Chapter 65: Lady Sybell
The funeral of Sybell Spicer was held with honors close enough to a state ceremony that several older nobles looked as if they had swallowed thorns. Arthur noticed. He did not care. The Toad Witch had died taking blades meant for him. Men and women who protected his rule would be seen. Those who disliked that lesson could choke on it quietly.
She was buried on a cliff outside Casterly Rock, facing the sea. Wind moved hard across the stone, carrying salt and the cries of gulls. The tomb was simple but fine, with a carved marker naming her Lady Sybell Spicer, Loyal and Brave Protector, Head of House Spicer. That last part was deliberate. The Westerlands needed to understand that House Spicer’s rise had been paid for in blood, not merely clever whispers.
Nearly every important lord of the Westerlands attended. Some came to mourn. Some came to watch Arthur’s mood. Some came because absence would be remembered. Politics made grief very crowded.
Alianna stood beside Arthur in black mourning clothes. Her face was pale, her hands folded tightly before her. The girl had gone from bride to near victim to Lady of the Rock to mourner in a handful of days. It would have been enough to break softer people. She did not break. She moved through the rites with quiet obedience, receiving women of the court, thanking those who offered condolences, and letting the realm see a lady who could stand beside death without fainting into decoration.
Arthur supported her symbolically more than physically. Their marriage remained what it had always been: a chain with clear purposes on both ends. He gave her respect, protection, proper status, and the authority needed to manage the inner household. She gave him a link to House Spicer, a bridge to Westerlands nobles, and the possibility of heirs when politics demanded bodies to follow banners.
Affection had no seat at the table. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. The world had not asked what either of them wanted before placing crowns, daggers, and duties in their hands.
After the funeral, the Westerlands entered a period that could almost be mistaken for calm if one stood far enough away and ignored the bodies. Randyll Tarly retreated toward the Reach lines and made no immediate move north. Instead, he reinforced his positions and cleared surrounding areas, preparing for long occupation rather than decisive battle. Old Oak remained guarded but cautious. The Reach had been reminded that the Westerlands could bite south if pressed.
Lord Mace sent another letter after the wedding assassination. The words were earnest, naturally, because Mace had never met a sentence he could not dress in velvet. He expressed outrage over the despicable attempt, reaffirmed friendly intentions, and sent grain and medicine as a wedding gift and consolation. The gift was useful. The friendliness less so, but Arthur accepted both with matching courtesy.
Deep Den, Branding Castle, the Crag, and the other recovered lands began settling under new governors. Smith and Diana recommended men with enough sense not to rob the same village twice in one week. Arthur appointed them with sheriffs, tax collectors, and Battanian militia captains attached. Fleeing peasants were encouraged back to their homes. Barren fields were redistributed with lighter taxes for the first years. Mines reopened under Battanian foremen. Roads were patrolled. Grain stations were recorded. Markets reopened under Flio’s management.
Ships from Lannisport still did not sail far without caution. The Redwyne fleet remained beyond the coast, watching like polite sharks. Yet trade with the Arbor, Oldtown, and even across the Narrow Sea began in thin lines. Grain, iron, salt, cloth, medicine, tools, timber, and luxury goods moved quietly through channels that everyone pretended not to notice. The Riverlands still sent what it could through Golden Tooth, though the amounts were limited and the roads dangerous.
On the surface, the Battanian regime had taken root. A new duchy centered on Casterly Rock held nearly half the wealthy Westerlands, controlled gold mines, commanded tens of thousands of soldiers, and possessed recognition from the North and reluctant acceptance from the Reach. It was not peace. But it was something that could wear peace’s cloak from a distance.
Beneath it, the undercurrents kept moving.
Late one night, Arthur sat in his study at Casterly Rock with reports spread before him. Candlelight stretched his shadow along the wall. Outside, the sea wind struck stone. Inside, the realm reduced itself to parchment, numbers, and unpleasant decisions. Men imagined rulers sitting on thrones. Most rule happened at desks while candles died and headaches grew.
Grey Shadow’s report was first. Sporadic attacks had begun against Battanian soldiers, tax collectors, sheriffs, and supply clerks around Deep Den and Branding Castle. The killers moved at night. Their methods were cruel, their exits clean. Sometimes they left a lion scratched into stone or the words A Lannister Always Pays His Debts. The scale was small, but the pattern was growing.
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“Rats are grinding their teeth in the dark,” Arthur said.
Steward Alwin stood beside the desk, waiting with his ledger.
