Lord Tywin plummeted from the sky over Lannisport, crashing through the roofs of two buildings before slamming into the wooden floor of the ground-level parlor. By the time he landed, his body was a mangled mess of flesh and blood, dust and debris clinging to his broken form. At first, the homeowners had no idea who the corpse belonged to.
When the port's garrison arrived, the family was still demanding compensation for the damage.
Compensation required knowing who to claim it from. The guards pulled the body from the rubble and dragged it into the street. After dousing it with several buckets of water to clean up the remains, they quickly realized the gravity of the situation.
The corpse wore a lavish noble's robe, its bald head glistened under the torchlight, and on its fingers gleamed a solid gold lion-shaped ring. As the gathered crowd turned their eyes toward Casterly Rock, they saw the trebuchet still standing tall atop the castle's cliffside.
Tywin Lannister had been murdered.
Lannisport's garrison, well-trained and well-equipped thanks to Casterly Rock's patronage, boasted far greater combat prowess than the Gold Cloaks of King's Landing or the guards of Oldtown. Their supreme commander and benefactor was none other than Tywin himself.
Now, with Tywin slain, the captains of the garrison ordered the body to be carefully gathered before ringing the city's alarm bells.
Word of Tywin's assassination spread rapidly through Lannisport. Over a thousand garrison troops and several hundred Lannister retainers armed themselves and assembled, swearing to storm Casterly Rock and apprehend the murderer.
When they reached the fortress, they found the gates sealed by rubble. Some men began the slow work of clearing the entrance, while others fetched long wooden ladders, preparing to scale the walls as night fell.
The sight that greeted them inside was nothing short of eerie.
The crimson banners bearing the golden lion of House Lannister had all been torn down and discarded across the courtyard. The remnants of a grand feast—scattered food, overturned carts, and spilled goods—littered the ground. Corpses lay strewn haphazardly, yet not a single drop of blood stained the earth.
As more men climbed over the walls, they cautiously advanced into the keep.
Inside the great hall, they found a horrifying tableau:
Kevan Lannister, his four-year-old daughter Janei, Tywin's sister Genna, her husband Emmon Frey, their children, and several Lannister cadet branch members all lay in perfect rows on the floor. Their corpses were shriveled and pallid.
It was a massacre.
"Vampires," one officer murmured, horror dawning in his eyes.
The commanding officers swiftly ordered a full retreat. They encircled the castle with a temporary defensive perimeter, sealing off the area and suppressing the news. Any decision on how to proceed would have to wait until the Westerlands' knights returned.
A few days later, the victorious knights of the Westerlands rode home from their campaigns in the Riverlands, expecting a hero's welcome. Instead, they were met with armed forces standing at the ready.
"No!"
After a brief exchange, the truth was revealed. Willen Lannister and his younger brother Martyn, stricken with grief, charged headlong into the keep.
Ser Addam Marbrand, commander of the cavalry, assumed control of the army in Jaime's name and led the knights inside.
Jaime himself, still in a daze, was the last to enter.
One by one, the corpses were carried from the castle and laid in the courtyard.
There were too many dead. Knights and soldiers worked tirelessly, bringing the bodies out to be identified. The noble dead were temporarily laid to rest inside the great hall.
Before Jaime even stepped through the doors, the sounds of weeping and lamentation filled his ears.
Everywhere he looked, he saw kin and cousins clutching their fallen loved ones. A dreadful premonition took hold of him.
Addam Marbrand, holding a small ledger, was tallying the losses.
Jaime rushed forward and seized him by the shoulders. "Where is my father? Where is Tywin?"
"Jaime," said Daven Lannister, clad in armor, as he pried Jaime's hands away. "We've already told you three times. This is the fourth. Lord Tywin is dead. His remains are being transported back to the Rock."
"Four times?" Jaime staggered backward. "And your father, Stafford? Daven, is he—?"
"My father is perfectly fine," Daven said bitterly. "He's lying right there, waiting for me to prepare his funeral."
No one would have argued if they called Jaime mad at that moment.
"A funeral…?" Jaime muttered, his thoughts swirling. "So many dead. Hundreds. And we're all that's left."
"Jaime!" Daven roared, drawing the attention of the entire hall. Every eye turned toward them—filled with disgust, with fury.
But not with pity.
"You are now the Warden of the West, the Lord of Casterly Rock, the Shield of Lannisport!" Daven thundered. "You must take responsibility, protect those who still live, rally the army, hunt down and execute the murderer! You must avenge our kin!
"Not stand there like a dumb beast, asking the same question over and over!"
A letter was found in the lord's chair, left behind by Joffrey.
He had written that he and his vampires had slaughtered the inhabitants of Casterly Rock. He had taken Cersei as his slave. He declared that he would one day be the King of Vampires.
