[AGOT mod] The Lions of the Garden -- A LannistAAR

Part 5: A Lion's Claws Are Sharp - Jonthor

Author's Note: I want to apologize for not getting to this sooner. It's an interesting crossroads between working on the mod, playing it, and writing this AAR. I've been working on it more and more (and I encourage interested people to check out our private forum, which you can find by Googling "the Citadel" and "game of thrones mod") to the point where I'm trying to set up events in addition to the history. Naturally, this distracts me from writing. Which isn't much of an excuse, given how much other WritAARs can do. But it's the best I can offer. Bear with me. After this, there's only going to be two more chapters to this AAR, so look for that.

Jonthor

Jonthor Serrett looked at the corpses strewn across the battlefield with a scowl on his face. Few enough, less than two dozen, had been his, for sure, but it was still enough to displease him. The remnant of the army that he had clashed with weeks ago had fled north, then, when Lord Jonthor had followed, turned and wheeled south. However, their commander had misjudged the length of Lord Jonthor's forces on the march, and as a result, it had allowed his rearguard to catch them at the exact spot, Appleton, where he had defeated them before. This time they had not been able to run. The arrayed steel of the West had wiped their army from existence, and all that was left were the corpses, fallen over the corpses of their comrades who had died her before them.


"Another excellent victory, my lord," said Owain Redding. All the men from their force who had died had been smallfolk, a fact that, when Lord Jonthor considered the Reach Lord he had been saddled with, was a great tragedy in his estimation. Lord Jonthor said nothing, only spat. Redding looked taken aback.

"We've wasted too much time," said Benfrey Falwell. "It was a victory, to be sure, but while we have been chasing this runt of an army, King Rhaegar joined with the rebel Lyonel Rowan and caught Olyvar Serry as he laid waste to Manderford."


"'Dark wings, dark words,'" said Lord Redding. "What was the outcome?"

"Lord Olyvar did the best he could, but as insane as the Mad King is, he has able councilors and generals. They drove him back to his Greyshield. He died shortly after. Some claim it was of shame, for no one saw him even draw his sword during the battle."


Jonthor grimaced. Manderford had gone to the bastard half-brother of both the Mad King Rhaegar and King Bryce, Hobber Waters, upon the death of the death of his mother, Lady Margaery. Lord Waters had stayed chosen Rhaegar over Bryce when it had come time to pick a side. And thus Manderford had become a thorn in the Reach's side, one that Lord Olyvar had been commanded by King Bryce to pluck out with the combined strength of the Shield Islands. And now Rhaegar had broken that strength. Olyvar had no doubt garrisoned some of his men inside the castles he had managed to take, but they would be light, not enough to hold the attackers for long.

"We'll turn the army around, and march for Manderford," said Lord Jonthor.

"But our mission! The Meadows!" said Lord Owain.

"Lord Meadows will have to do the best he can. Garrett Redwyne is at King's Landing's walls with thirty-thousand men, all drawn from Oldtown and the rest of the southern Reach. That should draw away much of Meadow's opposition, but it also means that the Shield Islands cannot expect relief from Oldtown or the Arbor. Most of our forces in the West are busy fighting against the rebel Rowans and Caswells and whatever Valemen, Northmen, or Crownlanders have slipped past us as we chased the godsdamnable Stormlanders. That leaves us with a choice. Strike against them, help Meadows, or defeat King Rhaegar."

"A hard choice," said Lord Benfrey.

"Not for me," said Lord Jonthor. "I would fight the Mad King, myself. Go to your men. Instruct them that we will march immediately."

The men grumbled, but they still moved across the terrain with purpose and determination at Jonthor's request. His scouts rode ahead, hoping to find news of what was happening from the various castellans the Lords of the Reach had left holed up in their castles in their absence. They heard that Lord Lefford had crushed fifteen thousand of the enemy, capturing or killing them all.


Not far from Ashford, the scouts returned with news that Alesander Baratheon had been spotted with another force of eight thousand Stormlanders ahead of them. Lord Jonthor scoffed. Did all these Stormlanders come in eight thousand? He ordered his troops to form battle lines and advance into Ashford.

