"You will return to Casterly Rock immediately."
In the temporary war council set up in the inn at the Inn of the Kneeling Man, Lord Tywin issued orders with swift strokes of his quill, not even glancing up as he spoke to Tyrion Lannister. His tone was so cold and distant, it was as if he were addressing a stranger, not his own son and heir.
Tyrion scowled. "Dearest Father, shouldn't you at least take a moment to look at your son, ask if he's injured? I did, after all, just come off the battlefield."
Lord Tywin looked up, his expression frigid. "Instead of wasting time on wordplay, you'd do better to focus on how you'll govern Casterly Rock."
"Govern Casterly Rock?" Tyrion stared at him in disbelief. "Did I hear that right? You actually want me to govern Casterly Rock?" He paused, a realization dawning. "Oh, I see now. Jaime's gone missing, so you assume he's dead. And rather than even attempt to find him, you're rushing to strike him off the list of heirs and drag me—your least favorite son—from the bottom of the pile to fill his place. Honestly, if you played the grieving father just a little, I might be moved."
"How do you know I haven't searched?" Tywin said darkly. "I even sent envoys to Riverrun, offering every Riverlands territory we hold as ransom for Jaime. They wouldn't even come to the table. You're clever—surely you know what that means."
Tyrion grew agitated. "Maybe they don't have Jaime either. Maybe he's just missing, not dead. We haven't even seen a body—"
"Enough!" Tywin snapped. "I have more important matters to attend to than playing games of find the son with you. You know perfectly well the Westerlands are teetering on the brink. One wrong move and we're finished. Both of us have more pressing concerns than finding out whether Jaime is alive or dead."
Under his father's glare, Tyrion lowered his eyes. Then, changing the subject, he asked, "So what do you plan to do next?"
Tywin's voice was low and firm. "I intend to use Eddard Stark as a bargaining chip—to force the Northern host to withdraw."
Tyrion blinked, confused. From what he could see, the situation wasn't that dire for the Westerlands. They still had strength to muster. Opening negotiations now seemed premature—unlike Tywin's usual decisiveness.
Besides, the timing was terrible. The alliance between the North and Riverlands was riding high on victory. Approaching them to parley now would only signal weakness.
And then there was Jaime. His fate remained unknown. As heartless as Tywin seemed, Tyrion couldn't believe he would propose negotiations so soon if he held any hope of his favorite son's survival.
Instead of explaining, Tywin handed Tyrion a report.
Tyrion scanned its contents—and his face darkened. The news inside was indeed grim for the Westerlands.
First, Margaery Tyrell of House Tyrell and Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End, were set to marry in just a few days. The forces of the Stormlands were already massing at Storm's End, and the Reach's armies had gathered at Bitterbridge. The balance of power was tilting sharply against both the Westerlands and King's Landing.
The second piece of news concerned Stannis Baratheon. Though he had publicly declared war on Renly and claimed Storm's End as his by right, his actions revealed a different plan—he had launched a feint and instead landed near Duskendale, preparing to strike the Crownlands.
Fortunately, Tywin had anticipated this. He had stationed a sizable force at Duskendale, which managed to repel Stannis's troops.
But Stannis hadn't withdrawn. Instead, he had moved north to Crackclaw Point, seizing Rook's Rest, Dyre Den, and Whispers. Now he was subduing the wildling tribes of the peninsula. If he succeeded, he would have fresh reinforcements—enough to pose a direct threat to the Crownlands.
"The current situation is…" Tyrion began as he set the report down, but before he could finish, Tywin's adjutant burst into the room, holding a letter—so abruptly that he didn't even knock.
Tywin's expression stiffened. He knew this man to be disciplined and unshakable. For him to burst in unannounced and pale-faced could only mean something serious.
"My Lord," the adjutant said quickly, handing over the letter. "A message has just arrived from King's Landing. His Grace Joffrey has publicly executed Lord Eddard."
Tywin went still. He didn't even reach for the letter.
Tyrion took it instead, reading carefully. His expression darkened by the second.
"Now that Lord Eddard is dead, one of his daughters is missing and the other has been taken by Lynd, we have no bargaining chips left. There's no longer any possibility of negotiating peace with the North."
Tyrion set down the message in his hand, his mind working quickly.
"That might not be a bad thing."
"What do you mean?" Lord Tywin reined in his anger and turned to look at him.
The more dangerous the situation, the clearer Tyrion's thoughts became. He began calmly and carefully analyzing.
"No matter how capable the Young Wolf is, he's still just a boy—and boys don't know how to master their emotions. Eddard Stark was executed by Joffrey. That alone will shatter any fear or respect Robb might have had for the Iron Throne. And if someone nearby were to encourage him, he'd no doubt declare himself king."
Tywin caught a faint glimmer of Tyrion's line of thinking, but not the full picture. He gestured for him to go on.
"Once Robb Stark crowns himself, the dynamic between the North and the Riverlands becomes... complicated. Either the Riverlands submit to the North, or their own lords also crown themselves kings."
Tyrion leaned forward, his voice measured.
"If the Riverlands lords declare their own king, the North will look down on them. Northerners won't see what's left of the Riverlands as equals to their own king in the North. That kind of contempt will start to fracture the alliance. But if the Riverlands submit instead, how would their lords feel about serving someone they considered an ally just days ago? That shift from equal to subordinate won't sit well. And Northern lords, well… they've always been coarse, greedy, and callous. They didn't get much plunder on this southern campaign. Both the lords and their men will be dissatisfied. With the right prodding, that resentment will grow fast—and fracture the alliance even faster."
Tywin's expression darkened as Tyrion spoke. Slowly, the clouds in his mind began to lift.
