Riverlands, Riverrun Castle.
"So… what do we do now? The Karstark soldiers have all gone home. At most, we can muster three thousand men here in the Riverlands—and you've seen that Valyrian's declaration. I must keep part of my forces to protect my lands and my people. The Riverlands can't bear any more suffering."
Newly appointed Duke Edmure Tully looked helplessly at his nephew, then turned to his sister. He spoke plainly, without pretense.
Robb pursed his lips, then replied with a trace of confidence."Other than Karlin Bay, the rest of our territory is still under control. Winterfell has already begun rallying the mountain clans to drive off the invading ironborn. All we need to do is lure Tywin out of King's Landing and into open battle.
"But Golden Tooth Keep is strangling our supply line. As long as we capture it—and make it look like we're preparing to attack Lannisport—we can force them to come to us."
Lady Catelyn finally spoke."I've already written to Lord Walder Frey. He's sent an envoy to negotiate. I believe he'll agree to our terms. With his soldiers, we can strengthen our ranks. The Lannisters will have to respond, because—"
"So you actually told the capital about those two Lannister brats? Seven hells! They have a hundred thousand men at least! How do you plan to fight that? Haven't you ever heard the saying—'A Lannister always pays his debts'?"
Robb frowned slightly."Those two Lannister children did die by our hands… sigh. We were in the wrong first. But only this way can we lure them out of King's Landing."
"Well, then, it seems that's our only choice." Edmure's voice echoed through the empty council hall, heavy with helplessness. "Let's just hope we can borrow enough soldiers from House Frey. Maybe then we can take Golden Tooth…"
His words faded down the long corridor, swallowed by the darkness of the castle.
Iron Islands, Pyke Castle
"When did you return, Euron? I heard you went mad—ripped out your crew's tongues and tied yourself to the mast. Everyone said you were dead!"
Balon Greyjoy stared in disbelief at his younger brother, Euron 'Crow's Eye' Greyjoy, shocked that this exiled madman had the gall to come back.
Balon was a harsh man, but deep down he valued family. Otherwise, Euron's crime—sleeping with his brother's wife—would have been enough to earn him death a dozen times over.
"I heard an interesting rumor," Euron said with a wicked grin, eyes gleaming with feverish delight. "My dear nephew escaped the North alive—got himself a mermaid wife, even, and the loyalty of those freaks from House Farwynd. So I came back… just in time to visit my brother, the great reaver of beggars in the North!"
"That's none of your concern!" Balon snapped. "I am the Lord of the Seastone Chair! That faithless bastard is a stain on my bloodline! I should have dashed his head against the wall instead of letting him return to mock me. He went and angered the Lannisters, and even raised our banners over Casterly Rock!"
Euron chuckled, eyes glinting as he caught the flicker of pride in Balon's tone.
"And what do you want?" Balon growled, his gaze turning cold and sharp. "I told you before—unless I die and return to the Drowned God's watery halls, you will never set foot on these isles again. Are you so eager for death, my foolish brother?"
Euron tilted his head, voice dripping with strange charm."My foolish brother… it was the Drowned God who told me—you may now return to His embrace. That's why I came. I've plundered the world, gathered mountains of gold and power… and now, it's time to claim the Seastone Chair. You can go—"
Euron's words were laced with a subtle, eerie magic. Balon's eyes began to glaze, his movements sluggish. Step by step, he descended from his throne under Euron's quiet command.
Bang!
The doors burst open with a crash. Guards screamed as they were flung aside, and an arrow streaked toward Euron. He raised a small round shield—steel bent and shrieked as the Valyrian-forged metal deflected the shot.
In the doorway stood several armed men. At their head was Theon Greyjoy, gripping a pale weirwood bow etched with runes. The string was drawn to a full moon, arrow aimed squarely at Euron's heart.
"My dear uncle," Theon said coldly, "why are you here? What are you doing to my father? Do you mean to become a kinslayer hated by all?"
Euron darted behind the dazed Balon, using his brother's body as a living shield. He smirked."Oh my, my! My sweet little nephew—you've done well. Married a mermaid, have you? I've bedded handsome men and lovely women across the world, but never a mermaid. Pity I won't get the chance now."
"You sick kinslayer! You're a madman! You're not fit to bear the name Greyjoy!" Theon shouted furiously, face pale with rage.
"No, no, no…" Euron laughed softly. "You're wrong, dear nephew. The true kinslayer—" His grin twisted. "—is you. Hahahaha!"
With that, he grabbed Balon and hurled them both through the window. They plunged into the raging sea below before anyone could react.
By the time Theon and the guards reached the shattered window, only the roaring waves below remained.
Realization hit like a blade of ice. Theon clenched his fists. He had returned upon hearing whispers of an attempt on his father's life… never expecting it to unfold before his eyes.
A week later, Balon's corpse washed ashore. Rumors of Theon the Kinslayer spread through Pyke like wildfire.