Alesander Baratheon was no Robert the Fat, that was for certain. Lord Jonthor had heard stories of the old rebel Baratheon, who had been able to crush a man with a single blow of his warhammer, and had met King Rhaegar I and his Kingsguard blow for blow in the courtyard of Storm's End years ago. His son was just a fat man. When his forces crumbled under Lord Jonthor's attack, he was seen struggling into his saddle and turning his horse about to run. Jonthor had told his freeriders not to bother following. Doing so would only slow the army down. By now Manderford had surely fallen to the Targaryen Loyalists.


That evening, Lord Benfrey visited him in his tent.

"More news, my Lord," said Falwell. "It's reported that Lyonel Rowan has taken command of the Manderford forces."

"Rhaegar has ceded command? Unlike him. Last I heard, he believed he was Daeron the Young Dragon."

"Rhaegar has set sail back to King's Landing, now that Manderford is back under his control. Perhaps he has no taste for prolonged battle."

"What else?"

Falwell sighed. "Lyonel Rowan has commandeered the fishing boats at Manderford and rowed to Greyshield. He will no doubt defeat what's left of Lord Olyvar's men there"


"Then we must move faster," said Lord Jonthor. The scowl had not left his face since Appleton.


The field at Manderford had been as well tread as the one at Appleton, if not more. Lord Jonthor could see the army of Lyonel Rowan and his Crownlander allies standing opposite him, their banners flapping in the slight breeze. It was beautiful out, a day meant for riding or hunting, not killing men. The Gods played japes on men, that was certain.

Lord Rowan had defeated the Shield army at Greyshield, only to be attacked by a Westerlander army that had marched from siege the Rowans' land at Ivy Hall and caught him from the rear.


At the same time, a defeated Crownlander army had marched in behind them, occupying the friendly Manderford territory, and then joined with the fleeing Rowans. The Westerlanders had captured much of Manderford back, and the Crownlanders had been forced to lay siege to a castle already twice captured in this war. That was when Lord Jonthor had marched his troops south from Ivy Hall as well.


"Men," called Lord Jonthor to his troops. "These Crownlander and traitor Reachmen dogs have no hope of escape but through us. Already our reinforcements from Greyshield are landing behind them. Fight fiercely, for the enemy knows he is already dead, and will not hesitate to make you so as well."

His horse misbehaved and spun him about for a moment. He spat.

"Kill them all for me!" he called, drawing his sword and spurring his horse forward, his knights, now well used to their commander's unexpected charges, following close behind. And, for once, the scowl lifted from his face.


Jonthor marveled a bit at how used to this he had grown since marching from Silverhill. His sworn sent a spray of blood flying as it sliced across the face of a Rykker man-at-arms who attempted to pull him from his horse. He felt detached, not really there, watching as he killed these men. He had never been to war before, never been in combat before the first clash at Appleton against the Stormlanders. And now he was in his fourth battle. And it felt as though he had been fighting for a year without rest, like it was a rote act, performed as easily as relieving himself or eating.

"My lord!" called Benfrey Falwell. The Westerlander lord had kept pace with Jonthor through the charge, as they'd broken through the Crownlander line and driven on towards the shore. He pointed for Jonthor to see. "There, my lord! Our reinforcements!"

More Westerlands were streaming up from the beaches, and Jonthor could see them leaping from an array of small craft. At their head came Lord Russell, shouting "the Rock! The Rock!" at the top of his lungs. He reined in his horse as he reached Lords Jonthor and Benfrey.

"Quickly, my lords," he said. "If we wish to fight, now is the time. It shall all be over soon?"

"Why? What's happened?" shouted Jonthor through the din of the battle.

"The King!" replied Lord Russell. "He's sailed with thirty-thousand men for King's Landing. He'll reach it before they have any idea. He means to force Rhaegar to surrender inside the Throne Room of the Red Keep itself!" He spurred his horse forward, shouting "the Rock! The Rock!" again.

Lord Jonthor let him go. "They're broken," he told Benfrey. "When Lord Russell is done earning his stories, I want you to take your men and begin besieging the last of Hobber Waters' holdings. And try not to harm him. He is our king's brother, after all."

Yeah. It ended up being more of a cakewalk than I had imagined. To be fair, the Riverlands and the Iron Isles sat it out, and everyone pretty much hated Rhaegar the Mad, so it's not like he had a lot of levies to face my beloved Bryce Lannister with.

Part 5: A Lion's Claws Are Sharp - Garrett

Lord Garrett

Garrett Redwyne walked through the halls of the Red Keep in silence. Here and there, blood stained the walls and floor, a darker, richer red that the brick it was splattered on. An old tapestry, probably hung since the time of Viserys I, depicting the Field of Fire, lay partially wrapped around a man missing one arm.