“Tell the sheriffs to strengthen night patrols around warehouses, grain stations, and official residences. Offer rewards for information. Encourage villages to report strangers. If attackers are caught, interrogate them for their accomplices. Grey Shadow may use shadows against shadows where needed.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Alwin placed another document before him. “The grain issue has worsened. Imports from the Riverlands are down thirty percent from last moon. Lord Edmure writes that the Riverlands suffered an autumn drought and that some grain has been diverted north through the Neck to help defend against the Ironborn. Our farms will not produce properly until next summer. The grain sent by the Reach can support Casterly Rock and Lannisport garrisons for half a moon at most. Local granaries continue to fall.”
Grain. Always grain. Gold could buy everything except time, weather, and full bellies when ships refused to arrive.
The Westerlands were mountainous and poor in farmland compared to the Reach or Riverlands. War had burned fields, killed laborers, scattered villages, and broken transport. Previously, plunder and Riverlands support had kept the army breathing. Now plunder had dried up, the Riverlands were gasping, and Reach gifts were too small and too political to trust.
“Tell Flio to raise grain purchases across the Narrow Sea. Pay more if necessary. Army and town supply come first. Contact the Arbor again. If limited mining rights or tariffs can secure long-term grain shipments, we discuss terms. Nothing permanent without my seal.”
Alwin wrote quickly.
“Have Brown search for new river valleys suitable for spring reclamation near Casterly Rock and the Pendric Hills. I want more farmland marked before winter ends. We need land, hands, and seed.”
“There is also a raven from Winterfell,” Alwin said carefully.
Arthur looked up.
“It is signed by Maester Luwin on behalf of Lord Bran Stark. It expresses appreciation for your stabilization of the Westerlands, then mentions the North’s difficulties. Ironborn raids, Bolton remnants, stretched forces. They hope the Westerlands can provide help within its capacity: an elite unit, weapons, equipment, perhaps grain. The letter also notes Lord Edmure’s difficult position in Riverrun and dissatisfaction among Riverlands nobles. They suggest your influence might help stabilize the rear.”
The request had come, as it always would. Recognition was never free. The North had granted him legitimacy and now expected obligation to grow from it like a weed.
Arthur read the letter in silence. Troops north would weaken him. Weapons were needed here. Grain was scarce. Yet ignoring the North and Riverlands would endanger his legitimacy and his eastern road. Alliances were ropes. Useful when climbing. Strangling when pulled by fools.
“Reply with sympathy and friendship,” he said at last. “The Westerlands are newly settled, the army exhausted, resources scarce. We cannot send troops north in the short term. But we will provide support. An interest-free gold loan for urgent purchases. Preferential tariffs in Lannisport for northern and Riverlands furs, timber, and goods in exchange for grain and ironware. A few military advisors for training. In my private name, write to Edmure. I am willing to mediate internal disputes and offer suggestions for keeping order.”
No real troops. No precious grain. Money, trade, limited advice, and just enough respect to keep the rope from snapping.
Alwin nodded.
By the time the reports were finished, midnight had passed. Arthur dismissed him and sat alone. The candle hissed. The room felt larger after people left, and less honest. He opened the shutters, letting cold air wash in from the sea.
Rule was more exhausting than battle. Battle at least admitted its purpose. Governing hid behind words like tax, supply, mediation, justice, duty, and recovery, then demanded blood anyway.
A soft knock came at the door.
“My lord?”
Arthur turned. Alianna stood there in a deep blue gown with a fur cloak over her shoulders. She carried a tray with a steaming bowl.
“I heard you had not rested,” she said quietly. “I made broth. Please have some while it is hot.”
Arthur looked at her for a moment, then took the bowl. It was warm, simple, and ordinary. That almost made it strange.
“Thank you.”
They sat in silence while he ate a few spoonfuls.
“Thank you,” Alianna said after a while. “For my aunt’s funeral. It was more than her station.”
“She saved my life. She earned it.”
Alianna looked down. “She always said the future of House Spicer rested on me. I will try to be your wife. To be a good lady of this house. I will learn. I will obey.”
There was fear in the words, but also an effort to find shape within them. She was trying to turn duty into ground under her feet. Arthur could respect that.
“Do what you ought to do,” he said. “Begin with the inner household and the social affairs of noblewomen. Ask Diana or Alwin when you need guidance. Other matters can wait. There is time.”
He did not promise love. He did not offer soft lies. Alianna seemed relieved and disappointed together.
“I understand, my lord. Rest soon.”
She curtsied, took the tray, and left.
Arthur returned to the window. The night beyond Casterly Rock was deep, cold, and full of things that had not yet shown their teeth. He had no way back. Only forward, through grain shortages, assassins, alliances, debts, spies, and the slow work of turning conquest into something that could survive winter.