Tyrion continued, "And once Robb claims the crown, Renly's going to do the same—it's in his nature. Stannis, who clings to the law above all else, will never tolerate such defiance. That means King's Landing will no longer be his top priority. He'll see Renly—backed by a massive army and wearing a stolen crown—as the greater threat."
Now Tywin stared at Tyrion like he was seeing him for the first time.
Tyrion caught the look and smirked. "If you're thinking of complimenting me, by all means, don't hold back—I'd love to hear it."
Tywin's expression hardened again. He quickly pulled a parchment toward him, signed a new order, stamped it with his seal, and handed it to Tyrion.
"You're not going back to Casterly Rock. Go to King's Landing. Keep Cersei and Joffrey in check. I don't want them causing me more problems."
Tyrion looked down at the order, blinking in surprise.
"Hand of the King?"
Tywin continued issuing instructions without missing a beat. "You'll leave immediately. I'll have Addam Marbrand escort you with some men. Make sure the City Watch is under your command."
"What about the current commander of the City Watch?" Tyrion asked.
"Find a reason to send him to the Wall," Tywin said coldly. "Put him in black."
Tyrion said nothing more. He rose from his chair and made for the door. Just as he reached it, Tywin called out behind him.
"And don't bring that whore to King's Landing."
Tyrion paused, fists clenching at his sides, then slowly relaxed them. Without turning around, he walked out and disappeared into the corridor.
...
After Tyrion left, Tywin turned to his adjutant.
"Send word to our contact. Tell him I accept all his terms. And tell him to push Robb Stark to crown himself king."
"Yes, my lord," the adjutant answered and hurried out with the message.
...
Meanwhile, inside Riverrun, Robb Stark—the Young Wolf who had made his name in battle—was not savoring victory. On the contrary, he was dealing with yet another headache.
In just a few days, this was already the twenty-seventh case of the same problem: his knights had led men to loot nearby villages and towns, and to keep the crimes hidden, they killed the witnesses. The Riverlands lords, once filled with gratitude, were now brimming with resentment and frustration.
Robb rubbed his aching temples and said, "Handle it as we've done before. Turn over everyone involved to the Riverlands lords for punishment. And send someone to warn Lord Karstark—tell him to keep his men in line. No more trouble."
The attendant bowed and left at once to carry out the orders.
"My Lord, if you do this, all the Northern lords will..." Ser Helman Tallhart, Robb's adjutant, reminded him in a quiet voice.
"What? Turn against me?" Robb asked coldly.
Helman didn't respond. He simply nodded in silence.
Of course Robb knew the consequences of stopping his men from looting, and of handing over offenders to the Riverlands lords for punishment.
By tradition, any lord who followed his liege into battle had the right to plunder conquered lands and enjoy the spoils as a reward for loyalty. It was considered the rightful compensation for risking their lives in service to their liege, and no liege lord had the authority to deny them that reward.
But Robb had no choice now but to break that Northern tradition. If he didn't restrain his men, it would only be a matter of time before the Riverlands nobles—who were now allies—turned into bitter enemies. Even House Tully wouldn't be able to mediate such resentment.
"Lord Robb," said Jon Umber, stepping in with a formal warning, "the men are already complaining. We just won a great victory, but they've received no spoils—and some have even been punished for doing what tradition allows. We can still keep their anger in check for now, but not for long."
"I know," Robb replied, walking over to his desk and staring down at the map. "We need a large raid. It's the only way to settle them and keep them satisfied."
He looked up at Jon Umber. "Go. Gather the men. We're going to raid the Westerlands."
Jon Umber blinked, caught off guard. He didn't say anything, but excitement quickly replaced his surprise, and he left the room without hesitation.
Helman Tallhart, however, stepped closer and lowered his voice. "My Lord, in our current condition, an attack on the Westerlands may be unwise."
Unlike most, Helman was well aware of the Northern army's situation. Though they had claimed a major victory, it hadn't come without cost. Thanks to the recklessness of lords like Karstark, who had attacked before the enemy fully fell into their trap, they had lost more cavalry than they should have—and that blemish had dulled the shine of their triumph.
But Robb couldn't say anything about it. Those lost men had belonged to Northern lords—men who had died for House Stark. Rickard Karstark's second son, Torrhen, and third son, Eddard, had both died at the hands of the Kingslayer while trying to protect him. What right did Robb have to blame Lord Rickard or the others for attacking too soon?
If he couldn't punish them, then all he could do was give them somewhere else to aim their rage.
"You don't need to worry. We won't be storming the Golden Tooth. The Westerlands army has already shown us a better way to deal with it," Robb said, trying to reassure Helman. His voice held steady confidence.
As he spoke, he glanced down at a piece of intelligence he had just received from the Vale. It described exactly how the Bloody Gate had fallen.
"Any word from Theon?" he asked next.
Helman shook his head. "No word. And I don't think you should put so much trust in Theon Greyjoy. He is still an ironborn."
Robb's expression darkened. "Something must have happened to him."
Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, Roose Bolton entered the room. His face, already grim by nature, looked even more severe than usual.
"What happened?" Robb asked, his gut tightening with dread.
"News from King's Landing," Roose said, handing him a folded letter.
Robb snatched it quickly, scanning the contents. His face drained of all color. As if struck by a blow, he collapsed into his chair. The letter slipped from his fingers and fluttered to the floor.
Seeing Robb's reaction, Helman's expression shifted to alarm. He picked up the fallen letter and read it for himself.
"Lord Eddard has been executed?" Helman said, shocked, then furious. "How dare he? How dare that bastard do such a thing?"