GOT Chapter 97: Abandonment and Design

As one issue after another kept flaring up, all stemming from this sudden war with the Lannisters of the Westerlands, Eddard Stark felt an ever-growing sense of urgency.

“Your Grace,” he said, looking directly at the king, “we must put down this Lannister rebellion with the greatest speed.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Robert shot back, his tone sharp with irritation.

He gave a harsh snort, seized the goblet newly filled at his elbow, but did not drink. Instead, his brows drew together as he fixed his gaze on his Hand.

“Up till now, aside from you openly standing by me, the Vale has been silent as the grave. At times I wonder if the letters bearing my orders flew too far, across the Narrow Sea, only to be eaten by fish!”

The thought alone made Robert bristle with anger.

“And the Tyrells—using Dorne’s suspicious military stirrings as their excuse, they tell me they must guard against some Dornish plot to invade them.”

“Meanwhile, Renly has only just returned to Storm’s End to summon his bannermen, and in this state of affairs he cannot possibly march to the front at once.”

“The Free Cities of Essos—those sellswords too have scented blood, and they’re restless, ready to move.”

“Eddard, tell me—how in the seven hells are we meant to fight this war?”

With that, King Robert let all the gloom pent up in his chest burst forth in one breath.

“…The Iron Islands?” Eddard began, as if to suggest something.

“Balon Greyjoy? Can you trust him?” Robert’s thick brows arched, his bristling beard quivering like needles. “Right now, the whole of the Seven Kingdoms is filled with jackals, every one of them craning their necks for gain. No, they aren’t weighing the balance of power…”

“They’re all thinking of one thing—how best to sink their teeth into the Lannisters and tear away the largest chunk of flesh.”

Walder Frey lowered his head and drank, as if age and deafness kept him from hearing the barbed words aimed at him.

The king did not look his way either. After all, the old man’s demand was hardly excessive—merely a chance to skim a bit of profit from House Stark’s misfortune.

And truly, it was only the Starks. Given the wealth of the Freys, had it been any other great house, most lords would have leapt with joy at such an offer.

“In King’s Landing,” Robert went on, “my councillors have only just completed the purge of Lannister influence!”

“Listen—we must deal with this situation with force, or else those lazy curs will never stir themselves to action!”

“And what I spoke of with you before—that must be placed on the table now.”

Having vented his curses at those useless lords, Robert turned the talk to his court in the capital. This time his gaze sharpened, glinting like steel as it locked upon his Hand.

“Eddard, I agree with some of your views. But I need your support for mine as well.”

“You and I both know—this is the fastest way to end this war.”

“I know what troubles your conscience, but you also know I cannot act as you would wish. I already have a better target in mind.”

The king spoke in riddles, words meant only for the two of them to understand.

Walder Frey, sensing they discussed some grave matter, watched intently, though he had no inkling what it was.

As for Eddard Stark, he knew full well what Robert’s words pointed to.

Yet what could he do in such a moment?

Bitter-faced, he rose to his feet. He cast a glance at the king, whose eyes now gleamed like blades, then another at Walder Frey, who still chuckled to himself.

With a helpless sigh, the Hand of the King bowed slightly to his sovereign.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

At last, seeing his old friend yield on this matter, Robert’s face broke into a triumphant grin. He raised his goblet to his lips.

...

Outside Riverrun, in a village along the Kingsroad, not far from the castle that had already been under siege for nearly two months.

Through the window, one could see that stone-grey fortress tinged faintly with yellow.

“This is the latest intelligence regarding Raventree Hall and the heartlands of the Riverlands north of the Red Fork, as well as the situation of the northern host marching south.”

Tywin Lannister pressed a finger against the letter that had just been delivered to him and slid it across the table toward his cousin, Stafford Lannister.

Since he had been summoned specifically for this matter, Stafford already had a rough idea of what had happened there. Even so, he picked up the letter and carefully read through it.

“Kal Stone?”

“He seems sharper than Gregor Clegane… though I wonder if he’s truly the stronger of the two.”

The striking name in the report drew the words unbidden from Stafford’s lips.

“I’m not asking for your assessment of Robert’s bastard,” Tywin said. His face betrayed no emotion, but the chill in his voice was plain.

“…Very well, let us return to the heart of the matter.”

Noticing his cousin’s displeasure at hearing that name, Stafford placed the letter back on Tywin’s desk and sank back into his chair. After a moment’s careful thought, he finally spoke.

“We should abandon our military strength north of the Red Fork, Tywin. Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark are marching south with the northern host. Now, with the Freys also throwing their support behind them, meeting them head-on in that region brings us no benefit whatsoever. Sending more men would not be a wise choice.”

Tywin’s expression remained unreadable. “You’re suggesting we relinquish the ground we’ve already taken? And simply recall the men we’ve stationed there?” he asked.

