Tywin, supported by a group of vampires, was carried to the top of a high tower. As he was lifted, more vampires arrived, eager to witness firsthand how the Lord of the Westerlands would be sent into the sky.
For thousands of years, the Westerlands had suffered frequent raids from Ironborn pirates. Thus, any castle near the sea was equipped with small trebuchets. These were not designed to hurl boulders capable of toppling walls but rather to launch flaming oil barrels onto pirate ships. Although the power of the Iron Islands had waned, Tywin still paid to maintain these trebuchets as a precaution.
With his hands clasped around his knees, Tywin was bound tightly with ropes, curled into a ball. Once he was lifted and placed into the sling, two vampires turned the windlass to tighten the ropes.
Tywin remained resolute, silent and unmoving.
No screaming, no begging. The vampires watching found it somewhat dull.
A knight stepped up to the sling, removed his helmet, and looked at Tywin. "Because of your orders, my two younger brothers are dead. My father is dead. Do you have anything to say?"
Tywin turned his head, squinted, and sneered. "And who might you be, you country bumpkin?"
"You old bastard! My father was Oswell Kettleblack, Captain of the City Watch! He died because of you!" The man shouting was none other than Osmund.
When crossing the swamps, they had been ambushed by wildlings. To escape, Osmund had pushed his crippled father into a crocodile pit. Later, he was captured by the wildlings and locked in a cage. During his time in captivity, Osmund had an epiphany.
He had lost his position, his wealth, his brothers, and his father. And the root of all this suffering was Tywin, Lord of the Westerlands. Tywin was the true culprit, the one who had condemned him to this fate, the one responsible for him becoming a vampire.
Hearing this, Tywin laughed. "So you're his son. Just another useless pawn."
"I'll kill you!" Osmund raised his arm but was immediately restrained by other vampires. Here, Donnel was in charge.
The other knights also removed their helmets. Many of them were Freys. Two years ago, Tywin had begun purging the Freys who had taken refuge in the Westerlands. A few managed to escape to the Riverlands, but they all loathed Tywin with a burning hatred.
"Should I call you grandfather or uncle, Lord Tywin?" Donnel approached.
"Tui~ You bastard!" Tywin spat, but before the spit could land, Donnel flicked his finger, deflecting it with magic.
"We originally had more important matters to attend to, but after thinking it over, I realized that killing the Lord of the Westerlands would be far more strategic." Donnel placed his right hand on Tywin's head. His five fingernails darkened and elongated, resembling talons as they dug into Tywin's face.
"Donnel Sarsfield!" Tywin hissed through clenched teeth. "More than ten years ago, my biggest mistake was not burning you alive at Lannisport!"
The five claws pressed deeper, puncturing Tywin's face, causing blood to gush out. The surrounding vampires swallowed convulsively at the sight.
Donnel leaned in, his face inches from Tywin's, and roared, "Listen carefully! You forced the name Donnel Sarsfield upon me! But I am Joffrey! Do you hear me? My name is Joffrey! Joffrey Baratheon!"
Despite Joffrey's furious outburst, Tywin remained unfazed. "Heh… Baratheon? You're just a bastard born of incest. The only reason I let you live was because of Jaime. Otherwise, I had a hundred ways to kill you."
"You always looked down on me! You belittled me! You treated me like a common servant! Tywin, I've wanted to kill you for so long!" Joffrey's claws dug deeper.
His sharp nails hooked into Tywin's flesh, locking his jaw so he couldn't speak.
"It's all Jaime and Cersei's fault, those two worthless whores! If not for their failure, I would still be a prince! The true prince of the Seven Kingdoms! The prince destined to be king!"
The windlass had reached its final position. Joffrey released Tywin and raised his arms, roaring in triumph.
"You curse your own parents! You're not even human! You're a kinslayer!" Tywin finally snapped.
"I am not human!" Joffrey turned around, his pale skin shifting to a shade of blue. Additional limbs sprouted from his back, his muscles swelled, bursting through the straps of his armor, and his height grew to over two meters.
Joffrey grabbed the trebuchet and single-handedly rotated it, aiming toward the port.
Tywin stared at the monstrous vampire before him. "I curse you! Jaime will kill you! Wright will kill you! You will perish in dragonfire!"
