Chapter 231 227: Mobilization of the Westerlands

In the Lannister camp, the original orders for withdrawal and disbandment had not even been executed before they were completely revoked by a single stern command.

The Soldiers, who had been packing their bags and preparing to return to their respective fiefs with their lords, stopped in their tracks. The last trace of relaxation from the temporary lull in the war vanished from their faces, replaced by bewilderment and a deeper sense of unease.

The atmosphere in the camp tightened abruptly, like a bowstring drawn to its limit.

Inside the central command tent, a deathly silence still reigned.

Tywin Lannister sat in the primary seat, his posture as straight as a sculpture.

He gripped the hilt of the sword 'Brightroar' tightly. The roaring lion relief on the hilt pressed deep grooves into his palm, but that slight pain was far less piercing than the unopened wooden box on the desk.

His gaze fell upon the wooden box, as if he could see through the wood to the cold head inside.

There were no tears in his eyes, none of the sorrow one would expect from losing a son, only a frozen, almost physical fury burning silently in the depths of his emerald pupils.

He slowly raised his eyes, his gaze sweeping across the vassals and knights who stood as silent as cicadas in winter.

Every head was bowed; no one dared to meet his eyes.

"The order to disband is void," Tywin's voice rang out. It wasn't loud, yet it struck everyone's heart like a cold block of iron, carrying an unquestionable finality. "Everyone, stand by where you are."

He looked at the pale-faced maester standing to the side. "Send ravens. Every vassal in the Westerlands, regardless of rank or the size of their territory, must conscript every man capable of fighting from the day they receive this order. Farmers, hunters, craftsmen, miners... anyone who can hold a weapon is to be mobilized."

"Within one month, all are to assemble at Sarsfield. Those who arrive late or fail in their conscription efforts..."

He paused, his cold gaze sweeping over the crowd once more.

"...shall be dealt with severely."

The maester's hand trembled slightly as he hurriedly bowed. "Yes, Lord Duke."

Tywin's gaze did not leave the vassals as he continued to issue orders, each one clear and ruthless:

"Send word to Kevan. Begin a full-scale mobilization at Casterly Rock. Whether they are farmers, miners, or marketplace vendors, all of age are to be drafted into the army, training as they assemble."

"Anyone who disobeys the order shall be executed."

"Open the armory of Casterly Rock. Every suit of armor, sword, and crossbow in stock is to be distributed. Leave nothing behind."

"Establish a craftsmen's camp at Lannisport. Summon every blacksmith, carpenter, and fletcher in the Westerlands to put all their effort into producing heavy scorpions, specifically Dragon-hunting scorpions."

"Craftsmen from every city must respond; violators will be dealt with as traitors."

"Open the vaults of Casterly Rock. At any cost, recruit every Mercenary company, free rider, and Mercenary available. The price does not matter."

The final order made the eyelids of several older vassals twitch.

"From this day forward, throughout the entire Westerlands, release all detained prisoners and criminals. Thieves, poachers, smugglers, murderers... regardless of the severity of their crimes, they are to be pressed into the army and formed into a separate unit."

"Those who distinguish themselves on the front lines may have their sentences commuted as appropriate."

The series of orders were like cold hammers, striking everyone's heart one by one.

The faces of some vassals stiffened, their lips moving, yet they could make no sound.

Tywin's move to exhaust almost all the strength of the Westerlands and squeeze out every last drop of blood and sweat could only be described as madness.

This was not just revenge; this was dragging the entire Westerlands into a war regardless of the consequences.

The total mobilization, leaving no room for compromise, directly touched the core interests of every vassal, great and small.

With all the young and able-bodied men being pulled away, the crops waiting to be harvested in the fields would have no one to tend them, the gold and silver mines would shut down due to a lack of labor, and the source of wealth upon which the nobles relied would instantly dry up.

Even more terrifying was that their own fiefs would be left with almost no basic defense, becoming virtually defenseless.

Tywin's cold gaze slowly swept across every face in the tent.

In that gaze, there was no room for negotiation, only an unquestionable will and a chilling resolve deep within his eyes to burn everything down to achieve his goal.

Anyone who met that gaze instinctively lowered their head, suppressing their dissatisfaction, fear, and even a trace of resentment deep in their hearts.

No one dared to challenge this old lion at this moment, who had been completely enraged and had bared all his fangs.

"By your command, Lord Duke." The voices were uneven, yet no one dared to say no.

The military orders spread with the flapping of raven wings and galloping horses, reaching the castles of every vassal in the Westerlands with the force of thunder.

Hornvale, Kayce, Crakehall, Deep Den, Feastfires, Cornfield...

Castles, manors, and towns everywhere fell into a brief, deathly silence upon receiving the parchment orders sealed with the roaring lion's wax, followed by a burst of suppressed commotion and unspeakable panic.

Lords' faces turned ashen as stewards and maesters hurriedly calculated grain reserves and the number of men available for conscription. The sound of women and children weeping echoed faintly through manors and villages.

In the fields, crops that had just begun to sprout were left untended; at the mines, overseers shouted at miners unwilling to leave; marketplaces became deserted, while the fires of blacksmith shops did not go out all night.

Despite their reluctance, and though their hearts bled, no one dared to openly defy the order.

