"But how could King's Landing possibly have been taken?" Brynden could not help but ask.
"To seize it, one does not necessarily need war or bloodshed.
"Think of how King Robert overthrew the Targaryen dynasty. Tywin Lannister may have anticipated this day long ago. There must already have been wedges he planted within King's Landing itself."
Kal's voice was sharp and unyielding, his eyes flashing with a fierce light.
"And what of the war in the Riverlands?"
As a Tully, Brynden could not help but worry.
The Reach had already become an unexpected victim of this war—that much was now reality. But in the face of this sudden escalation, what of the Riverlands?
"Tywin Lannister is preparing to strike back. Perhaps this was the moment he had been waiting for all along, the reason he avoided battle—this is his turning point."
Kal spoke bluntly.
"Then what should we do?"
"No—not what we should do?"
Brynden pressed further, brows furrowed, his face like stone.
"Tywin Lannister has already decided to stake everything," Kal said, shaking his head. "He has chosen this moment to erupt precisely for that reason."
As he spoke, he turned back to glance at the three men present—their faces grave, fearful, but confused, still failing to grasp the meaning.
"If we were to surround him with our armies now, preparing to join with Lord Eddard Stark's northern host and crush him utterly—"
"Even with the Vale reinforcements thrown into the fray, it may not make any difference."
"His retreat to Harrenhal was long since woven into his plan."
"Faced with a war whose chances of victory are slim, if he has resolved to embrace destruction, then the five hundred thousand souls of King's Landing will become his sacrifice."
"This is his open message to the Seven Kingdoms. The old lion has shown a ruthlessness no one anticipated."
"He has already answered King Robert's royal summons and Lord Eddard Stark's northern host with his first reply to the king's call to arms."
"He says he demands fairness—one fair chance."
...
Kevan Lannister could be said to have taken King's Landing without shedding a drop of blood.
Under the cover of night, this force of more than eight thousand elite Lannister soldiers—long prepared for this moment—entered the city without the slightest hindrance.
Apart from a few unlucky men outside the walls who had their throats slit, Kevan needed less than two hours to seize the capital with ease.
The remaining Gold Cloaks of the city garrison, after some were decapitated or had their throats cut, quickly chose to surrender.
Many still in their barracks never even realized what had happened before the Lannister troops stormed in and disarmed them.
With the last remnants of resistance destroyed, the fully armed Lannister host seized every gate in the city at full speed under cover of darkness.
Anyone who stood in their path was cut down on the spot.
No words, no exchange.
Anything living before them—even a worm—was split clean in two.
The residents of King's Landing, realizing something was terribly wrong, bolted their doors and windows, terrified they too might become corpses for no reason. In the gutters of this city, one had to learn to live blind or deaf.
Kevan Lannister himself led men through the King's Gate, cutting his way along the walls until he reached the Red Keep.
The rest of the host split into three columns.
The largest—around four thousand cavalry—swept around the city outskirts, riding straight into the makeshift hovels of the poor beyond the walls.
They overturned the shacks, blades falling mercilessly as blood splattered. While fires spread, terror drove the people fleeing.
Led by Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch, these troops moved like bloodthirsty hyenas. Even as they slaughtered, they swiftly secured all seven gates of King's Landing.
Another column of just over three thousand infantry pressed through the King's Gate and the Lion Gate. Some advanced along the walls, killing, seizing, occupying.
The rest fanned quickly through the streets, roaming block by block to seize the city's key buildings and barracks, shattering what little resistance the Gold Cloaks still held within.
The final Lannister column, some five hundred elite, was led by Kevan Lannister himself.
Meeting hardly any real opposition, they stormed into the Red Keep. Kevan ordered his men to rouse the councilors from their beds.
Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, was shoved roughly into the throne hall of the Red Keep by Lannister guards. His clothes were disheveled, his face showing a mix of panic and grim weight.
Kevan Lannister did not say a single word to him. After a few fruitless attempts at probing, Baelish fell obediently silent.
