Watching this family drama unfold, Mysaria had no choice but to cough lightly and pull everyone's attention back. "There's another piece of good news."
"There's more?" a knight from House Cargyll could not help asking.
Mysaria smiled faintly. "The North has decided to join us."
This time, genuine cheers erupted through the hall.
"The North!" Celtigar's representative was so excited his beard nearly curled upward. "The Starks are finally moving!"
"How many men?" Corlys asked.
"They'll first send five thousand south to the Riverlands."
"And there are still over thirty thousand more to be mobilized. The Winter Wolves." Mysaria's voice carried undisguised delight.
"Lord Cregan Stark himself will lead them."
Daemon frowned. "I personally went to persuade him before, and he wouldn't budge."
Mysaria's smile deepened. "Because the Greens' false king, Aegon II, has already ordered the southern regions to stop supplying grain to the North."
"And the grain originally prepared for the North was instead distributed to King's Landing to deal with the food shortage there."
The hall fell silent for a moment before exploding into laughter.
"That idiot Aegon!" the Cargyll knight laughed so hard he slapped his thigh. "He's shoving the North straight into our arms!"
"The North was already preparing for winter," Mysaria explained. "The Long Winter is approaching. Their grain reserves can last at most two years, but a normal Long Winter lasts four to six."
"If the South stops sending grain, half the North will starve to death."
"Cregan Stark has no choice but to march south and seize food. Whoever he robs doesn't matter—he'll take it first and ask questions later."
Daemon and Corlys exchanged smiles. Neither had expected Aegon to help them this much.
"In terms of military strength, we no longer lose to the Greens." Daemon stood and walked to the stone table, looking at the densely packed markers across the map. "The North has more than thirty thousand men. The Vale can gather three thousand knights and eight thousand knightly retainers. If the Riverlands push hard enough, they can field twenty thousand."
"Add our own forces and Volantis's allies…"
"But dragons are the key," Rhaenyra interrupted him. "As long as we kill that bastard Aemond, the Greens will collapse."
The hall fell silent.
Aemond Targaryen. Sixteen years old. Rider of two dragons. Master of Vhagar, the largest dragon alive, and the unnaturally fast-growing black dragon Lothorne.
"I definitely can't do it alone," Daemon admitted. "That boy is a monster."
"My brother Viserys created a monster."
"Or rather, we all created such a monster together."
Daemon suddenly laughed, the sound echoing through the stone hall as he looked at his wife.
"But don't worry, Rhaenyra. Even if I die, I'll drag my dear nephew down with me."
Rhaenyra looked at him heavily.
She wanted to say something, but in the end said nothing.
"Was the letter sent?" Daemon asked Mysaria.
Mysaria nodded. "He's already received it."
Corlys remained silent. He knew who they were talking about—Laenor Velaryon, his son, Rhaenyra's former husband, the man who had "died" years ago and now wandered across the Narrow Sea.
If Laenor learned that his mother, Rhaenys, was dead, then as her son, he would undoubtedly shoulder that responsibility and avenge her.
"He'll be my bastard son," Corlys finally said, his voice hoarse. "He'll enter the war under the identity of a bastard."
Dragonstone's bannermen exchanged confused glances, unable to understand what they meant.
But Rhaenyra nodded. "We need him."
"He'll become our blade."
Daemon looked at the bewildered bannermen and waved a hand. "All of you, leave."
The bannermen withdrew from the Painted Table chamber with puzzled expressions, leaving only Rhaenyra, Daemon, Corlys, Mysaria, and Saera standing in the corner.
Daemon walked to the Painted Table and looked down at the damaged map.
His finger traced across it, from Dragonstone to Pentos, from Pentos to the Reach, from the Reach to the Riverlands.
"Next," he said slowly, "Laenor will ride Seasmoke together with Nettles and Sheepstealer to assist the Volantene fleet and look for an opportunity to ambush the Braavosi fleet stationed at Pentos."
His finger moved toward the Reach. "How far has the Hightower army advanced?"
Mysaria answered, "They're nearing Bitterbridge."
"Judging by their route, their next destination should be Tumbleton."
"Tumbleton…" A smile appeared on Daemon's face. "Good place for chaos."
He lifted his head and looked at Rhaenyra. "I'll take Saera and strike at Daeron."
"If luck is on our side, we should be able to kill the boy."
"I'm going too." Queen Rhaenyra stood and looked at him.
Daemon shook his head. "You can come, but I'll be the one to do it."
"You are the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. You shouldn't stain yourself with the infamy of a kinslayer."
Rhaenyra looked at him, a complicated emotion flashing through her eyes.
Daemon was always like this—taking the dirtiest and hardest tasks upon himself, carrying the darkest reputation on his own back.
Back in King's Landing, people had called him the "Lord of Flea Bottom." In the future, they would call him "Kinslayer."
"Aemond will probably head to Rook's Rest to organize the siege," Daemon continued. "We'll hit him with a timing gap."
"By the time he reacts, Daeron will already be dead, the Hightower army leaderless, and their morale shattered."
Everyone nodded in agreement.
...
The Westerlands, Lannisport.
Golden sunlight spilled across the waters of Lannisport, reflecting shimmering waves of light.
