ASOIAF/Game Of Thrones: Ruler of Batannia

Tywin Lannister’s death, the fall of the Westerlands, and the rise of Battania under Arthur Greyoak sent ripples far beyond Casterly Rock. The great houses of Westeros began turning their eyes toward the west, each seeing something different. A threat. A chance. A tool. A mistake waiting to be harvested. Men called this politics, perhaps because calling it scavenging with manners sounded less noble.

In King’s Landing, Queen Regent Cersei Lannister grew angrier with every passing day. Anger was easier than fear, and Cersei had always preferred dresses that fit her pride. Her father was dead, and in a manner so humiliating that the city whispered it behind hands no matter how many tongues she threatened to cut out. The Westerlands had fallen. Jaime was captive. Kevan was isolated. Lannister men in court spoke softly and looked at the floor.

Joffrey understood little beyond insult. He cursed the savages who had taken his grandfather’s lands and demanded executions with the same careless passion he used for tormenting small animals. The boy had a crown, which made his stupidity expensive for everyone nearby.

Nominally, Mace Tyrell governed as Regent. In practice, Olenna Tyrell’s fingers moved through her son, granddaughter, servants, merchants, and half the court. Margaery was betrothed to Joffrey, wedding preparations already underway. The Tyrells controlled food, much of the City Watch, and more influence over the Kingsguard than Cersei liked admitting. Gold roses bloomed everywhere in the capital. Golden lions dimmed.

Cersei raged in the Small Council, demanding troops to reclaim the Westerlands and hang the barbarian Lord from Casterly Rock’s walls. Mace answered with phrases like under discussion, further deliberation, and unsuitable timing. Polite words were useful because they allowed a man to refuse while pretending he had simply taken longer to agree.

“They want us all dead,” Cersei hissed into a wine cup in her chambers. “The Tyrells, the Imp, the savages, all of them.”

She convinced herself Tyrion had killed Tywin. It suited too many parts of her soul not to believe it. The monster had hated Father. The monster had vanished. The monster must have conspired with Arthur Greyoak, or shadows, or anyone else useful enough to receive her blame.

She had little army, little coin, and fewer loyal men than she thought. So she used what remained: ravens, hidden channels, promises, and hate. Letters went west to any house that might still love Lannister pride or fear what would happen if it did not. She promised royal favor, restoration, revenge, pardons, titles, and justice. Most of it was air. Air could still feed fire if aimed correctly.

Then her gaze turned south, toward Dorne.

At Sunspear, Prince Doran Martell sat on a balcony overlooking the water with a half-finished cyvasse board before him. His gout-swollen body moved slowly, but his eyes remained clear and deep. Oberyn Martell paced beside him like a restless spear in human form, bright robes shifting with every turn.

“Doran, what are you waiting for?” Oberyn said. “Tywin is dead. The Westerlands are broken. Cersei is cornered in King’s Landing. The Tyrells are busy plucking fruit. This Lord of the Rock nearly died under shadows at his own wedding. This is a gift.”

“Gifts should be inspected for poison,” Doran said, moving a piece.

“Poison is our specialty.”

Doran’s mouth twitched faintly. “Revenge needs strength and timing. More than that, it requires seeing the whole board.”

Oberyn stopped. “The board shows the Lannisters weak. That is enough.”

“What do you think of Arthur Greyoak?”

“A lucky mercenary lord. Skilled, ruthless, and bold. He took the Westerlands by surprise because the lions were wounded.”

“Randyll Tarly returned without breaking him. Highgarden prefers not to fight him directly. He survived an attempt by shadows linked to the Lord of Light. Varys has almost nothing useful on him, as if he walked out of a storm already armed. That is more than luck.”

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Oberyn frowned.

“He married a Spicer girl,” Doran continued. “House Spicer has ties to House Westerling, to the old Lannister order, and through spice trade, faint connections toward Dorne. A subtle choice. He appeases locals and leaves threads in many directions.”

“You think he can be used?”

“I think he should be known before he is judged.”

Doran leaned back. “Send an envoy in your name. Congratulate him on his marriage. Offer condolences for the attack. Send a Dornish gift: Sun-kissed red wine and antidote for sand scorpion venom. Let us see what kind of piece he is.”

Oberyn smiled, teeth white and sharp. “And Cersei?”