Kevan himself stood silently, gazing up at the Iron Throne. He was poised on the carpet that stretched from the throne to the great bronze-and-oak doors at the far end of the hall.
All around, burning braziers lit the throne room with a bright, flickering glow.
It was not long before Petyr Baelish saw the aged Grand Maester Pycelle dragged in just as roughly.
He too seemed to have been seized straight from his bed. His long white beard, usually flowing neatly down to his chest, was now tangled into knots.
The chain of office, normally hanging around his neck was nowhere to be seen.
Even his clothing was in disarray: only a cloak thrown loosely over his shoulders, with nothing beneath but a silk undergarment.
"Ser Kevan Lannister?"
"What has happened? How did you come in here?"
Pycelle's bleary eyes managed to make out the figure standing with his back to them, silent. Still half lost in sleep, his tone was puzzled, as though he had not yet grasped the situation.
Petyr Baelish's gaze flicked toward the old man, studying his genuine confusion. Then, with narrowed eyes, he looked once more at the silent figure of Kevan Lannister.
Of the councilors remaining in King's Landing, only one had yet to appear: the spymaster, the eunuch known as the Spider—Varys.
Counting himself, two councilors were now present. The absence of that round, bald eunuch struck Baelish as odd, and in the face of this sudden coup, he could not help but wonder.
Minute by minute the silence dragged on. Nearly half an hour passed before a squad of four Lannister soldiers in armor entered the hall.
"Lord Kevan, the Master of Whisperers Varys could not be found. His handmaids swore he had retired for the night, but when we entered his chambers they were empty. We searched the Red Keep from top to bottom and still found no trace of him."
The squad knelt on one knee, not daring to lift their heads as they delivered their failure.
Finding the eunuch missing, Kevan felt both surprised and yet not.
"Perhaps he has already fled the Red Keep. We all know the Spider possesses a sharpness beyond most men's imagining—unlike the rest of us."
The remark came with a smile from Baelish, who had been watching quietly from the side.
Kevan ignored him completely, not even sparing a glance.
Nor did he punish the soldiers for their fruitless search.
With a calm expression, he turned his head slightly and gave a faint nod.
"I understand. Increase the search. Focus your attention within the city—perhaps the eunuch is hiding in some dark corner."
"Yes, my lord!"
Relieved at not being blamed, the squad of four quickly saluted, then rose and hurried out.
The sound of armored footsteps and clashing steel faded into the distance, and silence once more settled over the throne room.
From Blackwater Bay, the wind swept through the Red Keep, stirring the crowned stag banners of House Baratheon that hung beside the tall, narrow windows on the eastern and western walls.
Only then did Kevan Lannister turn to face the two councilors before him.
"I never thought the day would come when I would meet you like this. Good evening, Grand Maester, Master of Coin."
"I trust you will forgive me for inviting you here in such a manner."
The words in Kevan's mouth carried apology, yet his face remained cold, his eyes betraying no emotion.
There was not the slightest trace of sincerity in it.
"I am old, my lord," Pycelle said, blinking heavily. "Perhaps next time you might choose a gentler way. That, I think, would earn my deepest gratitude."
Whether it was true senility or a clear reading of the situation, Pycelle accepted Kevan Lannister's supposed courtesy with eager agreement.
Hearing the old man answer so swiftly, Petyr Baelish at last opened his mouth.
"I am still young, but I too would rather such circumstances were rare. This is the first time I have been treated so."
"To confess something that may amuse you, my lords—my breeches are a little damp."
Baelish smiled faintly, even joking in his usual way.
Kevan Lannister's gaze lingered on each of their faces in turn. Only when Baelish's forced smile was about to falter did Kevan slowly nod, as though acknowledging their words.
"Good. Both of you are men who know when to bend and when to endure. I trust you can overlook the soldiers' rough handling."
"But if either of you knows where the Master of Whisperers, Varys, has gone, that would be even better."
At this turn of the conversation, Kevan's eyes grew sharp, bearing down on Baelish and Pycelle.
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