The Heir to Casterly Rock 7

- King's Landing, The Tower of the Hand -

Tywin sips on his wine slowly, thinking of matters that he wished did not require his attention. Each day in the capital drew his mind in a new direction and forced him to turn his attention from more important matters to those that truly should never have arisen in the first place.

First was his grandson's ploy with the Greyjoys. The boy had a head for strategy, at least a small bit of him. He knew what mattered when it suited him. He knew that he could buy the Greyjoys if he promised them plunder aplenty, but he didn't see them for the men they were. Of their number, Tywin was willing to deal with two: Victorian and Asha. The man was like Kevan, willing to listen to intelligence and strong leadership. The girl, she was the better option thanks to the fact she had chosen not to be a pirate, a decision the captains under her had followed. He would deal with them, but no others.

The second problem to grace his attention was the situation with the Reach. The Tyrells were sweeping in and taking positions at court with the guile he'd come to know Lady Ollena to possess. He was both glad and terribly angry at this change. On the one hand, the sycophants that had populated the court were slowly being swept away as both he and the Queen of Thorns replaced them with more competent individuals. But every good thing comes with a downside, and that came with their attempts to subvert himself and his daughter in the ears of the King. He could forgive the latter, Cersei had been unable to rein the boy in for nearly a year. But he would have to think of some way to punish them for trying to rob him of all his work.

Third on his list of problems was the blacksmith boy that had accompanied the Stark girl. Gendry Waters, the bastard of Robert Baratheon according to Varys, was a hard-working lad that had little to no idea of his heritage. His continued survival was a favor to Arya, as he could not afford to antagonize her any more than his family already had. He could see the hatred that she held for his daughter and grandson, and there was a reason he never allowed her to be alone with either. No doubt all of his work would go to waste at the first opportunity she saw. Never the less, he had to find a way to deal with the bastard without upsetting the girl, a conundrum.

His final issue was closely related to his third, and that was the Stark girl and her family. Now he had plans for the child, and so he could not afford her hatred directed at himself. He was the Hand of the King, but he still found himself bending to the whims of a child, it was unbearable. Why did he give this child more of his attention than his own daughter? Why did he plan for her future? What drew him to the girl?

He knew the answer, though.

Arya Stark had refused to cower. He'd ridden into Harrenhall and she was the only one in the entire damned ruin that had refused to fall to her knees. Tywin Lannister respected strength, and this girl was build of it. At her core was a blade of fine steel, the edge being honed by the trials that were being thrown upon her. Had he not taken an interest as he had, she would have met a grisly demise for that defiance.

Now he knew her true name, which was unfortunate. He wondered what would have happened had his grandson not started this war? No doubt Stannis and Renly would still have begun their crusades. Eddard Stark, though, he could have been turned with sound reasoning and a logical argument. It was impossible to comprehend the mental acrobatics that would have led to the man assuming Cersei and Jaime had been participating in an incestuous affair. There must have been very compelling evidence lain against his children, but evidence can be fabricated.

Tywin gave little thought to his own actions at the start of the conflict, he had reacted justly when he sent his men to the Riverlands as retaliation for Tyrion's imprisonment. He would hear no words to the contrary.

Now the Starks were his greatest problem, and he couldn't just deal with them with a knife in the dark as he had planned. The girl would see to it that Tommen destroyed the Lannister name more effectively than if Tywin's father still lived. He could remove her, if he had to, but he doubted he would find anyone that would better advance the ideals of his house. His grandsons were idiots, though admittedly Tommen was less a fool than his elder brother, he was just a small child that had yet to face the difficulties of life.

How to deal with Robb Stark, then. His greatest and most pressing issue.

- King's Landing, Small Council Chamber -

"Why are you asking me?" Tyrion asks, raising an eyebrow.

"You've a head for strategy, if not the body for combat," Tywin tells him coldly.

The dwarf snorts and leans back in his chair. They were the only two in the small council chamber, waiting for the daily meeting to begin, "I would say the way to deal with him that would elicit the least bloodshed would be to give him Joffrey."

The Hand glares, "This is not the time for your japes."