Garrett had been to the Red Keep only once before, as a child when his father had taken him. The old Lord Redwyne had made a point of teaching his son to sail, and of doing fealty to the King, and he had made a sailing lesson for Garrett out of delivering a gift of Arbor red to Aegon VI. Garrett remember King’s Landing as being full of life and joy and wonder, accented with fabulous blues and greens and purples. Now it was full of the dead and wounded and the soldiers who had done both the killing and the dying. The only colors that Garrett saw were mud and blood, and the Red Keep had the fortune to be blood-colored already, so one had to look twice to see there was anything but mud there.

The siege had not progressed as Garrett had intended. Though he had surrounded the city, cutting off access by land, having his fleet sail back to Casterly Rock for King Bryce had resulted in smugglers being able to reach the port, despite constructing catapults and placing them as close as he could to the port without exposing his men to fire from the archers on the wall. Still, he had choked the supplies into King’s Landing down to a trickle, and reports from the ravens his men intercepted told him that he needed only to hold and wait. The armies of Lords Lefford and Serrett had won a number of crushing victories against the men who had invaded, and even Lord Meadows had managed to persevere, despite being surrounded on all sides by the enemy.


And then one day, as they were busy hurling rocks at the walls, the Blackwater had begun to fill with sails, flying King Bryce’s Lannister lion. The King himself had been in the first longboat to reach the shore, his armor shining fiercely in the sun. He had plated it gold, just like his Uncle Jaime wore.


“Well done, Lord Garrett, well done,” the King had said to him.

“I had meant to make you a gift of the city, your Grace,” answered Garrett, bowing low, but Bryce waved a hand dismissively.

“No matter. I much prefer to fight at least one of my battles myself. It might have been faster to march straight from the Rock than to wait for your ships to return. I was kicking myself the whole time we were encamped, reading the reports that came in from the Reach.”

“I doubt you would have reached us any faster, your Grace. You might never have reached us at all, had you done that, in fact.”

Bryce gave him a hard stare for a moment, then nodded.

“Perhaps so,” he said. “Nonetheless, I’m here now, and with your men and mine, we have over fifty thousand troops to command. Have you built ladders?”


“We have, your Grace,” said Lord Garrett.

“Enough with the ‘your Grace,’” said the King. “‘My lord’ suffices.”

“But you are not a lord any longer, your Grace,” said Garrett. Bryce’s face turned dangerous, and Garrett hastily amended his last. “I mean no offence, my lord, but you are my king now.”

And then Bryce was laughing and Garrett breathed easier.

“So it is,” said the King. “So it is. At light tomorrow I mean to take this city. Have my men join yours, and we’ll strike them from every gate at once.”

In the morning, the King had ridden to the force readied outside of the Lion Gate. Garrett had joined the men there to listen to his speech, and when Bryce rode out to the front of them the light had illuminated his golden army so that he shone too brightly to stare directly at.

“He looks like one of the Gods,” Garrett had said.

“He looks like a perfect target, if you ask me,” said Benjen. Lord Garrett’s first mate had landed in the second longboat, trudging up the shore to inform him that the King had puked his newly-royal guts out over the rail for the first three days and nights at sea. The mystery of kings held no allure for Benjen, common sailor that he was.

“Men!” called Bryce. He had a voice made for the field. Garrett was close, but no so close that it would have been an easy thing for Bryce to hear him had he shouted, yet he could hear the King’s voice as clear as if he was standing next to him. “I ask you not to take this city for me, but for yourselves. I want no spoils this day but a crown, freed from Targaryen cruelty, freed from Targaryen avarice. The wealth of this city I grant to each of you. I make you a gift of it. It is yours to take, and do with as you please.”

Garrett sucked in his breath sharply as the men around him roared their support. Benjen looked up at him.

“Did he mean it, cap'n?” asked the mate.

“Yes, without a doubt,” said Garrett. “He means to give them free rein.” Bryce had just given his soldiers permission to rape, kill, and loot to their hearts’ content. Some of the people in that city were nobles, and they would expect to receive some sort of quarter when they surrendered. But Bryce had denied them with that promise. King’s Landing would be brutalized. Its buildings would be burned, its people killed, and the city emptied of all its wealth.