Joffrey adjusted his aim, his hands on the wooden trigger. He bared his fangs in a grin and whispered, "Fire."
Bang! The trebuchet's catch released, the windlass sprang forward, and Tywin was launched into the air.
"You will die a horrible death~~" Tywin's voice faded into the distance.
The vampires stepped to the edge of the tower, watching as the Lord of the Westerlands soared through the sky, tracing an arc before plummeting down. He crashed through the roof of a two-story building in Lannisport.
"Not as powerful as I expected. That was boring." Donnel turned back. "Osmund, is it done?"
"My lord, everyone in Casterly Rock has been slaughtered. The ravens in the rookery have all been killed." Osmund bowed his head before Joffrey. His vampiric bloodline came from Joffrey, making it impossible for him to meet his gaze directly. Not just him—every vampire who had come to Casterly Rock today shared Joffrey's blood.
"Destroy the castle gates, seal off the fortress, and keep Jaime and the others out. We're going to find the Holy Son," Joffrey commanded, brimming with confidence.
"Understood!" Osmund lowered his head but couldn't hide his dissatisfaction.
There was no strategic value in attacking Casterly Rock—it was purely Joffrey's desire to kill Tywin and everyone in the castle who had once looked down on him. At first, Osmund thought Joffrey wanted to build a legacy, but then he ordered the complete extermination of Casterly Rock's inhabitants. The Holy Son wasn't even in this direction, and the entire group had been dragged around in circles on the map, wasting time. Yet, bound by blood ties, none of them dared to contradict him.
Inside the castle, Joffrey walked alone toward the residential quarters. The hallways were littered with shriveled corpses.
He nudged a bloated body over with the tip of his boot and sneered, "Auntie, even in death, you're still so fat."
Genna Lannister, her husband Emmon Frey, their four sons, and two grandsons had all lived in Casterly Rock. Now, they were nothing more than dried corpses strewn across the corridors.
The sound of a woman's heavy breathing reached Joffrey's ears. He immediately recognized it as Cersei. Following the sound, he moved forward at a leisurely pace. The bedroom door was left ajar.
It was Tywin's lavish chamber. Joffrey paid no attention to the two figures inside. Instead, he walked straight to the wine cabinet, selected an expensive bottle of wine, poured himself a glass, and sank into the sofa.
"Lancel, what should we do next?" Joffrey asked. In private, he had enough self-awareness to recognize his lack of strategic and combat knowledge. As long as no one else was around, he would secretly consult Lancel.
"Donnel? My son, Lancel is a monster! Kill him now!" Cersei shouted upon recognizing Joffrey's voice.
Lancel remained unfazed. "We wait until nightfall and leave Casterly Rock under the cover of darkness."
"And then? Wright is in the North, Renly is in the Reach, and both have dragons. We can't outrun them!" Joffrey downed his wine in one gulp, found the cup too small, and simply twisted the bottle open with his bare hands, drinking straight from it.
"Donnel, help me!"
"As long as nothing goes wrong, we should have enough time. After that, we keep fleeing west," Lancel replied calmly.
"We have half a day left. Look at this castle—only half a day belongs to us." Joffrey leaned back on the sofa, staring at the intricately painted ceiling, speaking to himself.
They had once been taken hostage by wildlings, forced to endure a miserable existence in the Mountains of the Moon. Starvation and freezing winds tormented them daily, and all they had ever wished for was to lie in a warm, comfortable bed again.
Cersei had been ransomed by Tywin for a hefty price, but he had deliberately abandoned any efforts to rescue Joffrey and the others, hoping the wildlings would kill his grandson. Fate, however, had other plans. Joffrey had been imprisoned with Sandor Clegane, and under the Hound's persistent protection and encouragement, he had survived, though reduced to skin and bones.
Days blurred together, marked only by sunrises and sunsets. After a month, one night, when everyone was asleep, a woman wrapped in a thick cloak appeared outside the cage.
In a voice only he could hear, she asked if he desired immortality, power, and the strength to slay the cruel humans who had tormented him.
Driven to the brink of collapse, Joffrey hated the wildlings with every fiber of his being. If he could, he would have razed the entire mountain to the ground. The mere promise of revenge made his decision instant—he agreed without hesitation.
