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Casterly Rock.
The great lion of the West crouched upon the cliffs above the Sunset Sea, watching the tides rise and fall in silence.
Inside the castle, in a spacious study, Lord Tywin Lannister sat behind his desk reviewing accounts from lords across the Westerlands. His face was expressionless, those pale green eyes sharp as uncut stone.
A maester hurried in and presented a scroll of parchment.
"My lord. A letter from King's Landing. The messenger rode hard — it must be urgent."
Tywin looked up and extended his hand.
He unfurled the letter and swept his gaze across it. The study was quiet, broken only by the faint rustle of parchment.
When he reached the line — Jaime Lannister resigns from the Kingsguard , something shifted on his face. Barely perceptible. But there.
He raised his head slowly and returned the letter to the maester.
"Reward the messenger ten Golden Dragons."
His voice was calm. Flat. Nothing in it to read.
The maester bowed and withdrew.
Tywin was alone again.
He rose, walked to the balcony, and looked down at the churning Sunset Sea below.
In Westeros, the money worked like this:
1 Golden Dragon = 210 Silver Stags = 11,760 Copper Pennies. Which meant 1 Silver Stag = 56 Copper Pennies. 1 Copper Star = 8 Copper Pennies.
A full table of decent food , mutton, duck, oat bread, ale , cost no more than 1 Silver Stag, with a fistful of coppers back in change. A grilled sausage and a mug of ale ran 1 Copper Penny.
A full set of fine armor , chainmail, gorget, greaves, and a great helm , came to 800 Silver Stags. About 4 Golden Dragons. Respectable, but nowhere close to the thickened plate Lynn had commissioned for his Unsullied, which ran 20 Golden Dragons a set and made that "fine armor" look like scrap. A worn iron suit, somewhat rusted, might fetch 200 Silver Stags on a good day. A decent warhorse, around 750.
The Iron Throne's debt exceeded six million Golden Dragons.
Worth noting: Rose's maidenhead had once gone for 1 Golden Dragon.
And Tywin had just rewarded a messenger ten for delivering a single message.
That only meant one thing.
Tywin was genuinely, deeply pleased.
Jaime had finally shed that ridiculous white cloak. He had finally returned to where he belonged , the lawful heir to Casterly Rock.
A warmth rose in Tywin's chest, slow and unfamiliar. He had poured half his life into this son. Shaped him into the finest commander in Westeros, a lord fit to rule, the most brilliant lion the Lannister name had ever produced. Jaime should have inherited everything. Should have carried the family's glory to heights it had never reached.
Instead, he had locked himself in a white cage for twenty years over a vow that meant nothing.
Now he was finally free of it.
The manner of it was unexpected. But the result was what mattered.
Tywin allowed himself a smile.
Then he thought of his other son. Tyrion. That dwarf who had spent his entire life being an embarrassment.
When had they last seen each other?
The last time was... the last time. Tywin couldn't actually remember. Then Tyrion had followed Robert north for the business with Ned Stark, and after that , silence. Dead in some nameless whore's bed, most likely. Or drowned face-down in a wine cask.
Tywin didn't care.
House Lannister had a worthy heir. That was all that mattered.
As for Jaime going north to back this Lynn...
Tywin didn't oppose it. He welcomed it.
Robert's little scheme was transparent the moment Tywin heard it. Using someone else's blade to do the killing, then standing back to collect the prize. But the fat fool had underestimated the wolf of the North. Underestimated the falcon of the Vale. And most importantly, he had underestimated the lion of Casterly Rock.
Did Robert honestly think a threat would keep House Lannister from moving?
Jaime going north gave Tywin exactly what he needed , eyes on the ground. A chance to see what this Lynn was actually made of. A chance to see what that dragon of his could do.
If Lynn won, House Lannister gained a powerful ally with a dragon. His own "granddaughter" would become the most powerful lady in the North. The Westerlands and the Gift would be bound by treaty , a lasting peace between allies.