And that Jaime, his father, would live to witness it.
The garrison officers knew the letter's weight and did not make it public. They presented it to Jaime upon his return.
But Jaime had no mind to read it. He handed it to Daven instead.
The bastard had confessed everything.
Bedding the king. Incestuous offspring. A decade-long deception, a false death and a stolen name.
Joffrey had laid it all bare himself.
And now, there was no one left of the Lannister main line to bear the shame but Jaime.
Jaime bowed his head.
When Joffrey had stolen his sword and severed his hands, Jaime had been a breath away from calling for aid.
But he hadn't.
When he later reunited with Wright and was pressed for answers, his resolve had wavered.
Because in the end, no matter what Joffrey had become—no matter that he was a vampire—
He was still the son that he and Cersei had once loved.
Jaime had never expected that his two moments of hesitation would ultimately turn Casterly Rock into a tomb, wiping out nearly the entire main branch of House Lannister.
But even that was enough to make him hated—letting Joffrey go was something he dared not speak of.
Casterly Rock wasn't home to the Lannisters alone. Every noble house in the Westerlands had family members working within its halls. If word got out that this catastrophe had been caused by his mercy toward Joffrey, not even his title as Warden of the West would protect him. The furious families of the dead would cut him down where he stood. Treason. Betrayal of humanity. Not even ten Jaimes would be enough to behead for such a crime.
Wracked with guilt and regret, Jaime's breath came in ragged gasps. Cold sweat soaked through his shirt, and his legs gave out beneath him. He collapsed onto the floor. No one came to help him.
"Jaime!" Daven rushed over, shaking his shoulders.
Jaime lifted his head, his expression blank. "Daven, send a raven from Lannisport. Inform the king and the lords—Casterly Rock has fallen. Tywin is dead."
Daven nodded. "We already sent word to the nobles of the Westerlands, inviting them to our victory feast. Should we now tell them to return home and defend their lands instead?"
Before Jaime could answer, a young man approached—Willen. His eyes were still red and swollen from crying. "No. It's too late for them to go back. The celebration is now a mass funeral. Tell them to hurry here instead. And notify every lord to forge silver weapons and fortify their castles."
"Understood." Daven was a capable warrior, but faced with such devastation, he too was at a loss. Like the other knights returning to the Rock, he was consumed by the need for vengeance. Thankfully, Willen remained clear-headed.
As Daven ran off, Willen's twin brother, Martyn, stepped forward. "Are you alright?"
"No," Willen murmured. "Janei never got to see the toy I promised her."
He turned to glance at the hall's far side.
There lay his four-year-old sister, Janei. Her small body was shrunken and lifeless, hands clasped over her chest, holding a tiny wooden dragon painted red and white. Janei had never seen a dragon before. When Willen had marched with Jaime to the Riverlands, she had asked him to bring one back for her. He had promised without thinking.
In the Riverlands, he had met Wright and had the rare chance to observe Odahviing up close. On the victorious return journey, he had carved a dragon from wood, basing it on his memory of the beast.
Martyn tugged on Willen's sleeve. "They say Lord Wright flew his dragon over Casterly Rock. Maybe she saw it after all."
The twins fell silent, staring at their sister's body.
Nearby, tempers flared.
"What are you doing? You can't drink now!"
"My whole family is dead! Who are you to tell me what to do?"
The castle was filled with knights and soldiers, carrying the bodies of their kin and comrades. Tensions ran high, and even the slightest spark ignited arguments.
Willen turned to his brother. "Who's in charge of the army now?"
Martyn replied, "Ser Addam Marbrand. He's commanding in Jaime's name."
Willen's gaze flicked toward Jaime, who still sat dazed on the floor of the hall. "Look at our cousin, then look at the men growing more restless by the moment. Do you really think Jaime can control them?"
Martyn followed his brother's gaze.
Jaime was still sitting on the ground, staring into nothing.
Willen lowered his voice. "This is a crisis. The Lannisters must hold command over the army. Martyn, go find the officers."
"I don't know what to say to them," Martyn admitted, hesitant.
Willen considered for a moment. "Find Daven. He'll help."
Days later, the nobles who had been invited to Casterly Rock finally arrived, only to take part in a mass funeral. The ceremony followed the traditions of the Westerlands. Septons of the Faith took turns reciting prayers for the dead, and Tywin and the others were interred in the family crypt beneath the castle.
The only small mercy was that the vampires had drained their victims dry. The corpses would not rot easily, sparing them from the Silent Sisters' ministrations. This also meant that the dead nobles could be taken home by their kin.