“Let every man who survives this battle know that he shall forever have a place at my feast table,” continued Bryce. “Should he come to the Rock and one of my guards should challenge him, he need only bare the scars he’ll earn this day and say ‘I was there, in King’s Landing, with Bryce Lannister, the day we gained our freedom,’ and he shall be welcomed as friend in my hall!”

“If he keeps that promise, he’ll be dead or bankrupt or both in three days,” said Benjen. Garrett smiled. It was a good promise, though Benjen did indeed have the right of it. Few of these men, if they survived the assault on the walls, would ever sup with King Bryce. They would be refused at his gate by the guards, scars or no. Bryce might make a public show of being outraged at that, but he also might not. Still, you had to win your men's respect. Garrett had done it by trimming sail with them, by showing that even he could still crew a ship if he had to. Bryce did it by promising a place at his side come peacetime.

"Come now! And help me take a kingdom!" roared Bryce. The men-at-arms roared back at him, and as one they ran forward, the ladders rushing to the fore. They had cruel hooks on their tops, fashioned mostly from farm implements and the spare halberd Garrett had had available to him. The defenders might be able to push them off, but sooner or later some of the men would reach the walls and they outnumbered the defenders enough that victory felt assured. Still, Garrett had traded his boiled leather and axe for a proper sword and a metal breastplate over a mail coat.


And, sure enough, when it came time to scale the walls, Garrett was glad he'd worn it. As he crested the ladder, a man with the Targaryen dragon on his leather doublet had struck him in the head with a mace. Garrett's half-helm had absorbed most of the blow as he'd went sprawling to the ground, his sword clattering away from him over the stone. He rolled over and, still slightly dazed, looked up into the eyes of his attacker as the man raised his mace for the killing blow.

Benjen's axe bit into the man's right shoulder, half-separating the arm from the body. The Targaryen man screamed and tried to turn, but Benjen held him in place with the axe for a moment, causing the wound to widen with the fellow's struggle. Then Benjen pulled the axe loose. The maceman screamed more at this, and fell to his knees, clutching at the gaping wound, his right arm hanging useless.

Benjen buried the axe in the man's face.

His mate bent and picked up Garrett's fallen sword, handing it to him.

"You dropped this, cap'n," he said, grinning. That grin would be forever seared into Garrett's memory.

The arrow had come from a nearby watchtower, fired by one of the gold cloaks that had been pressed into service there. Garrett had never seen it coming, only saw Benjen's grip on the sword hilt slacken, then looked up to see his mate had sprouted a foot of feathered rod from the middle of his neck. Benjen's grin had mixed with one of anguish and surprise, so that he seemed to be horrified and confused that he was laughing. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead coughed a spray of blood that hit Garrett in the face. And then he had toppled onto his liege. The world had seemed to dim then.

When he'd woken, it was on the wagon for the wounded. The man next to him was dead, that was for sure, but they had assured him that it was the wounded wagon. Benjen's body had not been there. He could hear the screams of the city in agony as the looting began. Behind him was Maegor's Holdfast, and when some old maester, that someone said had been the Grand Maester once, had judged him fit to walk, he'd been allowed to walk into it, to find the King in the Throne Room.

And Bryce was there. He sat on the Iron Throne, his gilded armor protecting him as he, unlike the Targaryen kings who had sat there, was able to recline. Below him stood King Rhaegar II Targaryen, with his White Cloaks in attendance. Lord Commander Vance, who had been named after Ser Steffon had been killed. And there was old drunk Ser Jaime Lannister, who had still managed to survive where men half his age had failed, still wearing his own gold armor, though his had tarnished and did not shine quite as brightly as his nephew's.

"Sign it," said Bryce, growling down to Rhaegar.

"And you'll agree to its terms?" asked Rhaegar meekly.

"I'm more concerned about you agreeing," said Bryce. "I hardly know which dead Targaryen King you'll be next. One month it's Baelor the Blessed, the next it's Aegon the Conqueror. Maybe you'll be Daemon Blackfyre tomorrow. And how can I expect a bastard to keep his promises?"

"You'll agree to its terms?" asked Rhaegar again. He did not look like a Targaryen. His Valyrian blood had been diluted by two generations of Dornish wives and he took after them more than he did Aegon VI.

"Yes," said Bryce. "After my men have had their way with your sweet city, it will be returned to you. You shall renounce all claim to dominion over the Reach and the Westerlands, and shall recognize me as sole sovereign of the Kingdom of the Rock, and the lawful claim of my heirs to the same. And then you shall get this precious throne back." One gauntleted finger scratched at an exposed sword blade in Aegon's Chair. "So sign it."

