Chapter 232 228: Letters Across the Seven Kingdoms

The wheels rolled over the land outside Sarsfield, kicking up dry dust.

Tommen Baratheon curled up in the corner of the carriage, his small face pressed against the cold wall.

This carriage had been provided to him by a Lannister bannerman after he entered the Westerlands.

Through the gap in the carriage window, he saw boundless military tents outside, covering the plains like grey-yellow mushrooms, stretching as far as the eye could see.

The banners of the golden lion on a red field snapped in the wind; the roaring lion sigil brought him no sense of security, only a heavy, suffocating pressure.

He recalled the events of not long ago, like a chaotic nightmare.

Uncle Tyrion had sent him ahead to Starkworth Castle, saying one should not put all their eggs in one basket.

He had gone, bewildered and naive.

Then, bad news came crashing down one after another: King's Landing had fallen, his mother was missing, and Uncle Tyrion had disappeared too.

He had been trapped in the castle, terrified even by the sound of the wind outside.

Later, Uncle Jaime arrived with a great army.

The sound of hooves thundered, and thinking he was saved, he had snuck up to the ramparts to look, only to be pulled down by Bronn.

The sounds of slaughter outside the castle were deafening and lasted for a long time.

Then, a blood-soaked Soldier ran back, crying, saying the battle was over, that his uncle's troops were gone, and his uncle... was gone too.

Terrified, he hid in the deepest cellar of the castle, covering his ears, not even daring to cry out loud.

After an unknown amount of time, Bronn found him and said there was an unguarded side of the castle where they could escape.

He was dragged along, following a dozen or so battered guards, running out into the night amidst the chaos.

Strangely, no one pursued them from behind.

They fled the whole way, and along the road, some guards, too severely wounded, collapsed and never got back up.

By the time they finally set foot on the soil of the Westerlands, only a few people remained by his side.

Even Sandor Clegane, who was always fierce and bore terrible scars on his face, had left.

He said he no longer wanted to fight, stuck his notched sword into the ground, turned, walked into the woods by the road, and never looked back.

Tommen was helpless and alone, like a drifting leaf.

It was a Lannister bannerman encountered on the road who recognized him, took him in, guided him all the way, and delivered him to this massive military camp to find his grandfather.

The carriage stopped.

It stopped in front of the largest and most imposing tent.

He was helped out of the carriage, his steps unsteady.

He looked up and saw the man standing in front of the tent.

Tywin Lannister.

His grandfather.

He wore crimson and gold armor, the golden lion on his chest glinting with a cold, hard light in the sunset.

He stood there, posture rigid, like an immovable statue of steel.

His face was expressionless, his eyes as deep as a frozen lake, so imposing that Tommen dared not approach, nor even breathe.

Those were his last few relatives.

Tommen opened his mouth, his throat dry, wanting to call out "Grandfather," but the word stuck in his throat, and he could not make a sound.

Tywin's gaze fell upon him, assessing the child with dirty clothes, a pale face, and terrified eyes.

Then, he bowed slightly, a standard gesture of subject to sovereign, impeccable in its courtesy.

"Your Grace."

The voice was cold and steady, without a trace of warmth, nor a shred of the kindness that belonged to a grandfather.

It was like a subject bowing to a stranger as their sovereign.

Tommen's heart was pricked by those two cold words, and it quickly sank into an even deeper state of confusion and loneliness.

He was led away toward another, slightly smaller tent nearby.

The vast military camp was deafeningly noisy.

Yet he remained, all alone.

Once Tommen was led away, silence returned to the command tent.

Tywin slowly walked back to the main seat and sat down.

He did not look at the box on the table that had never been opened, his gaze falling into the void as he fell into deep thought.

Jaime's twenty thousand Westerlands elites had been wiped out in The Crownlands, and even Jaime himself had been captured and executed.