"No, I suppose it isn't," Tyrion shakes his head, "The grievances they have against the king and our family are too great to forgive. Ned Stark was loved by the North, taking his head lost any chance we had at peace with them. Before that, though, you sent the Mountain into the Riverlands."

"You had been taken, this could not go unpunished."

"It could have, easily," Tyrion refutes, glaring at his father, "Sending him was a terrible idea, it lost us any chance of them giving up the fight."

Tywin returns the glare, "If Catelyn Tully thought she could take a member of House Lannister without retaliation, she needed to be corrected."

Rolling his eyes, the dwarf shakes his head, "I'm afraid to say that we're lost both kingdoms, father."

"Lost?" Tywin raises an eyebrow, "They will be brought to heel, as they should be."

"Not if you wish to keep the Stark girl alive. That is why you've asked me for assistance, isn't it?" The Hand of the King says nothing, but his son already knows that he is right, "I thought not. The only way to win the war and retain all seven kingdoms is to kill the Starks, but should you do that you lose the heir to Casterly Rock you've always wanted, don't you?"

"You presume much."

"I don't think I do. As much as I love Tommen, he is too soft hearted to be the Lord of Casterly Rock. Arya Stark, though, she is all sharp edges and would be a perfect replacement for yourself when you finally pass on."

Tywin glares again, "You assume Tommen is not strong enough to be the Lord of the Rock?"

"Not if you are who he has to follow," Tyrion replies, "You've left a reputation that can't be broken, not until the memory of you is dead and gone."

"I aim to live many years longer."

"Undoubtedly, and Tommen will need to grow a backbone in that time, but he doesn't have one now."

"Something easily rectified."

"You've clearly not spent much time with him," Tyrion frowns, "Less than you have with Lady Stark, to be sure. She is the heir you are training, not him. You wish to preserve the Starks so you can preserve the legacy of our house."

"Everything I do is to preserve the legacy of house Lannister."

"As you've said, many times," Tyrion sighs, and the sound of a door opening has him telling his father, "I will attempt to think of a way to solve the issue, as no doubt will you, but we will not have a solution soon."

"A solution to what?" Joffrey demands, the first to enter the chamber.

"The Greyjoy situation," Tywin tells him in a low growl.

The king sits in his throne, glaring at his Hand, "There is no Greyjoy situation. Their Heir will be arriving within the month and we will all watch as Sansa is happily wed!"

"And how do you know they will be arriving so soon?" Tyrion asks, though the shuffling figure entering the chamber gives him his answer as he asks it.

Pycelle bows to the Hand and king before taking his seat, two letters in hand, "Word from both Winterfell and Pike, my Lords. It seems that the Heir is on the way."

Tywin raises an eyebrow, "And you assume they refer to the same person?"

"Of course they do," Joffrey snaps as Varys slinks into the chamber, "There is only one heir, Theon Greyjoy!"

"Forgive me, your grace," Varys intrudes as he sits down, "but that is not… entirely accurate."

Joffrey turns to glare at him, "What?"

Varys blinks at him, then gives a soft smile and informs the council, "The laws of succession upon the iron islands as more interesting than they are on the mainland, your grace."

"Meaning?" Tyrion asks

"A true ironborn is a captain, most importantly of all," Varys explains, "Theon Greyjoy has never commanded a ship, and my little birds have told me that the sacking of Winterfell was with his father's men, not his own. By the standards of the ironborn, his sister is a more fitting heir than he."

"Sister?" Joffrey asks.

"Asha Greyjoy, your grace," the Spider tells him.

The King blinks at him for a few seconds, then lets out a hearty laugh. The small council exchange glances as the boy tries to rein himself in, eventually subsiding into giggles, "Oh dear, whatever shall we do?"

"We should call this mess off, your grace," Tywin councils, hoping to find that this is where the king will draw the line. He'd known of the girl, he'd even told the Stark girl of her. He knew that the two Starks knew that it was entirely possible that Sansa would be wed to a woman if the king didn't see reason.

"No!" Joffrey slices his hand through the air to punctuate the declaration, "I feel this proves even better. Either she will wed the man who slew her brothers, or she will wed a woman!"

