ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

Lannisport was not a small prize. It was the economic heart of the Westerlands, the great western port, and the purse through which much of Tywin Lannister’s power breathed. Its walls were high, its towers strong, and its harbor full of masts. It was smaller than King’s Landing and Oldtown, but wealth had never needed to be the largest thing in the room to make men kneel.

Ser Damon Lannister, acting castellan of the city, stood on the balcony of the governor’s mansion and looked over the army spreading across the plains outside the walls. Rows of tents, banners, horses, siege crews, and soldiers filled the land. His face had gone pale.

“How many?” he asked.

“At least thirty thousand, my lord,” an officer answered, voice trembling. “Perhaps more. Our scouts cannot get close. They have too many outriders.”

Damon gripped the stone railing. The last message from Davon had spoken of a smaller enemy force infiltrating the Westerlands in disguise. Now thirty thousand men stood outside Lannisport. Well-armed, disciplined, and organized. Not raiders. Not scattered northmen. An army that should not exist.

The city’s defense was in poor shape. Tywin had taken the best soldiers to King’s Landing. Davon had drawn away more before being swallowed near Golden Tooth. Much of the fleet was absent or tied to royal service. Damon had perhaps three thousand proper soldiers and harbor guards, with sailors, laborers, and citizens pressed into service to make the numbers look less shameful. Refugees poured through the gates, consuming food and spreading stories worse than hunger.

“Seal the gates,” Damon ordered. “Strengthen patrols. Requisition ships. Reinforce the harbor. Send ravens to Casterly Rock and Lord Tywin. Tell the people to hold. Lord Tywin will return.”

The orders were given. The panic remained.

Outside the city, Arthur listened to scout reports in his command tent. Lannisport’s gates were shut. Defenders lined the walls. Ships had been concentrated in the harbor. Civilians were being armed. The walls were strong, the moat wide, and the port defenses not easy to take by brute force. Yet the defenders were few, exhausted, and badly mixed.

“My lord,” Kator asked, “do we attack at once?”

Arthur shook his head and walked outside the tent. From the ridge, Lannisport stood dark against the setting sun, its towers and masts rising like a promise made by men who believed gold could solve everything. It had solved much for the Lannisters. That was why Arthur intended to take it away.

“Tywin is in King’s Landing,” Arthur said. “He has the remains of the Westerlands army, Tyrell strength, Crownlands troops, and whatever else the Iron Throne can drag together. Seventy or eighty thousand men, perhaps. But he is water cut from its source. The mines are falling, the granaries are being emptied, and this port is under threat. His resources are drying.”

Beland understood first. “Besiege the point and strike the reinforcements?”

“Yes and no. Tywin cannot let Lannisport fall. He must return. But a large army moves slowly, and we do not have time for a long siege. We take the city before he comes back. Then we use the Westerlands itself as the battlefield.”

“To fight Tywin here?” Kator asked, unable to hide the weight in his voice.

“Where else? Wait for him to settle King’s Landing, bind the Tyrells properly, and crush us with everything he still owns?” Arthur’s mouth twisted. “No. We break his foundation while he still believes he has one.”

The problem was the city itself. A direct assault would cost too much. A siege would take too long. Arthur looked at the map until his finger stopped over the harbor.

“The port,” he said.

Horgos frowned. “The port?”

“The land walls are the focus. The port is the throat. The defenses there are looser, and the ships are crowded. If fire begins among them, the city will look inward.”

“We have no fleet,” Kator said.

“We have prisoners. Nobles. Fear. Greed. And perhaps a few gifts to send inside.”

Before the plan could fully take shape, a rider came from the west with urgent news from Smith.

Smith had cleared the west coast, left garrisons at Casterly Rock’s mines and Rockfall, and marched east with fifteen thousand elite troops. He reached Arthur’s main force fifty miles west of Lannisport, dusty and tired but successful. Arthur poured him water personally inside the command tent, which was more ceremony than he gave most men.

“The mines at Casterly Rock and the Pendric Hills are under control,” Smith reported. “Mining is being pushed. Rockfall, Branding Castle, and the Crag have small garrisons. The focus remains the mines and coastal ports.”

Arthur nodded. “Lannisport is fortified and provisioned. We cannot wait long. Tywin will come.”

Smith studied the map, then smiled slightly. It was not a comforting expression.

“The seeds we planted earlier may be ready.”

Arthur looked at him.

“Refugees,” Smith said. “When we swept the Westerlands, many fled to Lannisport. Under your earlier orders, some of our cleverer men entered among them. They carried small weapons and signaling tools. They should have been gathering information and spreading fear.”

Arthur had nearly forgotten that order among the pace of war. A useful forgotten piece, then. Rare. Most forgotten things turned into problems.

“Inside and outside?” Arthur asked.

“More than that. Psychological war. We shoot letters into the city. Promise safety and reward to those who surrender. Promise destruction to those who resist. Our men inside spread rumors, exaggerate our strength, divide the branch families from Damon, and suggest that whoever opens a gate will be rewarded. If someone moves, the city may fall without a full assault. If no one moves, morale still collapses while we build engines.”

