"My lord, I've captured the heirs of House Stark and House Arryn."
Jaime had a busted head and didn't dare breathe too hard.
Tywin's vision swam. He nearly passed out on the spot.
How did I raise such an idiot?
But then he thought of Rhaegar—the eldest son of his old friend, Aerys—and felt a little better.
Rhaegar had eloped with Lyanna, sending shockwaves through the Seven Kingdoms. And right now, no one even knew where they were.
"My lord, should we keep them locked up?" Jaime asked carefully, clearly thinking he'd done something clever.
Tywin waved him off. "Keep them in the dungeons for now. Let's see what Rickard and Jon Arryn have to say about this."
"Yes, my lord!" Jaime quickly excused himself.
Once alone, Tywin rubbed his eyes and devoted his full attention to the looming threat of war.
In a way, House Lannister and House Targaryen were chained to the same sinking ship. Tywin and Aerys. Tywin and Daeron. The Iron Throne and his eldest son, Jaime.
If he wanted to wash his hands of it all, he could just pull his forces out of King's Landing.
But what then?
With both Rhaegar and Daeron as dragons of the royal blood, Tywin fully believed the Iron Throne could withstand the retaliation of the four-region alliance (even if the Eagle and the Fish were still wild cards). In reality, the bulk of the rebel force would be Stark and Baratheon.
If he pulled out now and sat on the fence, it wouldn't be so easy for House Lannister to claw its way back into the center of power once the Targaryens crushed the rebellion.
The biggest sticking point was his children.
Tywin's eyes darkened as he made his decision. Boy, if you don't marry my daughter, you won't get a single Lannister soldier.
He took out pen and paper, drafted a letter, and handed it to the Maester to send via raven.
He had no interest in helping House Targaryen. But teaming up with Daeron to carve up the Riverlands? Now that was an idea he could get behind.
---
With the Wolf and Eagle heirs locked in the dungeons, the four-region alliance wasn't going to just sit on its hands.
Ravens flapped their wings, crossing the Trident and the Neck, flying straight for Castle Black beneath the Wall.
But the intended recipient wasn't there.
Days ago, Daeron had already set out for the true North.
Beyond the Wall. Beneath a weirwood tree.
Blood-red leaves drifted to the ground, scattered across the snow like drops of blood on white parchment—a bleak, tragic portrait of the winter wilderness.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
Daeron stepped through the snow, stopping at the edge of the massive weirwood's canopy.
"Easy there, Maester," Daeron said.
Davos was supporting Maester Aemon, the men forming a human wall to shield the elderly man from the biting wind.
Maester Aemon panted, waving a hand. "Don't mind me. That's the oldest weirwood beyond the Wall. Legend says it holds the secrets of the Children of the Forest."
Daeron shot a questioning look at Howland.
Bundled in a thick green cloak, Howland was sniffing the air near the tree. He nodded emphatically. "Prince, I can feel them. The Children of the Forest."
This was exactly why Daeron had taken him under his wing. House Reed of Greywater Watch was favored by the Three-Eyed Raven and had a deep history with the Children. Howland had admitted that he'd seen them in his youth and still retained a vague, instinctual connection to the elusive race.
Daeron checked the sky. "We make camp here for the night."
The men got to work. The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and the First Ranger took the lead, gathering deadwood and sap to get a fire going. Since the Prince and Maester Aemon were venturing beyond the Wall, the Night's Watch provided a full escort.
Daeron found a spot to sit and passed around portions of Gold Star Cheese.
The Wall truly did block magic. His three dragons had flat-out refused to cross it, staying behind at Castle Black.
"Watch your back tonight, Prince," Brynden muttered, tending to the horses. His sharp grey eyes never stopped scanning the tree line. The "Blackfish" had a sixth sense for danger; it was how he always made it out alive.
Daeron felt it too. Ever since they'd crossed the Wall, he'd noticed a faint, lingering gaze fixed on them.
It was annoying. Being watched by unseen eyes like that was enough to drive anyone mad.
Time slipped by. It was 11:00 PM.
Wrapped in a fur sleeping bag, Daeron lay on his side by the campfire.
Whoosh.
A gust of freezing wind brushed the hair from his forehead. Daeron's eyes snapped open, and he crawled out of his sleeping bag.
A second later, he saw it.
Standing abruptly beneath the weirwood was a small, slender figure.
It was one of the Children of the Forest. She had large ears, and her skin was a dappled, deep brown, like a doe's coat, half-hidden beneath a cloak of woven leaves. Her eyes were mesmerizing—a swirling mix of gold and green, slit like a cat's.
Her hair was a wild, tangled mess of autumn colors: browns, reds, and golds, woven with vines, twigs, and dead flowers. It looked intentional, almost decorative.
She looked nothing like a human. No wonder they were sometimes called "squirrel people."
"Who are you?" Daeron asked.
This was his first time seeing one of the Children, but he immediately felt a thick aura of nature magic, identical to the Junimos. It was the magic of the forest.
