"War!"
The word echoed across the throne room like a clap of thunder.
"From the Claw Isle of the Crownlands to King's Landing, from Storm's End to the deserts of Dorne, from Oldtown in the Reach to Lannisport and Casterly Rock in the Westerlands—a curtain of destruction has fallen upon House Lannister.
I, Storm the Liberator, hereby declare war upon the rebellious House Lannister and all who serve them.
Thousands of warships sail beneath my banners. One hundred thousand cavalry stand ready to answer my call. I will reclaim King's Landing, seize Lannisport, conquer Casterly Rock, and bring justice to those responsible for the suffering of the realm.
If Tywin Lannister truly considers himself a warrior, let him face me in single combat. Let us settle this conflict with steel and blood.
The days of darkness are ending.
I shall fulfill the will of the late King Robert Baratheon. I shall reclaim the throne that is rightfully mine and avenge the deaths of Robert Baratheon, Jon Arryn, Eddard Stark, and every innocent man, woman, and child who suffered beneath Lannister tyranny.
In my name, I call upon all lords and smallfolk of the Seven Kingdoms. Do not stand aside. Join this righteous war.
Signed,
Gendry Baratheon,
Legitimate Heir to the Seven Kingdoms,
First Magistrate of Tyrosh, Myr, the Stepstones, and the Disputed Lands."
Silence followed.
Tyrion Lannister stared at the parchment in his hands.
Then he read it again.
And again.
Three times in total.
Each reading only deepened the pressure settling upon his shoulders.
The four sigils stamped into the corners of the letter caught his attention more than the words themselves.
A three-headed dragon breathing fire.
A crowned stag wielding the Iron Hammer.
A wolf pack running beneath the moon.
A broken chain symbolizing liberated slaves.
Together they represented the vast coalition gathering around Storm's cause.
The dragons represented the Targaryen supporters.
The stag represented Baratheon loyalists.
The wolves represented the North.
And the broken chains symbolized the armies of the Free Cities and freedmen who followed Storm across the Narrow Sea.
It was more than a declaration.
It was a warning.
Storm was coming.
Tyrion leaned back in his chair and let out a long sigh.
"What an arrogant young man."
A bitter smile appeared on his face.
"I thought Jaime was arrogant enough. Apparently, there are younger men even more arrogant than he is."
He handed the letter to Bronn.
"Pass it to Grand Maester Pycelle and Lord Varys."
Bronn obeyed immediately.
As the two men read the letter, Tyrion's eyes drifted toward the Iron Throne.
Storm.
The boy had finally made his move.
No more rumors.
No more distant reports from merchants and spies.
The threat had become real.
A massive army was marching toward Westeros.
Tyrion knew he could not face such a challenge alone.
Still, arrogance often concealed weakness.
At least, that was what he hoped.
Pycelle finished reading first.
The old man's wrinkled face had turned pale.
His expression resembled that of a man who had just received news of his own execution.
Tyrion almost felt sorry for him.
Almost.
Pycelle's political fortunes had long been tied to House Lannister.
For decades, he had been one of Tywin Lannister's most loyal supporters.
His influence, his authority, and his position all existed because of Tywin.
Years ago, he had advised the Mad King to open the gates of King's Landing, earning the hatred of Targaryen loyalists.
Later, his involvement in the suspicious circumstances surrounding the deaths of Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn had alienated many of the Baratheon and Arryn supporters.
No matter who won the coming war, Pycelle had enemies waiting.
And now the old man realized just how dangerous the future had become.
Tyrion raised a hand.
The royal usher stepped forward.
"The court is dismissed!"
The gathered petitioners bowed and slowly departed from the throne room.
The atmosphere grew noticeably heavier as the crowd thinned.
War demanded attention.
The city's defenses needed preparation.
Supplies needed securing.
And above all else, Tyrion still had to locate the two missing Stark children.
They remained valuable bargaining chips.
As he descended the steps of the Iron Throne, another problem immediately appeared before him.
Ser Alliser Thorne.
The black-cloaked knight stood waiting at the foot of the stairs.
His expression looked as sour as ever.
"The session is over," Tyrion said.
"Why are you still here?"
Before Tyrion could walk past, Alliser reached toward him.
A Kingsguard knight instantly stepped between them.
"Stand back, Ser."
Ser Preston Greenfield's hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
Alliser reluctantly stopped.
Frustration burned visibly in his eyes.
He had traveled all the way from the Wall seeking aid.
Yet nobody believed him.
Nobody listened.
To the people of the south, tales of the dead rising from their graves sounded like nonsense.
A fantasy.
A drunken story told beside a campfire.
Alliser clenched his fists.
"The Imp!" he shouted.
"You are a fool!"
Tyrion stopped walking.
Slowly, he turned around.
"A fool?"
A tired smile appeared on his face.
"Tell me, Ser Alliser. Who do you think everyone is laughing at right now?"
In truth, Tyrion could not entirely blame the man.
For thousands of years, the Long Night had been treated as myth.
Children grew up hearing stories of White Walkers.
Adults forgot them.
The very idea that the dead could rise and march south was impossible for most people to comprehend.
In many ways, it demonstrated the success of the Citadel.
Knowledge had conquered superstition.
Unfortunately, some superstitions turned out to be true.
Tyrion rubbed his temples.
He was exhausted.
