Chapter 184

The Riverlands. Harrenhal. 299 AC.

Axel Arryn.

Though Harrenhal was now held by my army, it remained a thoroughly depressing place. Black stone, half ruined corridors, a state of neglect settled into every corner, hardly the sort of place for a peaceful night's sleep, but there was no choice in the matter. I honestly couldn't care less about the superstitious discomfort of common soldiers; what mattered was that the castle serve its purpose. And I could say with some satisfaction that Melcolm had done fine work, taking Harrenhal from a leaky, depressing wreck incapable of defending itself into simply a depressing castle. The defenses had been strengthened considerably, and now no army on the continent could take it by a quick assault.

Sitting in a remarkably convenient location, and with the sheer size to match, Harrenhal had become indispensable for stripping the Riverlands bare. Everything of value taken in the campaign passed through it: gold, provisions, noble prisoners, weapons, horses, honored hostages (prisoners in all but name, if voluntary ones), and a good deal else besides.

I, together with several high lords of my domain, worked steadily at enriching my beloved homeland. Put simply, we looted from the riverlanders, who had taken it by treachery from the northerners, who had in turn drawn their wealth from the westermen's mines. A vicious cycle of war, but I could hardly complain, since alongside Lannister gold came the material wealth of the river lords as a bonus. The latter, admittedly, couldn't hold a candle to the lions' fortune, but it still made for a very pleasant line item in my ledger.

The realm was sliding toward collapse. Dorne, the North, the Iron Islands might soon enough declare their independence, and whoever emerged victorious from this general slaughter would have nothing left in reserve to quickly drag those regions back under the crown. So the outcome of the squabble over the Iron Throne interested me only mildly. Just because I had no great enthusiasm for politics, though, didn't mean politics had none for me. There was no counting the offers, threats, orders, complaints, and pleas that had reached me from representatives of every faction involved. In the end I took to answering letters in only the vaguest terms, and dealt with envoys through intermediaries. The latter task fell to Melcolm, but this time something had gone sideways, and he'd insisted, quite firmly, that I return to the fortress and handle the envoy myself.

"Imagine my surprise when Ser Melcom insisted, quite firmly, that I abandon my army and come to Harrenhal to meet with some important people," I said, looking between the two guardsmen and pointedly ignoring the third. "I didn't expect to see either of you again. Ser Preston, Ser Meryn."

"Life is a strange thing, my lord," Preston said, taking the lead as the more talkative of the pair. "Glad to see you in good health, but we've come on business."

During my time as Hand to King Robert, I earned myself no shortage of enemies, a great many of them. But I also found a few decent men worth spending an evening with over a cup of wine. With Ser Preston Greenfield and Ser Meryn Trant I'd found enough common ground to call us, if not friends, then at least good companions. Trant was a dreadfully dull man to talk to, though he could handle a sword well enough despite being a coward at heart. With Greenfield, beyond the fighting, I'd made a couple of dozen trips through the brothels and let loose properly. Quite a sight it must have made: the King's Hand, second man in the realm, and a sworn Kingsguard knight bound to celibacy, out making the rounds of brothels together. Robert himself joined us a few times, which only made the picture funnier.

"And what has Prince Tommen forgotten so far from King's Landing?" I turned my attention to the "leader" of their little company.

"On... on behalf of House Lannister and House Baratheon, I ask that you read this letter from my mother the queen." Almost without stammering, so at least he'd found that much courage.

At that moment the letter was handed over, sealed with the royal seal. I broke it without ceremony, and the contents lay open before me. Long, the text filled the entire page, but every word served a purpose. Plenty of clever turns of phrase, elegant rhetoric, all pointed toward a clear objective. This certainly wasn't Cersei's work; she lacked the wit for it. Of the relatively sharp minds left to her, only Baelish and the Lannister dwarf remained, and since Littlefinger would sooner hang himself than do me any favor, that left only Tyrion.

Boiled down, the letter asked me to help Tommen reach the westerlands, where Ser Kevan would meet him. As for myself, I was asked to make right the "misunderstanding" at the Battle of the Iron Plain and "finally unite the two great houses to bring this war to an end." They offered me the position of Hand, sweeping economic and political concessions, and a public apology for certain rash actions taken nearly two years past. They also raised the matter of Viserys and the corrosive influence the Targaryens were having on a number of rebellious houses.

I rather enjoyed the reasoning of the lion cub, logical, entirely achievable, and promising considerable profit. The trouble was that, aside from Myrcella, I couldn't care less what became of the rest of the Lannister brood. If someone wanted to drown those kittens right in front of me, the most I'd offer would be a raised glass in their memory. Nothing is forgotten. The moment my friend Robert was made a cuckold, the queen's spawn stopped being merely my friend's troublesome sons and became simply troublesome people to me. Myrcella was different. I'd helped raise the girl myself for five years and grown genuinely attached to her. Which is to say, if anyone wants to shorten Joffrey's or Tommen's necks, I won't lift a finger to stop them, but for Myrcella I'd take a man's head off myself. Cruel, perhaps, but honest.

"Very well, I'll spare you a hundred men. They'll escort you to the Golden Tooth; that's where Ser Kevan is currently stationed." At those words the knights visibly relaxed, and rightly so; I could just as easily have arrested them and handed Tommen's pretty little head to any other claimant to the throne. "Ser Melcom will see it arranged."

"Our thanks, my lord," the boy said, breaking into a smile. His escort, rather more versed in politics, looked considerably less pleased that I'd chosen once again to sit this one out on the sidelines.

Why did I do it? It suits me well enough for the great houses to go on cutting each other's throats. The Lannisters need a symbol, a banner, someone in whose name to keep fighting. At present, that's Cersei's boys. Take them away, and the lions lose their reason to keep bleeding themselves dry for this war. With Tommen safely in the westerlands, whoever holds King's Landing will be forced to organize an assault on the lions' own domain, no small task, since the perimeter defenses of the west could only be broken through the Golden Tooth, everything else standing untouched. The attackers would bleed for it, and so would the defenders, and I intend to simply sit back and watch it all unfold over a glass of wine.