Looking at the vassals before him, Tywin Lannister's earlier loss and bewilderment had vanished without a trace; he was once again the unruffled figure he always was, calm as the sky falling at his feet yet unmoved in expression.
"How stand the arrangements for the war?"
Tywin remained seated on the stool, turned slightly, one arm resting on the temporary table, his fingers tapping the tabletop as he asked in a low voice.
At these words, the assembled vassals of House Lannister could not hide their restrained excitement.
"All the scheduled arrangements have been completed, we are ready, my lord!"
"Moreover, Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark have indeed withdrawn portions of their forces for some distance; it seems they have heeded our warning."
"No doubt, soon we shall give those Northerner savages a crushing defeat!"
"Lord, allow me to lead the vanguard; I will make those Northerner savages piss themselves as they run!"
When spoken of plainly, it might not have mattered, but once the current state of the war was mentioned, these noble lords—each prepared for war—could no longer restrain their excitement.
Now that the conflict had reached this point, everyone knew what lay ahead.
They were all-in, staking everything on this moment.
Every early maneuver they had made had been successful.
Next would be the moment to cement their final victory.
Then the iron throne occupied by House Baratheon would be taken by House Lannister.
And the thousand-year lineage of House Lannister would, from this moment, truly begin.
Everyone in the room understood that history had already been written at this instant.
Every step they took now would be recorded by scholars, line by line, to become the legendary tale for future generations to behold.
So who could keep their composure as victory lay before them?
Hearing their assorted talk and their uncontrollable exhilaration, Tywin Lannister showed no reaction at all; his pale green eyes merely swept across the faces of the lords standing in the room.
At last they rested on a boy who stood with his head lowered, dressed in simple clothes.
"Clear away this food, it now belongs to you."
"And pick up that letter on the floor for me, then you may leave. Be sure to close the door."
Tywin paid no mind to the vassals whose emotions ran high, but instead called upon a boy he had casually taken a liking to in the cells, to tidy the room.
The boy, hearing the Tywin's order, said nothing, hurrying to clear the table that was not all that disorderly.
First he removed the food before the lord, setting it upon a tray on a side table, then quickly wiped the desk clean.
After that he picked up the letter blown to the floor by the wind, straightened it neatly, and placed it before Lord Tywin on the polished desk.
He could not read, merely a careful and nimble page, a stableboy who had just come under a newly-made knight of no renown.
As for his master, he had already been slain by Lord Tywin's army.
The excited noble lords, seeing that Tywin ignored them and instead ordered a cupbearer to clean, slowly quieted as well.
Looking upon Lord Tywin's unshaken face, they marveled inwardly—Tywin Lannister truly was Tywin Lannister.
As the man who had determined all this with his own hands, he was calmer, steadier than anyone.
When the wooden door shut behind the boy, only Tywin Lannister and the lords loyal to him remained in the room.
"Sit."
Tywin straightened his posture, placing both arms upon the table.
He leaned slightly forward, his face calm, his expression carrying a strange, oppressive weight.
With the creak and scrape of chairs, each present took his seat, casting questioning looks toward their liege.
Only once he saw all had settled into silence did Tywin slowly begin to speak.
"I regret to cut across your mood."
"But I must tell you this: I am preparing to surrender to Robert Baratheon, to the Iron Throne!"
Tywin spoke these words without a flicker of expression, then pushed the sheet of paper, freshly picked from the floor, into the center of the long table.
Yet in the face of his composure, the nobles gathered round the table wore looks as though they had seen a ghost.
...
Harrenhal's area was three times that of Winterfell, its buildings so vast that nothing else could be compared with it.
The stables could house a thousand horses, the godswood covered twenty acres, and the kitchens could accommodate two hundred people working at the same time.
Its enormous scale, the heavy and steep walls—from the ground, looking up at the catapults mounted on the battlements, they seemed no larger than insects.
Five massive towers, and equally thick walls.
The walls were so incredibly thick that even the chambers within would suffice for giants to live in.
But since the Conquest, it seemed to have become nothing but a burden.
