
He did not say aloud what he truly understood: whoever controlled the Riverlands controlled the crossroads of Westeros—and therefore, King's Landing itself.
Thanks to the wealth and population of the Westerlands, their armies were larger, better equipped, and more disciplined than most. And Tywin's centralized authority ensured a unity unmatched by other great lords.
"We should also thank the late Frey for his 'help,'" Tywin added with disdain.
Kevan chuckled. "Walder Frey sent three letters—one to us, one to Riverrun, and one to King's Landing. He offends no one."
"He has survived eighty years by knowing when to bow," Tywin said. "Still… Tyrion's letter has yet to arrive. Curious."
"Perhaps it is delayed," Kevan offered.
Tywin snorted. "More likely he is afraid."
Afraid of war.
Outside, the ocean thundered louder, waves crashing like a lion's roar.
War had begun.
Across the Narrow Sea – Myr
The harbor of Myr was alive with motion.
Ships of every size filled Myr Bay—merchant vessels, warships, and galleys flying the quartered banners of the Two Cities Fleet. The banners snapped violently in the wind, their colors sharp against the gray sky.
Yet beneath the bustle lay tension.
Khal Drogo was marching.
A vast Dothraki host gathered on the horizon, young warriors eager for glory, blood, and plunder. This would not be a quick raid. This was war.
Outside the white city of Myr, the land was being reshaped into a battlefield.
New fortifications stretched across the plain—earth mounds, trenches, wooden horse barriers, all carefully arranged. It was not a single line of defense, but a layered system designed to grind down cavalry charges and break momentum.
At the center of it all stood Gendry's vision.
Myr formed the core, surrounded by two concentric rings of earthen ramparts of differing heights. Trenches ran between them, deep and wide. At the base of the mounds stood sharpened fences angled outward like the teeth of a beast.
Atop the mounds, small catapults and heavy ballistae were already in position, their fields of fire overlapping. They were designed not for siege, but for slaughter—high-angle death raining down upon clustered riders.
Open-field battle favored the Dothraki. To meet them on the Great Grass Sea would be madness.
So instead, Myr would bleed them dry.
Gendry worked alongside the soldiers, stripped of armor, wearing only a black shirt soaked with sweat and dirt. He hauled timber, sharpened stakes, and bound fences with rope, just as any common soldier would.
Behind the fences waited crossbowmen and longspearmen.
Myr's newly developed repeating crossbows—capable of firing five bolts in rapid succession—made close-range assaults terrifying.
Westerosi longbowmen were positioned behind the earthworks, using elevation and cover to rain arrows into advancing ranks.
"The Second Sons on the left," Gendry ordered. "Free Legion on the right. Wolf Pack holds the center."
He surveyed the field—the Ghiscari chariots, Norvosi axe-fighters, and his heavy cavalry held in reserve.
This was not merely defense.
It was determination made manifest.
The storm was coming.
And this time, Myr would be ready.
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