"Either?" Tyrion asks, wondering if there was a way his eyebrow could be frozen in a raised position, as that seemed to be where it stayed for almost every interaction he had with Joffrey now he wasn't in charge of directly thwarting his madness.

"Yes, we'll let dear Sansa decide who she would rather wed," The kind laughs at his own joke, "I look forward to the ceremony!"

"You aim to wed two women?" Tywin asks, "The High Septon would never agree to this."

"What does his opinion matter?" Joffrey asks, "Lady Sansa prays to the old gods, and the ironborn have a god of their own to worship, do they not?"

"The drowned god," Tyrion supplies, thinking of his conversation with Varys some months ago and once again wondering why there were no gods of tits and wine closer to the shores of Westeros.

- Harrenhall -

Roose Bolton ate his lunch in silence, thinking. He'd received no word from Tywin Lannister over the last few weeks that would solidify their alliance. As such, he kept acting as the loyal northman he was meant to be. As a loyal northman, he'd had to report that his bastard son had left Winterfell to the king.

What was that stupid boy doing? According the ravens he'd received from his men, a letter had arrived for the Greyjoy and Ramsey had packed himself and his most loyal men, determined to act on some strange whim.

Robb Stark hadn't reacted in the way Roose had imagined he would, either. The lord had expected the anger of a child not being listened to, not the calm acceptance that had come. Stark was acting more and more the able commander, rather than the flailing boy he truly was. While his political blunders were still heavy enough that Roose could use them, the boy's military strategy had made it dangerous to do so.

The Northern Commanders had been spread out, and they would not be gathering at the Twins like Roose had believed they would. Roose himself wouldn't even be there, and as such he didn't think that Walder Frey would carry out their conspiracy.

If the fool did continue with their plot and murder the king, it would be easy to turn the realm against him and declare war. If it did happen, they would be able to sue for peace with the south, perhaps even calm the realm if all went well.

If Frey didn't kill the king, then Roose would still be a respected commander and Lord. All he needed to do was make sure Ramsey didn't do anything foolish before he had a bastard of his own. He needed an heir to carry the Bolton name into the future, and Domeric was dead. He missed his trueborn son, but did not allow himself to think on matters of the past for long.

What he did do, was plan his next move.

- The Westerlands -

Rickard Karstark brought his sword up to block the swing of a blade from a Lannister man. The swords ringed as they connected, a sound echoing throughout the field as his and the Mountain's men fought their deadly game.

With an exhausted roar, Rickard pushes the blade away and slices at his attacker, the swing is parried away, but before the man can attack again, he is struck in the back of the head by a heavy mace. The man drops, reveal Dacey Mormont.

The two northerners nod to each other before slamming their backs into each other and looking for the next assault. They don't see one coming, and Rickard asks, "Where's your mother at?"

"She joined the battle on the other side of the field, these bastards were trying to flank you."

"Ha! I'd like to see them try!"

No more words are shared between them, as a roar draws their attention. Looking to the east, they see the massive figure of the Mountain, dwarfing other men around him as he works his way towards them. Neither could think of a reason for this, until an equally appalling roar echoes out from behind them, and they turn to see the snarling visage of a hound in time for it to barge past them.

Thrown to the ground, Karstark has to roll out of the way of a falling blade before he can get back to his feet. He nearly doesn't manage it, the only thing saving him being the Mormont warrior once again. His new attacker's arm is broken by her mace, and a stab from Rickard puts him down for good.

Both warriors turn their eyes briefly to the Mountain, and they freeze for a second. The Hound and the Mountain are fighting. The two massive men exchange blows that would fell any normal human in their mad bid to do each other in.

"What the hells is going on?" Rickard asks.

"No -Woah!" Dacey brings her shield up to block an incoming strike and retaliates. Trading blows with the new Lannister soldier isn't as easy as it was before, every turn of their bodies bringing one or the other around to view the fight between the Clegane brothers.

The fight, a battling of titans, is the stuff of legend. The Hound striking at his elder brother constantly, caring little for anything the Mountain throws at him in kind. Blood leaks from his toothy maw as he snarls insult after insult at his brother. The Mountain, more monster than man, takes everything that the Hound can throw at him with the same indifference, even swatting away northmen that try to take the Hound's side in the fight while still being able to defend himself.

