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Chapter 526
🕑 Added 2025-01-29 17:20:17 +0000 UTCWinter had settled over all of Westeros, and the Westerlands were no exception. Though the region lay in the south, with mountains shielding it from the worst of the cold and bordering the Riverlands and the Reach, its climate was far milder than the North’s. Its plentiful resources meant that its people had no need for the “winter towns” tradition, where communities huddled together for warmth and survival. Nevertheless, many landowners who lacked castles of their own chose to spend the harshest months in Lannisport, where the city’s well-stocked strategic reserves allowed them to endure winter in relative comfort. As a result, the population of the Westerlands’ only true city swelled each year, only to shrink again come spring.
This seasonal migration was more pronounced than ever this year.
The Westerlands had suffered heavily from the political upheaval sparked by King Robert’s bastard scandal and the subsequent War of the Six Kingdoms Against the Lions. Yet rather than using its wealth to aid its struggling vassals, House Lannister had seized the opportunity to tighten its grip on the region through “gold regulations,” consolidating its control. Most of the remaining gold in the Westerlands had been transferred to Lannister vaults under strict oversight, and nearly every major noble house had been forcibly relocated—under the pretense of protection—to Lannisport’s wealthier districts, leaving only stewards to maintain their former lands.
The city, already the political and economic heart of the region, had become even more dominant. Even in this time of scarcity, its streets remained busy with couriers and soldiers moving to and fro.
At the very center of this ever-active city, within the grand structure adorned with the golden lion sigil—the headquarters of the Lannister Bank—Tyrion Lannister sat in a private meeting chamber, reviewing account books with one leg casually crossed over the other, waiting for a very particular “guest.”
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With the catastrophic siege of the Westerlands averted overnight by Robert’s death and Renly’s coup, House Lannister had managed to remain neutral in the chaos that followed. As war engulfed the Seven Kingdoms, both alliances focused on fighting each other, considering the Lions too weakened to be worth pressuring or recruiting. Thus, for the past two years, while the Northern and Southern factions battled fiercely, the Lannisters had remained in their den, licking their wounds, rebuilding their strength, and biding their time for a return to the political stage.
This strategy of survival had not gone entirely unchallenged. To the west, the Ironborn, under King Euron Greyjoy, had used the excuse of “Westerland neutrality” to justify their raids, pillaging the coastline along Ironman’s Bay and the western seaboard. This had only deepened the suffering of the already ravaged Westerlands. It wasn’t until Duke Tywin Lannister rallied the entire region under a call to arms and, under Tyrion’s guidance, established a functional naval defense system that the raiders found their efforts unprofitable and turned to plundering other kingdoms instead.
That peace had lasted—until a few days ago, when militia patrols near the Ruined Holdfast sent an urgent report: Ironborn warships had been spotted along the coast.
The people of the Westerlands, still bearing scars from previous attacks, prepared for the worst. Yet when the holdfast’s garrison and the surrounding village militias gathered and marched to meet the supposed landing party, they found no Ironborn raiders. Instead, after a thorough search, they discovered a lone woman hiding in a small grove near the shore.
A woman of particular significance.
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A knock at the door pulled Tyrion from his thoughts. A guard’s voice came from outside.
“My lord, she’s here.”
“Bring her in.”
The doors swung open, and two soldiers entered, escorting their prisoner. They pushed her into a chair across from Tyrion, securing her shackles to the armrests before stepping back and leaving the room.
Silence fell over the chamber once more. Tyrion, wearing an expression of curiosity, scrutinized the woman before him. Then, after a moment, he spoke.
“Lady Greyjoy, I trust my men have not mistreated you?”
It wasn’t an empty pleasantry meant to lower her defenses—he had given explicit instructions for her to be well cared for. Yet the woman before him hardly looked like someone who had been treated gently. The once-proud and spirited Princess of the Iron Islands now sat pale and haggard, her posture slack, as though she lacked the strength to even sit upright. She bore no visible wounds, had neither been starved nor left to freeze, and yet she looked as if the very bones had been stripped from her body.
If Tyrion gave an order and it was ignored, that was a problem far greater than the fate of an enemy noblewoman.
“No,” Asha Greyjoy murmured weakly. “Thank you for your concern.”
She lifted her head with effort, her voice barely carrying across the table. “Why am I meeting you and not your father?”
“My dear lady, my father is a very busy man.” Tyrion smiled wryly. “He ordered a maester to send a ransom demand to Pyke, then promptly put you out of his mind entirely. And, after questioning the men who captured you, I must say… I think he made the right choice. By all appearances, you are of little value to us. If you don’t mind my asking, what did happen to you?”
Asha let out a hollow laugh and shook her head. “I wouldn’t know where to begin. You’d have to be more specific.”
Tyrion leaned forward, setting his account book aside. He reached for the wine pitcher, as if to pour her a drink, only to realize her hands were shackled. With a sigh, he gave up on the gesture and instead went straight to his question.
“Last I heard, you were captured at Deepwood Motte by the Night’s Watch and imprisoned in the Gift. How, then, did you end up on our shores, delivered by ship?”
“I escaped from the Night’s Watch port while the guards were distracted.”
Tyrion barked out a short laugh. “Oh, come now. If you’re going to lie, at least try to make it convincing.” He waved a hand dismissively but didn’t press. “Regardless, as Balon Greyjoy’s daughter, I assume you fled to reclaim your throne? That’s what confuses me—if you succeeded, I’d be speaking to Queen Asha of the Iron Islands. And if you failed… well, how exactly did you live to tell the tale?”
Asha remained silent. The truth—that Aegor had set her free—was something she couldn’t reveal. But after suffering the greatest humiliation of her life, she didn’t have the strength to invent a convincing lie.
“I tried to assassinate Euron,” she admitted at last. “He saw through it and had me imprisoned. My uncle, Rodrik ‘the Reader’ Harlaw, freed me.”
“Oh? If I recall correctly, Euron is your blood uncle, isn’t he?” Tyrion raised a brow. “And you tried to kill him?”
“He is my father’s murderer,” Asha said flatly. “And a usurper to the Seastone Chair. He’s leading the Ironborn to ruin. I will never acknowledge him as my king.”
Her words should have carried the righteous fury of an heir avenging her father, but instead, they were spoken with the dull monotony of someone reciting a passage from a book. The fight had been drained from her, and even Tyrion found it difficult to muster his usual snide remarks.
“So, the reports of a sea battle—two Ironborn ships clashing, one sinking the other—was that Euron and Rodrik?” Tyrion paused before asking, unable to resist his curiosity. “Forgive my ignorance, but who sank whom?”
At that, Asha’s lips quivered, and before she could answer, tears rolled silently down her face.
