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The dam of reason holding back the anger in Brandon's chest finally burst. He strode to find Catelyn Tully, clasping her hands tightly, unquestionable determination burning in his gray eyes.
"My Lady," his voice was low but unusually firm, as if swearing a sacred oath. "I promise you, this trip won't take long. Once I bring Lyanna back from King's Landing, we will complete our wedding immediately."
Before his voice faded, he turned and left, his cloak whipping up a gust of wind behind him. He and his companions—the loyal Ethan Glover, the brave Kyle Royce, the heir to the Vale Elbert Arryn, and young Jeffory Mallister—swiftly mounted their warhorses. Amidst a thunderous galloping, they charged out of Riverrun, speeding toward King's Landing.
Catelyn's heart tightened abruptly. An ominous premonition washed over her like ice water. She immediately lifted her skirts and ran toward her father's bedroom.
Lord Hoster Tully, woken from deep sleep, flew into a rage upon hearing the news, instantly wide awake. He immediately summoned Lord Rickard Stark.
Lord Hoster slammed his fist onto the table. "That fool playing hero! Running to King's Landing to demand someone—he's going to poke a hole in the sky!" He roared immediately, wanting to send cavalry to intercept his reckless son-in-law.
But Lord Rickard Stark, who had been silent, raised a hand to stop him. The face of the Lord of the North was etched with exhaustion and understanding; he knew his eldest son's temperament better than anyone. "It's useless, Hoster." His voice held a heavy calm. "Even ten oxen couldn't pull back that stubborn wolf. Even if I went personally... he would absolutely not turn back."
---
News rode the sea wind, reaching the Iron Islands faster than ravens.
When word of Brandon Stark riding south reached Euron Greyjoy's ears, his eyes suddenly lit up.
Without a moment's hesitation, orders were issued immediately from Pyke.
Euron didn't state the reason, but the words "Euron Summons" were enough to set the Iron Islands boiling.
Thousands of Ironborn poured from every corner of the seven major islands—seasoned captains, bloodthirsty sailors, warriors hungry for spoils and glory. Like sharks scenting blood, they piloted longships from Blacktyde, Great Wyk, Old Wyk, breaking through the waves and swarming to the shores of Pyke.
The beach was soon crowded with a mass of people. Iron armor and axe blades glinted coldly under the gloomy sky. They needed no reason; simply because the summoner was Euron Greyjoy—"Son of the Drowned God," the man who brought victory and endless plunder. They believed fanatically that following Euron meant drinking big bowls of wine, eating big chunks of meat, reliving the ancient glory and freedom of the Ironborn, and wantonly plundering the rich green lands.
Warhammers and longswords clashed excitedly; roars and shouts drowned out the rumble of the waves. In this restless fervor, Euron stood high above, looking down at his powerful fleet and war-hungry people, a cold, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
An old Ironborn with a scarred face couldn't hold back, stepping out from the crowd and asking gruffly, "Captain Euron! Where are our longships sailing this time? The golden vineyards of the Arbor, or the glittering gold mines of Lannisport?"
Euron Greyjoy turned. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable pressure, reaching everyone's ears clearly. "Don't speak. Don't ask." He slowly uttered four words, like issuing a mysterious curse. "Put away your curiosity. For now, just do one thing—sharpen your axes, polish your armor, forge your bodies into steel. Then, await my command."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over these warriors accustomed to decks and waves, and suddenly asked a question that stunned all the Ironborn: "Can you... ride horses?"
A slight commotion and confused whispers rippled through the crowd. They were experts at sailing, but warhorses? That was a toy for the knights of the green lands in the south.
Without waiting for their answer, Euron issued a decisive order: "Those who can't, starting today, practice riding every day! I want you to be as steady on horseback as on flat ground!"
This strange request made the Ironborn look at each other, but no one raised an objection. Euron's order was iron law.
---
The Stormlands.
Roaring, salty sea wind rolled with thunderous waves, battering the massive walls of Storm's End day and night.
When news of Lyanna Stark's "abduction," along with Brandon's reckless charge to King's Landing, reached this ancient fortress, a hurricane far fiercer than any sea storm ignited in its master's heart.
Robert Baratheon, the Lord of the Stormlands known for his strength and fiery temper, stood in the great hall.
As the Maester finished reading the news with a trembling voice, the whole world seemed to stop for an instant.
Robert's face went from disbelief pale to a terrifying, near-purple crimson. Veins bulged on his thick neck. All laughter and heartiness in his azure eyes evaporated instantly, leaving only pure fury that wanted to burn everything to ashes.
"Rhaegar—!!!"
A roar like a wounded beast shook the entire hall. Without another word, he grabbed the massive warhammer leaning in the corner. In the next moment, destruction descended.
No reason, no restraint.