Outside Lannisport, dense ranks of Westerlands soldiers were gathering. The golden lion banners of House Lannister snapped loudly in the wind.
Lord Jason Lannister sat atop a white warhorse, proudly surveying his army.
Eight thousand men.
A full eight thousand elite soldiers of the Westerlands, every one of them clad in armor and equipped with fine weapons.
House Lannister was rich—who in the Seven Kingdoms did not know that?
Their soldiers wore the best armor, wielded the best swords, and ate the best grain.
Watching the troops in crimson lion armor march past in formation, Lord Jason's heart swelled with pride.
"Tyland!" he shouted to the side. "Look at this! This is what an army looks like! This is what lions look like!"
Tyland Lannister, the Hand of the King, rode beside his elder brother on a chestnut horse, his expression completely blank.
He had been trying to persuade him the entire journey. His lips were nearly worn raw from talking, yet this proud older brother simply refused to listen.
"Brother," Hand Tyland spoke again, his voice carrying a trace of helplessness.
"We should follow Prince Aemond's orders. March through Deep Den, then follow the Gold Road to King's Landing and join the Hightower army."
"That is the safest route."
Lord Jason waved a finger dismissively, utterly unconcerned. "No, no, no, Tyland. You're still too cautious."
"We'll march through the Golden Tooth and head straight for our final destination, Harrenhal, to join them there."
"And along the way, we'll scare those Riverlands trout at Riverrun."
"Brother!" Tyland's voice rose slightly.
"These are Prince Aemond's orders! We should—"
"Prince Aemond?" Lord Jason interrupted him with a mocking smile.
"Tyland, after all these years in King's Landing, have you turned from a proud lion into a tame dog?"
Tyland's expression changed.
Jason continued, "We are Lannisters! I am the Lord of the Westerlands!"
"We support them because of our vows as bannermen."
"But that does not mean I'm their dog!"
"They tell us to do something, and we obey without question?"
He pointed toward the marching army. "Do you see this?"
"These are eight thousand elites! The best-equipped army in all the Seven Kingdoms!"
"Prince Aemond? I admit his dragons are formidable."
"But when it comes to war, he's still a milk-faced boy."
"What does he know about strategy?"
"What does he know about marching?"
"What does he know about war?"
Tyland drew a deep breath and tried to keep his voice calm. "Brother, I admit our army is powerful."
"But precisely because it is powerful, we should advance steadily and securely."
"As long as we proceed step by step and join forces with the other armies to form an overwhelming advantage, that is the safest course."
"Safe! Safe! Safe!" Jason impatiently waved a hand from atop his white horse.
"I don't understand. Do you look down on the armies of the Westerlands? You speak as though this campaign is doomed from the start."
"Brother, that's not what I mean…"
"My mind is made up," Jason declared decisively. "The advantage is mine."
"How could those Riverlands peasants in leather armor possibly fight us?"
"They don't even have proper weapons, let alone armor."
"As soon as our lions charge, they'll slaughter them without leaving a single piece behind."
Tyland fell silent.
He knew he could not persuade this stubborn older brother. Jason Lannister had always been like this. Once he decided something, not even nine oxen could drag him back.
When their father was still alive, he often said that his eldest son Jason was "as proud as a lion and just as stupid as a real lion."
Seeing his younger brother go quiet, Jason reached over and patted him on the shoulder.
"Just relax, Tyland."
"This war will show every noble in the Seven Kingdoms just how powerful we Lannisters truly are."
Tyland forced out a bitter smile but said nothing.
"My lord!"
A voice came from the distance.
Tyland looked up to see a mounted party riding toward them. Leading them was a nobleman in ornate armor, followed by several attendants and two massive iron wagons.
The moment Jason saw what was inside the wagons, his eyes lit up.
"Lord Reyne!"
Lord Reyne dismounted and bowed to Jason before gesturing proudly toward the iron wagon.
"My lord, our house recently acquired these through trade with the eastern continent."
"I heard you were leading the campaign personally, so I specially brought them as a gift for you."
Behind the iron bars of the wagon, two enormous lions lay crouched there.
Their fur gleamed golden beneath the sunlight. Though imprisoned within cages, the majesty of kings among beasts had not diminished in the slightest.
Jason was overjoyed. He jumped down from his horse and strode quickly toward the iron wagon, circling it while admiring the two lions, his eyes filled with amazement.
"Good! Good! Excellent!"
He turned toward Lord Reyne. "Lord Reyne, I gladly accept this magnificent gift!"
"When we win, I will reward you handsomely!"
Lord Reyne beamed with smiles and bowed flatteringly. "To serve you, my lord, is my honor."
Jason stared at the two lions, the more he looked, the more he liked them.
"Bring them to the front lines! Let the world witness the lions of House Lannister!"
Tyland looked at the two lions, and suddenly a deep sense of foreboding rose in his heart.
Lions.
The golden lion was House Lannister's sigil, yet now the lions were trapped inside cages. What did that mean?
He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but in the end remained silent.
Jason had already mounted his horse again and shouted loudly to his army: "March!"
The eight thousand elite soldiers of the Westerlands slowly began to move, golden lion banners fluttering proudly in the wind.
The two lions imprisoned within the iron wagons released low, rumbling roars, their voices echoing across the skies above Lannisport.
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