Not only was it too vast, but its upkeep was far too costly.
If its owner were not the wealthiest in Westeros, with vast fertile lands, he would not even qualify to dwell in such a castle.
And the curse of Harrenhal, along with its ghost stories, had always spread wildly.
It was said Harren mixed human blood into the mortar when raising his walls, and the curse prevented anyone from ever holding the castle for long.
For since Harren's death, the castle had passed through many hands.
But every noble house that gained it met with misfortune.
Every house that held Harrenhal died out.
So when the Lannister host finally chose to make this place their base, timid and curious voices inevitably rose again.
They spoke of Harrenhal's cavernous halls and ruined towers, saying it was untended, hard to defend.
Some even said ghosts and wraiths wandered everywhere within.
One claimed he had risen at night to piss and saw them, so frightened he could only lie back in bed and wait till morning to change his breeches.
As for the doom clinging to this castle, it was said that the burning wraiths of Harren and his sons roamed the hall by night, and should they see a man, he would be burned alive—whispered in private, yet widely believed.
In three hundred years, Harrenhal had witnessed horrors greater than those Casterly Rock had seen in three thousand.
Every house that laid hands on Harrenhal met a wretched end.
But when such tales reached Lord Tywin Lannister's ears.
He hanged those who spread such fear—cooks working in the kitchens, grooms in the stables, soldiers driven mad by shadows.
Their corpses were hung on the sheer, cliff-like, most conspicuous walls, and then the rumors were crushed.
After that, under the lead of knights from each house, the Lannister host turned their talk to how much wealth would flow into their purses after victory.
Yet this fervor, born of fear turned into zeal for war and triumph, after a few letters arrived from King's Landing, and one day of brewing, turned again into another level of dread.
And this dread's herald was none other than Lord Tywin Lannister.
Their lord, their liege.
The one who led them, who guided their lives.
For at this critical moment, Lord Tywin Lannister had chosen to yield to the Iron Throne.
Harrenhal's gates slowly opened. Tywin Lannister, astride a white horse, under the silent gaze of countless eyes, slowly rode out from within.
His face was expressionless, his eyes calm without the least ripple.
Behind him followed a train of fewer than fifty men.
And then, in this heavy atmosphere, that small company, beneath the weighty, relieved, resentful, and other mixed gazes of the host, slowly walked out through Harrenhal's castle gates.
Toward the direction of the enemy.
A white banner was borne high within the column, soaked by the morning dew, hanging damp upon its wooden pole.
...
"Forgive me for interrupting your mood."
"But what I must tell you all is that I intend to yield to Robert Baratheon, to the Iron Throne!"
In the utterly silent chamber, only after those he had summoned for council had quieted down did Tywin slowly let out these words.
And with them, he was met by a host of eyes brimming with loathing.
Looking at the crumpled letter Tywin had pushed into the center of the long table, someone could not help but swallow hard.
"Lord Tywin, you are not jesting, are you?"
The man who asked wore a most strained smile, for all knew that Lord Tywin Lannister never jested.
He did not even smile.
Faced with incredulous questions and eyes as though seeing a ghost, Tywin's face remained calm, unruffled.
Loosening his fingers from the letter, Tywin clasped his hands together before his chin, his gaze touched with an untraceable gloom.
"Our plan has failed. I am sorry, my lords. We have lost everything with which to contend against our foe."
"This letter is the rope that has drawn us back from the brink of ruin."
As Tywin spoke, the company stared in shock at that letter.
Then a hand, trembling slightly, reached toward it.
Before they could recover from this shattering truth, Tywin's next words further proved he was not making some vile jest.
"This is no vile jest," Lord Tywin's voice was low. "This is the chance bought for us with Kevan's life."
He bowed his head slightly, watching as the silent and stunned men passed the letter among themselves.
Watching as, when they read the contents, their expressions changed.
"King's Landing's fall was sudden, I know. Hard to believe. Yet the truth is just that."
"From the moment I received this letter, I waited half the night and all the dawn to be certain it was no jest."
"And then came word that confirmed the truth of it. Three such messages in all—"
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