Sheila Riveran has surrendered Harrenhal to us. Now that Harrenhal has fallen, I will take these people there. There is little value in remaining here any longer.
Tywin Lannister set down the report in his hand and spoke with finality. After a brief moment of consideration, he decided not to linger by the Trident any further. Staying would bring no benefit—only wasted time and unnecessary exposure.
If not for the need to draw the Stark armies of the North toward this region, Tywin would never have remained here in the first place. Yet there was no alternative. For the plan to succeed, he had to be the most conspicuous piece on the board—the bait, and also the fulcrum upon which everything would turn.
"Are we truly abandoning Riverrun just like this?"
The question came from Stafford Lannister. He had been stationed here for two or three months already, overseeing logistics and garrisons, and the reluctance in his voice was impossible to hide.
From his perspective, the war in the Riverlands was unfolding smoothly. No house in the region could stand against the might of the Lannister host. Castles fell, banners bent the knee, and resistance was scattered and weak.
Only Riverrun—the heart of the Tully domain and a key point in their original strategy—had proven stubbornly slow to break.
To withdraw now felt wasteful.
Especially when more than three thousand men had already crossed the Red Fork, only to be consumed in battles that yielded no decisive engagement with the Northern army. Thus far, they had crushed minor Riverlords and petty nobles, but House Stark itself remained frustratingly out of reach.
"Of course not," Tywin replied calmly.
He stepped away from his desk and walked toward the window. Outside, Riverrun's walls stood firm, bathed in the dying light of the afternoon sun. Tywin gazed at them as though already measuring their inevitable fall.
"There is no need for concern."
Stafford frowned slightly, clearly puzzled.
"Someone else will help us take this place," Tywin continued. "But not now—and not when it truly matters."
He turned slightly, his sharp profile outlined by the light. His eyes, flecked with pale green and gold, held an expression that was both distant and resolute.
"Stafford, retreat does not always mean moving backward. Often, it is simply the shortest path forward."
Stafford could only nod. "Very well, Lord Tywin. I will make the necessary arrangements. Are you planning to depart first?"
"Yes. We leave at first light tomorrow. Take the captives with us. Harrenhal is vast enough to house the army."
After speaking, Tywin returned his gaze to Riverrun, his voice growing quieter—almost unreadable.
"Davon Lannister's mission in Essos is complete. With that link secured, our plan can finally be set in motion in its entirety."
He paused briefly before continuing.
"Renly Baratheon has already left King's Landing. And House Martell in Dorne is beginning to stir."
"This is our only chance."
Stafford felt a chill creep into his chest. Hearing Tywin speak so plainly of the wider board—the alliances, the hidden threads, the timing—made him realize how close they were to the edge.
The entire scheme had reached a critical point far sooner than he had expected.
After a moment of hesitation, Stafford voiced the concern that had been weighing on him all along.
"Tywin… are we truly abandoning the Westerlands?"
"Nearly all of our military strength has been drawn out by your orders. If Stark chooses to strike west while we clear this path, the Westerlands will be completely exposed."
The thought alone made his stomach tighten. This was no ordinary campaign—it was a gamble of terrifying scale, one that placed House Lannister itself on the line.
Tywin did not immediately respond.
When he finally did, his voice was calm, almost cold.
"If Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark choose to do that," he said, "they will gain nothing."
A sharp glint flashed in his eyes as he continued to look toward Riverrun.
"And Genna knows exactly what she must do."
At that, Stafford fell silent.
The direction of this carriage had been decided from the very beginning. Now it was accelerating, hurtling forward with such speed that stopping—or even turning—was no longer possible.
There were only two outcomes left: reaching the destination… or total destruction.
What use was further doubt now?
If everything unfolded as Tywin envisioned, what awaited House Lannister would be an era of glory unlike any before it. A millennium-old noble house, its golden lion standing immortal atop the Seven Kingdoms.
Yes, the gamble was immense.
But if they emerged victorious, every price they paid now would be repaid a hundredfold.
With that thought, Stafford Lannister's gaze hardened, his uncertainty giving way to resolve.
---
Crow Tree City lay ahead.
In the absence of his father, Hoster Brackwood—the eldest son of House Brackwood and acting lord of the city—stood waiting on the main road outside the Brackwood Vale.
Behind him were the household servants of Crow Tree City. Even his younger siblings had been summoned, standing in neat rows despite their fatigue. All were dressed in their finest garments, eyes fixed eagerly on the distant road.
Soon, the sound reached them first.
The rumble of marching men. The steady rhythm of hooves. The low murmur of thousands moving as one.
Banners appeared on the horizon, fluttering in the wind—sigils of countless houses.
At the forefront rode the crowned stag of House Baratheon, black upon gold, flying proudly beside the grey direwolf of Stark.
Hoster's breath caught in his throat.
Many of the banners behind them he recognized only from books—illustrations of noble heraldry and tales from continental histories taught by the castle scholar.
These were lords of the North. Men whose names filled chronicles.
Swallowing his nerves, Hoster stepped forward and bowed deeply.
"Greetings, Your Majesty—King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name. House Brackwood awaits your command."
He led his siblings in the bow, addressing the bearded, broad-shouldered man whom Karl had already identified for him.
Beside the king rode another figure: dark brown hair, a long, solemn face, grey eyes, and a beard threaded with silver. That could only be Eddard Stark, Warden of the North.
Hoster's face felt pale beneath their gazes. He had never stood before so many figures of power.
"Up you get, lad," King Robert said with a booming laugh. "Karl has spoken well of you. You've done fine."
The king did not dismount, but his praise was warm and genuine.
Hoster understood it for what it was—a courtesy shown to Crow Tree City—and quickly turned toward a modest, low-key knight riding behind the king and the duke.
"Karl is a brave knight," Hoster said earnestly. "A true hero."
"Hahahaha!" Robert laughed even louder. "Perhaps he is!"
Then the king waved a hand casually.
"But what I need now is rest. Lad, take me somewhere I can sleep. I've been cleaning up messes for so long I've nearly forgotten what a bed feels like."
"At once, Your Majesty," Hoster replied.
"Crow Tree City has prepared comfortable chambers for you and your retinue."
With that, the royal procession continued forward, and the tangled confusion of the war—at last—began to take on a clearer shape.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)