The sounds of their blades smashing into each other shatters the battlefield, men pausing every few seconds from their own battles to watch. Men die in droves as they try to watch history being made. West or North, it matters little, men know when something momentous is happening so close to them, and slowly the battle fades into the back of reality while the Cleganes fight.

Their grievances against each other feel ancient and terrible, so great at the blows and poisonous the words. The Hound, mad and frothing blood from the maw of his helm, pauses not once for respite. He does not fight with strategy or skill, merely the determination to see his enemy dead.

The Mountain, never what one would call a master of strategy, weathers the blows like a man convinced of his own immortality. His armor protects him, near proving him right if it were not for the rivers of blood pouring from the cracks made from his mad brother.

In the end, their fight ends without ceremony, both drained near completely of blood and bile, they stare at each other exhausted and enraged. It takes not more than a few seconds of staring before one finally falls.

The Hound drops first, falling to his knees as he struggles to take in breath. Heavy dents in his breastplate show just how much a struggle that is. Still he does not take his glare from his brother, and the Mountain laughs.

That, more than anything, stops the battle dead. There is no greater and more terrible sound than the laughter of a monster. His deep, echoing, and booming enjoyment of this moment could be called sickening were it not so enthralling.

Taking off his helmet and throwing it aside, Gregor Clegane taunts his brother, "Thought you'd do me in, eh!?"

Sandor says nothing, merely stabbing his heavy greatsword into the earth and using it to rise off his knees. He trembles, and it is clear he is barely upon his feet.

"You'll die, brother!" The Mountain declares, "I heard the king wants your head! I think I'll give it to him!"

He roars with laughter again, then spins. Rickard Karstark tries to back out of his charge, having decided to rush the mountain while the man was distracted, but it proved a terrible folly. He has a moment to reflect on his poor choice before he reaches the Mountain, resolving to see this through to the end.

The Mountain catches the old man, roaring at him as well. Rickard tries to stab him, even as the Mountains right hand begins to choke the life from him. His arm is caught, Gregor smiling evilly down at the lord as he breaks it near in half with a twist.

Rickard screams in agony, drawing more breath from his rapidly dwindling supply. His legs kick as he is lifted off the ground, and he can do naught but watch as the Mountain takes the sword from his useless hand and aims it at his eye.

"No!" the cry comes from the Northern forces as the Mountain stabs the blade forward, spearing it through Rickard Karstark's head.

He looks about the battlefield as he slowly pulls the blade back out of the dead man's head, but he doesn't look behind him. This proves his fatal error. He hears the roar of his brother, feels the weight suddenly crashing into his back.

Rickard's corpse is thrown away as the Mountain is toppled to the ground by his brother, the Hound bringing his second sword up, and down in one swift motion. He doesn't get this final moment, though, as the Mountain rolls and throws the Hound's balance off.

The two Cleganes go tumbling, fighting for the sword, until finally the Mountain is atop his brother. Both roar in rage at each other, the Mountain raising the sword high to kill Sandor as he had the Karstark. But a blow strikes out and the sword is wrenched from his hand. Both Cleganes turn and watch Dacey Mormont's mace swing, smashing into the Mountain's head from the side, throwing the massive man off of his brother.

The Hound wastes no time, drawing the last of his blades, leaping from his prone position, and stabbing downward. The blade is caught near an inch from the Mountain's throat, the two brothers once more struggling.

But the mountain's arm cannot take the strain, not after the heavy strike from the mace, and it gives. There is a wet sound, and the Hound's sword bury's itself in Gregor Clegane's trachea. The Mountain chokes on his blood, and tries to push his brother off, but pulling his hands away from the blade only gives Sandor the chance to push it further in, until he reaches bone and even through that.

The Mountain died on a blood-stained field to his brother as the North and the West fought to the bitter end. It was not for hours that any thought to find them again, but eventually Dacey and her mother moved from paying their respects to the fallen Lord Karstark to the fallen Cleganes.

They found only one.