If Lynn lost...
That was fine too.
Tywin would personally lead the western armies north to "avenge" his grandson-in-law. And under that banner, he would rightfully absorb the vast lands of the North into Lannister hands.
House Lannister would not stand on the sidelines of this war.
But they would not enter as allies, either.
They would enter as saviors , when every other house had bled itself dry, when the fighting men were exhausted and the lords were desperate. They would step onto the battlefield at the perfect moment and take everything that remained.
Stark. Arryn. Tully.
All of them would become stepping stones on the road to Lannister dominion over the Seven Kingdoms.
House Lannister would be the last one standing.
As for the threats from Dorne and Highgarden?
Clowns. He didn't give them a second thought.
Tywin turned from the balcony and settled back behind his desk. He spread a fresh sheet of parchment, dipped his quill, and began to write.
A reply to Jaime. Short and simple.
Proceed as you see fit. Casterly Rock will always be behind you.
---
King's Landing.
The familiar stench of rotting fish hit first.
A man in a gray robe stepped off the merchant vessel Sea Snake as it finished docking. He looked like nobody. An apprentice from the Citadel, maybe, or a minor noble's forgettable attendant. His face was the kind that vanished the moment you looked away , ordinary in every detail, the sort you'd lose in any crowd.
No one noticed him.
In a city built on conspiracy and hunger, every eye was fixed on the soaring spires of the Red Keep, or on the great figures poised to reshape the Seven Kingdoms. The arrival of one more nobody was less than a raindrop falling into Blackwater Bay.
The man moved through the packed docks and into Flea Bottom.
The air thickened as he went deeper. Drunkards' vomit and children's filth in the gutters, the stench of rot baked into every stone. He found a dim tavern and traded a few Copper Pennies for a cup of cheap ale , murky, sour, with a familiar bitter edge underneath.
He didn't mind.
He sat in a corner and listened.
"Have you heard? That Lord Lynn from the North — he married Princess Myrcella!"
"More than that! The king gave him the Gift!"
"But the real thing — he has a dragon. An actual dragon. Fire-breathing."
A mercenary with a drink-flushed face was gesturing wildly, spraying the table with spit.
"I saw it myself! The day of Lord Lynn's wedding, that dragon circled right above King's Landing — wingspan bigger than the dome of the Great Sept of Baelor!"
"You're full of shit. I was there too. Didn't see a damn thing."
"You were just drunk!"
Dragon.
The man's hand didn't move. The cup sat perfectly still.
But behind his eyes, a different image surfaced.
The deep Valyrian mines, buried beneath the earth. Darkness without end. Despair without bottom. Scalding magma. Air that burned the lungs. Slave overseers with whips soaked in blood and flesh. And above it all , dragons circling the mouth of the pit, casting their vast shadows down over the men below.
They were weapons. Symbols of power. The eternal nightmare of every slave who had ever drawn breath in those mines.
The Many-Faced God was born in that darkness.
The first Faceless Man had given the gift of release to his fellow sufferers. Then he had given that same gift to the dragonlords who sat above them.
The hatred between the Faceless Men and the dragonlords was bone-deep. It had been there from the beginning.
Dragons were fire made flesh. A miracle of life, some said.
To the Faceless Men, they were the last remnants of an old tyranny.
All men must die.
Dragons were no different.
The man's thoughts returned to the present. He turned over another matter in his mind.
The man from the Iron Islands who called himself the Crow's Eye. Euron Greyjoy. He had come to the House of Black and White with a petrified dragon egg , origin unknown , and tried to purchase his brother Balon's death.
The Faceless Man had come to King's Landing for dragonlore and the weaknesses of dragons. Collecting dragon eggs was only so he could destroy them. Killing Balon was a convenience, nothing more.
His true purpose was the living dragon. And the man who rode it.
Lynn.
