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Robert Baratheon stood on the battlements of Storm's End, his massive frame trembling slightly with suppressed rage.
The will to fight churned in his chest like a summer thunderhead gathering over Shipbreaker Bay—heavy, scorching, and ready to explode at any moment. Robert wished he could mount his warhammer, ride alone up the Kingsroad, smash the damned iron gates of the Red Keep to pieces with "Robert's Fury," and drag Aerys off that twisted throne himself!
Then he would smash him... again... and again... and again... until Aerys, that Mad King, was nothing but a smear of meat!
And Rhaegar, too!
However, the cruel logic of war was like a bucket of ice water, dousing his pure, blinding anger. He was no longer just an angry young man seeking blood for his betrothed and allies; he was the Lord of the Stormlands, the commander of thousands.
He needed to effectively gather the armies of the various houses that had just submitted—each with their own thoughts and agendas—unify their command, drill them into shape, and secure enough provisions to support a major campaign. All of this required time—a lot of time. This tedious but vital process was like an invisible rein, strangling the stag that yearned to charge, forcing him to swallow his burning desire for immediate revenge and slow his thunderous pace.
In the chilly council chamber of Storm's End, the sea breeze curled through the open window, fluttering the hem of Euron's black robe. He stood before a large map, his fingertip tracing the area representing the Green Fork and the Neck.
"Robert, take some time to thoroughly reorganize the Stormlands. Get a firm grip on these new bannermen," Euron said to the pacing Robert. "Oberyn and I will take our armies ahead. We'll march straight for Riverrun."
Robert stopped abruptly, frowning. "You won't merge with me? We aren't marching east together?"
Euron chuckled low and shook his head. "I need to meet Ned's Northern host. I'm worried they'll have trouble crossing at the Twins."
"The Twins?" Robert's frown deepened. "Old Walder Frey? That fence-sitter?"
"Exactly." A ruthless glint flashed in Euron's eyes, his voice cold. "House Frey always plays both sides. He might not be willing to open his gates for the North. As it happens, I have some old scores to settle with Walder." His finger unconsciously tapped the hilt of his blade. "If that old weasel dares to play games, I don't mind sending his whole family to meet the Stranger ahead of schedule."
Robert blinked, then burst into booming laughter that shook the rafters. "Then I better pray Old Walder has some sense! Fine, we'll do it your way. We meet under the walls of Harrenhal!"
Before leaving, Euron turned back with a warning. "As for the Tyrells of Highgarden, ignore them. They likely won't attack proactively. But keep a sharp eye on their vanguard commander, Randyll Tarly—the man is no fool. He knows how to fight. And remember, route your march around King's Landing. Don't let them pick you off one by one like we did at Summerhall."
Robert laughed loudly and slapped Euron's pauldron heavily. "Don't worry! Once I'm done here, I'll show them what a true god of war looks like!"
Euron smiled, saying nothing more. He only hoped Robert wouldn't let his blood run too hot and go looking for trouble with the Tyrells unnecessarily.
The Next Day
Seagulls circled and cried outside the castle as two great armies parted ways in the morning mist.
Euron Greyjoy's Iron Fleet and Prince Oberyn Martell's Dornish spears left Storm's End.
Two armies, distinct in style but equally efficient, moved like converging rapids. Following the agreed strategy, they marched north toward the heart of the Riverlands—Riverrun—to join with the Tully forces and await news from the North.
Meanwhile, the fuse that had ignited this war engulfing the Seven Kingdoms—Prince Rhaegar Targaryen—was far away from power and the fires of battle.
As always, he chose to escape.
Deep in the uninhabited desert of the Dornish Marches, near the Prince's Pass, the ancient tower known as the "Tower of Joy" stood lonely, like a dream forgotten by the world.
Here, there was no gloom of King's Landing, no noise of war. Only red sand, scorching sun, and each other.
In a high room of the tower, Lyanna Stark leaned into Rhaegar's embrace. Sunlight spilled through the high window, illuminating her face, which held a trace of worry. She murmured softly, her tone carrying the uneasiness of a girl realizing the consequences of her willfulness. "My father and brother... Brandon has such a temper. He must be furious right now, knowing I just left with you without a word..."
Rhaegar's arm stiffened slightly. Those indigo eyes, often filled with melancholy and poetic fancy, dimmed. He quickly looked away, avoiding Lyanna's gaze.
The terrible news from King's Landing—the brutal deaths of her father and brother, and the all-out war that had erupted because of them—was like a branding iron deep in his heart. He dared not, could not, say a word to the woman he loved.
He could only turn this heavy unease and guilt into a deeper silence and a tighter embrace. In Lyanna's still-flat belly, the fruit of their love was already growing—a quiet secret.
A child who, perhaps in some ancient prophecy, was the "Prince That Was Promised."
The footsteps of Ser Gerold Hightower broke the peace of the Tower of Joy.
He stood at the door, silent, casting a heavy, meaningful look at Prince Rhaegar.
That look pierced the bubble of warmth, bringing with it the cold weight of the outside world. Rhaegar understood instantly. A flash of elusive pain crossed his violet eyes. He whispered a few gentle words of comfort to Lyanna, carefully draped a thin blanket over her, and then rose to follow Gerold out of the room.
In the shadows of the stone corridor, Gerold Hightower's voice was low, carrying a grimness that could not be ignored. "News from King's Landing, Your Grace. The situation is dire. You are needed back to take command and lead the army. After all, the origin of this war..." He didn't finish, but the implication was clear.
Rhaegar looked back toward Lyanna's room, his eyes filled with struggle and reluctance. He was silent for a moment, then whispered, "I will return, Gerold. I promise you. But not now... Please, give me a little more time. I want... to stay with her a while longer."
Without waiting for Gerold's response, he turned and went back into the room filled with sunlight and love.
Moments later, the beautiful, sorrowful sound of a harp drifted through the door. The melody seemed to try to build a barrier against the world, temporarily blocking out the cruel reality.
Gerold Hightower stood there, listening to the escapist music. Finally, he could only let out a helpless sigh. He turned and walked down the spiral stairs, exiting the Tower of Joy.
Outside, under the scorching sun, Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, and Ser Oswell Whent waited in silence.
Gerold exchanged a glance with them. He said nothing, only shaking his head heavily.
A shadow fell over the faces of the three greatest knights in the world—a sense of powerlessness against fate, and a deep worry for a prince who chose to drown in a gentle dream.