How dared they?
Those savages from the Iron Islands.
Those barbarians who scorned order.
They had struck at the heart of Lannisport, damaging not only his trade but his reputation.
Dozens of ships, proud symbols of his power, burned like common torches.
The fire reflected upon the water’s surface like a mirror mercilessly showing him his own helplessness.
He could not even pursue them.
The black sails of the ironborn were already vanishing toward the riverlands, as though mocking him, mocking his house, mocking everything he had built.
They had not even entered Lannisport itself to plunder as raiders usually did.
Instead, they had taken their spoils from the ships alone.
The clang of armor broke the silence.
One of his commanders, Wilmont, stepped forward and struggled to find the proper words.
“Lord Tywin, they…
they struck during the night.
We…
we did not have time…”
“Enough.”
Tywin’s voice cut through the air like a blade.
He never looked away from the harbor.
The commander fell silent at once.
For another moment Tywin watched the destruction.
Then he slowly turned toward his men.
“That was not a strike,” he said.
His voice had grown quieter now.
Harder.
Steel wrapped in flesh.
“That was a fatal mistake.
To declare war upon me.”
His gaze swept across them.
“Prepare ravens for King’s Landing.
We march at once.”
He turned away from the burning harbor.
Every step radiated cold determination.
Tywin Lannister did not forgive defeat.
Least of all the sort that left his name buried beneath ash and smoke.
The ironborn had paid the iron price.
Now the Old Lion intended to remind House Greyjoy that a Lannister always settles his debts.
*
Arthur awoke with a sharp gasp.
His body ached from sleeping upon cold stone.
The damp, miserable cell chilled him to the bone, and every movement sent pain through his stiff joints.
Grinding his teeth, he forced himself upright and began pacing from wall to wall, trying to warm himself.
The symbols were gone.
The realization brought such relief that for a moment he felt genuinely stronger.
Dawn was beginning beyond the narrow arched window.
The first pale rays of sunlight slipped through rusted bars and illuminated the dusty walls.
Without warning Arthur leapt upward, caught hold of the iron grating, and pulled himself up until his face rested within a tiny patch of warmth.
A faint sea breeze filled his nostrils.
Beyond the bars stretched endless waters surrounding the rocky outcrop upon which the castle stood.
He watched waves shatter against the rocks below.
Far out at sea, a handful of ships drifted lazily upon the swells.
His eye caught sight of a raven flying toward the open sea.
Then, as though mocking him, the sun vanished behind a thick cloud, and the light disappeared.
Arthur released the bars and dropped back to the floor.
Yesterday he had hoped everything would somehow resolve itself.
That the baker who falsely accused him would tell the guards the truth.
That they would release him.
But now…
After what had happened.
After he had killed a man.
The boy clenched his fists.
Horrible images flashed before his eyes.
The torture chamber.
The rough hands of gaolers fastening him to dreadful devices designed to wring confessions from unwilling mouths.
A severed hand.
Or worse.
A noose.
He had seen men hanged before.
Seen their faces twist in terror.
Seen their legs kick helplessly.
The blue tint of their skin.
The swollen tongue hanging from their mouths.
“No…” he whispered.
The sound barely resembled his own voice.
“No!”
The thought of escape rooted itself firmly in his mind.
He did not want to die.
Drowning in the cold sea was terrifying, but it seemed preferable to dangling before a laughing crowd.
He had survived once already.
Clenching his jaw, Arthur jumped again, seized the bars, and pulled himself upward.
This time it felt easier.
As though his body had somehow grown stronger.
His heart quickened with sudden hope.
Pulling himself higher, he attempted to squeeze his head between the bars.
The gap was too narrow.
The metal scraped his skin, leaving burning scratches.
Arthur dropped back down, striking the stone floor hard.
He had achieved nothing except a few cuts across his scalp.
The makers of the grating had not left prisoners such an obvious means of escape.
Still…
The rusted bars creaked beneath his relatively light weight.
*
Humphrey walked quickly through the night, almost mechanically.
The tension around him seemed so thick it felt as though the air itself had become heavy and viscous.
Of course, it was only an illusion.
King’s Landing continued its usual nightly chaos.
Songs and drunken laughter spilled from taverns.
Shady figures moved through narrow alleys.
Torchlight gleamed in puddles left behind by the evening rain.
The city overflowed with sound.
Yet Humphrey heard it all as though through a layer of wool.
Wiping sweat from his brow, he tightened his grip upon his sword.
News of the Greyjoy attack upon Lannisport had struck like lightning from a clear sky.
Yet fear was not what he felt.
Instead there came a sense of grim inevitability.
Humphrey did not fear war.
He knew war.
And that knowledge weighed heavily upon him.
He remembered men like Janos Slynt, who sheltered behind the backs of braver men and later enjoyed honors purchased with another man’s blood.
That was not his way.
The Fat Tower bustled with activity.
Guards shifted impatiently at the gates while officers hurried inside.
The tower’s stone walls seemed unusually cold tonight, as though they too sensed the approaching storm.
Within, the entire leadership of the Gold Cloaks had gathered.
Officers stood in small groups throughout the torchlit hall, speaking in hushed voices.
At the center stood the commander himself, Manly Stokeworth.
His broad frame loomed against the flickering firelight, and his voice rang through the hall with the certainty of a war horn.
“Everyone here?
Good.
Then listen carefully.”
His gaze swept across the assembled men, measuring them.
“As you know, the Greyjoys have attacked Lannisport.
The Small Council has ordered full mobilization.
Our force will be attached to a garrison contingent.
Officers with military experience will oversee militia formations.
One-third of our men will remain in the city to maintain order.”
His words hung in the air.
For a moment the hall became so silent that the crackling of torches seemed deafening.
Then conversation erupted once more.
Men exchanged uneasy glances.
Some whispered.
Others merely nodded, accepting the inevitable.
Afterward came the details.
Names were read.
Assignments distributed.
Some officers would march among the noble contingents.
Others would serve lower in the ranks.
Some would remain behind in King’s Landing altogether.
Humphrey remained silent.
Words were unnecessary.
War was not a place for dreams of glory.
It was mud.
Blood.
Fear.
He knew he would march again.
This time he would command men of his own.
Not all of them would return.
The meeting ended late into the night.
Orders had been given, though countless practical matters still required immediate attention.
Humphrey lingered near the exit for a moment.
At best, he would likely command a dozen men.
That was certainly preferable to standing in the front ranks.
When he finally stepped outside, the night greeted him with a cool wind carrying the scents of salt and smoke.
The city carried on as though nothing had happened.
But Humphrey knew that by tomorrow everything would change.
Again.
At home, unaware of it all, his wife and son slept peacefully.
Soon there would be a difficult conversation.
And he still had one unfinished matter to attend to.
A/N:
While everyone else is waiting for updates, com / Captain_Lag (remove the spaces)