Lannister knights reclaimed what little wealth the fallen common knights had left behind and provided them with wooden coffins. Soldiers with no family were buried in a mass grave outside the castle, their bodies hastily covered with earth in the forest.
After the funeral, the knights of House Lannister—
---
The Lord of the West had been slain by vampires. Casterly Rock had been massacred. Wright could no longer remain in Winterfell.
"Ned, the Westerlands are surrounded by mountains. That kind of terrain is perfect for vampires with inhuman stamina. I have to go."
Eddard Stark frowned. "You're the Archmage and the Lord of Tyrosh. You can't handle everything yourself."
"There are too few mages in the Westerlands, not even enough to operate the detection towers, making it nearly impossible for ordinary people to track down vampires," Wright sighed.
Back when he had helped Robert vent his anger, Wright and Renly had deliberately avoided recruiting a single mage apprentice from the Westerlands. They had even secretly interfered with the Citadel's magic school admissions, resulting in the complete absence of magic users in the region. As a result, magic was not highly valued in the Westerlands, and only a handful of Citadel-trained mages had ever been hired.
Now that a vampire outbreak had occurred, there were no large-scale magical detection towers, and even simple detection tools were scarce. Renly was assisting with vampire extermination in the Reach, but for some unknown reason, progress was exceedingly slow. The knights of the Westerlands had experience fighting vampires, but only in siege defense or assaults. If the vampires chose to flee, they had no means of pursuit. Wright had no choice but to go there himself.
"Wright, how many more people can Tyrosh accommodate?" Eddard called out just as Wright was about to return to the castle.
Wright replied, "Aside from a third of the Disputed Lands, I also bought all of Myr—the entire city and its surrounding lands. We could move the entire North there."
"I heard Myr is in chaos, and the situation is difficult to control," said Lord Manderly of White Harbor.
"Do you need any assistance?" Lord Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort chimed in.
Wright smiled at the two of them. "By the time I'm done dealing with the vampires, Myr's situation will already be settled." He knew that Manderly had some genuine goodwill toward him, given their business and shipping ties. But Roose Bolton? The Lord of Dreadfort had nothing to do with him. What was he after?
Eddard nodded. "The northern weather is getting colder, and at the feast the other night, you spoke about the benefits of moving to Tyrosh. After discussing it with the other lords, we've decided to increase the number of settlers next month."
"They're not settlers," Wright corrected. "Wherever they go, they're still Northerners. They'll live in Tyrosh, but aside from trade taxes, their head tax will still go to you." The greatest concern of the Northern lords was that their people might go to Tyrosh and end up becoming Wright's subjects.
Bolton's expression remained unreadable, but he said, "That would be best. I'll make the necessary arrangements when I return. Lord Wright, you'll need to prepare more ships for me."
"Of course." Wright understood the unspoken tensions between these lords. On the surface, they were united, but every time they sent people south, they strictly adhered to prearranged quotas, afraid that their folk might be poached by rival lords. The North was vast and harsh, and if supplies were taken, it could take ages for any disputes to be resolved in Winterfell's courts.
"I've already given Robb the necessary instructions. Lord Stark, Lord Manderly, Lord Bolton—I must take my leave. Next time we meet, the drinks are on me." With that, Wright returned to Winterfell to change his clothes.
---
Shortly after, Robb Stark finished telling the tale of the vampires and stepped down from the platform, preparing to have the female vampire brought to the executioner's block.
Roose Bolton hurried to his side. "Ser Robb, would you be willing to lend me the female vampire?"
"Lend her to you?" Robb frowned. "What are you planning to do?"
"I intend to bring her to the city, have you publicly declare her crimes, and—if possible—let her reveal her monstrous form. My people in the Dreadfort have always told terrifying stories, but without real proof, it's difficult to make them believe. Of course, Ser Robb, your time and that of your knights will be well compensated."
But Bolton's ambitions went far beyond that.
He had already received word from Castle Black about the Night's Watch. A female vampire with such allure, who didn't violate any laws or vows, could be a highly lucrative business opportunity. He even considered the possibility of cultivating more vampires, keeping them alive by periodically feeding them rat blood—thus ensuring a steady supply of vampire ashes.
The primary market for vampire ashes lay beyond the Wall. He had heard rumors that the Night's Watch bred a species of small spiders in exchange for large quantities of supplies. Any trade heading north from the Dreadfort had to pass through Last Hearth, and the Umbers were not particularly wealthy. Bolton planned to use gold to corrupt them.
Robb considered Bolton's request for a moment before nodding. "Very well. We just returned from the Wall, so we'll rest for a few days before setting out."
With Robb's approval secured, Roose Bolton grew more and more excited. Both business ventures promised enormous profits, and he was already envisioning the day he would become the richest man in the Seven Kingdoms.