Theon fought back—he exposed several of Euron's mute sailors and bribed guards, forcing confessions that cleared some suspicion. But gossip had already taken root. Some stains, once spilled, could never be washed away.
Oldtown, The Citadel
An emergency convocation had been called. The chamber was tense, faces grim.
Archmaester Theobald slammed his palm on the table."Colleagues! The situation worsens by the day. It's no longer just Westeros—across the Narrow Sea, the last Targaryen has risen again. We can now confirm she commands three dragons. She's far for now, not an immediate threat—but the true problem lies with this mysterious Makor Baeloris. We know nothing about him—only that he's somewhere beyond the Wall or on Skagos Island."
Archmaester Perestan interjected."He claims descent from Jenyra Baeloris, a Valyrian dragonrider. Records mention that the Baeloris were once a ruling family among the Valyrian Freehold. It was their clan that began the Rholas Cataclysm. In several surviving journals, Valyrian magi of their line explored the labyrinths beneath Rholas for forbidden research. Could it be this Makor truly hails from there?"
Archmaester Nollen frowned."But his name doesn't sound Valyrian—especially for a dragonlord's bloodline. They favored divine names, after all. Why would his be so different?"
Theobald sighed heavily."This isn't the time for etymology, gentlemen. We must establish contact—either with the Crown or House Lannister. Perhaps even with the Faith itself. This matter is dire."
"Cressen… Cressen… open the chamber… within the vault…"
The frail, half-senile Archmaester Walgrave suddenly muttered, his voice thin as wind.
Archmaester Vaellyn, nicknamed Vinegar, scowled."Honored Walgrave! Maester Cressen is dead—slain on Dragonstone by an eastern sorceress.
"And I object! We are servants of truth, the keepers of knowledge! We must not touch those… magical abominations—Seven save me, I said the forbidden word again! Disgusting!"
But Theobald's eyes brightened."Yes… yes! I nearly forgot—the vault! Vaellyn, we are indeed servants of truth. And truth tells me this: I may use the enemy's own 'longsword' to strike him down. We shall—"
A frantic knocking cut him off mid-sentence.
A young novice, unchained and breathless, stumbled in. He whispered urgently into Theobald's ear.
Theobald's expression shifted—from shock, to disbelief, to a faint relief. He waved the boy away and addressed the room.
"Our magician, Archmaester Marwyn, has left. He took with him several acolytes and maesters—along with transcribed scrolls from the vault. It seems he has finally abandoned the path of truth."
Vaellyn sneered."Good riddance! I heard he meant to travel north. Let him go. Perhaps next time we see him, he'll breathe fire for our amusement! The North—cold, empty, hopeless—it suits men like him."
"Truth… truth… long live truth…"
Old Walgrave murmured, the words faint and cracked like the dying flame of a candle.
King's Landing, Red Keep – The Small Council
"Hey, Spider! Did you hear your king's command? I order you to find that Valyrian bastard! I'll send my armies to cut off his head and mount it on my castle spear! Let him learn the price of offending his king!"
The greatKing Joffrey Baratheon shouted at Varys, the Spider. He looked ready to leap onto the table, and even Tywin Lannister couldn't hide a sigh of weariness.
At the table sat Jaime Lannister, now Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He had escaped the fate of losing his hand thanks to aid from House Bolton—and from the "maiden knight," Brienne of Tarth. Hardship had tempered him; the journey had carved new depth into his once arrogant soul.
All he wanted now was to help his son rule well.But gods, that boy… Joffrey was every inch the shame of their house. Petulant, cruel, childish. Jaime glanced at his father—and at last understood Tywin's old exhaustion.
Petyr "Littlefinger" Baelish, newly made Duke of Harrenhal, had resigned as Master of Coin to wed Lady Lysa Arryn of the Vale. His position was now shared by Tyrion Lannister and Mace Tyrell of Highgarden.
The post of Master of Laws was split between Kevan Lannister and Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper of Dorne. Together, they formed perhaps the strongest Small Council in years.
Seeing his spoiled "grandson" throw a tantrum, Tywin forced patience."Your Grace, the realm's loyal servants will find and punish this traitor for you. Now—let us return to business."
But Joffrey wouldn't stop. He praised his own "courage and greatness," mocked Tywin for cowardice, sneered that Mace rose by selling his daughter's hand, and even insulted Oberyn.
At last, Tywin's patience snapped. He ordered the Kingsguard to drag Joffrey back to his chambers and had Pycelle and Queen Cersei feed him poppy milk.
"Now, my lords," Tywin said wearily, "our remaining enemies are the Iron Islands, Dragonstone, and that unknown Valyrian. Any thoughts?"
At his words, both Oberyn and Mace froze. Tywin hadn't even mentioned the North or Riverlands—meaning he'd already neutralized both threats without bloodshed. The realization sent a chill through them.
Then a familiar voice broke the silence—dry, sharp, and edged with irony.
"My dear father… oh, great Hand of the King… I only hope you remember—the North remembers."
Tyrion's voice echoed through the chamber, cold as winter wind, sending a ripple of unease through the room.
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