Chapter 61: Muddy Waters
Tywin Lannister’s humiliating death did not cool the boiling cauldron of Westeros. It was more like throwing ice water into hot oil. The result was noise, steam, burns, and every fool in reach claiming he had known the pot would explode. Suspicion, fear, greed, and ambition began moving through every great house, every camp, and every hall where men still believed they could predict the world from a chair.
Inside Deep Den, grief mixed badly with panic. Several Westerlands lords of proper blood and improper courage argued in front of Tywin’s bier over command, revenge, retreat, and the future of their houses. Oaths of fealty became thinner once survival began pressing a knife against their backs. Men who had spoken loudly of Lannister honor now sent private words through servants, squires, septons, and cousins no one had liked until they became useful.
The rumor that the Battanian army would join forces with the Reach to carve up the Westerlands spread through Deep Den like a vine with poison in its roots. It was not fully believed, which made it worse. Men did not need to believe a rumor to fear what would happen if it were true. Smith’s twenty thousand elites appeared on the outskirts of the fortress like ghosts, raising Battanian banners within sight of the walls. They did not attack. They simply built camp, cut roads, hunted messengers, and allowed silence to do the work of drums.
Randyll Tarly found himself in a less bloody but equally ugly trap. The latest instructions from the Reach were vague enough to be called diplomacy and cowardice at the same time. Lord Mace, or more likely Lady Olenna using Mace’s seal and better sense, ordered him to maintain pressure on Battania, assess the situation, avoid unnecessary losses, and watch Deep Den and any contacts between Casterly Rock and Highgarden. In other words, he had to look useful without doing anything too expensive. Noble strategy had a talent for turning common sense into unpaid suffering.
Meanwhile, Kator and Beland began appearing on the edges of the Reach lines, striking patrols, burning supplies not yet moved into fortified camps, taking wagons, and vanishing before proper pursuit could form. Randyll understood the purpose. They were bait and distraction. The Reach lords under his command were less understanding. Men from Brightwater Keep, Cider Hall, and Red Lake began asking why their levies should bleed in the stony west for dead Lannisters while Highgarden might be negotiating with the same enemy.
In the camp at Old Oak, Ser Arthur Tyrell reacted with far less discipline. The reply from Casterly Rock had been polite in the way a drawn knife could be polite. His dream of obtaining gold mines without spending men had been kicked into the dirt. Worse, Grey Shadow’s rumors had begun crawling into places where they did not belong. Battania was said to be buying grain across the Narrow Sea. Battania might have friends in merchant guilds. Battania might even be interested in the new Tyrell regency in King’s Landing. Ser Arthur wrote to Highgarden again, his words anxious beneath the courtesy, asking whether he should fight, negotiate, or wait for orders from people who liked being unclear.
At the center of that storm, inside Casterly Rock, Arthur Greyoak paced before a map of the Westerlands while a quieter and more dangerous contest unfolded. Armies could be counted. Walls could be measured. Food could be weighed. Trust could not. Unfortunately, trust was what everyone claimed to have just before selling it.
Flio the Silver Tongue entered with the controlled excitement of a merchant who had smelled profit and danger in the same room.
“My lord, House Redwyne has responded.”
Arthur stopped walking. “Officially?”
“No. A distant cousin of the Redwynes in Lannisport, one with a wine business, approached our people privately.”
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“That is already more honest than most official channels. Speak.”
Flio placed a folded note on the table. “House Redwyne is deeply concerned about the chaos in the Westerlands. Their fleet can maintain the blockade, but it costs coin, strains their crews, and harms wine trade. They also heard rumors that the Reach may have contacted you. The Redwynes worry that, if Highgarden reaches terms with you, the Arbor may be excluded or used as the useful fool who held the sea while others took the gold.”
Arthur looked at the ship markers off Lannisport. House Redwyne controlled one of the most powerful fleets in the Seven Kingdoms. That made them valuable to Highgarden, and also uncomfortable. Vassals with fleets always remembered that water made distance easier.
“What do they want?”
“The hints are careful,” Flio said. “Priority purchasing rights and lower taxes for Arbor wine in Lannisport. Equal treatment for Redwyne merchants, perhaps better than ordinary Reach merchants. In return, they can relax the blockade, allow specific trade ships through, and provide convenient information about Reach naval movement.”
A neat little bargain. Trade privileges, food routes, and betrayal wrapped in wine. Very civilized.
“We engage,” Arthur said. “Promise nothing specific. Tell them Lannisport welcomes honest merchants and distinguishes friends from enemies clearly. If they want deeper discussion, they may show sincerity first. The next three grain ships flying Braavosi colors must enter Lannisport safely. After that, we speak of privileges.”
Flio smiled. “A test.”
“A leash,” Arthur corrected. “If they let those ships through, they have already begun walking where Highgarden did not send them.”
Flio bowed and left. Arthur turned to Grey Shadow, who stood near the wall with the presence of furniture that had learned espionage.
“Deep Den?”
“We have made contact with several targets,” Grey Shadow said. “Ser Kevan of House Farman is the most flexible. His lands lie in the southwest, near the coast. His house is distantly related to the Lannisters but not valued enough to die happily for them. He reports three factions inside Deep Den. The fight-to-the-death faction is led by Lord Creigh. The peace faction is led by Lord Sarsfield, whose family remains in your custody. The third faction, represented by Kevan Farman, wants to survive and keep what it owns.”
Arthur leaned over the map. “Who controls the men?”
“Creigh and several neutral houses. The revenge faction speaks loudest, but the undecided nobles hold more weight than they admit. Kevan Farman wants guarantees for his lands, property, and compensation. In exchange, he may exert influence at the proper time.”
“Fear and interest,” Arthur said. “Still the best crowbars.”
He tapped Deep Den with one finger. “Agree. House Farman keeps its lands if it does not oppose us. Contact Lord Sarsfield through another channel. Tell him his family lives and can return home if he cooperates. As for Lord Creigh, leak that Reach envoys approached Deep Den with terms to sell out Westerlands interests. Make it look like the leak came from the Reach side.”
Grey Shadow nodded once.
Arthur watched him for a moment. “And Tywin?”
“The scene was clean. Too clean. The bolt was standard. The mechanism was sophisticated but not impossible to make. There is one detail from a servant. The night before Tywin died, his personal attendant heard him cursing someone. He called the person an ungrateful white-eyed wolf and a bastard who should have died beyond the Wall. No name was heard.”
Arthur frowned.
A bastard who should have died beyond the Wall. Tyrion came to mind, because Tywin’s hatred for his youngest son had always been a public wound dressed as discipline. But Tyrion slipping into Deep Den, preparing a mechanism, killing Tywin, and vanishing without being seen sounded like a mummer’s story unless someone very competent helped him. The other possibility was worse: someone else entirely had used the shape of that hatred to hide behind.
“Keep digging,” Arthur said. “Check craftsmen, entertainers, caravan guards, servants, anyone who entered Deep Den recently. Find who Tywin quarreled with, and who benefits from him being dead.”
Grey Shadow withdrew without further sound.
Arthur remained before the map. Redwyne hesitation, Deep Den’s fractures, Randyll’s caution, Old Oak’s anxiety, the Reach’s greed, the unknown assassin. The water had been muddied. That did not mean Arthur stood safely on shore. He was in the water too, and the things beneath the surface had teeth.
A guard entered quickly. “My lord. Urgent news from the Reach front. Randyll Tarly has led his army out of camp. His movements are not fully clear, but the vanguard appears to be heading toward Deep Den.”
Arthur’s eyes narrowed.
Randyll was moving at last.