The methods of Duke Tywin Lannister were known to everyone in the Westerlands.

The rains of Castamere, the burning of Tarbeck Hall, the complete disappearance of House Reyne... these bloody precedents were more deterrent than any words.

No one wanted to become the subject of the next 'Rains of Castamere' ballad.

The lords could only grit their teeth, open their granaries, count their armories, and register every man in their territory who could pick up a weapon, from teenagers who had just come of age to white-haired veterans.

They distributed weapons that had been in stock for years, some even rusty, and then, with endless worry and a glimmer of hope, prayed that this war would end quickly and that someone would still return home.

But there were always a few who were either located in remote areas and held onto a glimmer of hope, or felt their power was already established and need not fear, or were simply short-sighted and foolish.

A few minor nobles and mid-level vassals in remote regions felt resistance toward this mobilization order that threatened to drain the very foundations of their families.

They were unwilling to lose everything for the Lannister family's revenge.

While appearing to comply with the orders, they practiced passive resistance, dragging their feet and waiting during conscription, sending only the old, weak, and sick to make a show of it. Their main forces delayed their departure, fantasizing that with the distance and Duke Tywin currently being overwhelmed, he might not be able to attend to them.

Their fantasies were completely shattered when the Lannister cavalry smashed through their castle gates.

The elite cavalry of Casterly Rock pounced on these defiant vassals with lightning speed.

There were no warnings, no negotiations.

A Castamere-style purge was enacted once again.

Castles were breached, lords were publicly beheaded, family members were implicated, and lands and property were entirely confiscated, either incorporated into House Lannister or granted to loyal subordinates.

The bloody punishment spread to every corner of the Westerlands via fast horses and ravens in just a single day.

The last trace of observation and hope evaporated instantly, like dew under the sun.

No vassal dared to practice passive resistance any longer. Fear overwhelmed all calculations.

Nobles great and small, their eyes bloodshot, practically scraped the ground three feet deep, stuffing every last man in their fief who could walk and swing a pitchfork into the ranks.

They emptied their family treasuries, brought out their hidden armor and weapons, and armed hastily assembled, low-morale units. Then, led by the lords or their heirs, they converged toward Sarsfield with great unease about the future.

The troops of the various Westerlands vassals were like countless small streams, eventually merging into a surging mudslide that poured continuously into the camp outside Sarsfield.

From heavy knights in bright armor on sturdy warhorses to conscripted farmers from remote mountain villages in rags, holding pitchforks or rusty billhooks.

From well-trained, well-equipped family guards and private Soldiers of the nobility to miners who had just put down their pickaxes, their faces covered in coal dust.

From wandering mercenaries with loose discipline who came upon hearing the news to fierce criminals and prisoners with shifty eyes, released from dungeons...

All sorts of people, under the command of their respective lords, entered the ever-expanding camp like rivers flowing into the sea.

Tents spread like mushrooms after rain, densely packed, covering the fields outside Sarsfield until they were almost out of sight.

The clamor, the smell of sweat, horse manure, rust, and the faint unease and restlessness mixed together to form the unique atmosphere of this massive army.

In just over a month, over a hundred thousand people had actually gathered outside Sarsfield.

This army was composed of various elements, with vast differences in training, equipment, and fighting spirit, and was far from being as well-trained as the previous forty thousand Westerlands elites.

But with a hundred thousand people gathered in one place, the sheer scale of the crowd, the forest of banners, and the mountain of spears and halberds were still enough to take one's breath away.

The roaring lion sigils flapped loudly in the wind, and the red and gold banners blotted out the sun, declaring House Lannister's determination to risk everything.

At the same time, military equipment taken from the Casterly Rock armory was also being continuously transported to the camp.

Although most were old stock from years ago, some even needing temporary polishing and repair, it at least ensured that most men had iron in their hands and some protection on their bodies.

Various Mercenary companies, attracted by the exorbitant commissions, also arrived with their units, adding some regular combat power to this diverse army.

In a corner of the camp, the fires in the newly established craftsmen's camp did not go out day or night, and the clanging of hammers and chisels was incessant.

Blacksmiths, carpenters, and fletchers from all over the Westerlands, under the shouting of overseers, worked up a sweat, processing logs into giant bowstaves and forging red-hot iron into glinting bolts.

Heavy scorpions requiring several men to operate gradually took shape, and even more complex giant crossbows were carefully assembled—those were the Dragon-hunting scorpions specifically designed to deal with the dragons in the sky.

Amidst this busy, chaotic, and faintly mad camp filled with the intent for war, a rider on a fast horse galloped in, passing through layers of encampments and arriving directly at the central command tent.

The scout rolled off his horse, knelt on one knee, and said breathlessly:

"Lord Duke! An urgent report from the border lords: Prince Tommen Baratheon has successfully escaped from The Crownlands and has now entered the Westerlands. Escorted by the Soldiers of the lords along the way, he is heading for the camp!"

Inside the command tent, the knuckles of Tywin's hand gripping the sword hilt turned even paler from the force.

His emerald eyes suddenly narrowed. The shock lasted only a moment; in the depths of his eyes, that frozen fire seemed to burn even colder, even more intensely.

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