Tywin Lannister stood silently upon the battlefield, his sharp gaze sweeping across the aftermath of victory.
What lay before him was not triumph—but devastation.
The ground had turned into a grotesque sea of blood. Corpses were scattered everywhere, piled upon one another in twisted heaps. The metallic scent of death lingered heavily in the air, mingling with the cries of carrion birds circling overhead.
Few survivors remained from the Northern army.
The battlefield had become a graveyard.
Yet amidst this ruin, Tywin Lannister stood immaculate.
As Warden of the West and Lord of Casterly Rock, his presence was as imposing as ever. His crimson steel armor, polished countless times, gleamed brilliantly under the morning sun, reflecting a fiery brilliance that contrasted sharply with the dark, blood-soaked earth.
A heavy cloak woven with countless golden threads draped over his shoulders. It was so weighty that even in the midst of battle, it barely fluttered. When mounted, it nearly covered the hindquarters of his horse entirely.
Every detail of his appearance radiated power, wealth, and authority.
But victory had come at a cost.
The Southern army had suffered heavy casualties as well.
The left flank, used as expendable fodder, had been nearly annihilated. Even the central army under Ser Kevan Lannister had taken significant losses during Rickard Karstark's desperate charge.
Rickard's forces had advanced recklessly, charging headlong into tightly formed spear lines. Their movements lacked the discipline of trained soldiers—they fought with a wild, desperate intensity that bordered on madness.
"They weren't ordinary soldiers," Kevan said, his voice low as he surveyed the battlefield. "Most of them were old men… homeless wanderers… middle-aged and elderly. There were very few young fighters."
He gestured toward the fallen.
Many of the dead Northerners had gray or white hair. Others were gaunt, weathered men who had clearly lived harsh lives. Among them were also young second sons—boys who would never inherit anything.
Their equipment was mismatched.
Some wore crude black scale armor provided by Gendry. Others had blue steel ringmail taken from House Frey. It was a patchwork army, assembled from desperation rather than strength.
Tywin's expression remained cold.
"Winter wolves…"
The term lingered in the air.
Old men. Unmarried men. The heirless. The unwanted. The burdens of winter.
In the North, such individuals were often sent out to die when winter grew too harsh—sacrifices made for the survival of the rest.
"I believe so," Kevan nodded.
"Their goal was likely to cross the Trident at the ford, disperse into the Riverlands, and wage a prolonged guerrilla war. Even though we had numerical superiority and secured the crossing in advance, they refused to retreat."
He paused, glancing at the carnage.
"They came here prepared to die."
Tywin said nothing.
His attendants approached and began unfastening the heavy clasps of his armor. The cloak's weight required specially crafted golden lion-shaped fasteners resting on his shoulders—two lionesses facing one another, poised as if ready to spring.
Atop his helmet stood a magnificent lion with a flowing mane, its mouth open in a silent roar, one paw raised.
All three lions were forged from pure gold, their eyes set with gleaming rubies.
Even his armor reflected excess and precision: dark red enamel layered over steel, adorned with intricate golden patterns. Every buckle was gilded. Every piece meticulously crafted.
Yet none of it brought him satisfaction.
"The boy blacksmith did not commit his main force," Tywin said coldly. "Instead, he and those Stark children sent these old men south to die… merely to draw our attention."
His tone grew sharper.
"What exactly are they planning?"
Kevan considered carefully.
"If they secure the Twins, their strategic position will become far more flexible."
Tywin's original plan had been simple—control both banks of the river and block the Northern advance entirely. He had hoped to force a decisive battle against the North's young and capable warriors.
But his enemy had proven unpredictable.
They divided their forces cleverly, adapting to circumstances in ways that made them difficult to pin down.
This battle, though technically a victory, felt incomplete.
He should have crushed them entirely.
Instead, he had paid dearly.
"We won," Kevan said.
Tywin's eyes narrowed slightly.
"A costly victory is no victory at all."
He stepped forward, his boots sinking slightly into the damp, blood-soaked ground.
"If this continues, even my army will be worn down."
His mind worked rapidly, analyzing every detail.
The scouts had been misled—focused on this slow, sacrificial force while the true strength of the enemy remained hidden.
He did not know where the real battle would unfold.
And that unsettled him.
"Lord Tywin!"
A voice called out.
Ser Addam Marbrand approached quickly, dismounting from a foam-flecked horse. Blood dripped from the animal's mouth, evidence of a hard ride.
The knight knelt.
"My lord. We have taken Rickard Karstark's head. However… Maege Mormont escaped."