His voice instantly woke the camp. Barristan and Brynden were on their feet in a heartbeat, swords drawn and leveled at the sudden intruder.
"I am a Child of the Forest. I serve the Three-Eyed Raven," she said softly. Despite her child-like appearance, her voice was startlingly mature and high-pitched. "You may call me Leaf."
"You speak the Common Tongue?" Daeron asked, surprised.
"I am one hundred and eighty years old," Leaf replied. "Under the Three-Eyed Raven's tutelage, I have mastered your language."
A long-lived species, then.
Daeron helped Maester Aemon over, the Lord Commander close behind, curious to see what the Child of the Forest wanted.
Leaf studied the silver-haired prince with her large, gold-green eyes. Her curiosity seemingly satisfied, she reached into her leafy cloak and pulled out a sword.
The blade was slender, the scabbard unassuming. At a glance, it looked like a perfectly ordinary one-handed longsword.
But Daeron's sharp eyes caught the details: the hilt was polished, pitch-black dragonbone, and the crossguard was forged in the unmistakable shape of spread dragon wings.
"She is what you seek," Leaf said, holding the sword out with both hands. "The Three-Eyed Raven told me to return her to you."
Daeron recognized it instantly.
One of the two lost Valyrian steel swords of House Targaryen.
The ancestral blade—Dark Sister.
Daeron stepped forward to take it.
"Prince!" the Lord Commander and Brynden warned in unison, fearing a trap.
Leaf's massive eyes remained clear, watching the silver-haired human's next move.
Daeron waved his men off. "It's fine."
He wasn't afraid of this dying race. If the Children of the Forest were truly powerful, the First Men wouldn't have driven them back. If the First Men were so tough, they wouldn't have lost to the Andals. And no matter how fierce the Andals were, back when the Dragonlords of Old Valyria ruled the skies, they had cowered in the hills of Andalos, scratching at the dirt.
Daeron wrapped his hand around the hilt. Even through the cold scabbard, he could feel a faint residual heat.
The fiery soul of Valyrian steel.
With a crisp shing, he drew the sword. The silver-grey blade rippled with a dark, hypnotic water pattern, radiating a chilling, lethal intent.
Daeron gently stroked the flat of the blade, listening to the subtle, joyous hum of Dark Sister.
"She thirsts for blood," he said seriously.
---
The Vale. The Eyrie.
Bang!
Robert stormed into the solar, exploding at his beloved foster father for the first time. "Lord Jon, why won't you let me return to the Stormlands?! Are you trying to stop me from getting my revenge?!"
He'd tried to leave the Eyrie several times, only to be blocked by the Knights of the Bloody Gate.
Lord Jon Arryn sat meticulously sorting through letters. Some from Lord Rickard Stark, others from Lord Hoster Tully. The three lords had been writing constantly, debating their next move.
Robert wanted no part of their politics. He only wanted blood. "Lord Jon, let me leave!" he bellowed, his voice like thunder in the quiet room.
Lord Arryn frowned, his tone hardening. "Robert, do you realize that Brandon and Elbert are currently trapped in King's Landing? They went to demand justice for you, and now their lives hang by a thread."
Robert's fiancée had been stolen, and he was desperate to kill Rhaegar. But without a clear heir, who could he turn to for justice?
"Brandon? And Elbert?" Robert's pupils shrank, his heart hammering against his ribs.
If they were in the Mad King's clutches, they were as good as dead.
Lord Arryn's mind was racing, but he forced himself to stay calm. "Until we know they are safe, I absolutely forbid you from leaving the Eyrie, let alone the Vale."
No one had expected Brandon Stark to be this reckless. He had literally walked right into the lion's den, handing the Iron Throne the perfect leverage to crush the four-region alliance.
Robert's anger flared again. "So we just sit here and wait to die?! We just wait for the Mad King to execute them and let that bastard Rhaegar get away with this?!"
Brandon was his future brother-in-law. Elbert was a brother in all but blood. Asking him to let go of his hatred was worse than asking him to fall on his own sword.
The theft of his bride was a blood debt. Unforgivable.
"Of course not. Lord Rickard and I are working on a solution," Lord Arryn said, his composure holding. He tapped a piece of parchment. "We've discussed this. The Mad King will use the heirs as hostages to divide and control us."
House Targaryen had dragons again. That was the ultimate deterrent. Starting a war now was a massive gamble.
But the catalyst was Rhaegar abducting Lyanna (the blame squarely pinned on the Crown Prince), and the victim was House Baratheon. Brandon and Elbert had merely gone to demand answers and were subsequently "disappeared," highlighting the Targaryens' sheer tyranny.
In Jon Arryn's mind, they needed to cut the knot cleanly.
He had already recalled Denys Arryn—a distant cousin married to his niece—preparing to name him the new heir to the Eyrie if Elbert fell.
"I've also suggested to Lord Rickard and Lord Hoster that we amend the marriage pacts," Jon Arryn continued, tapping the letter. "Ned should marry Catelyn. It will solidify the alliance between the Wolf and the Fish."
