Golden Tooth City, situated on the western border near the Riverlands, stood like a gleaming sentinel carved into the mountains. It was a fortress of true strategic importance, for it guarded the only major pass that connected the Riverlands to the heart of the Westerlands. Any army wishing to invade the West from the east would inevitably have to break its gates or starve beneath its walls.
The ancient stronghold was the ancestral seat of House Lefford, one of the major noble families sworn to House Lannister of Casterly Rock. Their loyalty was firm, their position prestigious, and their wealth notable. Golden Tooth itself produced no small amount of gold, which further helped secure the Lannisters' status as the richest family in all of Westeros. Tywin Lannister valued House Lefford greatly, and in this war their importance became even more apparent. Lord Leo Lefford had been entrusted with overseeing the army's heavy supplies—an enviable position that kept him far from the fiercest fighting, guaranteed steady profits, and promised significant recognition after the war.
Tywin Lannister, stern and unyielding as ever, had personally marched his forces to Golden Tooth after committing to face his enemies head-on. Other than the troops commanded by his brother, Kevan Lannister, nearly every house loyal to Casterly Rock had answered the summons and gathered here. Tywin's strategy was divided into three grand movements. While Kevan carried out covert orders elsewhere, and his sister Genna attended to delicate matters through her Frey connections, Tywin himself would bear the full weight of the frontal war effort. Golden Tooth was the fulcrum of his plan, and with everything in motion, he prepared to make the decisive move that could break the current stalemate.
Just as he finished outlining the next steps of the campaign, a sealed letter was delivered to his war table. Tywin broke the wax, read the contents, and his brow tightened slightly—not a dramatic shift, but enough to reveal his displeasure. After a moment's thought, he set the parchment down and summoned Ser Stafford Lannister, his cousin and brother-in-law.
"What happened with the mercenaries?" Tywin asked, his voice calm but edged with annoyance.
Ser Stafford exhaled sharply, his expression sour.
"Not ideal. They're demanding exorbitant fees. Greed is engraved into their bones, apparently."
Tywin's expression, however, did not mirror Stafford's irritation. Instead, his face settled into a colder, unreadable mask. He laid his quill aside, leaned back in his chair, and regarded his cousin with a steady, predatory gaze. After a brief silence, his fingers tapped twice against the armrest.
"Tell those greedy hyenas," Tywin began quietly, "that as long as they take action when I command it, we will grant whatever they ask. Their appetite is irrelevant to me. If they claim they can swallow a dragon whole, then so be it."
Ser Stafford stiffened as Tywin's pale green eyes fixed on him with an unblinking intensity. Then Tywin continued, his tone deepening:
"You must understand something, Stafford. What we promise them now costs us nothing. If we fail, we lose everything anyway. So what does it matter what we give? But if we succeed, anything they ask for will be insignificant compared to what we gain. Tell them that."
The corner of Tywin's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close enough to chill the room.
Ser Stafford's frustration melted into grim confidence. He bowed his head and replied, "Yes. I know exactly what to do."
He turned to leave, but Tywin's quill hovered suddenly above the inkpot.
"Wait," Tywin said without looking up.
"Have Daven go personally. Tell him I trust him. And we," he added, dipping his quill, "have a war to win."
Several letters had already been written and laid to dry beside him. Tywin returned to his work without further remark, and the room fell silent save for the faint scratch of quill on parchment.
---
A week passed.
Roused to action by his father, Lord Hoster Tully, Ser Edmure Tully rallied the Riverlands' levies and rode hard along the River Road. Time was short; his army numbered fewer than three thousand when he reached the foothills near Golden Tooth. Though small in number, they were among the more elite soldiers of the region. Because the campaign had been called under the authority of the Iron Throne, the lords of the Riverlands had shown more enthusiasm and provided better equipment than usual. War under a king's banner meant clearer rewards and safer reputations, and even the more cautious houses had committed respectable forces.
Edmure felt confident—proud, even. The journey had been exhausting, but when Golden Tooth City emerged atop its stony ridge, commanding the mountain pass like an immovable guardian, Edmure smiled with satisfaction. He ordered the camp to be set, then led several nearby bannermen to examine the terrain. Clement Piper of Pinkmaiden, Lord Vance of Wayfarer's Rest, and several others accompanied him.
These houses were among the first to answer his call, partly because of proximity and partly because their households were modest in size, requiring fewer supplies and less preparation. Whatever the reason, they were here, and that was all Edmure needed.
He did not intend to storm Golden Tooth. His father's warning echoed firmly in his mind. His goal was simple: delay Tywin, observe him, and buy time. If he could bog the Lannister host down in this narrow valley—perhaps even force them into a prolonged stalemate—it would serve the Riverlands perfectly.
Thus, he positioned his men at the foot of the pass. From here, they could see the fortress clearly and monitor any Lannister movement. And should Tywin attempt to push east into the Riverlands, Edmure's forces could stall his advance. It was a plan meant to be efficient and frustrating for the enemy.
"I think," Edmure said thoughtfully, staring up at the fortress, "we should send an envoy to inquire about Lord Tywin's intentions. Why his army is gathered here."
He knew it was meaningless. Tywin would never answer honestly. But it wasn't about diplomacy—it was about time. Every hour spent waiting for a response was an hour gained for the Riverlands.
And, privately, Edmure liked the idea of irritating Tywin Lannister.
His bannermen murmured agreement, some genuinely entertained by the idea. Lord Vance stepped forward, volunteering with an eager grin. He returned to camp, donned a formal lord's attire, and mounted his horse. With only two guards and his house banners—a black dragon on quartered white, and a golden eye within a black ring—he rode proudly toward Golden Tooth.
Edmure and the others waited, amused and relaxed.
But no triumphant envoy returned.
Instead, three heads—one large, two smaller—rolled down from the battlements of Golden Tooth City, bouncing against the stone until they came to rest in the dust below.
A moment later, the valley exploded with sound.
The clashing of steel.
The thundering of hooves.
The shouts of dying men.
And above it all, the roar of Lannister war horns.
Tywin Lannister had answered.
Not with words—
But with war.
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