Stafford frowned. “Kal Stone’s sudden appearance was unexpected, yes—but the fact is he’s already devoured most of the three thousand you sent. What purpose is there in keeping them there?”

“Indeed.” Tywin’s fingers drummed lightly against the armrest of his chair, and he himself added, “At this point, they cannot even bar Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark.”

“But you never needed them to accomplish much more than that, did you?” Stafford’s voice carried a faint note of guilt.

“Correct. They have already fulfilled their task perfectly,” Tywin said. The corner of his mouth almost curved upward, but the trace of a smile was quickly suppressed.

“Let them remain there. It will cost the Starks a little time to clear the field—no great loss to us.”

Thus, in that small room, the Lord of Casterly Rock coldly sealed the fate of the army he had sent north of the Red Fork.

At Tywin’s words, Stafford Lannister could not help but shiver, though he held his tongue.

After all, Tywin had explained this plan to him plainly before setting it in motion. He had always been in the know.

So he knew all too well that in Lord Tywin’s eyes, those three thousand men were nothing more than disposable pieces.

Their sole purpose had been to buy enough time for another plan of his making.

And clearly, they had already fulfilled their task.

With their lives.

Without ever realizing it.

What Stafford had not expected was that even after the plan’s success, Tywin still had no intention of allowing the remnants—already more than half destroyed—to withdraw.

At that thought, gazing at his cousin Tywin Lannister’s unwavering eyes, Stafford could not help but sigh inwardly.

Tywin’s designs concerned the very future of House Lannister. Even with the weight of guilt pressing on his heart, Stafford had no choice but to agree.

Fortunately, most of those three thousand had been the retainers of lesser lords of the Westerlands loyal to the Lannisters—relatively unimportant men. Very few had belonged directly to Tywin’s own household.

Losses such as these could be borne.

With that reasoning, Stafford Lannister could only remain silent, using it to convince himself.

“For Riverrun—have you already devised a plan?” At that moment, Lord Tywin casually stacked the letters on his desk and lifted his gaze.

“Does Hoster truly mean to sacrifice this son of his?”

“Edmure Tully is Riverrun’s only heir.”

Hearing Tywin raise the matter of Riverrun, Stafford quickly pulled his thoughts back.

Yet at that question, his brow furrowed, doubt flickering across his face. “That old man has yet to show himself. It almost seems he truly intends to do so.”

“Riverrun only holds fast behind its walls. Our siege has had no effect at all. Even the captives you’ve seized from the houses sworn to him—meant to threaten him—have achieved nothing.”

Here, Stafford could not keep from asking, his voice tinged with puzzlement: “Does he really have such faith in Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark?”

Over the past month and more, the heads and heirs of many Riverland families had been dragged here from all corners of the land.

And even with the prison camp built just outside Riverrun’s gates—where the air was filled each day with wretched screams—within the castle there was still only deathly silence, without the slightest response.

It was as if Hoster Tully had truly become so cold-blooded, not sparing even a glance for these captives.

Strangely enough, ever since the war began, no one had seen the old man even once.

When the Lannister host swept along the Kingsroad and pressed all the way to Riverrun, he had simply abandoned all thought of open resistance, choosing without hesitation to hold fast to the castle.

So now, each day the men sent outside Riverrun’s gates to hurl insults found themselves faced only with the scowling face of Tytos Blackwood, Lord of Raventree Hall.

True, they had taken Pinkmaiden, Stone Hedge, Raventree Hall, and other strongholds, successfully cutting Riverrun off from its allies.

Tywin had also dispatched men deeper into the Riverlands to sweep the countryside, seize supplies, and march toward the crossings farther down the Trident.

And yet, it had all proven utterly useless.

“They are his only hope.”

Tywin’s voice was cold as he answered Stafford’s doubts.

Leaning forward, he braced both hands on the desk, eyes narrowing slightly as he gazed toward the solid triangular fortress beyond the window.

Though Riverrun itself was not especially vast, the castle sat between two rivers, with a massive man-made moat dug across its western side.

This made the stronghold exceptionally easy to defend and painfully hard to assault.

For when under attack, the sluice gates within Riverrun could be opened, flooding the moat until the castle stood as an island.

So it was now—water on three sides, impregnable.

The sandstone curtain walls rose sheer from the water, topped with battlements, crenels, and arrow slits. The towers’ fields of fire even reached across to the opposite bank.

Tywin had attempted storming Riverrun more than once, but soon realized that every such effort was in vain.

Within the castle, Lord Hoster Tully remained unyielding, unmoved by every offensive, bent solely on holding that shell of stone like a stubborn turtle.

Looking out at Riverrun, Tywin pondered in silence, then slowly rose to his feet.

“It seems this plan must be abandoned. Gather all the Riverland nobles we’ve taken captive, and move them into the heart of the Riverlands.”