Robert looked horrified. "You're writing off Brandon and Elbert?!"
"It's called strategy!" Lord Arryn's eyes narrowed, a ruthless, calculating light flashing in them.
At worst, the heirs were acceptable losses. Pawns to be traded with the Iron Throne. They couldn't just blindly plunge the realm into war without securing their alliances first.
Knock, knock, knock!
The door was thrown open. Ned rushed in, clutching a raven scroll, looking panicked. "Lord Jon, terrible news."
Jon Arryn took the letter. His face drained of color.
Lord Rickard Stark was riding south to King's Landing to demand his eldest son back from the Mad King.
"Dammit! Are the Stark men completely brainless?!" Lord Arryn collapsed back into his chair. His entire carefully crafted strategy had just been blown to pieces.
Robert let out a bitter laugh. "Looks like the Starks actually care about blood and honor."
Old Arryn might be willing to write off his nephew, but Lord Rickard clearly wasn't going to abandon his own son.
Hearing the mockery in his foster son's voice, Jon Arryn's face flushed a mottled purple.
But insults wouldn't change the catastrophic reality of the Stark patriarch marching south.
"Lord Jon, what do we do about my father and brother?" Ned asked, pacing frantically.
Robert shot his best friend a dark look and kept his mouth shut. When Lyanna eloped, Ned had told him to calm down. Now that his own father and brother were on the chopping block, where was that legendary Stark stoicism?
To Robert, consumed by vengeance, any attempt by Jon or Ned to preach patience was just proof that it wasn't their skin in the game.
Lord Arryn racked his brain. "Write to Lord Hoster immediately. Tell him to intercept Lord Rickard on the Kingsroad."
"Yes, right away," Ned said, bolting from the room without waiting for further instruction.
Jon Arryn turned to his other foster son, his voice grave. "I will call my most trusted bannermen. If things go wrong in King's Landing, I will support you when you call your banners."
But until then, Robert had to stay in the Vale.
Robert looked utterly hollowed out. "Lord Jon... your indecision is going to get everyone killed," he murmured.
House Targaryen was rotting from the inside. The Mad King ignored the realm, and Crown Prince Rhaegar trampled on loyal lords. If they didn't raise their banners and march on King's Landing now, they were only waiting for the executioner's axe.
Waiting, waiting, waiting!
They were only waiting for dark wings and dark words.
---
King's Landing.
Tywin kept the capture of the Stark and Arryn heirs a strict secret.
At the Small Council meeting, Aerys was back to his usual self, foaming at the mouth. "Rhaegar, that ungrateful bastard! What idiotic stunt has he pulled now?!"
That Northern bitch was Robert Baratheon's betrothed. And Robert Baratheon was the eldest son of his late, dear friend, Lord Steffon.
Robert was a friend's son. Basically an obedient dog.
For Rhaegar to snatch his betrothed was utterly incomprehensible.
"With Rhaegar and Lyanna eloping, the Stark and Baratheon families won't let this go easily," Tywin remarked coolly, enjoying the show.
Comparison was a funny thing.
Tywin's own eldest son, Jaime, was a complete fool, duped into throwing his life away in the Kingsguard. But looking at Rhaegar—the supposedly brilliant and noble Crown Prince—eloping with the betrothed of a Lord Paramount... that was a level of stupidity that defied cure.
Hahaha!
Aerys spat a curse. "Bullshit elopement! Rhaegar took a liking to another man's bride and dragged her into the mud!"
Aerys firmly believed it was an abduction. He projected his own vile nature onto everyone else; therefore, Rhaegar must have done the same.
Seeing Tywin sitting there so smug and unbothered sent Aerys into a blind rage.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted the newest Kingsguard standing by the door.
"Lannister! Get your ass in here!" Aerys roared, dripping with venom. "Your King is thirsty. Come pour my wine."
Tywin's face turned black as thunder.
---
Meanwhile, news reached Sunspear.
Prince Doran sat in his wheelchair, staring blankly after reading the raven scroll.
Rhaegar had eloped?!
He hadn't even managed to maneuver his daughter into marrying the other Targaryen prince, and the prince who had actually married his sister had already stepped out on her.
And he'd done it in the most publicly scandalous way possible.
"The rumors from the Harrenhal tourney... they were true," Prince Doran whispered in disbelief.
Elia had barely recovered from childbirth, and Rhaegar was already chasing a new skirt.
But—
Prince Doran couldn't wrap his head around it. "Why the betrothed of a Lord Paramount?"
Who the hell was this Lyanna girl, that she could bewitch Rhaegar into tossing aside the consequences and running off with her?
If House Baratheon demanded blood, rallying the Starks, Arryns, and Tullys into a massive rebellion... what was House Martell supposed to do?
Help the Iron Throne? His sister Elia had just been publicly humiliated and cuckolded.
Stay out of it? All their early investments in the royal marriage would be vaporized.
"The Seven Kingdoms are falling apart," Prince Doran groaned, clutching his head. He pounded his gout-ridden legs, desperate to distract himself from the biting, ant-like agony.