The King of the Rock
The neighing of horses and the clank of armor rang throughout the Golden Pass. With the sun harshly bearing down on them, the soldiers of the Westerlands prepared for war in the Riverlands. They had been summoned by their King, Lancel Lannister, the patriarch of House Lannister, and had gathered beneath the walls of Golden Tooth, the seat of House Lefford, in anticipation of an invasion of the Riverlands.
Within the lavish red and gold command tent at the center of the vast military camp, Lancel stood gazing at a large map of Westeros, his brow furrowed in concentration. The rumblings of war had erupted once again throughout Westeros, and its people would soon be treated to fire and sword. To the north, Houses Stark and Bolton were engaged in a protracted civil war. In the south, Houses Martell and Yronwood were likewise embroiled in a series of border skirmishes, and House Hoare was raiding the coastline of the Reach, conquering the Arbor and sacking Sunhouse. To the east, the young prince Talon Arryn had called his father's banners to assemble, and the Storm Lords were engaging in a costly campaign against House Mudd, the last of the First Men kingdoms south of the Neck. The time to strike was now. The time to carve out his own empire was nigh. Still gazing at the map laid out in front of him, Lancel signalled to his Maester.
"Yes, my King?" his maester answered as he approached the table.
"Dispatch a raven to Highgarden immediately," Lancel responded, still gazing intently at the map. "Send Gyles my terms. I want to ensure my southern border is secure before moving against Tristifer at Riverrun."
"Yes, my King. I shall do so immediately," the maester responded, bowing before his liege lord.
Lancel paid no more heed to the maester as he exited the tent. Instead, he finally looked up from his map, and gazed intently at his bannermen who were seated around the table. The Lords Brax, Crakehall, Lefford, Serrett, Marbrand, and Tarbeck had all assembled within his tent yet many of his bannermen remained unaccounted for. Banefort, Farman, Reyne, and Westerling had all begged off joining the assembling army in order to fight off reapers from the Iron Isles. More likely they are biding their time, and waiting to see if I fail, Lancel thought darkly to himself. Lancel grimaced at the thought of another rebellion from his northern bannermen. It had taken all of his strength to put down their first rebellion, and he would not be able to defeat another one if he was engaging Tristifer.
Stirring himself from his reflections, Lancel cleared his throat, signalling to his bannermen that he required their attention. "My Lords, has there been any word from our outriders?"
"We have received more troubling reports of Mudd forces raiding across our border. Several towns have been pillaged. Their residents were put to the sword," Gawen Lefford answered. Lefford was a bull of man, well-muscled and balding, and was a veteran of many campaigns against the Mudds. He had recently distinguished himself by defeating the levies of Edwyn Tully, a bannerman of the Mudds, who had attempted to strike south towards Silverhill.
"The Mudds have raided our borders since time immemorial. It is nothing unusual," Lancel responded.
"King Lancel," Roland Serret began, "It is precisely for that reason that I believe we should postpone any assault on the Riverlands. I say let the pagans keep throwing themselves at us, while we deal with more dangerous threats such as the Gardeners or Hoares."
Lancel glared at the thin pale skinned Lord of Silverhill, remembering why he disliked the man so much. "I have sent a peace treaty to the Gardeners, and the Hoares are not a threat. The majority of their forces are occupying the Arbor or preparing for an assault on Oldtown."
"Exactly, my point, my King. If we were too..." Serret interjected.
"No, my decision is final, Roland. I will bring fire and sword upon the Riverlands. Tristifer has provoked me for the last time," Lancel angrily stated, raising his voice, "I will suffer no more arguments on the matter."
Serret inclined his head in defeat. "As you command, my King."
"As of right now, I am tired. I will summon you all later to continue our deliberations," Lancel stated, rising and dismissing his lords from his presence. As his lords filed out of the tent, Lancel strode over to a side table and poured himself a glass of wine. He had heard the arguments for attacking the Iron Isles repeatedly and had grown tired of them. Even his own brother, Dennis, was advising him to take advantage of Qhored's having taken all of his men south to the Arbor with him. They were all blind could not comprehend that the Mudds were the true threat. Tristifer, or the Hammer of Justice as his people had begun to call him, had yet to lose a single battle even though his kingdom was beset on all sides by enemies. Such a man was the true threat, and Lancel was not willing to let such a perfect opportunity to eliminate him once and for all slip through his fingers. With his natural allies, the Starks, distracted in the north, Tristifer was at his weakest, and Lancel planned to take full advantage of it.
Lancel poured himself another glass of wine. Lately, he had been drinking too much of the stuff, but he required it in order to soothe the headaches that had beset him in recent months. Between the Gardeners rejection of his marriage alliance to his son, Kevan's, growing rebelliousness, the last few months of Lancel's life had been a living hell, and it was beginning to take its toll on him both physically and mentally. Though only forty-eight, his dirty blonde hair had begun to grey, and he suffered from more aches and pains then he could ever recall.
Sitting down on the side of his massive featherbed, Lancel massaged his temples, and called out to his maester.
"Yes, my King?" the maester queried.
"Fetch me some dreamwine. I'm going to need it tonight," Lancel answered wearily, sinking backwards onto his bed.
"Yes, my King. I live only to serve," the maester responded before retreating from the tent once again.
Lancel wondered if his father had had the same thoughts and worries when he had ruled. He certainly had not seemed to. His father had relaxed at Casterly Rock, while Lancel had fought all of his battles for him. Lancel wished he could do the same, but there was no one he trusted more than himself to lead the campaign against Tristifer. He refused to be weak like his father. He would carve out a new legacy for himself and his family in the Riverlands or die trying. It was much more simpler and satisfying leading men to glory than writing letters and arranging marriages. It was war where Lancel had established his reputation, and it was war where he was going to carve out his legacy.
Eventually, the maester returned with the dreamwine, interrupting Lancel's thoughts. Swallowing the sweetly-tasting wine quickly, Lancel dismissed the maester and settled down in his bed, relaxing from the rigors of his reign and banishing all of the conflicting thoughts from his head. He drifted off into a deep and dream-filled sleep, escaping from his weary life for a few hours.