And Rhaegar signed. Bryce smiled, and he looked over the crowd.

"After all," he said. "I'm only keeping it warm for you."

Arcvalons said:

Fantastic! Are you GRRM in disguise?

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Thanks, but, of course, I'm not.

This AAR's finale will be coming soon!

Part 6: The Final Tally - King Bryce

Bryce


If only his father could see him now. If only his grandfather could see him now. They would have a difficult time imagining it, Bryce thought. Tyrion and Tywin Lannister had served the Seven Kingdoms their entire lives, as the Hands of Kings. His uncle, Ser Jaime, had been in Rhaegar's throne room on the day the peace had been signed. That had been the last time he had seen the old white Lion of Lannister. King Rhaegar would not permit members of his Kingsguard to visit the enemy. Bryce ached to hear the man speak, to tell him what he thought. He was Bryce Lannister, King of the Rock, ruler of the Westerlands and the Reach. He had brought the Iron Throne to its knees, and reestablished a kingdom over three hundred years extinct.

Still, there were things he had to attend to before he might rejoice in this.

"Bring me Loras Caswell," he said. The lords gathered in the Golden Gallery twittered. Bryce sat in the finest chair he owned, worked in golden lions, but it was no throne. He planned to have one made of solid gold (or as close as made no difference) worked in lions and roses. And with a pillowed backing and seat cushion. He had sat the Iron Throne for a brief moment covered from chin to toe in armor, and it had still been an uncomfortable perch. His throne would be enjoyable to sit in, as ruling his own kingdom would be. Bryce Lannister knew he got what he wanted. He had wanted to be a knight; he was. He had wanted to be clever like his father; he was. He had wanted to be king...and now he was.

Lord Loras Caswell of Bitterbridge was fat and blonde and scared. He look like some forgotten Lannister cousin, save for the way he twittered and wept.

"Spare me, your grace!" he cried. "I have been a fool. I will serve you loyally from this point on as though I were your own brother."

Bryce sighed. He looked at his brother Tywin. "My brother once stole a gold dragon from me. I would not trust such loyalties. Would you, Tywin?"

"I was fourteen, your grace," said Tywin. "And a girl in Lannisport promised to show me wonderful things if I but only had the coin for it."

Bryce smiled. "And so you have it," he said to Caswell. "You might be loyal today, because you fear for your life. But who's to say that tomorrow you will not have a different fear and slip a knife between my ribs?"

"Your grace, I would ne--"

"Silence!" roared Bryce. "I asked without desiring an answer. I would not have traitors here. You shall be stripped of your rank and all your titles, and your heirs as well. You shall spend the rest of your life in vigil on the Wall. Maybe there you can learn the loyalty you could not muster here for your rightful lord."


The treacherous little toad bubbled over with thanks for Bryce having the magnanimous grace to spare his life. Lannister guardsmen dragged him from the Gallery.

"Tywin Lannister, step forward," said Bryce. His brother cocked his head curiously, but walked out to face Bryce.

"I hereby raise you to the lordship of Coltishall, newly freed from Lord Caswell's dominion. From this point on, the castle is yours, as are all associated lands and incomes. Rule it well, brother."


"I...I do not know what to say," said Tywin. "Thank you, your grace."

"You won't when you see it. I've just granted you one of the pettiest castles in all the Reach," said Bryce. "You'll curse me when you get there."

"For now though, you only have my thanks, brother," said Tywin. Bryce nodded his acceptance, and Tywin joined the other lords.

"Ser Cortnay Frey, step forward," he said.

His cousin, born a Frey but looking every inch a Lannister, strode out, his armor rattling.

"Yes, your grace?"

"Ser Cortnay, I raise you to the Lordship of Bitterbridge. Its castle is yours, and all associated lands and incomes. Rule in the name of your King."


Cortnay bowed low, so low Bryce though he might tip over.

"You shall have no cause to regret this, your grace," he said. Bryce waved him away, and the new lord marched back as stiffly as he'd come. He looked a Lannister, sure, but he was too proud by half, which had to be his Frey blood.

"Bring me Lyonel Rowan," Bryce commanded his guards. When they brought him, they did not have to drag him as they had Loras Caswell. Despite having been in the dungeon for nearly a week, he strode forward with purpose and determination. When he reached the space in front of Bryce, he did not kneel or bow, only stood and stared.