Tywin nodded slightly.
"The prisoners?"
Addam hesitated.
"Of little value. Few nobles were captured, and none of significance remain alive."
Tywin's gaze sharpened.
"The Stark children?"
Addam lowered his head.
"They were not present. It is likely they have already crossed the Twins and are leading cavalry forces toward Riverrun."
"And Gendry?"
"The prisoners say he escorted the Direwolf army briefly, then returned to the Twins during the night. He advised Rickard to act cautiously… but it seems his advice was ignored."
Addam continued.
"The Northern army is reorganizing. Gendry is expected to lead their main infantry south soon."
Tywin exhaled slowly.
"A troublesome opponent…"
A young commander who possessed both courage and intelligence was far more dangerous than a reckless one.
Tywin could neither capture their main force nor safely extend his lines toward the Twins.
It was better to consolidate.
"Withdraw," he ordered. "Return to Harrenhal."
"We will need to raise a new army in the west."
Kevan inclined his head.
"And send word to King's Landing. Inform them of our victory—and the heavy losses suffered by the North."
"As you command."
King's Landing – The Red Keep
Far to the south, beneath a restless sky, Sansa Stark stood by a window in the Red Keep.
Through drifting clouds, a great comet stretched across the heavens.
Its tail glowed red, like a bloodstained blade cutting through the sky.
The courtiers called it King Joffrey's Comet.
The servants whispered a different name—
The dragon's tail.
"Hurry up, little bird."
Sandor Clegane's rough voice broke the silence.
"If you keep him waiting, he'll make it worse."
Sansa turned, her expression calm—but only on the surface.
She wore a beautiful blue gown, carefully chosen to please the king. She had learned that beauty sometimes reduced the severity of punishment.
Sometimes.
The Hound walked beside her, his heavy steps echoing through the corridor. His white Kingsguard cloak contrasted strangely with his rough clothing beneath.
He seemed… diminished.
Like a beast that had lost its purpose.
Sansa knew why.
He had always wanted to kill his brother—the Mountain.
Now, even that hope was gone.
"What happened?" Sansa asked softly.
The Hound snorted.
"Not you. Your traitor brother. He's bent the knee to that bastard—Blackheart Gendry."
Sansa's reply came automatically.
"Robb is a traitor. I have nothing to do with him. Please forgive me."
She had learned the words well.
But inside…
She thought of Jon.
Of the rumors.
Of a rising figure called Blackheart.
The stronger he became, the weaker the king appeared.
And Joffrey could not tolerate that.
The Courtyard
A crowd had gathered near the archery range.
As Sansa approached, people moved aside.
Not out of respect—
But out of habit.
She was no longer a lady.
She was a prisoner.
"Miss Sansa has arrived," the Hound announced.
"I can see that," Joffrey replied impatiently.
He stood at the center, tall and golden-haired, holding a finely crafted crossbow.
"Your Grace," Sansa knelt immediately.
"Kneeling won't save you," he snapped.
"Your brother is a traitor. He serves that bastard who maimed my uncle."
"I will punish you."
"Please—"
"Pull her up."
The Hound obeyed.
"Ser Boros," Joffrey said, "tell her what her brother has done."
The knight spoke coldly.
"Your bastard ally cut off Ser Jaime's hand. Tens of thousands were slaughtered in the night. And your brother marches south to destroy Lord Tywin."
Sansa's heart trembled.
She knew what came next.
"Hmph. Bring it here."
A servant carried a small black dog.
Joffrey raised his crossbow.
Whizz!
The bolt struck.
The dog cried in agony.
"This is what happens to traitors!"
Then—
He aimed at Sansa.
"Mercy…" she whispered.
He lowered the weapon.
"For now."
Then he smirked.
"Ser Allar. Beat her."
Cruelty of Kings
A fool rushed forward first, striking Sansa with a broom while shouting nonsense.
The crowd laughed.
For a moment… Sansa felt relief.
But it didn't last.
The fool was thrown aside.
Ser Allar stepped forward.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
Then he struck.
Blow after blow landed—not on her face, but her body.
Pain spread through her, sharp and relentless.
"Harder," Joffrey ordered.
The scabbard came down next.
Sansa screamed.
Tears streamed down her face.
Finally—
"Enough."
The Hound's voice cut through the air.
After a moment, Joffrey relented.
"Take her away."
Sansa stumbled as she left.
Her body ached.
Her heart ached more.
They were not knights.
Not truly.
And now—
She understood why the Hound hated them.
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