Arthur considered it. Not elegant. Effective. Westeros was built on pride, fear, and property. Threaten all three correctly and walls became less certain.

“Five days,” he said. “If no one contacts us by then and the engines are ready, we attack.”

The plan began the next morning.

Light catapults were pushed forward, not to throw stones, but mud balls wrapped in linen. They burst over the city and scattered parchment letters like ugly snow. The message was clear: Golden Tooth, Casterly Rock’s mines, Branding Castle, the Crag, Rockfall, and the west coast had fallen; Tywin was far away; those who surrendered would keep lives and property; those who resisted would be destroyed with their houses.

Inside the city, Battanian agents worked by wells, markets, alleys, and taverns.

“They have a hundred thousand men outside.”

“Golden Tooth was buried alive.”

“Casterly Rock is burning.”

“Ser Damon plans to flee by ship and leave the rest to die.”

“Several branch families already speak with the men outside.”

Most of it was false. Some of it was true enough. That was the best kind of rumor. Damon Lannister ordered the letters seized, rumor spreaders punished, and gates placed under direct control. In doing so, he trusted the branch families and levies even less, which made them trust him even less. Suspicion bred itself like rats.

The harassment began that night. War drums sounded at midnight. Torches gathered. Men shouted. The defenders rushed to the walls, ready for an assault. The Battanians came only to the moat, fired arrows, shouted insults, and withdrew. The next day it happened again at dawn. Then at midday. Then deep in the night. Sometimes nothing followed. Sometimes arrows came. On the third night, a feint turned into a real probing attack, and Battanian elites stormed a weak wall section before withdrawing after a bloody fight.

After that, Damon no longer dared let the men rest properly.

The defenders grew tired. The city grew hungry. Siege towers and ballistae rose outside the walls, each day larger and clearer. The feeling of pressure became almost physical.

On the afternoon of the fourth day, scouts from the east returned hard.

“My lord! Lannister cavalry to the east. Four or five thousand men, coming from Faircastle. They have passed the ruins of Sarsfield and are moving along the Golden Road. Their target may be Casterly Rock. The commander bears a golden lion. It may be Jaime Lannister, or a man sent by him.”

Jaime.

Arthur’s face tightened. If Jaime had escaped, or if Tywin had already sent a vanguard, then the counterattack had begun. Either way, time had ended.

“We cannot wait,” Arthur said. “Smith, the siege is yours. At dawn, launch the general assault. Use all engines. Focus on the East Gate and the weak points near the port. Kator, prepare the best Clan Warriors and sworn men for any breach.”

“Yes.”

Arthur called Kator closer and lowered his voice, giving him a separate order. Kator listened, understood, and left at once.

That night, Arthur took ten thousand of the more mobile troops, mostly cavalry and light infantry, and rode east under cover of darkness. He meant to delay or destroy the Lannister cavalry before it could interfere with Lannisport’s fall. If Jaime truly commanded it, then fate had developed an unfortunate sense of repetition.

Not long after Arthur left, the eastern water gate of Lannisport opened a crack in the dark.

A small boat slipped out and crossed toward the besiegers’ water camp. An hour later, Smith stood in his command tent facing a soaked, terrified merchant who introduced himself as a steward of the Silverfin Merchant Guild. Several lords inside Lannisport, he said, were willing to surrender the water gate and nearby side gates in exchange for protection of families, property, and future privileges in port trade.

Smith listened without expression. Greed had arrived on schedule. How comforting.

“Tell them this,” he said. “At the third quarter before dawn, light three signal fires and open the water gate and adjacent side gates. After our army enters, we execute Damon Lannister and his diehard followers. Those who help will be rewarded. Those who deceive us will see their families erased when the city falls.”

The merchant trembled and agreed to everything.

Far to the east, in a hidden valley near the Golden Road, Jaime Lannister reined in his horse while scouts delivered their reports. He had escaped Riverrun through means still unclear to most of the Westerlands, gathered remnants from Silverhill and nearby garrisons, and scraped together more than four thousand cavalry. Only half were truly fit for battle, but he had moved immediately. Lannisport was under threat, the mines were falling, and the Westerlands had become a map of bad news.

“My lord,” a lieutenant asked, “do we ride straight to Lannisport and break the siege?”

Jaime shook his head. “Four thousand cavalry charging into tens of thousands of prepared men is not courage. It is a gift. We find their weakness.”

His gaze turned southwest.

“Casterly Rock. We go there first, gather the garrison, then strike. Keep scouting. Find their grain stores, command tents, anything worth burning.”

He ordered the men to rest for one hour, feed the horses, eat, and prepare to ride again.

He did not know Arthur’s ten thousand were closing on him through lesser paths, guided by prisoners and men who had learned the country the hard way. He did not know Lannisport’s water gate had already begun to betray its own city. He did not know that before dawn, greed, fear, and steel would all move at once.

The trap around Lannisport was almost closed.

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