The year 298 AC marked the dawn of a turbulent new age.
Two monumental events heralded the start of this year. First, a formidable new power began to rise across the Narrow Sea. Second, Jon Arryn, the man who had served as the Hand of the King in Westeros for fifteen years, suddenly passed away.
Following Lord Arryn's death, his widow, Lysa Tully, fled in the dead of night back to the safety of the Vale, taking her son, Robert Arryn, with her. Almost simultaneously, Stannis Baratheon, the Lord of Ships, abandoned the capital and retreated to his stronghold on Dragonstone.
King Robert was left baffled and frustrated by their sudden departures. He had never cared for the intricate games of politics played within King's Landing. Now, the Red Keep, the royal court, and even the City Watch were compromised, riddled with spies and holes like a leaking sieve.
Far away in the Westerlands, deep within the rock of Casterly Rock, Lord Tywin Lannister strolled through the Hall of Heroes alongside his brother, Ser Kevan.
This magnificent hall showcased the legendary armor of hundreds of knights, lords, and kings from House Lannister's long history. The Hall of Heroes was renowned throughout the Seven Kingdoms and even known across the Narrow Sea. Only those of House Lannister who had died with great valor, along with their closest kin, were granted the honor of eternal rest within these walls.
"Poor Jon," Tywin remarked to his brother, his voice echoing slightly in the vast chamber. "He died too quickly, and far too suddenly."
Tywin was a commanding figure, tall and slender with broad, capable shoulders. Though he was just past fifty, he had shaved his balding head completely, leaving only thick, golden sideburns that framed his face. His pale green eyes were flecked with gold, sharp and unyielding. Since the death of his beloved wife, Lord Tywin rarely smiled. He believed that fear was a far more reliable tool than laughter ever could be.
"With Lord Jon dead, you are now the King's father-in-law, and the crown owes our family a mountain of gold," Ser Kevan said, his tone hopeful. "Surely this is our time. The realm is uneasy. The King's illegitimate son and the survivors of House Targaryen are making moves across the water, ready to strike at any moment."
Ser Kevan had served as Lord Tywin's most trusted right hand for many years. His loyalty was absolute and widely recognized. Unlike his brother, Kevan was somewhat heavy-set and mostly bald. He had a fleshy, square jaw, a neatly trimmed beard, and rounded shoulders. Despite his softer appearance, he possessed the classic golden hair of the Lannisters.
"That is absolutely impossible, Kevan," Tywin replied dismissively. "Remember that the rebellion was won by the alliance of the eagle, the wolf, the stag, and the fish. Robert does not have the nerve to summon me to court. He trusts Jon and the friends of his youth far more than he trusts me."
"Perhaps," Kevan conceded. "But the Gods themselves witnessed your talent and capability when you served as Hand to the Mad King. Robert must look for someone competent."
"Poor Robert is not entirely a fool," Tywin snorted coldly. "But kings rarely allow anyone to outshine them."
"Cersei wrote to us," Kevan continued. "She says that Lysa Tully—that unstable woman—and Stannis have both fled the city."
"That is the most difficult part of this situation," Tywin analyzed, his brow furrowing. "With Jon dead, we become the target of everyone's suspicion. Think about how it looks: Stannis flees, Jon dies, and the capital is filled with our men. Even if we had no hand in it, the situation appears to benefit us on the surface."
"Lord Jon did manage to keep things stable for a long time," Kevan admitted, acknowledging the late Hand's efforts.
"Yes, but Jon's idea of maintenance was simply to act as a peacemaker," Tywin countered sharply. "He was too afraid to offend House Martell or House Tyrell. He couldn't stop the King's drinking and whoring, so he just let Robert do as he pleased."
"Lysa is just a madwoman," Kevan said. "The real threat is Stannis. He is iron-willed and not easily subdued. And then there is the threat from the East—the Targaryen remnants and that illegitimate son of the King. I hear that boy is a formidable character."
"Alas," Kevan sighed heavily. The things House Lannister had done to the Targaryen children during the rebellion were cruel, and ghosts had a way of returning.
"I can already smell the chaos approaching," Tywin said, his voice grim. "We must fight this coming war with everything we have. I have spent years rebuilding the glory of our family. I will absolutely not allow House Lannister to fall into ruin."
