[Chapter Size: 1000 Words.]
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While Theon was busy drilling his army in Riverrun, the first direct clash between the Wolf of the North and the Lion of the West had come to an end.
Tyrion wandered across the battlefield, watching the surviving soldiers cheerfully scavenge the dead. Perhaps the spoils they stripped from corpses were the only true reward they could claim.
Upon returning to his father's tent, Tyrion found all the Western lords assembled.
"This is for you." Tywin handed him a sealed letter.
Tyrion accepted it. "What is this?" he asked, curious.
"You will go to King's Landing as Hand of the King in my stead. Once, we had three Stark hostages. Now only Sansa remains."
There was a rare edge of anger in Tywin's voice, proof of how deeply he resented Cersei and Joffrey over the matter.
Tyrion felt a flicker of pride. For the first time, his father's command seemed to recognize his worth.
"Why me? I mean, why not Uncle Kevan, or anyone else? Why me?" His tone was disbelieving.
Tywin poured Tyrion a goblet of red wine. "Because you are my son. If your sister cannot, then you will."
At that moment, Tyrion understood: this was his chance.
Tywin did not yet know whether Jaime lived or died. If Jaime was lost, Tyrion would be the only son left.
If Tyrion proved capable, his father might truly consider him. If not, Tywin would adopt a successor from Kevan's line.
No one cared more for House Lannister than Tywin. His children, even himself, were nothing but instruments of the family's legacy.
Tyrion studied the letter of appointment in his hand. "When do I depart?"
"Now."
Draining his wine, Tyrion left at once, taking Bronn and a small escort with him as he departed Harrenhal.
After Tyrion's departure, Tywin and his lords resumed their council of war.
Robb Stark's strategies and tactics were undeniably advanced. Against his strange and unpredictable maneuvers, the Western host had suffered defeat after defeat.
After joining forces with Roose Bolton, Robb pressed his campaign against Tywin across the Riverlands.
Yet both sides faced the same enemy: time.
To march south, the North had poured all its resources into the war effort. Even the harvests of grain went untended; vast fields of wheat rotted where they stood.
The Northern host raided and plundered across the Trident's lands, earning the hatred of local farmers.
Many, driven to ruin, formed outlaw bands, turning to pillage themselves, preying on peasants and scattering patrols alike.
This unrest grew ever more severe in the Riverlands, the most infamous of these groups calling themselves the Brotherhood Without Banners.
Nor were they alone. Mercenaries roamed freely, and Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain, terrorized the countryside under Tywin's command.
As a result, the Northern army's opportunities for plunder dwindled. When provisions ran short, many of the bannermen who had come from afar drifted back to their homes.
Likewise, the West not only had to contend with the North but also with Renly and Stannis pressing from the South.
Even so, the North's plight was far worse.
At that moment, a soldier entered and placed a letter in Tywin's hands.
Tywin broke the seal of the letter and was immediately taken aback by its contents.
"The little sea monster has taken Riverrun. Seven hells, how did he do it?"
Riverrun had a garrison of at least four thousand men and ample supplies, yet it had fallen with alarming speed.
Kevan Lannister snatched the letter and read it carefully.
"It says here that Theon Greyjoy, wearing armor gifted by the Drowned God, stormed Riverrun's gates alone."
Kevan scoffed. "Who could believe such nonsense? Perhaps I should ask the Smith to forge me a lion's armor as well."
"The Tullys are utterly worthless," Kevan added bitterly. "Edmure ruined the Riverlands, and now his uncle has lost Riverrun itself."
Tywin's expression was equally grim. Theon's victory was certainly no boon for him.
In his plans, he had promised Riverrun, Seagard, and Stone Hedge to Theon.
But he had never believed that the five thousand men under Theon's command could seize any stronghold. It was a promise Tywin had made with full confidence, assuming Theon's efforts would collapse in failure.
Yet the drawn-out war Tywin anticipated never came. Instead, Riverrun had fallen swiftly.
"Send word to Robb Stark. At least Theon is not yet our enemy. If Riverrun is lost, it is Stark who suffers most. He will be far more troubled than we."
Tywin immediately dispatched a messenger to Robb. The most vital crossing for Robb's march south had been seized by the Ironborn.
Tywin knew this news would deny the Young Wolf sleep, perhaps even distracting him into whispering sweet words to his little nursemaid.
But Robb was far more enraged than Tywin had guessed.
"I treated him as a brother. My father never wronged him. Yet he betrayed us, betrayed my father, who was executed. I will kill him with my own hands, wherever he may be!"
At first, Robb had doubted Tywin's letter. He believed Theon lacked the skill to pull off such a feat, and more importantly, he could not believe that Theon would betray him.
"Fetch Lord Bolton. I must speak with him," Robb told his squire.
Roose Bolton was one of the few Northerners Robb trusted to command an army on his own. The old lord was still more than capable in the field.
"What does Your Grace require of me?" Roose asked bluntly when he entered.
"Theon Greyjoy launched a surprise assault on Riverrun, and the castle has fallen. I will lead my men to retake it. I need you to hold Tywin here."
Roose pursed his lips. "Your Grace, we must move quickly. Our supplies are running low."
"I will return soon, and I will cut his head from his shoulders myself," Robb replied with confidence.
At that moment, the young healer, Talisa, entered the tent. Roose Bolton turned silently and withdrew without another word.
Outside, he glanced at the great direwolf banner snapping in the wind and walked away, something unreadable in his expression.
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