"Lyonel Rowan," said Bryce. "I name you as a traitor to the crown. And yet, I am merciful. You will remain lord of Goldengrove Castle, and your heirs shall hold it after you are gone, but your bannermen will not do fealty to you. Instead, you shall do fealty to one of them. Will you accept these terms, and swear your loyalty to me and the lord I choose for you?"


Lyonel Rowan spat at the floor.

"Treason is a harsh crime," he said. "Have you any proof?"

Bryce was taken aback. "Many men saw you fight against your lawful lord at Manderford, and in the Shields."

"When did I do this? I bared no steel against my lawful lord, King Rhaegar Targaryen, the second of his name, . I bared my steel against the traitor, Bryce Lannister. If you would accuse me of such a crime without evidence, my lord Lannister, I would demand a trial, as is my right."


"My King, execute this traitorous swine here and now," called Lord Lefford. "Every man here knows him for what he is. No man would think less of you. King Rhaegar would not give any of us clemency for having supported you."

"No," said Bryce. "I am amused. Regardless of your success in your trial, you will still be stripped of your rank, Lord Rowan. Who here will stand for their rightful king?"

There was the sound of many swords being unsheathed and then a hundred voices vying to be heard. Bryce smiled. He looked over the crowd, and his eyes settled on a single old knight, who had not drawn his sword.


"Ser Loras," he called. "Why do you not offer your sword in my service?"

Ser Loras Varner knelt upon hearing his name, his head bowed. He raised it at the question.

"I did not think your grace would desire it," he said. "I am old, and past the days when I was a fighter of some ability."

"You have served me loyally for years. Will you stand for me now?"

"I would, happily, your grace," said Ser Loras.


"Does any man here have armor that they might lend me?" asked Lord Lyonel. No one spoke, and Bryce answered in his place. "Give him a coat of mail and a helmet."

The coat had no sigil on it, but the helmet was marked red and had a golden lion on it. Bryce smiled.

"And a sword. Surely many here would be willing to lend me a sword?" asked Lyonel Rowan again. Again, none of the gathered lords made a move to give him one. Instead, they glowered at him from the sides of the Gallery.

Bryce drew his own sword and threw it at Lyonel Rowan's feet.

"There, a sword," he called. He turned to Loras Varner. "Ser Loras, I appeared to have dropped my sword. Would you fetch it for me?"

Ser Loras' visor clanked shut and his own sword flashed out of its scabbard. There was still speed and strength there, Bryce could see, as the old knight moved into position in his plate armor. His greatsword did not allow him the convenience of a shield to rest behind.

With a shout, Lord Rowan charged the old man, hoping perhaps to wear him down with a flurry of slashes and stabs. But Ser Loras moved methodically. He let a few strikes touch him, but only those he judged it was not worth his time to defend against. Lord Lyonel seemed to wear down faster than Ser Loras did.

And then, when Lord Rowan was backing up, Ser Loras struck him in one leg with the flat of his sword, knocking the traitor to the ground. Then Loras moved quickly, striding forward and kicking Bryce's sword away from Lord Rowan's hand. Rowan rose to his hands and knees. Ser Loras looked at Bryce.

"Do it," said Bryce.

The greatsword rose and felt and there was an awful clattering and a flash of sparks when the tip of the sword struck the floor beneath. And Lord Rowan's head went rolling away from his body.


"Well done, Ser Loras," said Bryce. "Lord Fredrec Kidwell, step forward."

"Your grace?" asked Lord Fredrec.

"Lord Fredrec, I appoint you as overlord of Goldengrove. The late Lord Rowan's bannermen shall be yours, and his heirs shall do fealty to you. Remember how you came to your position, and serve me well."

"I will to the end of my days and yours, your grace," said Lord Fredrec.

"There is one last piece of business," said Bryce. "And then we may all retire. A man cannot rule both the Reach and the Westerlands from Casterly Rock. From this day on, I name my heir, Dennis Lannister as Lord Paramount of the Reach. May he always rule wisely and justly."


"And now, my lords and ladies, let us call an end to this."

Nikolai said:

That last line, does that have a double meaning? Or do you have one more update for us?

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This is probably it, unfortunately. The save game has sort of stalled out, and it is to the point where playing this older version feels somewhat chore-like, given all the options in the newest version (and our dev builds).