"Tywin Lannister is a lion—never a cat that shies away from a fight. So what is he trying to do?!"
"Karstark—no, Karl," King Robert corrected himself impatiently, "you've been dealing with the Westerlands forces most closely. Do you have any ideas?"
The words echoed through the spacious stone chamber inside Crow Tree City. Once a lord's audience hall, it had been requisitioned by King Robert as a temporary war council room. Torches burned along the walls, their flames wavering in the draft, casting long shadows across a heavy oak table strewn with maps, reports, and hastily weighted parchments.
Robert's earlier jest about asking Hoster Tully to find him a place to rest had been nothing more than a throwaway remark. The moment he entered the city, the king had gone straight to business, summoning all the senior commanders and lords to discuss one question—and one question only.
Why had Tywin Lannister retreated?
According to the most recent intelligence, Tywin had led his entire army away from Riverrun nearly a week ago, marching east toward the region near the God's Eye. Even the Westerlands detachments that had been ravaging the Riverlands with brutal efficiency had received orders to withdraw and regroup. Fields were left half-burned, villages half-looted, the violence ending as abruptly as it had begun.
The sudden reversal baffled everyone.
Riverrun had been under siege—if not fully encircled, then certainly under immense pressure. Tywin's tactics had been ruthless and precise. His assaults were swift and ferocious; his sieges relentless and methodical. He had captured numerous minor Riverlands nobles loyal to House Tully and paraded them as hostages, hoping to coerce Hoster Tully into opening the gates and surrendering.
And yet, just as Robert's host was moving south and preparing for a decisive confrontation, the Old Lion—proud and defiant all his life—had inexplicably chosen to withdraw. Not only had he avoided battle, he had even abandoned key routes leading directly into the heartlands of the Westerlands.
It was as if a lion had rolled onto its back before a fight, exposing its soft belly to the enemy.
Such behavior ran entirely contrary to Tywin Lannister's reputation. The man had built his name on overwhelming force, merciless reprisals, and absolute dominance. That was precisely why this retreat felt so wrong—and so unsettling.
Naturally, Robert's gaze turned to Karl Stone.
Karl had been active across the northern Riverlands in recent weeks, harrying Lannister supply lines, ambushing isolated units, and generally turning the countryside north of the Red Fork into a nightmare for the Westerlands army. Before the broader situation had stabilized, he had even gone to Riverrun personally to assess the siege.
If anyone might have insight into Tywin's intentions, it should have been him.
But faced with the king's question, Karl could only frown in silence.
The truth was, he was just as confused as everyone else.
After dealing with several thousand Lannister troops near Crow Tree City and waiting for Robert's main army to arrive, Karl had ridden hard for Riverrun, hoping to get a clearer picture of the situation. What he found there only deepened the mystery.
The siege had been lifted without warning. Tywin Lannister had not merely pulled back to regroup—he had abandoned the position entirely and continued marching east with his full strength.
Karl had entered Riverrun and spoken at length with Lord Hoster Tully, bedridden but sharp-minded, as well as with Lord Tytos Blackwood, who had overseen much of the city's defense during the siege. Yet both men wore the same baffled expressions. Neither could explain why Tywin had withdrawn at the very moment when victory—or at least leverage—seemed within reach.
In the original course of events, Tywin's actions had been driven by multiple clear factors. Catelyn Tully's seizure of Tyrion Lannister had provided the pretext for war, and Tywin's ambition had supplied the motive. Every step he took could be traced back to a coherent, if brutal, strategy.
But now, the entire situation had gone off the rails.
King Robert Baratheon had survived. Not only that—he had openly declared war on the Westerlands over the matter of Cersei and Jaime. Faced with the full might of the Iron Throne, Tywin should have been preparing for a decisive clash, not retreating into uncertainty.
If Tywin intended to fight, then avoiding battle and surrendering territory made no sense at all.
So what was he doing?
Was he running?
Was Tywin Lannister truly prepared to abandon the accumulated power and wealth of his house—built over centuries—after one final, savage plundering of the Riverlands? Was he planning to flee across the Narrow Sea and seek refuge in Essos?
The idea felt absurd.
If that were his goal, then everything he had done so far would have been pointless.
Karl's thoughts churned as he stood in the council chamber, replaying every report, every map, every rumor he had heard over the past week. No matter how he approached the problem, the pieces refused to fit together.
At last, he could only answer honestly.
"I'm sorry, Your Majesty," Karl said, lifting his head. "I can't understand what Tywin Lannister intends to do."
Unlike the War of the Five Kings as it had once unfolded, this siege of Riverrun—personally led by Tywin himself—felt almost farcical, like two children playing at war.
If not for the month of constant skirmishes, raids, and bloodshed—if not for the Lannister blood still staining his hands—Karl might have dismissed it as such entirely.
Robert grimaced. He lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly suppressing a headache. After a moment, he turned to the man seated beside him.
"Ned," the king said gruffly. "What do you think?"
"Is there really no one here who can give me some useful advice?"
From his seat, Eddard Stark felt a surge of irritation.
The cost of this war had not been light for him. He had gambled half of Bran's future on political alliances, mobilized the North before winter's shadow had fully passed, and placed his house in grave danger for the sake of the realm. Of everyone present, he had every right to be furious with Tywin Lannister.
But he could hardly voice that.
Rubbing his temples, Ned answered in a weary voice, "I'm afraid not, Your Majesty. No one can truly understand what Tywin Lannister is planning."
Robert's face darkened immediately.
Seeing this, Ned sighed and glanced around the table. The assembled lords and commanders avoided one another's eyes, each lost in his own thoughts. After a moment, Ned offered the only suggestion that came to mind—hardly a solution, but better than silence.
"Whatever Tywin intends," he said slowly, "our course remains the same. We disrupt it."
"He has nowhere to escape."
"But the bastard is playing hide-and-seek!" Robert snapped, slamming his fist against the table. "Damn it all! I should've hired the Faceless Men to kill him—with his own bloody gold!"
Several mouths twitched at that, expressions hovering somewhere between disbelief and resignation.
Just then, Karl, who had been staring intently at the map spread across the table, straightened.
The parchment depicted the Riverlands, the Crownlands, and the western coast in careful detail. Karl's gaze lingered near the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, where it met Blackwater Bay, then traced the roads leading toward King's Landing.
A thought struck him.
"Your Majesty," he said cautiously, "is it possible that Tywin Lannister has designs on King's Landing?"
The chamber fell silent.
Every eye turned toward the map, toward the small crowned symbol marking the capital.
Robert and Ned exchanged a glance, then both leaned forward.
"I can't say for certain," Karl continued, "but his movements could suggest—"
"What benefit would that give him?" Lord Roose Bolton interrupted, his voice low and cold. "Attacking King's Landing gains him nothing."
"That's right," Rickard Karstark agreed. "Tywin isn't a fool."
Ned nodded grimly. "King's Landing wouldn't fall easily. If he tried, we would pursue him, encircle his forces, and wait for Storm's End and Dragonstone to reinforce us."
"What awaits him then is annihilation."
The logic was sound, and the lords murmured their agreement.
Robert slammed the table once more. "If he dares, I'll take his head myself and mount it on the walls of King's Landing!"
He snorted. "Has the old lion finally lost his wits?"
Yet even as he spoke, doubt lingered in the air.
If Tywin's goal wasn't King's Landing—then what was it?
Karl stared at the map, the uneasy feeling in his chest growing stronger. He sensed that the answer was close, just beyond his grasp.
And that, more than anything, troubled him.
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