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The soldiers of Casterly Rock were beginning to sense that something was amiss. Lately, their washing time had been noticeably cut short.
Furthermore, the servants responsible for drawing water had spread the word throughout the castle: the great cisterns were running low.
Casterly Rock was only so big. Once a rumor took root, it spread with frightening speed. In the beginning, the officers might have been able to conceal the truth, but as time went on, it became impossible to suppress the whispers.
Early in the morning, Maester Creylen, dressed in his rust-colored robes, attended to Tywin. The Lord of Casterly Rock was currently being washed and shaved by his servants.
"Is there word from King's Landing?"
For the past ten days, Tywin had summoned Maester Creylen almost every morning, and his first question was always about a reply from the capital.
Ordinarily, a raven could fly from east to west and back in two days. Yet it had been nearly a week with no response. This was clearly abnormal.
At first, they considered that the bird might have lost its way or fallen prey to a hawk, so they sent several more ravens to King's Landing in succession. But still, there was only silence.
"Not... not yet, my Lord."
Creylen's voice trembled slightly. Seeing Tywin's brows furrow, he instinctively took a step back.
Having served Tywin for years, Creylen knew well the pride and cold ruthlessness of the Lion of the Rock. Tywin's willingness to bow to Stannis was solely because he could not bear the shame of losing the ancestral seat House Lannister had held for thousands of years. Were it not for that burden, his temper would have likely driven him to lead his soldiers out to face Jon in a fight to the death long ago.
Soon, the barber finished shaving Tywin and wiped away the stray hairs with a warm towel.
Yet, the Lord of Casterly Rock kept his eyes tightly shut, deep in thought. After a long silence, he dismissed the barber and then ordered Creylen, "Send another raven to King's Landing. Immediately."
Tywin gave the order, but Creylen did not move. After a moment of hesitation, as if summoning all his courage, the Maester spoke. "My Lord... we have no more ravens capable of flying to King's Landing."
"What?!"
Feeling Tywin's green eyes snap open and fix upon him, Creylen felt a chill run through his limbs until they were numb.
"My Lord, we have used all the birds trained for the capital."
The raven network of the Seven Kingdoms was complex and troublesome to maintain. Ravens did not understand human speech, nor could they read maps.
To teach them to carry messages, one had to personally transport the birds to a specific location—sometimes multiple times—before they could learn the route home. The cost and effort were considerable.
Although Casterly Rock was the capital of the Westerlands and had a rich stock of ravens, the supply was not infinite. Between Tywin's attempts to bargain with Stannis and his recent pleas for peace sent to King's Landing, the rookery was now empty of birds for that destination.
Hearing Creylen say the ravens were gone, Tywin's expression visibly stiffened.
The fall of the Golden Tooth had shocked Tywin deeply; he hadn't slept a wink the night he received the news.
Now, with Casterly Rock's messages disappearing into the void, he began to harbor a suspicion—that the fall of the Golden Tooth was also connected to the ravens.
But try as he might, he couldn't figure out how ravens could determine the fall of a castle.
Tywin exhaled a heavy breath and asked, "What sort of sorcery is the bastard using? Have you found the answer to that?"
"I..." Creylen wanted to say he was still researching, but hearing the tone of Tywin's voice, he feared admitting failure might earn him a quick death. Forced into a corner, Creylen lied. "I... I have found two or three methods to break such sorcery, though I cannot be certain of their efficacy."
Though Tywin frowned at Creylen's uncertainty, he hadn't lost his reason; no one had ever encountered such a thing before.
"Then try them," Tywin said, looking out the window at the sea. The Redwyne fleet seemed to be gathering again, forming a long line, while the dark clouds above were once more beginning to amass.
He knew Jon was about to intercept the rain again.
These days, whenever clouds showed signs of gathering, Jon would have Paxter perform his "artificial rainfall," refusing to let a single drop fall on Casterly Rock.
Soon, Tywin saw the flames rise once more from the Redwyne ships, though the fire seemed a bit smaller today.
Shortly after, Creylen ordered men to prepare for his "ritual to break the curse."
On a wide, open terrace, several spotted deer were dragged from their cages. As if sensing their impending doom, the creatures—originally kept in the gardens for pleasure—bleated and scrambled backward, their cries pitiable to hear.
Surrounded by guards, Tywin, along with Ser Damon and Ser Damion Lannister, watched as Creylen prepared the counter-curse he had "found."
Seven deer were bound by their hooves and pressed onto long tables. A butcher stood by, sharpening an already gleaming knife.