The heavy warhammer, carrying all his rage and brute force, smashed frantically into everything around him. Exquisite wooden tables shattered instantly; silver wine cups were flattened and sent flying; gorgeous tapestries were torn down and ripped. Wall hangings, the fireplace mantel carved with the Baratheon stag, even the hard stone walls themselves groaned in pain under the terrifying swings of the warhammer. Stone chips and wood splinters flew like rain. In moments, a luxurious hall was reduced to a messy ruin.
He stood in the center of the ruins, chest heaving violently, sweat and dust mixing. He looked up sharply, undisguised killing intent in his eyes.
"Saddle the horses! Muster the army!" he roared at the squires and knights who had rushed over upon hearing the noise but were too scared to approach. His voice was hoarse but unquestionable. "Immediately! I'm going to King's Landing to join Brandon! I will personally smash every bone in that mad dragon's body!"
---
Inside the great hall of Storm's End, dead silence reigned. Only Robert's heavy breathing pulled at the air like bellows. The messy debris on the floor silently told the tale of the storm-like rage just passed. Monstrous anger was about to turn into concrete action; the Stag of the Stormlands bared its antlers, ready to charge at the center of power.
The elderly Maester, leaning on an elm staff, struggled through the ruins and presented two letters stamped with the seals of Riverrun and the Direwolf of Winterfell to Robert. His voice was raspy but steady. "My Lord, urgent letters from Lord Hoster Tully and Lord Rickard Stark. Their meaning is clear—they ask you to please... wait."
"Wait?!" Robert jerked his head up, his crimson eyes almost spewing fire, his voice hoarse from extreme suppression. "How can I wait! Lyanna is in his hands! Brandon has already gone! You want me to cower in this stone castle like a coward and wait?!"
There was no fear in the old Maester's cloudy eyes, only deep worry and unquestionable resolve. "You must wait!" He raised his voice, his withered fingers trembling slightly from exertion. "When we received news of Lord Brandon's departure, two days had already passed! By now, he has likely arrived in King's Landing, perhaps... the outcome is already decided. Going now would be too late!"
Seeing Robert's expression nearing collapse, his tone softened slightly but remained firm. "I have employed all ravens and spies. Any movement in King's Landing, we will know immediately. Trust that soon, definitive news of their trip will arrive."
"But I must do something!" Robert growled painfully, his huge hands tearing at his own hair. "Waiting here empty-handed, I'll go mad! I'll die of suffocation!!"
The old Maester fell silent for a moment, then made a shocking move. He suddenly aimed his forehead at the sharp edge of a broken stone pillar beside him. His gray hair trembled in the wind, his voice carrying a decisive, irrefutable sorrow. "If you dare step one foot out of Storm's End today, this old man will smash his head and die right here in this hall, using my blood... to flag your reckless journey!"
"You...!" Robert's roar stuck in his throat as he stared incredulously at the old man.
This old Maester had served House Baratheon since his grandfather's time. He watched his father be born, watched him grow up, and even after his parents died early, gave him care and guidance far exceeding a subordinate. To Robert, he was already an indispensable pillar of the family, a relative he respected and relied on more than his own blood brothers.
Boiling rage collided violently with decisive familial affection. Finally, the manic strength enough to overturn everything leaked slowly from Robert's imposing body like a punctured skin. He staggered a step, sitting heavily back onto the only intact high-backed chair, burying his scarred face in his massive palms.
The Stag of the Stormlands chose to suppress his monstrous anxiety and rage, waiting in this giant castle by the sea for the news from King's Landing that was destined to shake the Seven Kingdoms.
---
Sunspear.
The long corridor faced west. Scorching sunlight baked the sandstone walls hot, making the air ripple slightly with heat waves.
Prince Doran Martell sat in his wheelchair, gazing past layers of citrus groves and dry riverbeds toward the distance, as if penetrating endless mountains to stare directly at the storm brewing in the heart of Westeros.
A messenger had just finished whispering in his ear. After a long while, Prince Doran finally spoke. His voice was as calm as water in a deep summer well, yet carried an unmistakable, cold weight.
"Rhaegar and Lyanna Stark are not simply traveling together, but eloping. The enraged Brandon is charging toward King's Landing." He paused slightly, his worldly-wise eyes sweeping over the Red Viper beside him. "Euron sent word. Get ready."
Prince Doran tapped the armrest of his wheelchair lightly, uttering the phrase that would tense the nerves of all Dorne: "A war that will sweep the Seven Kingdoms is coming."
Hearing this, a cold, sharp smile hooked the corner of Oberyn Martell's mouth. Like a viper poised to strike, he slowly straightened up, eyes burning with hatred and anticipation accumulated for over a decade. "War!?" He asked back softly, every word like a poisoned dagger. "Excellent. Elia's vengeance, Dorne's humiliation... this time, we will take it all back, with interest!"
Hot wind passed through the corridor, bringing the whispers of the distant desert, as if countless spears were clashing beneath the sands.