A mortal man should not hold that kind of power. Everyone who had ever mastered it had ended up the same way , consumed by it, driven mad.
He drained the last swallow of sour ale.
He needed an identity. Something that would let him move north quietly, get close to that man without drawing attention.
He stood and walked out of the tavern.
First, Balon. Then the dragon egg , that was the priority. Lynn could wait.
At the street corner, two gold cloaks stood watch, bored out of their minds.
A perfect opening.
The man adjusted his breathing. His posture shifted , shoulders rounding slightly, steps going loose and unsteady, eyes taking on the particular glint of a thief's hunger cut with fear.
He spotted a fat merchant waddling out of a nearby brothel. The coin purse at the man's belt was fat and swollen, bouncing with every step of his heavy body.
The man fell in behind him like a shadow, quiet and unhurried.
At a corner, he bumped into the merchant , a light, almost accidental collision, barely enough to draw a glance. But when he stepped past, the heavy purse had already slipped into his sleeve.
He didn't run.
He slowed down instead. Even glanced back over his shoulder.
He needed those two gold cloaks to catch the flash of satisfaction on his face.
"Stop him! My money! He stole my money!"
Right on cue.
The two guards perked up like hounds catching a scent and closed in fast.
"You. Hands out."
The brutish one leveled his sword, voice sharp.
The man raised his hands obediently, face arranged into something appropriately panicked, and let the purse "accidentally" slide from his sleeve and hit the ground.
The evidence couldn't have been cleaner.
"Caught red-handed! Come with us, little thief."
The gold cloak reached for him, grinning.
"Wait."
The man spoke quietly. Both guards stopped.
"You can arrest me. But can you tell me what crime I've committed?"
The tall, thin guard stared at him. "You stole something and you're asking us what crime you committed? Are you simple?"
"What's the penalty for theft in King's Landing?"
The man's face held no fear. Just genuine curiosity.
"Lose a hand, then the black cells," the brutish guard said, irritated. "If you're lucky, maybe they ship you to the Wall instead. You can serve the realm until you rot."
"The Wall," the man repeated softly, turning the word over.
"Is it cold there?"
Both guards went silent.
Between the two of them, they'd arrested close to a thousand thieves. Not one had ever done this. Caught in the act, no begging, no struggling , just asking whether the Wall was cold.
"Of course it's cold, it's the bloody North! Cold enough to freeze your balls off! Stop wasting our time and move!"
"Alright," the man said.
And then, while everyone was still staring ,
He dropped low and drove his shoulder hard into the brutish guard's chest.
The guard grunted.
Then he came back like an enraged bull, swinging his sword hilt down at the back of the man's skull.
The man didn't move. Didn't flinch. Took it full on the back of the head.
THUD!
The world went quiet.
In the last instant before the darkness took him, the corner of the man's mouth curved up.
---
When he came back to himself, he was in the black cells beneath the Red Keep. Damp stone, total darkness, the back of his skull still throbbing.
The cell stank. Moldy straw and unidentifiable filth piled in the corners. A few other prisoners huddled against the far wall in rags, moaning softly.
The man sat up and leaned against the cold stone.
He looked around the filth and the darkness, and his eyes were perfectly calm.
Everything was going according to plan.
Assaulting a gold cloak was a separate charge. He was past the hand-cutting now. There was only one outcome left , the Wall.
A "glorious" brother of the Night's Watch.
A convoy of recruits being shipped north was the best cover he could have asked for. Nobody cared about a chain of criminals. Nobody looked twice.
A jailer came through with a dim oil lamp and shoved a bowl of black, unidentifiable paste through the bars.
"Eat up, scum. Last decent meal you'll get before the Wall."
The other prisoners lunged for it, fighting like starving dogs over the rancid slop.
The man didn't move.
He sat in the dark and closed his eyes.
The noise of King's Landing, the stench of the cell, the moaning of the prisoners , all of it fell away.
He only needed to wait.
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