Chapter 50: Cracks in the Rock
Ser Garrison Brax no longer knew exactly how many years he had served as captain of the guard at Casterly Rock. Twenty, perhaps more. He had watched Tywin Lannister rise from the shadows left by weaker men. He had seen Ser Jaime knighted, Tyrion born and scorned, Cersei raised high enough to sit beside the Iron Throne. House Lannister had clawed its way back from humiliation to the center of power, and Garrison had always taken pride in guarding the stone heart of that power.
Then Battania came.
Golden Tooth had fallen. Lannisport had burned. The western castles were being stripped one after another. The mines had been seized. No word came from Ser Davon’s force, and then came the smoke from Lannisport, visible from the highest towers of the Rock. The port had fallen. Damon had fled. Jaime had been captured again.
Casterly Rock had never been taken. That fact had always felt like stone beneath Garrison’s feet. Now, for the first time, it felt like a phrase men repeated because silence frightened them more.
Rumors spread inside the fortress. Servants whispered in kitchens. Soldiers spoke too softly in corners. Minor nobles asked too many questions about ships, tunnels, and stores. The enemy was brutal, they said. The enemy was everywhere. Tywin was far away. Lannisport was gone. The Rock had become an island of stone surrounded by bad news.
Garrison punished rumor when he could. He increased patrols, changed gate watches, tightened food inspections, and locked down passages. It helped about as much as ordering fog not to enter cracks. Fear was moisture. Stone did not stop it forever.
The visitor arrived two days after the first reports of the Battanian army moving toward the Rock.
He called himself Ser Rhaegar Spicer, a distant relation of House Spicer and an insignificant knight of the Westerlands. He brought condolences from Lady Sybell Spicer, whom half the West called the Toad Witch when they thought no one useful was listening. The gifts were practical enough: several barrels of Dornish red wine, rare spices, and powders said to soothe the nerves and guard against ill humors.
House Spicer was low, but loyal enough when watched. Sending aid in a crisis was reasonable. Too reasonable, perhaps, but Garrison had grown tired enough that reason had begun to look like relief.
The gifts were inspected. Nothing obvious was found.
Garrison received Rhaegar in a private chamber, and the man delivered his lady’s message with a careful mixture of grief, loyalty, and fear. Lady Spicer worried for Casterly Rock. Lady Spicer remained faithful to Lord Tywin. Lady Spicer had contacts who might provide unconventional assistance. It was all the sort of language minor houses used when trying to turn survival into profit without saying so aloud.
Then Rhaegar requested a private word. He claimed to have intelligence about the enemy’s intentions and movements. After a brief hesitation, Garrison dismissed everyone except two trusted guards.
Only then did Rhaegar lower his voice.
“Ser, Lady Spicer has learned that someone inside Casterly Rock is secretly speaking with the Battanians. The plan may be rebellion, opening the gates, or killing the commanding officers when the enemy appears before the walls.”
Garrison stood so quickly that his chair scraped hard against stone. “Who?”
Rhaegar lowered his head, playing fear very well. “My lady does not know for certain. The other side is cautious. But it must be someone with rank, someone close to the defenses. She told me to warn you to watch those around you, especially your food and drink.”
Garrison stared at him, searching for lies. Rhaegar trembled just enough. Not too much. Enough to look like a loyal man frightened by his own message.
Suspicion, once planted, did not need much water.
Garrison thought of officers who had avoided his eyes. A steward who asked too many questions about meal arrangements. Branch-family nobles pressing to know which gates had been reinforced. His two guards stood beside him, men he had trusted for years. His gaze touched them before he could stop it.
Rhaegar noticed. Of course he did. Men like him came with eyes.
“Lady Spicer also feared they might use quieter means,” Rhaegar whispered. “Poisons. Mind-clouding drugs. Slow fevers. Among the spices she sent are herbs to clear the head and settle the spirit. If mixed into wine or meals, they may protect you and your closest officers.”
He explained the preparation carefully. A pinch in wine. A little in stew. More if the headaches and unease grew worse. He told Garrison the danger would be greatest when the Battanian army appeared at the walls and panic reached its height. That was when traitors would move.
Rhaegar was sent away respectfully, carrying Garrison’s promise that Lord Tywin would remember House Spicer’s loyalty. The wine and spices were moved into Garrison’s private storeroom.
For the next two days, Garrison lived like a man listening to walls breathe. He questioned officers, shifted guards, changed signals, reviewed the loyalty of men who had served him for years, and saw hidden meaning in every pause. He began taking the Spicer powders with his wine and meals. At first, they seemed to help. His chest felt lighter. Sleep came a little more easily. His headaches dulled.
That convinced him.
It should not have, but men under pressure grew grateful for any hand that did not hold a blade.
What he did not know was simple. The powders contained some true soothing herbs, enough to make the first doses feel useful, and a rare fungus from shaded slopes in the Westerlands. Taken once, it did little. Taken often, it ate at judgment, fed paranoia, sharpened irritability, and brought headaches and shadows to the edge of sight. Combined with another common kitchen spice already used in the meals of senior officers, the effect came faster.
Rhaegar had not mentioned the second spice.
Why would he? The best poison was the one the victim added for flavor.
On the third day, the Battanian vanguard appeared outside Casterly Rock. They did not attack. They stopped beyond the range of the engines and began building camp in disciplined silence. Tents rose, lines formed, banners settled, and siege teams began marking ground as if the impossible fortress were merely another problem with measurements.
Garrison watched from the highest tower with a pounding head. He had barely slept. The powders no longer soothed him. He had taken more, then more again. Voices seemed to whisper behind him. Officers who came to report looked shifty. Servants moved too quietly. Every glance felt like a message to someone else.
That evening, the war council assembled in the main chamber. Officers and lesser nobles argued over what to do. Some urged a sortie against the camp before the enemy settled. Others demanded they hold and wait for Lord Tywin. A few, with the careful cowardice of men testing a frozen river, suggested negotiations.
“Negotiations?” Garrison snapped, turning on the minor noble who had spoken. “With butchers? With thieves? Or have you already been speaking with them?”
The man went pale. “Ser, I meant only—”
“Only what?” Garrison drew his sword. “You are a traitor.”
The room erupted.
Several men shouted for calm. Others stepped back. Those accused reached for their own blades because men who fear execution rarely wait politely for clarification. Garrison’s loyalists moved to protect him. The accused nobles and officers moved to defend themselves. In seconds, argument became steel.
“Ser Garrison, the enemy is outside the walls,” an old knight shouted, trying to place himself between drawn swords.
“The enemy outside is honest,” Garrison snarled. “The traitors inside are worse.”
He swung at the old knight.
The old man parried, horror written plainly across his face. The captain of the guard had gone mad, and in a fortress built on order, madness at the center was worse than a breach in the wall.
No one noticed when several ordinary-looking soldiers and servants slipped away from the chaos.
Rhaegar Spicer was among them.
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