The burdens of ruling King's Landing seemed endless.
"You're here seeking men, aren't you?"
"The Wall must be held!" Alliser shouted desperately.
"The cold winds are rising. The danger is real!"
His voice echoed through the nearly empty hall.
For all his faults—and there were many—Alliser had devoted himself completely to his mission.
He genuinely believed the realm stood on the edge of disaster.
And perhaps he was right.
Unfortunately, the realm already faced another disaster.
House Lannister was fighting for survival.
Tyrion spread his hands.
"I've already helped you."
"The Watch needs men."
"Yes."
"So I gave you men."
Alliser frowned.
"What men?"
"Criminals. Prisoners. Thieves. Murderers."
Tyrion shrugged.
"The Night's Watch has always accepted such recruits."
"The Wall needs soldiers!"
"The Wall needs bodies," Tyrion corrected.
"Recruit from King's Landing. Take whoever is willing to go."
Alliser stared at him in disbelief.
Tyrion's expression hardened.
"My situation is worse than you realize."
He stepped closer.
"Open your ears for a moment and stop listening only to insults and mockery."
The words caught Alliser off guard.
"Take the men."
"Be grateful for them."
"And when you return north, give my regards to Lord Commander Mormont."
A faint smile appeared on Tyrion's face.
"And to Samwell Tarly."
"The Slayer."
Alliser's jaw tightened.
"The Imp," he spat.
"You are an idiot."
Tyrion laughed softly.
"Perhaps."
"You will regret this!" Alliser shouted.
"You will all regret this!"
His voice followed Tyrion across the hall.
Finally, Bronn stepped forward.
"That's enough."
Grabbing Alliser by the arm, he dragged the protesting knight toward the exit.
The shouting gradually faded.
Silence returned.
Pycelle departed soon afterward, looking utterly defeated.
Only Varys remained.
The Master of Whisperers had watched the entire exchange without interruption.
His soft slippers made no sound as he approached.
"I find myself admiring you more and more, my lord."
Tyrion groaned.
"Gods help me."
Varys smiled.
"I mean it sincerely."
His eyes glittered with amusement.
"You returned the bones of Eddard Stark's men to Robb Stark, easing tensions with the North."
"You reduced your sister's personal guard without openly challenging her authority."
"You sent desperately needed recruits to the Night's Watch."
"And at the same time, you removed hundreds of hungry mouths from King's Landing."
The eunuch chuckled.
"All while pretending to be dismissive and insulting."
"Quite elegant."
Tyrion rolled his eyes.
"Flattery will get you nowhere."
"Perhaps."
Varys folded his hands inside his sleeves.
"But it remains true."
Tyrion walked toward a nearby table and poured himself wine.
None of those accomplishments felt particularly important now.
A much larger problem was approaching.
He took a drink.
"Forget that."
"What did you learn from the letter?"
Varys' smile faded slightly.
"Well... there is one encouraging possibility."
Tyrion raised an eyebrow.
"If Storm divides his forces."
The words immediately captured Tyrion's attention.
"Go on."
"A coalition army is powerful," Varys explained.
"But it is also difficult to manage."
"The North, the Stormlands, the Free Cities, the freedmen—each has different objectives."
"If Storm chooses to attack multiple targets simultaneously, his strength will be scattered."
"And that," Varys said quietly, "will be our opportunity."
Tyrion considered the possibility.
It was a reasonable assessment.
Dangerous enemies often became less dangerous when they split apart.
Varys tilted his head.
"Tell me, my lord."
"Your little project along the Blackwater Rush..."
A faint smile appeared on Tyrion's lips.
"The chain?"
"The chain."
"It's nearly finished."
"And the wildfire?"
"Ready."
For the first time that day, Tyrion felt a spark of confidence.
The massive harbor chain.
The Blackwater River.
Wildfire hidden beneath the water.
Individually, each element had value.
Together, they could become a trap capable of destroying an entire fleet.
Varys seemed pleased.
"I trust your preparations."
"We've had time to plan."
The Master of Whisperers grew serious once more.
"Our situation remains dangerous."
"We have soldiers."
"But food grows scarce."
"King's Landing is both our greatest strength and our greatest weakness."
Tyrion nodded.
The city provided walls, ports, and manpower.
But it also contained hundreds of thousands of mouths that needed feeding.
A prolonged siege would be catastrophic.
Varys lowered his voice.
"Perhaps it is better to gamble everything on one decisive battle."
"Perhaps."
Tyrion stared out a nearby window.
Dark clouds gathered above Blackwater Bay.
Storm was coming.
Not merely the weather.
The man himself.
The would-be king.
The liberator.
The conqueror.
And when he arrived, the fate of Westeros would be decided.
After several moments of silence, Tyrion spoke again.
"There is one more matter."
Varys looked at him expectantly.
"A ship."
"A ship?"
"One bound for Braavos."
Understanding flashed across Varys's face.
"Ah."
"I need a captain I can trust," Tyrion said quietly.
"A clever one."
The Master of Whisperers nodded.
"I believe such arrangements can be made."
Tyrion released a long breath.
Good.
Because time was running out.
War approached from across the sea.
Enemies surrounded them.
The city stood upon the brink.
And before the fighting began, there was one thing Tyrion absolutely had to accomplish.
He had to send Myrcella away.
That, more than anything else, had become his most urgent priority.
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