The clamor at the Trident had subsided, but the river waters still ran with a faint tinge of blood-red.
Robert Baratheon had won his legendary duel, his warhammer shattering the rubies on Prince Rhaegar's chest, but he had paid a painful price. Rhaegar's final blow left a wound from his shoulder blade to his chest that cut deep to the bone. A high fever followed, leaving him unable to mount a horse. He was confined to a litter, carried forward by loyal men.
The ecstasy of victory was quickly replaced by the urgency of reality. Intelligence arrived like scattered sparks: Tywin Lannister's great host was quietly approaching from the West, intent unknown. King's Landing hung like a ripe fruit on the branch; if not plucked in time, it would fall into another's hand.
"We must increase our speed," young Eddard Stark said, his tone calm but his eyes incredibly firm. He, the Red Viper of Dorne, Oberyn Martell, and the Ironborn Euron Greyjoy—three young leaders who had proven their valor and talent on the battlefield—were entrusted with a new mission.
Soon, the coalition split in two, like drawn twin blades:
A light cavalry force led by Ned, Oberyn, and Euron shot out like an arrow from a bowstring, breaking away from the main body to begin a race against time down the Kingsroad. Hooves kicked up rolling dust. The young commanders had only one goal in mind—to reach the walls of King's Landing before House Lannister.
Meanwhile, the grievously wounded Robert, accompanied by the experienced and steady old lords Jon Arryn and Hoster Tully, led the slower-moving main army—including infantry, baggage trains, and the wounded—marching steadily south. Every step was solid, like the heavy foundation of war, advancing step by step toward the final goal.
Two floods, one fast and one slow, but with a single purpose: to march south along the Kingsroad, strike straight at the heart of the dynasty, and end the rule of House Targaryen completely.
Euron Greyjoy spurred his horse forward, the salty wind brushing a cold sneer across his lips. He knew, of course. Beneath the seemingly calm surface, dark currents were already boiling.
He could almost see the distant walls of King's Landing, see Tywin Lannister's expressionless face spitting lies sweet as honey and sharp as knives to the defenders on the gates. That scene would play out word for word like a fated script: the gates would open on the promise of "reinforcements," and then the butchers' blades of the red-cloaked lions would swing at the defenseless king and smallfolk. When the looting and slaughter occurred, Tywin would calmly blame all atrocities on "Robert's rage," making the victorious king shoulder the bloody infamy for him.
This clear foresight sat heavy in his heart like a block of cold lead. Yet he could say nothing. He couldn't reveal a word to the upright Eddard Stark beside him, nor could he warn the arrogant Oberyn Martell. In their eyes, this was just another race against time.
So, Euron could only lock it all behind his teeth, letting the mockery of knowing everything ferment in his chest. He was like an audience member who had read the tragic final chapter in advance, forced to sit silently in his seat, watching his companions walk step by step toward the preordained finale of blood and fire.
Tricking the gates open? The method certainly wasn't honorable, perhaps even staining the "honor" the knights prattled about all day.
But war had never been a tourney for knights.
The battlefield was a meat grinder, a place of life and death, believing only in the oldest, cruelest law—the winner takes all. Honor couldn't block a sword for your soldiers, and virtue couldn't fill a moat. When tens of thousands lay dead beneath the towering walls of King's Landing, that so-called honor would be nothing more than pale rhetoric used by survivors to whitewash the bones.
In his mind, another image surfaced: the coalition surging like a tide against impregnable walls, rocks, boiling oil, and arrows falling like rain, countless lives cut down like wheat, with victory still out of reach. In contrast, Tywin's "dishonorable" move, though despicable, was as efficient as a dagger plunged precisely into the heart. It saved countless living souls in exchange for a decisive victory.
So, fuck honor.
In the howling wind, Euron Greyjoy silently acknowledged Tywin Lannister's method. Before survival and victory, honor was merely the last loincloth of the weak when they were powerless.
This acknowledgement was limited strictly to the ploy of tricking open the gates!
Euron approved of Tywin's "key" to pry open the city, but not the potential atrocities that would follow.
Once that Old Lion entered King's Landing, he would inevitably use iron and blood to wash away his "loyalty" to the Mad King. Some of those actions would likely cross a line of cruelty that even Euron found unnecessary.
But more than judging Tywin's morality, a stronger thought lingered in Euron's mind—he held a burning, secret desire for the capital itself.
King's Landing, the vortex center of power in the Seven Kingdoms... how many unknown secrets, ancient dragon bones, or people of special value slept there? These thoughts stirred quietly in his heart like krakens in deep water.
He had to get there as fast as possible. He had to cast his shadow into that chaotic darkness before Tywin brought everything under control and slapped Lannister seals on the most valuable spoils.
He clamped his legs hard around his horse. The warhorse neighed and accelerated, as if leaving hesitation and judgment behind. Ned and Oberyn might see honor and victory, but Euron Greyjoy saw the start of a different kind of hunt. And he absolutely could not be late.
---
Inside Tywin Lannister's gold and crimson pavilion, candles burned bright.
He sat at his desk, spreading out a sheet of fine parchment. Outside lay the army he used to win the Mad King's trust; at the tip of his quill lay the bridge to the future dynasty. He had to make the coalition, and especially Robert Baratheon, understand his "intentions."
The quill scratched across the paper with a steady rasp.
He didn't write explicit bloody details. instead, using the tone of a strategist, he outlined a blueprint for taking the capital without bloodshed: his army would be "invited" into the city, seizing key points, thereby sparing the coalition the heavy price of a siege. He cautiously hinted that to ensure the plan's success, the main coalition force should slow its pace in the rear to avoid alerting the city defenders and ruining the effort at the last moment.
At the end of the letter, he dipped his ink and wrote a promise heavy as a mountain:
"I swear by the name and honor of House Lannister, my sword points to King Robert and his new dynasty. The roar of the Lion shall henceforth echo through the realm of Baratheon."
The wax seal fell, the lion sigil imprinted clearly in the gold sealing wax.
Tywin Lannister's gaze swept over the knights standing solemnly in the tent, finally resting on a steady face. It was Ser Addam Marbrand, a knight known for his wit and loyalty.
"Marbrand," Tywin's voice was as steady as a frozen lake, as if stating a predestined conclusion. "Take three light riders. Leave under the cover of night. Avoid all royalist checkpoints."
Candlelight danced in Tywin's deep green pupils, reflecting not a shred of emotion. He personally handed over the sealed parchment, the lion on the wax still warm.
"Find Stark, or Arryn—any coalition leader who can make decisions. Tell them the gates of King's Landing will open for me, but this play of loyalty needs time to stage." He paused, letting every word settle with its due weight. "Ask them to halt their advance and wait patiently. This will not only preserve the city but spare thousands of their warriors from unnecessary sacrifice."
Marbrand knelt on one knee. When he looked up, he met Lord Tywin's final gaze—cold and sharp as unsheathed Valyrian steel.
The messenger tucked the secret letter concerning the kingdom's future close to his chest, mounted his horse, and vanished into the night, galloping toward the coalition. Tywin remained seated in his tent like a chess player who had already seen the endgame, waiting quietly for the pieces to fall into their pre-set positions.