After two days of intense planning and military reorganization, a general direction was finally set.
Jon Arryn pressed his finger firmly onto the parchment map spread across the table. His voice was steady and resolute as he traced the path of the storm about to sweep across the Seven Kingdoms.
"Step one: We purge the rot from within and secure our rear. Our banners will march straight for Gulltown. We must take it with all speed and crush the branch of House Arryn that holds it, along with Lord Grafton and every other royalist faction entrenched there. We cannot fight a war with a knife pressed against our backs."
"Step two," Jon shifted his gaze to Eddard Stark. "Once Gulltown is pacified, Lord Eddard, you will take a ship from there and return to the North immediately. House Manderly of White Harbor will provide assistance. Your task is to call your banners and ensure the Direwolf flies high above Winterfell once more. The Northern host must march south without delay."
"Step three. Robert." Jon looked at the Lord of the Stormlands, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You need to return to Storm's End at once. You are not just the commander; you are the soul of the Stormlands. You must be there personally to steady the men and crush those bannermen who are wavering. After that, rendezvous with Prince Oberyn and the Dornish spears in the Marches. Together, you will sweep through the royalist forces entrenched around Summerhall and clear the enemies from our rear."
"Step four. Euron." Finally, he looked to the Ironborn leader. "Your fleet is critical. I want your longships to haunt the waters of Blackwater Bay and the mouth of the Mander like ghosts. Exert massive pressure across the entire Narrow Sea. Intimidate Highgarden. Make the Tyrells and the Redwynes think twice before committing their massive fleets and armies to the field. Buy us time."
Jon Arryn's gaze grew sharper. His finger slid slowly across the map, finally landing heavily on a massive shadow looming at the border of the Riverlands and the Crownlands—Harrenhal.
"And the crucial fifth step," his voice dropped, heavy with urgency. "Harrenhal. Since the tourney, Lord Whent's daughter has been held hostage in the Red Keep. Lord Whent has been forced to declare for the Mad King, but that castle... it is the largest, most formidable fortress in the Seven Kingdoms. Its strategic value is immeasurable. It chokes the Kingsroad and the God's Eye. It is the most terrifying obstacle on the road to King's Landing, but it could also be our strongest shield."
He looked up, his eyes darting between Euron Greyjoy and Lord Hoster Tully.
"We must seize Harrenhal with all speed. The coalition forces will muster there. We either force Lord Whent to see reason and switch sides again, or... we crush every defender loyal to the Iron Throne and tear the black dragon banner from its towers. We must take that dagger at our throat and wield it in our own hand!"
Finally, Jon's palm covered the city on the map marked with a fire-breathing dragon. "In the end, all armies—the North, the Vale, the Riverlands, the Stormlands, Dorne, and the Iron Fleet—will converge here!" His finger tapped the map. "We take it. We take King's Landing!"
---
Jon Arryn unrolled a heavy sheet of parchment. He dipped his quill into the inkwell, though it felt as if he were dipping it into congealed blood and endless rage.
Outside, the cold moonlight bathed the Eyrie. Inside, his face was as hard as the stone of the mountain. With powerful strokes, he wrote the proclamation denouncing the Mad King, word by word laying bare Aerys II's crimes—forsaking the gods, burning nobles, and trampling the laws of men—before the Seven and the world. At the bottom, he signed his name solemnly. Below his were the signatures of Hoster Tully, Eddard Stark, Robert Baratheon, and Euron Greyjoy.
The alliance of five great houses had formally declared war on the Iron Throne.
This document, carrying their justice and their fury, was entrusted to the swiftest ravens and the most loyal riders to be carried to every corner of the Seven Kingdoms. Like a boulder thrown into a still lake, it would send shockwaves through every court and castle in Westeros.
Tomorrow, it begins!
---
In the Red Keep of King's Landing, shadows grew wild in the Throne Room.
Varys, the Spider, approached the Iron Throne like a silent ghost. He whispered his report to Aerys II, who sat high above. His voice was soft but distinct, every word a cold needle pricking the suffocating air.
"Your Grace, the rumors are confirmed," he said softly, hands carefully tucked into his sleeves. " The traitors are currently gathered at the Eyrie—that fortress in the sky, so high and hard to reach."
He paused slightly, as if tallying the unsettling list of names. "Jon Arryn, Hoster Tully, Robert Baratheon, Euron Greyjoy, and... Eddard Stark. Five powers have forged a solid alliance."
Varys looked up, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. "Furthermore, they have openly named the Lord of Storm's End, Robert Baratheon, as the leader of their rebellion."
"The banners they raise, Your Grace," his voice went lower, yet somehow clearer, "claim two causes for their treason. First, they accuse Prince Rhaegar of 'abducting' the Lady Lyanna Stark. Second... they condemn your... handling... of the Stark father and son."
Finally, he dropped the most immediate threat. "According to the latest whispers, their blade is not pointed directly at King's Landing. At this moment, they are mustering forces to strike first at Gulltown in the Vale, intending to purge your loyal supporters there and secure their rear."
The words echoed in the cold Throne Room, waiting for the unpredictable wrath of the dragon.
Aerys II's rage exploded instantly, reminiscent of his ancestor, Maegor the Cruel. His pale fingers dug viciously into the sharp blades of the Iron Throne. Blood seeped out, staining his white skin red, but he seemed to feel no pain.
"Traitors! A pack of damned, ungrateful mongrels!" His shrill scream bounced off the vaulted ceiling, filled with the paranoia and fury of betrayal. "They dare... they dare unite against the dragon!"
But when Varys carefully added that the most feared threat at sea—Euron and his Iron Fleet—was currently not terrorizing the waves but was instead up at the Eyrie, a twisted, feverish light suddenly burst in the King's mad eyes.
"Good! Very good!" he hissed, as if he had seized a turning point in fate. "That wretched kraken has left his ocean! The gods have granted us a chance!"
He wheeled on the Master of Ships standing nearby, his voice turning screechy with urgency.
"Immediately! Send my command! The Royal Fleet is to muster and set sail. Full speed to Gulltown! While Euron Greyjoy is off the water, crush those rebel ships and bring victory to Lord Grafton! Let every traitor know that to oppose the dragon is to burn and break!"
The order, fueled by frantic hope, was passed down swiftly. Warships flying the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen began to move, sailors running and shouting as they steered out of Blackwater Bay. They cut through the waves toward the distant east, unaware that what awaited them might not be an easy victory, but a destruction meticulously planned.