“Reply that Dorne mourns Lord Tywin and remains loyal to the Iron Throne. As for soldiers, Dornishmen are accustomed to desert heat and may struggle in the mountains of the Westerlands.” Doran’s voice remained calm. “But moral support can be generous. Special help may be provided for the right price.”

Oberyn laughed softly. This was a game he could enjoy.

On Dragonstone, Stannis Baratheon stood before the great table carved with the map of Westeros. His finger rested on Casterly Rock.

“Battania,” he said. “Arthur Greyoak. A warlord of unknown origin has taken Casterly Rock. The North recognizes him. The Reach delays with him.”

Davos Seaworth stood nearby, hands folded. “Your Grace, the man uses harsh methods and trickery. His footing is not secure. Perhaps—”

“No,” Stannis said. “The law matters, Davos. Joffrey is a bastard born of incest. Cersei has no right to rule through him. But Greyoak was granted his title by the northern rebels. Within their rebellion, the grant has order. I do not approve of it. I recognize its existence.”

Davos said nothing. Stannis could split a hair into law and duty, then use both halves as nails.

“Send a ship to Casterly Rock,” Stannis ordered. “No banners. Tell Lord Arthur Greyoak that Stannis Baratheon, rightful King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, recognizes his actual control over parts of the Westerlands for the present. He is to remain neutral until the true king takes the Iron Throne. He must not ally with Joffrey, Cersei, or the Tyrells, and must not attack lords who declare for the rightful king. In return, Dragonstone will regard his struggle against Lannister remnants and other unlawful forces with benevolent attention.”

Davos bowed. He did not say that such a message sounded more like a command than an offer. Stannis probably knew. Worse, he probably considered that a virtue.

In the Vale, Lady Lysa Arryn cared little for the west. She cared for little Robert, milk, coughing, drafts, and whether the lords of the Vale mocked her behind careful faces. The Westerlands were far away, full of blood, barbarians, and things best kept beyond mountain gates.

Yet news still entered. A new captain of the guard, placed through complicated channels by Grey Shadow, allowed stories of the Lord of the Rock to circulate among bored knights. Arthur Greyoak became a figure of rumor: the man who defeated stronger enemies, the lord who resisted lions, the strange commander who won by wit and steel. Young knights listened. Some admired him. Some only wanted to know if the stories were true. Curiosity was a seed. Grey Shadow liked seeds.

Among Vale nobles, reactions varied. Some called him a barbarian invader. Some saw the fall of the Lannisters as a chance to rethink ties with King’s Landing. A few wondered whether timber, grain, and mountain goods might sell well in the hungry Westerlands. They said this privately, of course. Profits were more respectable after they had already been made.

At the Arbor, Lord Paxter Redwyne sat before two letters. One came from the Reach, politely insisting that the fleet continue trade restrictions on the Westerlands and maintain distance from unknown forces. The other came from Lannisport, written in Flio’s careful hand. It thanked House Redwyne for its understanding, attached a profitable wine purchase draft, and hinted at deeper cooperation on certain routes with very considerable profit sharing.

Paxter stroked his beard. The Reach offered loyalty and pressure. Lannisport offered gold and future trade. His fleet was his. The Arbor was his. House Redwyne’s prosperity was his duty, and duty became wonderfully flexible when wine and coin were involved.

“Reply to Highgarden,” he told his maester, “that House Redwyne remains loyal to the Reach and will faithfully maintain the safety of the kingdom’s waters.”

He did not specify which kingdom. Very wise.

“To Lannisport, say the contract can be discussed. For deeper cooperation, I require sincerity and guarantees. Berthing priority for Arbor ships in Lannisport and reduced tariffs for five years.”

He would stand between two ships and fish from both sides. The greater the storm, the more valuable the catch.

Across Westeros, invisible threads stretched toward Casterly Rock. Recognition, suspicion, offers, threats, gifts, spies, prayers, and knives. Every prince and lord wanted to measure the new piece on the board.

Arthur Greyoak, at the eye of the storm, had no time to admire their concern. He had buried Sybell Spicer, calmed Alianna, suppressed Lannister loyalists, answered the North, fought grain shortages, and watched his expenses devour gold like a drunk at a feast. He did not know every thought forming in distant halls. He did not need to. They would come to him eventually, dressed as letters, envoys, ships, assassins, or armies.

Winter was coming, whether as snow or power. He needed grain, walls, swords, roads, ships, and enough strength to weigh every offer properly. In a world like this, goodwill and malice differed mostly in how long they waited before asking for payment.