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Lannisport's city hall buzzed with grim purpose. Tywin Lannister had ridden in from Casterly Rock at the head of every available man and the last ships still floating in the harbor. He meant to crush the ironborn and he meant to do it fast.
No other great lord commanded his bannermen the way Tywin did. His word was law in the Westerlands and the fear behind it was absolute.
He had ruled longer than most men lived. He had wiped out the Reynes and the Tarbecks in a single bloody stroke when he was barely nineteen, then taken the Hand's chain at twenty. The Lannisters were old kings, richer than any house save the Hightowers, and their bloodlines ran thick. That was why Robert had welcomed them into the new order even though they joined last. That was why the realm still bent when Tywin spoke.
"This little bastard," Tywin growled, teeth grinding. "How in seven hells does one boy get this lucky? He kills two kraken sons and walks off with a Valyrian steel sword like it was handed to him on a silver platter."
Kevan Lannister stood beside his brother, calm as always. "You mean Nightfall. Ser Haras Harlaw's blade. Arthur Whent took it in single combat outside Seagard. The boy's cold, Tywin. Cold and vicious."
Tywin's pale green eyes narrowed. "If Brightroar still hung on my hip I wouldn't give a damn what some Riverlands upstart carries. But it's gone. Lost with Tommen the Second in the ruins of Valyria. And now this brat from Harrenhal parades around with a blade that should have been mine."
"Two hundred Valyrian steel swords once existed," Kevan said quietly. "There are still chances."
Tywin gave a short, bitter laugh. "Chances? The Dance swallowed Lamentation and Vigilance. The Targaryens lost Blackfyre and Dark Sister. Orphan-Maker vanished. The rest are locked in vaults or rotting in tombs. Gold won't buy them. I've tried."
"Red Rain still sits on Great Wyk," Kevan reminded him.
"Lord Drumm is no fool. He'll bend the knee long before we reach him." Tywin's fingers drummed once on the map. "The only real paths left are to take one by force or send men back into the smoking ruins of Valyria. Neither is simple."
Arthur Whent had lit a fire under him. Envy, frustration, and raw hunger twisted together in Tywin's chest. The boy had stolen glory that should have belonged to the lion.
Kevan poured his brother a cup of deep red wine. "There's another fracture worth watching. The Tullys and the Whents are drifting apart."
"Black Arthur is no ordinary knight," Tywin said. "Robert named him vanguard of the entire Riverlands host. That honor sits higher than anything Hoster Tully or his useless son could ever claim. The boy fights like Barristan in his prime and kills like Ben Blackwood reborn. Harrenhal is rising fast."
Kevan studied the map. "During Robert's Rebellion the Riverlands lords were still arguing which side to back when our army crossed the Red Fork. If they had stood together we would have paid in blood. Now they're split again."
Tywin held up three fingers. "Hoster is old and broken. Edmure is a joke. The Freys will wait to see who wins. Only a strong Harrenhal can keep the Riverlands divided. And that is exactly how I like it."
"A fractured Trident is a perfect Trident," Kevan agreed.
Tywin's mouth curved in the faintest smile. Since the marriage alliance with the Tullys had failed, he had never stopped planning for the day the Riverlands would need to be taught its place again.
---
Arthur rode hard for Whitewalls, Dark Messenger riding easy at his hip. The golden stallion from Highgarden moved like liquid sunlight beneath him. Yellow cloak snapping, black armor gleaming, he looked every inch the young lord who had just made the entire realm take notice.
He had done what needed doing in King's Landing. Heads delivered. Gold dragons collected from Littlefinger's thin hands. Dark Messenger reforged and a quiet, profitable understanding reached with Tobho Mott. Whatever iron the Iron Islands still held, Arthur would take his share and Tobho would buy every pound.
Now came the next step. Recruit every landless freerider Harrenhal's gold could tempt. Wait for Robert's host to march. Then finish the job at Seagard.
Whitewalls' new steward, Ambrose, hurried out to meet him, face flushed with pride.
"My lord! The place is thriving. The dairy herd hasn't grown much yet, but those dried purple alfalfa bales you sent have worked miracles. Milk yield is up, quality is up, and the price we're getting in King's Landing has never been higher. The wine is coming along nicely too. Not quite at its peak yet, but the vines are strong and the flavor is already excellent."
Arthur swung down from the saddle and clapped the older man on the shoulder. "You've done well, Ambrose. I'm proud of you."
The Greenhand power still hummed quietly beneath his skin, feeding the grapevines and the alfalfa alike. Whitewalls was becoming exactly what he needed: a quiet, profitable engine that could fund an army.
"I'm riding to war against the ironborn soon," Arthur said. "Before I leave I want every barrel of Whitewalls wine you can spare loaded and ready. Good vintage. Strong. The kind that makes men remember who their friends are."
Ambrose bowed without hesitation. "It will be done, my lord. Every last drop."
Arthur smiled. The lion was jealous. The realm was watching. And Whitewalls wine was about to start flowing in very interesting directions.