Yet Tommen, a young child, had managed to escape the heavily besieged Starkworth Castle with a mere dozen or so remnants, traverse the entire turbulent The Crownlands, arrive safely in the Westerlands, and even "coincidentally" be found by his bannerman and delivered here.

This could absolutely not be luck, nor was it an oversight by Aegon Targaryen.

It was deliberate leniency.

It was a carefully calculated move, placing this card directly into his, Tywin Lannister's, hands.

Tommen Baratheon.

The nominal youngest son of Robert Baratheon, the "legitimate" heir of House Baratheon.

A card of great weight, representing the legitimacy of the throne of the Seven Kingdoms.

This was an open conspiracy.

A trap laid out in the open, yet one he was forced to accept.

Tywin racked his brains but could not fathom what that young true dragon intended to do.

Send a claimant to the throne into the hands of his enemies, attempting to bind the Lannister with this so-called "legitimacy"?

Or was there a deeper scheme?

But regardless of Aegon's purpose, Tywin had no choice.

Without Tommen, the Lannister were merely lords of a single region, with no legal standing to command the Seven Kingdoms to unite against the Targaryen.

With only the strength of the Westerlands, even if he poured everything into it, it was impossible to contend with Aegon, who possessed dragons and a massive army.

He had to accept this card.

He had to step into this game, even knowing it was a trap.

For the Lannister, and for that last glimmer of a chance at victory.

A few days later, on the open ground in the center of the Sarsfield camp, a crude and hurried "coronation" ceremony was held.

There was no blessing from the High Septon, no magnificent sept, and no nobles from the Seven Kingdoms to witness it.

Only the bannermen and armies of the Westerlands surrounded them, dense and silent, watching.

Tommen Baratheon was dressed in an ill-fitting garment embroidered with the crowned stag sigil of House Baratheon.

He stood stiffly on a makeshift wooden platform, his face pale and his eyes hollow.

A golden crown, found who knows where, was placed by Tywin Lannister's own hands onto his soft, light golden hair.

The crown was heavy, making his neck shrink back.

Tywin took a step back, and in front of the entire army, knelt on one knee, his voice loud and clear, drowning out the wind:

"I, Tywin Lannister, hereby swear my fealty. I proclaim Tommen Baratheon the First, King of the andals, the Rhoynar, and the first men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

Behind him, the bannermen and commanders of the Westerlands knelt in unison, like wheat fields swaying in the wind.

The sound was uneven, yet it carried a momentum that had been forcibly gathered.

The ceremony ended hastily.

Tywin stood up and naturally walked to a position slightly ahead and to the side of Tommen.

The young "king" stood there like an exquisite puppet, at a loss.

And the true power was already firmly grasped in the hands of the Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord Tywin.

A proclamation of war issued in the name of King Tommen the First was quickly copied into hundreds and thousands of copies.

The proclamation detailed the "numerous crimes" of Aegon Targaryen:

Colluding with foreign powers from across the Narrow Sea to invade Westeros, using trickery and violence to murder the legitimate monarch Joffrey the First...

Breaking King's Landing, slaughtering nobles and commoners, and further attempting to overthrow the thousand-year-old feudal system of Westeros with tyranny; he was truly a traitor to the Seven Kingdoms, a false dragon usurping the state.

At the end of the proclamation, in the voice of the king, it called upon all loyal bannermen and knights of the Seven Kingdoms: set aside past grievances, unite as one, march against the traitor Aegon Targaryen, and defend the ancient laws and order.

At dusk, the raven cages at the Sarsfield camp were opened one by one.

Hundreds of pitch-black ravens flapped their wings, rushing into the gradually darkening sky.

With the tightly rolled proclamations bound to their claws, they looked like an ominous black cloud, sweeping over the mountains and plains of the Westerlands, flying toward every direction of the Seven Kingdoms.

Winterfell, Pyke, Riverrun, The Eyrie, Highgarden, Sunspear... countless castles and halls would soon receive this message from the Westerlands, reeking of blood and war.

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