ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

The fall of Casterly Rock changed the war before every raven had time to carry the news. Arthur understood that the moment he stood on the highest terrace carved into the mountain and looked down toward Lannisport, the sea, the roads, and the lands that had once obeyed House Lannister without question. Men did not need to see defeat everywhere. They only needed to hear that the impossible had happened in one place.

Below him, Battanian soldiers moved through the Rock in organized streams. Smith’s men secured the granaries and vaults. Kator placed guards at the main gates and inner passages. Diana’s officers were already counting stores and prisoners with the exhausted patience of people who understood that conquest became paperwork before the blood dried. Captured Lannister guards were disarmed and separated. Nobles were listed by name. Servants were kept under watch but not harmed unless they resisted.

Arthur had no interest in burning the Rock. That would be satisfying for about five minutes and stupid for generations. Casterly Rock was more useful intact. Its vaults could pay armies. Its stores could feed them. Its walls could make Tywin Lannister bleed himself dry trying to reclaim what had carried his family’s pride for centuries.

Reports arrived through the morning.

The main harbor routes were secured. Several ships had escaped during the night, carrying nobles or panic, which were often the same thing. The mines below the Rock were in Battanian hands. The inner waterways were being watched. Rhaegar Spicer and the surviving insiders had been detained for confirmation of promises and prevention of sudden ambition. Arthur was not sentimental enough to leave traitors alone simply because they had betrayed the correct people.

The Toad Witch was waiting when Arthur entered the council chamber that had once belonged to Lannister officers.

She bowed deeply, but not humbly. There was a difference. Her yellow eyes looked too alive in that ugly face.

“My lord has taken the lion’s den,” she said.

“Your man opened the crack,” Arthur replied. “The army did the rest.”

“As agreed, House Spicer receives Branding Castle?”

“As agreed. Branding Castle and its surrounding lands will belong to House Spicer under my authority. The grant will be written and sealed after the lands are secured.”

She smiled. It did not improve her face.

“May House Spicer serve faithfully.”

“See that it does,” Arthur said. “I reward usefulness. I punish betrayal. You have shown talent for one. I assume you understand the danger of the other.”

The smile did not vanish, but it changed. The old woman bowed again and withdrew.

Smith watched her leave. “Dangerous woman.”

“Yes.”

“Will you keep her close?”

“No. I will keep her useful, watched, and slightly hungry. That is safer than close.”

Smith looked as if he approved. Soldiers and witches had different methods, but both could appreciate containment.

By midday, the first message to Tywin Lannister was prepared. It carried no poetry, no unnecessary insult, and no long speech about justice. Arthur had seen enough noble letters to know men could dress threats in velvet until they sounded like marriage proposals. He preferred clarity.

Lord Tywin Lannister,

Casterly Rock is in my hands. Lannisport is in my hands. Jaime Lannister is my prisoner. Your gold pays my army, and your mines now dig for Battania.

If you want them back, come west.

Ser Arthur Greyoak

He added a second gift: a Lannister banner taken from the main hall, burned at the edges but still recognizable. Not Jaime’s hand, not a head, not something theatrical. Tywin was not a man moved by cheap cruelty. A burned lion over a conquered Rock would say enough.

“Send riders,” Arthur said. “Make certain one reaches him. Let others be seen and chased if necessary. Rumors should arrive before the letter.”

Beland nodded and took the order.

Arthur returned to the map room after that. Casterly Rock had fallen, but the war had become larger because of it. Tywin would come west with everything he could save from the capital. Randyll Tarly marched with fifty thousand Reachmen. A second Reach force gathered near Old Oak. Lannisport needed holding. The mines needed guards. The Rock needed order. Smith’s raiding columns had to be recalled or redirected before they were caught between converging armies.

And somewhere far from all of this, Ena still fought for breath.

That thought came without warning and cut through the numbers. Arthur had left her at Newroot under guard, healers, and every supply the system could provide. Alive. Critical. Unconscious. The words had become a private litany, repeated often enough that he hated them. He had taken Casterly Rock, captured Jaime, broken Lannisport, and turned Lannister gold into Battanian steel. None of it changed the fact that she had not opened her eyes.

Arthur closed his eyes briefly.

Then he opened them and looked at the map again. Grief could wait. Fear could wait. Even tenderness, that useless and treacherous thing, could wait. Armies did not.

“Smith,” he said, “begin withdrawing scattered units toward the Rock and Lannisport. Leave garrisons at the mines, but do not overextend. Kator holds the main gate. Diana takes charge of stores and prisoners. Beland coordinates scouts toward the east and south. I want movement from Randyll Tarly watched at every pass.”

“Yes, my lord,” Smith said.

“What of Jaime?” Kator asked from the doorway.

Arthur looked at the lion marker on the table.

“Keep him alive, guarded, and seen by no one without my permission. Tywin must know his son lives. A living hostage pulls harder than a corpse.”

Kator nodded.

Outside, the bells of Casterly Rock began to ring. Not for a Lannister victory, not for a wedding, not for some feast paid with gold from men who never saw sunlight. They rang because new hands controlled the tower and had decided the sound should belong to someone else now.

Arthur stepped out onto the terrace again as the bells echoed through the mountain. Below, Lannisport still smoked in places. Farther east, the roads bent toward war. South, the Reach stirred beneath roses and grain. West, the sea carried ships, rumors, and cowards with excellent survival instincts.

He rested his hands on the stone railing.

The Rock had fallen. That would shake Westeros. But shaking a realm was not the same as holding it, and Arthur knew the difference. Holding required food, fear, law, coin, roads, punishment, reward, and enough violence ready behind every promise to make men believe it.

The lion’s den was his now.

The real test would begin when the old lion came home.

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