Tywin and the others watched with grave expressions, all uncertain if such a ritual would actually work.
Seeing preparations were complete, Creylen said to Tywin, "My Lord, we need only collect the deer blood in skins and then use a catapult to hurl them toward the enemy fleet."
Tywin said nothing. Damion spoke up from the side, "Then begin."
At the command, the butcher stepped up to a deer, aimed for the artery in its neck, and slashed!
Crimson blood spurted out in pulses, flowing with a wet gurgle into the gold basins prepared below.
The deer's cries grew weaker as its lifeblood drained away, while in the distance, the thunder grew louder.
As the bleeding reached its final stage, the sound of blood dripping into the basins became distinct, and the air filled with the metallic scent of rust.
Ser Addam Marbrand watched the ritual, his heart a mix of tension and anticipation. His eyes darted constantly between the distant fleet and the blood before him.
Is this... is this really going to work?
The ritual seemed unreliable no matter how he looked at it, and for a moment, he even felt a flicker of doubt about the formidable Lord Tywin.
The butcher filled seven skins with the deer blood, and under Creylen's direction, they were loaded into a trebuchet.
Creylen approached Tywin. "My Lord, the final step. You must personally cut the rope to launch the blood toward the Redwyne fleet."
Tywin strode to the rear of the trebuchet, drew his sword, and with a single stroke, severed the retaining rope. With a loud thrum, the seven blood-filled skins were hurled into the air.
Everyone watched as the projectiles arced high into the sky, disappearing into the leaden clouds before plummeting rapidly.
The skins smashed into the waves, causing not even a ripple.
CRACK—
Lightning shot from the clouds above the distant fleet. Just as before, a torrential downpour fell—but only over the ships.
Rain! Rain! Rain! Fall here, damn you! Creylen prayed and screamed internally, staring up at the grey sky.
Just then, he felt a coolness on his face. He reached out and felt moisture on his palm. A surge of relief, like surviving a disaster, washed over him.
"My Lord, it's raining!" Damion exclaimed happily.
Tywin's face relaxed slightly.
Raindrops began to spot the ground at their feet, and the air turned damp.
It was nothing compared to the deluge in the distance, pitifully weak.
But rain was rain. Even a little was better than none.
"Quick! Have the men collect the water!" Damion shouted orders. But as soon as the words left his mouth, the rain stopped!
The damp brown spots on the ground faded rapidly, as if the brief shower had been nothing but a cruel hallucination.
Creylen raised his hands in desperation, half in prayer, half in a plea for mercy. The rain had ceased. He knew his "counter-curse" had failed.
The atmosphere, which had lightened for a moment, turned heavy and oppressive once more. Yet, less than a few leagues away, the heavy rain continued to pour relentlessly over the Redwyne fleet.
The contrast was a silent, mocking insult.
Creylen didn't dare turn around. His mind raced frantically, thinking of how to quell Tywin's wrath.
My Lord, we have other methods, surely one will work...
No, that sounds weak.
My Lord, let us try again...
Perhaps I should be more confident?
"My Lord, we..."
Urk.
Creylen looked down. Tywin's gleaming longsword had pierced through his rust-colored robes, entering his abdomen and exiting his back. The tip of the blade dripped blood.
Damon and Damion stared, stunned. A Maester was no ordinary servant; unless they committed treason or harmed their liege lord, they were not to be executed casually.
To do so risked the Citadel refusing to send any more Maesters to serve the House.
But neither Damon, nor Damion, nor Addam dared to intervene. They knew that, as Tywin had said, the Lannisters were backed into a corner.
Tywin withdrew his sword, looking at Damion and the others. "We have sent every raven capable of reaching King's Landing, yet not a single reply has come. To remain in Casterly Rock is to wait for death."
As Tywin spoke, distant thunder rumbled in agreement.
"I will lead the army personally. I will face this bastard who covets Casterly Rock in a fight to the death. Only then does House Lannister have a chance at survival."
Creylen was not yet dead. He felt his body growing cold rapidly, the dark red blood spreading beneath him until it touched Tywin's boots.
"Damion."
"My Lord."
"You will stay and hold Casterly Rock."
"As you command."
"Damon."
"My Lord."
"In three days, you ride with me."
"As you command."
Finally, Tywin's gaze fell upon Addam.
"Addam Lannister."
"My Lord?"
"I personally legitimized you from Hill to Lannister. Now, I am entrusting you with Casterly Rock's heavy armored division. You shall lead our vanguard!"
"Huh? Me?!"