Night fell, and the occasional bat swooped overhead.
"My lord, eat something." A blonde squire offered Tywin a large chunk of roasted meat—specifically, roasted horse meat.
Tywin didn't reach for it immediately. Instead, he stared out at the riverbank nearby.
The sight of thousands of horses drinking at once was truly spectacular. The bleak autumn wind ruffled their manes, much like it rustled the dry reeds by the water's edge.
The relentless galloping had left many of the warhorses with ribs showing. They had fled in such a hurry that there hadn't been time to pack provisions.
When they came across fields, the horses ate the crops. When they came across farmhouses, the soldiers looted them for food. By resorting to such brutal, almost animalistic survival tactics, Tywin had managed to leave his pursuers far behind.
Tywin pulled his thoughts back to the present and looked at the meat the squire was holding. Judging by its texture, his experienced eye told him it was from the hind leg.
The desperate flight had cost them over a hundred horses. Naturally, they weren't wasted; the soldiers quickly butchered them for rations.
He took the meat and took a bite. Surprisingly tender.
"What is your name?"
"Addam Hill, my lord."
"Addam..."
Hill was the surname given to bastards of the Westerlands. Tywin couldn't recall this specific man, but that was normal. House Lannister was a sprawling family tree, and remembering every legitimate member was hard enough, let alone the bastards.
The name did remind him of House Velaryon during the Dance of the Dragons. When their legitimate male line was wiped out, a dragon-riding bastard named Addam was legitimized to carry on the family name.
Seeing Tywin eat, Addam quickly pulled out some rosemary he had gathered and offered it as seasoning. This small gesture improved Tywin's mood significantly.
Through a bit of conversation, Tywin learned that Addam Hill's father carried the Lannister name.
It wasn't strange that Tywin didn't know about it. House Lannister, much like House Frey, was prolific.
"Tell the men they can rest longer tonight. We camp here. We continue tomorrow."
"Yes, my lord. But..."
"Worried about pursuers?" A rare flicker of amusement crossed Tywin's eyes. "Relax. I've considered it. Just double the sentries."
"At once, my lord." Seeing Tywin so confident, Addam bowed and went to relay the orders.
"Wait," Tywin said suddenly. "When we return to the Westerlands, you will be a Lannister."
Addam's eyes lit up. He immediately dropped to one knee. "Thank you, my lord!" He stood up and practically flew off to do his duty.
The reason Tywin dared to let his soldiers rest was his calculation that none of the opposing factions were likely to chase him to the death.
Especially with Stannis being so severely weakened.
Although Jon Snow had claimed he would support Stannis, the reality was that even if Stannis took the Iron Throne, he had zero capacity to project power outward.
Tywin firmly believed that conquest required iron and blood. Right now, Stannis was critically short of both.
Stannis might have the title, but he lacked the strength to force anyone to bend the knee.
Perhaps the Crownlands and the Stormlands would fall under Stannis eventually, but rebuilding his strength would take three to five years. especially now that summer was over. With winter coming, that process would be even slower.
Tywin was certain: as long as he made it back to the Westerlands, he would have time to consolidate his power, build defenses, and let House Lannister recover.
Given enough time, he could probably settle things with a heavy fine. It wasn't an unfixable situation.
Thinking this, Tywin cast his gaze eastward. He thought he had taken Jon Snow seriously enough, but looking back at the siege, everything about it reeked of strangeness.
First, the capture of Myrcella and Tommen. Tywin suspected a leak. But who?
Varys? How would Varys even contact Jon Snow?
That old coward Lord Rosby? Did he have the guts?
If those were just puzzling, Jon's defense of the city was downright terrifying.
An army of ten thousand fighting with the effectiveness of thirty thousand. It was as if an eye in the sky was watching everything, coordinating every single movement of his troops.
And then there was the Mountain. What kind of force could stop a charge of heavy cavalry like that? Even if Clegane failed, his entire unit shouldn't have been wiped out to the last man.
Finally, the wildfire. When Tywin heard Tyrion had used wildfire to repel Stannis, he had been impressed. He never expected that same fire would burn him so soon after, killing his own brother.
If it weren't for the loss of Kevan and so many of his elite household troops, Tywin wouldn't have spared a second glance at this Addam Hill.
"Kevan, I will avenge you," Tywin vowed silently. The fire of vengeance seemed to reignite the old lion, filling his weary body with new strength.
---
King's Landing was peaceful again.
For now, at least.
Jon had ordered the Red Keep sealed. He wanted everything inside preserved exactly as it was. No one but the guards was allowed in or out.
