The King's declaration of war against House Lannister spread across the Seven Kingdoms with the speed and force of a thunderclap. Ravens leapt from towers day and night, carrying identical messages north, south, east, and west—messages that shook every noble who laid eyes upon them.
And the reaction, without exception, was disbelief.
Most first wondered whether they were still dreaming—or worse, drunk.
The Baratheon dynasty had long relied heavily on the wealth, military power, and political influence of House Lannister. The Queen herself was a Lannister, eldest daughter of the Old Lion. For years, King Robert had used Lannister gold to maintain the extravagance of the royal court, the tournaments, the hunts, and the debts that multiplied faster than they could be repaid.
It was no secret that the iron fist behind Robert's throne had always been gilded gold.
So when the King himself declared war on his greatest supporters…
"Madness," many whispered.
"Suicide," others said.
What kind of man would take up a hoe and hack away at the very foundation of his own house?
True, everyone in Westeros lived in castles, and hoes could not break solid stone—but the metaphor stood. No one dug up the soil that fed them.
Unless, they thought, Robert Baratheon had lost his mind entirely during his journey to the North. Perhaps after meeting his old friend Ned Stark he suddenly fancied himself untouchable, emboldened by that northern stubbornness. The nobles could almost imagine Robert slamming his fist into a feast table, declaring:
"I've got the Starks now—who needs the Lannisters?"
If that were the case, why had he not felt so invincible when Jon Arryn still lived?
Was the Vale not richer, larger, and far more militarily secure than the North?
These contradictions left the lords bewildered, and for a short moment, some even suspected an elaborate prank or political sabotage.
But as each man read further down the parchment, the pieces began to fall into place.
And suddenly… the shock made sense.
---
A Sin Beyond Forgiving
What House Lannister had done was not merely scandalous—it was an unforgivable humiliation that no king, no lord, no man of honor could endure.
A queen who commits adultery is already a stain upon a king's dignity.
A queen who commits incest with her own twin brother is a disgrace beyond the gods' forgiveness.
And a queen who bears children by that brother—passing them off as heirs to a dynasty?
That was treason.
Treason of the deepest, darkest, vilest sort.
The nobles shuddered as they read Robert's letter. They imagined themselves in the King's place—imagined discovering that none of their children were really theirs, and that the entire realm had been built upon a lie. In such a case, even the most patient lord might slaughter wife, brother, and every relative within reach.
And beyond that… there was murder.
Jon Arryn, the former Hand of the King, had not died of illness.
He had been silenced—killed—after discovering the truth.
The queen had slain the King's most trusted advisor simply to protect her secret.
The more the nobles read, the harder it became to comprehend how a family as proud and calculating as the Lannisters could behave with such astonishing foolishness and recklessness.
How deluded must they have been to invite such catastrophe?
If the Targaryens still had dragons, Casterly Rock would already be ash. Blood and fire would have washed away the insult.
Compared to the crimes of incest and regicide through murder, the simple matter of adultery was practically trivial—something almost every noble in Westeros had engaged in at one point or another. Banquets, feasts, private chambers—none of these were strangers to infidelity.
But overthrowing a king's bloodline?
Killing a Hand of the King to hide it?
These were sins written in fire.
No forgiveness.
No diplomacy.
Only war.
---
The Second Letter — The Evidence Arrives
Just as nobles were digesting Robert's furious declaration, a second raven flew—this time bearing a letter sealed with the sigil of Dragonstone.
This letter caused a second wave of shock so intense it felt as if all the nobles of Westeros collectively stopped breathing.
Where the King's letter was a proclamation, the Dragonstone letter was something far more dangerous:
Proof.
The writing was crisp, logical, and meticulously detailed. It listed the Queen's adultery with her brother Jaime Lannister, and provided clear, irrefutable evidence that none of the Queen's three royal children carried a single drop of Baratheon blood.
It also laid out the truth behind Jon Arryn's murder, refuting the official claim of "sudden illness."
Two letters.
Two sources.
One furious king, and one strategic, calculated document from Dragonstone.
Together, they painted a picture too undeniable to ignore.
House Lannister had betrayed the crown.
The King's heirs were illegitimate.
The Hand had been murdered.
War was no longer a possibility—it was inevitable.
This war would not be fought over land or titles.
It would be fought for honor, for rage, and for blood.
---
A Realm on the Edge
Across the Seven Kingdoms, lords began sharpening swords and whispering with their bannermen. The entire realm trembled on the edge of chaos.
One side had suffered the greatest humiliation a king could face.
The other side had lost one of the Old Lion's greatest children—a son who had died quietly in the frozen North.
This would not be a war of convenience.
It would be a war of vengeance.
Westeros was about to change. The balance of power would shift. The nobles pondered their future, calculating who to support and how to survive the storm that was about to consume them all.
---
Horn Hill — A Different Hell
While the great houses debated war, life elsewhere moved on with the same cruelty as ever.
At Horn Hill, it was Samwell Tarly's fifteenth nameday. Today, by the customs of Westeros, he was considered a man.
But dawn brought him no celebration.
He was dragged from bed by impatient servants, his clothes thrown at him before he was ushered outside. A saddled horse waited in the courtyard, and three guards flanked him silently, their expressions cold.
Without explanation, they escorted him deep into the woods near Horn Hill.
There, Samwell saw his father.
Randyll Tarly stood beside a freshly killed elk, its warm body steaming in the morning chill. He worked with a hunting knife, flaying the animal with the practiced efficiency of a soldier. The ground beneath him was already dark with blood.
He didn't glance up when Samwell approached.
"You're nearly a man grown," Randyll said flatly. "And you are—on paper—my heir."
He cut deeper into the carcass with each word, exposing bone beneath muscle.
"But you have given me no excuse to keep you. I cannot disinherit you by law, but I will not allow you to claim lands or titles that should belong to Dickon."
His voice remained unnervingly even, as though stating the results of a financial audit rather than the fate of his eldest son.
"Only the strong may hold Heartsbane," Randyll said, his tone icy. "And you are not even worthy to touch its hilt."
Samwell swallowed, staring at the ground as the smell of blood filled the forest.
"So I have decided." Randyll wiped the blade on the elk's hide. "Today, you will declare your wish to take the black, renounce all claims to inheritance, and depart for the Wall before nightfall."
Samwell's breath caught, but before he could speak, Randyll continued.
"If you refuse… then tomorrow, we shall go hunting. Your horse will stumble in the forest. You will fall. You will die."
He finally turned to look at his son, eyes like chips of flint.
"That is the story I will tell your mother. She is foolishly soft-hearted and even loves a creature like you. I do not wish to grieve her unnecessarily."
Randyll dropped the hunting knife. It clattered loudly against the cutting board, the sound echoing like a final judgment.
Samwell trembled.
The blood on his father's arms dripped down to the earth, warm and red. For a moment, Samwell imagined that the skinned animal before him was not an elk at all—but himself.
"Now," Randyll said, reaching into the carcass.
He tore out the elk's heart with a single, brutal pull.
Blood poured down his wrist, thick and steaming in the morning air. The heart dangled from his fist like a grotesque offering.
He turned to Samwell, expression cold enough to freeze steel.
"You have two choices, boy."
He raised the heart.
"Take the black."
His fingers tightened around the organ.
"Or this."
The threat hung in the forest air like death itself.
Samwell bowed his head, trembling.
His fate, his future, his life—everything—hung in the balance.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)