As the tide rose outside, a thunderous rumble echoed from beneath the Hall of Heroes, as if the earth itself was growling in anticipation of the uneasy times ahead.
Meanwhile, in Tyrosh, one of the Nine Free Cities, the mood was equally tense.
Tyrosh was a fortress city, sitting on the northeasternmost edge of the Stepstones. Its inner walls were formidable, constructed from fused black stone of Valyrian origin.
The Archon of Tyrosh stood atop a high watchtower in the black inner city, his expression filled with worry. He gazed out at the sea, watching a fleet patrol the waters. These were beautiful warships originally from Myr, but they no longer flew Myrish colors. Instead, they raised the banners of a roaring Wolf Pack.
Surrounding the Archon was a group of senior Tyroshi officials, nobles, mercenary captains, and a handful of exiled nobles from Myr.
True to their reputation, the Tyroshi were flamboyant in appearance. They loved bright colors and dyed their hair and beards in vibrant shades of blue, green, chestnut, pink, purple, and scarlet. Their hats and clothes were equally distinctive and loud.
"I will give you my warships and half of my entire fortune, if only you help me reclaim Myr!" one of the exiled Myrish officials promised, his heart clearly bleeding at the thought of the cost.
"We must act!" a Tyroshi official urged. "Archon, this is not a question of whether we can, but whether we dare! The Wolf Pack Fleet has effectively blockaded the entire sea passage from the Bay of Myr to the Stepstones. Our slave ships cannot operate, and merchant vessels are being stopped. If this continues, our city will collapse."
"But how do we fight them? Do we rely only on ourselves?" the Archon sighed, stroking his green beard. "I know our situation is dire. The slaves in the city are whispering of rebellion, our estates in the Disputed Lands have been seized, and now the sea is closed to us. But reinforcements from Lys and Volantis are taking too long. We are barely holding on as it is."
"What about hiring the Unsullied?" someone suggested.
"Too expensive, and they take too long to train and transport," the Archon replied. "Besides, Braavos opposes slavery. They would likely interfere."
"Our own strength may not be enough, but we have allies," another noble argued. "Lys and Volantis are slave cities like us. And what of Slaver's Bay? Will they sit by and watch this trend of freeing slaves continue?"
"The King's illegitimate son and the exiled Targaryen princess are united now," a mercenary captain noted. "They have made many enemies across the Narrow Sea. Even the wealthy Lord Tywin in Westeros is against them."
The surrounding nobles chattered nervously, analyzing the situation with eloquent words but little solution.
"We are starting at a disadvantage," the Archon said. "The old Hand who kept the peace in Westeros is dead. I fear the Iron Throne has no interest in getting involved in our troubles here."
"Aid from afar will not arrive in time to save us from the fire at our doorstep!" one of the Tyroshi officials cried out in frustration. "My lords, the fire is burning right here! How long must we wait for help?" The Archon knew the Free Cities better than anyone; their constant elections and debates often made them act like horses pulling a cart in different directions, making decisive action impossible.
"If your swords were as sharp as your tongues, would you be willing to board a ship and fight?" the purple-haired Tyroshi admiral mocked the complaining officials.
"We only have about two hundred warships," the Admiral continued grimly. "That Mercenary King has two hundred mixed ships plus one hundred and forty captured Myrish warships. Furthermore, his army on land is incredibly well-trained."
"The Pentoshi are too weak to help," another noble listed their failing options. "The Braavosi are playing both sides. Lys is hesitant. It is not an election year in Volantis yet, so the Elephant Party is still in charge and they prefer trade to war. As for the Golden Company, they are trying to stay on good terms with this new Mercenary King."
"Is there no way out, then?" Despair began to spread through the group, and several officials looked defeated.
"We are not without options," the Archon said, waving his hand to silence them. "The horse lords—the Khals—are greedy men. They will not be pleased that Myr has stopped paying them tribute since declaring independence."
"Now is the time for us to unite," the Archon commanded. "This crisis is more dangerous than any scheme or negotiation. All of you must donate your wealth. We will use the gold to hire more swordsmen and knights. And at the same time, we will send envoys to the grasslands. We will entice the Khals to send their riders to war!"
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