In the Great Hall of Gulltown's citadel, the air was thick with the coppery smell of blood and the sweet scent of newly uncorked mead.
Robert Baratheon sat sprawled on the high-backed chair that had belonged to Lord Grafton. He chugged from a flagon of golden vintage, his booming laughter shaking the stone walls as he and his stormlander captains celebrated a long-awaited, satisfying victory.
Eddard Stark, however, stood alone on the battered ramparts. The sea breeze hit his face, heavy with salt and the stench of burnt wood. His expression was grim as he looked down at the harbor, where corpses and wreckage bobbed in the tide. After a long silence, he turned and gave clear orders: put out the fires, tend to the wounded, and—most importantly—no looting. Any man caught harming the smallfolk would face military justice.
Jon Arryn walked into the raucous hall and went straight to Robert. His voice was steady but carried a warning that couldn't be ignored. "The glory of victory never quite washes away the taste of blood. Robert, we've won the first battle, not the war. It is too early to celebrate."
Lord Hoster Tully, standing nearby, raised his goblet with a more pragmatic view. "Regardless, this is a vital victory. An honorable start. It proves our strength and shakes the enemy's confidence."
Euron Greyjoy swirled the wine in his cup, letting out a low, ambiguous chuckle that seemed to mock everyone present. "Greenlanders are always so busy dying for 'glory.' We Ironborn only live for survival."
They each viewed the victory differently, but overall, the result was satisfying.
Gulltown, as the Vale's only major port, was famous across the Seven Kingdoms for its wealth. Its coffers were far deeper than those of ordinary castles. Once the coalition took the city, the mountain of gold dragons in the Grafton vaults was seized.
With Robert's boisterous laughter and Jon's silent nod, the glittering coins were generously distributed to every soldier who had fought and bled for the cause.
The weight of gold dragons in their rough, bloodstained hands instantly washed away the fatigue and fear of death. Cheers for Lord Robert echoed across the bay.
This wasn't just a reward; it was a shot of adrenaline. It made them believe that following the banners of the Stag, the Trout, the Wolf, the Falcon, and the Kraken would bring both glory and riches.
Before the smoke had even cleared from Gulltown, Eddard Stark wasted no time. He knew the Northern bannermen were waiting for their new liege lord. Euron wasn't stingy; with a casual gesture, he ordered a black Ironborn longship to carry the young Lord of Winterfell north.
Ned stood at the prow, the salty wind tousling his brown hair. Behind him lay the Vale and the noise of war; ahead lay the cold, familiar North. He would cross the Bite to White Harbor, then ride hard for Winterfell. There, he had to call the banners and unite the North under the Direwolf once more to exact blood for his father and brother.
Euron and Robert boarded a sturdy longship, its black sails filling with wind. It carried them away from the smoldering ruins of Gulltown, cutting through the waves toward the Stormlands.
On deck, Robert's massive frame faced the wind, his eyes burning as he looked toward his home. The fire of vengeance had never dimmed in his heart. Euron leaned lazily against the rail, treating it like a pleasure cruise, though his eyes occasionally flashed with calculation.
Their mission was clear: Euron would use his iron fist and cunning to help Robert stabilize the chaotic Stormlands. Their primary target was the royalist forces and stubborn loyalist lords gathered around Summerhall. The lands that belonged to Robert had to be purged with fire and blood.
Lord Hoster Tully didn't linger in Gulltown. He knew the Riverlands needed him. He departed immediately, sailing up the Trident to return to Riverrun. Upon arrival, he would muster his forces and call his banners, turning the seat of House Tully into a war machine ready to answer the alliance's call.
At the Eyrie, Jon Arryn regrouped the Vale army. They cleaned the battlefield, licked their wounds, and waited for the strength from the North. All eyes turned toward the massive, ominous fortress looming by the God's Eye—Harrenhal.
A clear strategy was set: they would wait here for Eddard Stark and the Northern host. Then, the combined might of the North, the Vale, and the Riverlands would merge into one unstoppable force to launch a final, decisive assault on that cursed castle.
---
The Reach
Highgarden
In the council chamber, the scent of roses mingled with the silent smell of gunpowder. When the Mad King's order to march arrived, a dispute that would decide the fate of the Reach erupted between the mother and son who ruled the South.
Mace Tyrell—Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South, Defender of the Marches, and High Marshal of the Reach—clutched the decree sealed with the dragon's red wax. His face was flushed with anxiety.
"We must march," he insisted, though his voice held a hint of wavering. "For three hundred years, House Tyrell has been 'the most loyal bannermen of House Targaryen.' Our rule comes from Aegon the Conqueror. To betray the Crown is to deny the legitimacy of our own existence! My father, and his father before him, taught me that loyalty is the foundation of Highgarden!"
Mace listed the blood his family had shed for the Iron Throne—two dukes dead in the Dornish Wars, staunch support in countless rebellions—trying to crush the counter-argument with the weight of history.
Sitting opposite him was the "Queen of Thorns," his mother, Lady Olenna Redwyne. She merely glanced at him with sharp eyes that had seen through the world's nonsense, her fingers tapping lightly on the armrest.
"Are you sure your choice is right, Mace?" Her voice wasn't loud, but it pricked like a needle. "What if the rebels win? What if the dynasty changes? Where will Highgarden stand then? Loyalty?" She scoffed. "The cheapest thing in this world is blind loyalty. We rule the Reach because of our wits, our grain, and our armies, not just because of a crown someone gave us three hundred years ago."
Lord Mace frowned, revealing his deeper worry. "Mother, you don't understand! We are the Wardens, but House Florent still claims to be the true heirs of the Gardener Kings. They are watching us like hawks. If we betray the Crown, we give them and the other ancient houses the perfect excuse. The Reach would fracture instantly!"
"And what if the Crown itself changes? What if the Targaryens are pulled up by the roots?" Olenna countered without yielding. "If a Stag sits on the Iron Throne, or a Wolf, or even a Kraken? Then it's not betrayal; it's judging the times and supporting a new king! A Mad King, a tyrant with no noble support, cannot rule. His fall is only a matter of time."
"But can you guarantee the rebels will win?" Mace argued. " The King still holds the majority of the swords in the realm, plus Prince Rhaegar, 'The Bold' Barristan Selmy, and Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning! The risk is too high!"
"Precisely because we cannot guarantee it," Lady Olenna pointed out calmly, her eyes glinting with shrewdness, "we cannot bet all our roses on a table destined to break. Look at the West. Isn't that old lion Tywin sitting still, watching and waiting? That is who we should learn from."
"So... do we march or not?" Lord Mace was dizzy from the circular logic, thoroughly confused.
"We march," Olenna said decisively, the strategy already formed in her mind. "But it is enough that the Mad King sees us march. We siege, but we do not attack. And if we must fight, we do it half-heartedly. Just a show. Do not light a real fire, and absolutely do not harm the key figures—Robert, Ned, Jon. Any one of them could be the next king."
Mace hesitated. "But..."
"It is decided." The Queen of Thorns dropped the gavel, ending the argument with no room for dissent. "You, my 'Pufferfish,' will not go to the front lines to command blindly and make a mess. Let Lord Randyll Tarly lead the van. He is cautious enough, and he understands limits."