Gods Gate was a magnificent testament to the city's history, its massive iron-bound valves and stone facade adorned with intricate carvings of the Seven. To the soldiers passing beneath it, the eyes of the gods seemed to follow them, some in judgment, others in silent relief as the "occupiers" finally turned their backs on the capital.
Thousands of Northern knights led the way, their spirits high and their armor gleaming like polished silver in the brilliant morning light. Countless banners, the black tower, the golden sun, and the direwolf snapped in the autumn wind. Along the streets, women from Silk Street waved handkerchiefs in a reluctant farewell. In just over a fortnight, the Northern soldiers had spent more gold dragons than the city usually saw in a year. They were young, vigorous, and surprisingly disciplined; they paid quickly, avoided random brawls, and left when their business was done. Such customers were a rarity in a city used to the entitlement of Gold Cloaks or the cruelty of Lannister men-at-arms.
Eddard looked back toward the Red Keep. Monks stood on distant high platforms, preaching to the crowds. Given the wagons laden with gold and captured treasures at the rear of his column, he suspected their sermons were far from complimentary.
"Karas," Eddard commanded, turning to the captain of his guard. "Pass the word. No racing horses, no trampling fields, and no harassing the smallfolk on the road to Harrenhal. We are in allied territory now. Fifty lashes for any man who breaks the peace; the axe for anything worse. I'll swing it myself."
"Yes, My Lord," Karas Snow replied. He took the order and rode back through the ranks. Eddard watched him go, noting the man's absolute loyalty. People often whispered that the blood of bastards was fickle, born of deception and lust, but in Karas, Eddard found only the iron-willed courage of a true Northman.
"I never took you for such a gentle soul, Lord Eddard."
A lazy, melodic voice drifted from a purple-curtained carriage that had pulled alongside his mount. The curtain was drawn back to reveal Prince Oberyn Martell. The Red Viper reclined on a pile of colorful silks, his chest bare and his bronze skin gleaming. In his arms lay Ellaria Sand, her dark hair cascading over her like a silken veil.
"Prince Oberyn," Eddard replied, his expression neutral. "Speaking of kindness, I recall my men were saved by yours after their trip to Sunspear. A debt I haven't forgotten."
Oberyn raised an eyebrow, a flicker of dark amusement in his kerosene-black eyes. "Perhaps. But kindness is a heavy word. Tell me, why give the city to Stannis? If I had your giants and your lightning, I would have forged a crown of my own and made the world kneel."
"That would have turned the Trident and the North into a graveyard," Eddard said. "Stannis provides a legitimate shield. Why fight a war I've already won by other means?"
Oberyn took a sip of red wine handed to him by Ellaria. "You're barely twenty, yet you think like a man of fifty. My brother Doran would like you. He is also full of worries and considers the stability of the land over the pleasure of the strike. It's a very... sensible way to be bored."
"Is that why your brother offered no help when I asked for mercenaries?" Eddard asked.
"Doran believed a rash military move would expose his intentions to Tywin's spies," Oberyn explained, his tone suddenly serious. "But believe me, Karstark, his gratitude for the 'gift' you sent him outweighs any hesitation he showed. Dorne remembers. When the time is right, we repay our debts with interest."
Eddard offered a thin smile. "I look forward to it. Even if it's just a crate of blood oranges."
He declined Oberyn's invitation to sit in the carriage, preferring the crisp air and the rhythm of his saddle. As he rode to the front of the column, the sounds of revelry began to emanate from the Prince's carriage, lost in the thunder of Karstark hooves.
Cider Hall.
Located at the confluence of the Mander and the Tumblestone, the ancestral seat of House Fossoway was currently a hive of Lannister activity. The Golden Apple host was away in the Stormlands with Stannis, and those left behind had surrendered the castle to Tywin Lannister's twenty thousand veterans without a fight.
Inside the Great Hall, the atmosphere was as heavy as a leaden sky. Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the council table, his golden Hand's chain catchng the light of the oil lamps.
To his left were the Tyrells: a pale Mace Tyrell, a grim Ser Loras, and the young Lord Rowan. To his right were his own: Ser Addam Marbrand, Roland Crakehall, and Harys Swyft. Standing behind them, a silent shadow in black mail, was Sandor Clegane.
"Lord Tarly still refuses to meet?" Tywin asked, his voice a cold grind.
"He claims severe internal injuries," Loras Tyrell replied, his face tight with frustration. "My envoys were turned away by his son, Dickon. They say he needs time to recuperate at Horn Hill."
Lord Rowan let out a sharp, skeptical sound. "Injuries? Ser Marvin Flowers told me Tarly retreated before the first axe fell. He didn't even engage the Karstark boy."
"Dickon Tarly says Karstark used magic," Loras added, his voice dropping. "He speaks of a bolt of lightning that shattered their resolve."
The room went silent. The maesters of the Citadel had spent a century insisting magic was a myth, but the lords present had seen too many "miracles" from the North lately.
"It is consistent with what I heard of Gregor's death," Tywin said, his pale green eyes scanning the room. "They say his spear hummed with a rainbow light. I dismissed it as sunlight on steel then. I will not make that mistake again."
Tywin leaned forward, his hands interlaced. "But magic is just another resource. Even a wizard has a limit. As long as we send enough loyal men, the lightning will eventually run out. We do not fear tricks."
He turned to Lord Crakehall. "The status of the West?"
Roland Crakehall, looking gaunt and skeletal after his imprisonment, stood with effort. "Disastrous, My Lord. The Blackfish has Casterly Rock and Lannisport under siege. Deep Den has fallen, and the Golden Road is a Karstark highway. Kayce and Feastfires are holding, but for how long? We only hold Crakehall, Silverhill, and Corn City."
Crakehall looked at Tywin with desperate eyes. "My Lord, we must return. The West is bleeding."
Tywin stared at the map, his expression unreadable. His capital was held by a Baratheon, his home was burning, and his finest general was "recuperating" in shame. The Old Lion felt the cage closing in, but his jaw remained as firm as the stone of the Rock.
"We move at dawn," Tywin declared. "We will see how much lightning the boy has left when he faces the full might of the West."
[System Notification: Political Shift: Tarly's Neutrality confirmed.]
[Strategic Map: Westerlands Front (Critical).]
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