The wooden cage was crushed effortlessly by the woman's hand. Then, two sharp fangs pierced Joffrey's neck.
An unprecedented surge of power flooded his body. The woman before him, the one who had given him hope, became the only person he would ever truly revere. He would follow her to the ends of the earth. She was his true mother.
Joffrey neither understood nor cared to understand the bond between a vampire and their progeny.
Afterward, he slaughtered the entire wildling tribe. Drenched in blood, he unlocked the cages. Lancel and Oswell did not resist—they willingly became Joffrey's first-generation progeny.
Sandor Clegane watched the three of them transform into monsters. He realized that Donnel was no longer human. His mission, assigned by Tywin, was complete. His personal vow to protect Donnel had also been fulfilled.
Drinking human blood meant inevitable slaughter. Sandor refused to become such a creature. He walked to the edge of a cliff, gazing at the rolling sea of clouds below. He closed his eyes, waiting for Donnel to kill him.
The three behind him said nothing. Neither powerful magic nor razor-sharp claws struck him. Instead, Donnel led the other two away.
Perhaps it was gratitude for Sandor's efforts in keeping him alive. Or perhaps it was a flicker of conscience. Whatever the reason, Donnel spared the Hound that night.
Following the orders of the mysterious vampire woman, Donnel later rendezvoused with a faction of Frey traitors in the Mountains of the Moon. Developing progeny required vital blood. He did not allow Lancel or Oswell to assist in siring new vampires—he alone took on the task, turning one person per day.
Their growth was painfully slow, but the loyalty in their blood prevented Lancel and Oswell from voicing any objections.
Joffrey, seated on the sofa, drew his pale blue Valyrian steel sword. To prevent the metal from affecting him, the hilt was wrapped in a coil of blue rope for easier grip.
Clang! He flicked the blade with his finger, producing a crisp, ringing sound.
Joffrey turned to Cersei. "Did you know? This sword used to belong to Jaime. I personally used it to cut off both of his hands!"
"What? Jaime is your father! You can't do this to him!" Cersei thrashed, kicking out in protest, but Lancel easily pinned her down.
"Heh." Joffrey grinned, his expression as harmless as when he was a child. "The famous knight of the Seven Kingdoms, stripped of the very hands that once wielded the sword. He was bawling his eyes out when it happened, crying so pitifully."
His hatred for his parents ran deep. Taking Jaime's sword and severing his hands was his form of revenge. The only reason he hadn't taken Jaime's head was out of recognition for the man who had once taught him how to wield a blade. As for Cersei, having Lancel violate her was just another way to get back at her. If she had only given birth to him, it would have been fine, but she had to go and have two more children with Jaime—all golden-haired, no less—practically inviting suspicion about their lineage.
"You're all vampires! Monsters!" Cersei cried out, her struggles growing weaker.
Lancel leaned in, licking her face. "You're my cousin, Joffrey is your son, and I am Joffrey's progeny. The bond between us couldn't be stronger."
Cersei had heard the rumors about vampires after returning to Casterly Rock. Their unnatural strength, their eerie powers—unless one was a trained warrior or sorcerer, an ordinary person had no chance against them. The withered corpses in the hallway had already made that clear. She was still alive only because of Lancel and Joffrey, but once Lancel had his fill of her, would she be allowed to live?
"Turn me into a vampire too!" Cersei suddenly shouted.
Joffrey, lost in thought, looked at his mother with confusion, licking his fangs.
"No! I love you as you are, as a human. If you turn into a vampire, will you still be Cersei? Will you still be his mother?" Lancel, seeing Joffrey's reaction, immediately objected.
If Cersei became a vampire, gaining strength beyond human limits, she would no longer be at his mercy. He couldn't allow that to happen.
"You decide, Lancel," Joffrey said, standing up. "If you plan to turn her, give me a heads-up first."
He made his way toward the castle garden, where strange-looking weirwood trees grew. He figured he might as well destroy those things—anything close to the Children of the Forest was an eyesore.
"She's my treasure. I'll take good care of her," Lancel laughed heartily.
"No—" Cersei screamed after her son, arms outstretched, trying to grab hold of him. But before she could reach him, Lancel pulled her back into his grasp.