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In the council chamber of Harrenhal, the air tightened instantly at the mention of the "Tower of Joy."
Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne was the first to react. His slender finger landed precisely on a russet-colored area in the northern mountains of Dorne on the map.
"The Tower of Joy... If I am not mistaken, it should be in a hidden pass within the Red Mountains. It was an old watchtower overlooking the Summer Sea, long since abandoned."
Euron Greyjoy rubbed his chin, analyzing calmly, "Given the circumstances, Lady Lyanna should be safe. Otherwise, Rhaegar wouldn't have bothered to reveal the location with his dying breath. However, having three Kingsguard guarding her... that is a bit troublesome."
"Then what are we waiting for!" Robert Baratheon surged to his feet, battle lust boiling over. "We muster men immediately, ride to Dorne, and rescue her!"
Although Eddard Stark remained silent, his clenched fists and desperate eyes clearly showed he wished he could fly to his sister's side that very instant.
"Foolishness!" Lord Jon Arryn shouted them down sternly. His aged but sharp gaze swept over the two young men. "We are one step away from final victory—taking King's Landing! If we split our forces now to march on Dorne, giving the Mad King time to breathe, all the blood and sacrifice shed before will be for nothing! Those ten thousand men who died at the Trident would have died in vain!"
Lord Hoster Tully nodded heavily. "Lord Jon is right. We cannot lose the greater war for a smaller cause. The fate of the realm hangs on this move."
As the stalemate held, Euron spoke again, his words carrying a strange, soothing power:
"Lord Eddard, Robert, your concern creates chaos. You should know better than anyone that those three Kingsguard—Arthur Dayne, Oswell Whent, Gerold Hightower—their knightly honor would never allow them to harm a woman or child. With them beside Lyanna, they are actually her strongest protection. They will not let her come to any harm, nor will they allow anyone, even their own side, to offend her. Her safety is not a concern for the short term."
These words were like ice water, dousing Robert and Ned's impulse slightly.
They had to admit Euron had hit the key point—the vows of the Kingsguard were, in themselves, Lyanna's strongest shield at this moment.
---
When Aerys II's letter, threatening Jaime's life and ordering Lord Tywin to march immediately, arrived at Casterly Rock, it was like a boulder thrown into a deep pool, finally stirring the deadliest of ripples.
For a long time, Tywin Lannister had maintained his neutrality with astonishing patience, watching the realm's strife coldly from the sidelines. Like a lion dormant in a golden cave, he waited for the perfect moment to strike. He loathed Aerys's madness, and he cautiously evaluated the strength of the rebellion. But all this cold calculation was shattered the moment Aerys used the life of his eldest son, Jaime, as a bargaining chip.
That letter touched the one bottom line Tywin Lannister would never allow to be crossed—his family, and specifically, his chosen heir.
The gates of Casterly Rock thunderously opened. Lord Tywin didn't even waste time replying to the insulting letter.
Tywin Lannister never acted on impulse; he was calmer than anyone.
The freezing air carried the grim atmosphere of pre-war preparations, but he stood in his tent as if cast from iron. Candlelight danced in his pale green eyes but ignited no ripple of emotion. He walked to the heavy oak desk, spread out a sheet of tough parchment, and dipped his quill in ink. His movements were steady, without a fraction of hesitation.
Every word was carefully considered, like placing a stone on a board to decide the game.
He summoned his squire and sealed the rolled parchment with cooling gold wax, pressing the roaring lion sigil of House Lannister firmly into it. "Deliver this to Grand Maester Pycelle immediately," his voice was low and flat. "Use the fastest raven."
The pitch-black bird beat its wings and melted into the night, carrying two secret orders capable of turning the tide, flying toward distant King's Landing: First, immediately move Jaime Lannister to a place of absolute safety; Second, open the city gates for him—Lord Tywin.
The letter was sent. Tywin turned to look at the map. The outline of the war was already clear in his mind. This was not a fit of pique, but a game that had long since begun, one he intended to win. Calmness was the most efficient weapon.
Tywin Lannister donned his crimson armor and mounted his warhorse. Behind him was the Western army, fully mustered and ready to strike. The banner of House Lannister—the Golden Lion on Crimson—flew en masse for the first time in this civil war. Like a moving golden sea, carrying cold fury and destructive power, it rolled toward King's Landing.
The power of the West, which had sat on the wall for so long, was finally forced into the battlefield by the Mad King's final act of lunacy.
---
Grand Maester Pycelle crawled deep within the Red Keep of King's Landing. It would be more accurate to say that he was not the guardian of the Seven Kingdoms' knowledge, but rather an old dog raised by Tywin Lannister.
Loyalty? That was just another word for a price tag. Over the years, the gold dragons secretly transported from Casterly Rock to his chambers were heavy enough to bend a packhorse's back; the maidens wrapped in silk and night, sent into his tower, were as tender as morning dew.
Tywin used gold and lust to chain this collar firmly around Pycelle's neck.
Now, it was time to tighten the chain and make this piece buried in the core of royal power play its part.
When the raven, black as night, flew through the smoke-filled sky and landed on Pycelle's windowsill, a glimmer of understanding flashed in his cloudy, rheumy eyes beneath his chains. Trembling, he untied the scroll tube. His fingertips touched the cold wax seal, as if touching Lord Tywin's cold will.
He unrolled the letter. There were only two short lines, but they weighed a thousand pounds. He was not surprised.
Prince Rhaegar had bled out at the Trident, the main royal army was ashes, and the fire of madness Aerys kindled on the Iron Throne was about to consume the King himself. The coalition's blade was sharp, and the wind had changed.
Pycelle shambled to the window, looking down at the chaotic city of King's Landing. His old heart, expert in calculation, weighed the options rapidly. Continue to be loyal to a dynasty destined to collapse, turning to ash alongside the Mad King? or defect to the new order brought by the Lion of the West, forged in gold and iron laws?
The answer was as clear as the day he accepted the first chest of gold dragons.
The so-called "right" side was always the winning side. And Tywin Lannister, at this moment, represented victory.
He slowly brought the parchment close to the candle flame. The fire licked the edges, quickly swallowing it. As the ash fell, he had made his choice.