The soldiers were forbidden from visiting brothels or roaming the city freely. To compensate them, Jon provided excellent food and even had the High Septon come to bless the troops and lead prayers.
Jon set up a temporary "military government" next to the Great Sept of Baelor to manage the city's order and daily affairs.
At night, he held vigils for Ned Stark.
But during the day, he found most of his time consumed by petty lawsuits.
A carriage crashed into a cart; someone's house got robbed; and then there were "international affairs."
Before the Battle of the Blackwater, Tyrion had seized many foreign ships. Now, the owners were all clamoring to Jon for compensation.
It almost made Jon laugh. He hadn't even been paid for his own victory yet.
"That's the Myrish for you. Greedy. They deserved what they got," Beric Dondarrion commented dryly.
Jon decided that later, in his own territory, he would need to set up a lower court. Getting bogged down in these trifles every day was a waste of time.
Finally, after clearing the day's work, Sora approached Jon. She said a man with a horrific burn scar on his face wanted to see him.
At the mention of the scar, Jon knew immediately who it was. He let him in, and sure enough, it was the Mountain's brother—Sandor Clegane, the Hound.
The moment Sandor saw Jon, he knelt. It looked like he had made a heavy decision. "My lord, please let me follow you."
Sora eyed the kneeling Sandor. He's huge, she thought. Even on his knees, he was taller than her. He was ugly, yes, but his muscles looked like they were about to burst through his clothes. If Jon could gain a warrior like this, it would be a good thing.
"You are Sandor Clegane, Gregor's brother. I killed your brother, and now you want to be my guard? How do I know you aren't planning to avenge him?"
Hearing this, Sora instantly went on high alert, her hand drifting to her sword hilt.
"No! No, my lord, never." Sandor shook his head vigorously, his long hair—grown out to hide his scars—flying around. He then recounted a story from his childhood.
When he was a boy, he had played with a toy Gregor had discarded. In a rage, Gregor had shoved Sandor's face into a brazier of hot coals. That was how he got the scars.
Their father, to cover up Gregor's brutality, claimed Sandor's bedding had caught fire by accident.
"My lord, I have no desire to avenge that so-called brother of mine. You killed him, and I don't shed a tear. I know my family lands will be stripped. I have nothing now, but I have my sword. If you can look past my face, I can fight in your army." Sandor's tone was earnest. He looked like he wouldn't leave until Jon agreed.
"You really want to follow me?"
"By the Gods, my lord!" Sandor shuffled forward on his knees.
Jon smiled. "There's no need to join my army. When the time comes, just return with me to the Wall."
"The Wall? My lord... the Wall?"
Sandor didn't understand. Jon had achieved such a massive victory; surely he would be granted a huge fiefdom? Why wouldn't he want to be a comfortable lord? Why go back to that frozen wasteland?
Sandor wasn't a high lord, but even he knew that a man like Jon Snow wasn't going back to the Night's Watch.
"My lord?!" Sora was confused too. Having been with Jon this long, she knew what the Wall was and what Jon used to be.
Jon had promised the mountain clan elders a new home.
"Alright, go outside and think about it. Come find me when you've figured it out."
Sandor left the tent, looking dejected. "Guess I'll go get a drink," the big man grumbled to himself, heading toward a brothel.
"My lord, you—" Sora started to ask as soon as Sandor was gone.
"Sora! Never lose your composure like that when others are present!" Jon said calmly, though to Sora, it sounded like a scolding.
"Go tell our people: don't believe anything you hear or see right now. Unless I stand in front of you and say it myself, don't believe it. If anyone breaks the rules, they stay behind in the Mountains of the Moon forever!"
Jon's expression was serious, his tone strict. It was the first time Sora had seen him like this.
Jon didn't explain anything to Sora. She wouldn't understand the politics anyway.
Jon knew that even if Stannis were here right now, and Jon asked for the Westerlands, Stannis would grant it.
After all, Stannis didn't hold the Westerlands, and Jon's merit was astronomical. But the key was that Jon needed Stannis to trust him implicitly. Only with total trust could Jon operate freely in the Westerlands without Stannis looking over his shoulder.
The best way to gain that trust? Portray himself as a man solely driven by vengeance for his father, a man who would walk away once the deed was done.
In other words, Jon wanted the realm to see him as "Eddard Stark 2.0."
The nobles of Westeros wore their hearts on their sleeves; they said what they wanted. That was why someone like Littlefinger could run circles around them.
Now, Jon was entering the game of personas.
The Westerlands alone weren't enough. What Jon really wanted was the entire Sunset Sea coast—half of Westeros.