Three months later, in King's Landing, the afternoon sun outside the Lion Gate had lost its midday sting and turned into a lazy golden warmth that spilled across Rosby Road.
The leaves along both sides of the road, thick all through the long summer, were finally starting to yellow and drift down, spinning in the occasional breeze before settling into the dust.
The long summer was leaving slowly—slow enough that most people barely noticed. Folks in the city went about their lives in a haze, unaware that a far more dangerous threat was already stirring in the north.
When dragonfire eventually burned entire cities in another timeline, these same people would finally understand the danger. Most of them were too busy just surviving to pay attention to the realm's politics.
The air carried the sharp salt of the distant sea, the fading scent of roadside wildflowers, and the ever-present stench of King's Landing itself—a thick mix of tens of thousands of people's waste, rotting garbage, and cheap burning grease that never quite left the city.
A small but striking procession moved steadily along Rosby Road toward the Lion Gate.
Four knights on sturdy northern warhorses led the way, wearing matching deep-gray cloaks with silver trim. Embroidered on each cloak was a golden crab with one claw raised high—Pierce Celtigar's own sigil of Golden Port.
These men carried themselves differently from ordinary noble knights. There was a hard, dangerous edge to them.
Daggo Payne rode on the far left. The big man looked like he might crush his horse under his weight. He wore a custom half-plate and had thick, scarred arms covered in twisted tattoos—traditional Crabclaw Point markings burned into the skin with red-hot needles and plant dyes to record victories and honor ancestors.
His face looked like it had been split by an axe—rough, hard wood. Deep-set brown eyes watched everything with constant suspicion. A massive two-handed war axe rested across his saddle, its blade catching the light like cold water.
Beside him rode Quentin Hardy, looking almost scholarly by comparison. Around forty, lean-faced with sharp features, short gray hair, and a neatly trimmed goatee. He wore practical leather armor under a dark scholar's robe. A slender sword hung at his hip—rare among the hammer-and-axe folk of Crabclaw Point.
His pale-blue eyes stayed half-lidded, as if he were always turning over some complicated problem. A leather satchel stuffed with scrolls and parchments dangled from his saddle.
As one of the first local chieftains to swear to Pierce, Quentin's quick mind and adaptability had quickly made him stand out in the new order.
On the right rode Rosse Bolton and his cousin Bernard Bolton. The two men shared the same square faces, brown hair, and gray eyes, built like oak barrels.
The Boltons still carried real weight on Crabclaw Point, though most of their kin had been stubborn and hard to control. Now both men answered directly to the brothers.
Rosse was the steadier of the two, a faint bitter smile always at the corner of his mouth. Bernard was younger and hotter-blooded, eyes bright with the fire of youth. Both wore fine mail and breastplates under Pierce's gray cloaks, swords at their hips and shields on their backs—proper knights' gear.
The cousins had tried their luck in King's Landing years ago as hedge knights. If Rosse hadn't met Pierce, he would likely have ended up working for Littlefinger.
"This is King's Landing?" Daggo Payne squinted at the massive gray sprawl slowly rising on the horizon. The city walls coiled like a giant serpent, towers and spires stabbing the dull sky.
"Bigger than I expected."
Quentin Hardy nodded, a touch of awe in his voice. "My grandfather came here once. Said the city could hold ten Crabclaw Points. I thought he was bragging."
Rosse Bolton chuckled—the easy laugh of someone who'd seen it all before. "Wait till you're inside. This place is big enough to get lost in. First time I came, I spent a whole day wandering Flea Bottom before I found the way out."
Bernard Bolton added, "And it's crawling with nobles. Throw a brick in the street here and you'll probably hit a knight—or at least a knight's squire."
"Big or not, it's still useless," Daggo snorted, wrinkling his nose hard. "Smells worse than my own privy. I've never caught a stink this bad even in the worst fishing villages on Crabclaw Point."
Rosse laughed again, the sound of hard-won experience. "You'll get used to it, Lord Daggo. King's Landing has layers: perfume in the rich districts, spices and rotting food in the markets, shit and dead rats in the slums. All mixed together. Takes time."
"I'd rather get used to battlefield blood," Daggo said flatly. "At least that smell is honest."
Bernard jumped in, young and excited by new sights. "But King's Landing has good things too! Tourneys, feasts, brothels—Seven hells, when I was a hedge knight here I visited Silk Street once and—"
"Shut it, Bernard," Rosse cut in, though his eyes were amused. "Lord Daggo isn't interested in that."
"Damn right I'm not," Daggo growled. "I want to know if these people actually like jousting and start their fights that way."
"If they do, I could probably take the whole city and hand it to the great Lord Pierce!"
Before leaving, Daggo had grilled Pierce's maester about what nobles outside Crabclaw Point enjoyed. After half a day the only answer he got was jousting.
In his mind, if he could beat every knight in the lists, it would prove these fancy southern nobles were all flash and no steel.
"A bunch of iron shells on horseback poking each other with sticks? That's fighting? On Crabclaw Point we split skulls with axes, cut throats with daggers, roll in the mud, and use our teeth—"
"That's savagery," Quentin said calmly. "Jousting is civilization. It's not just combat—it's honor, skill, and ceremony on display. Lord Daggo, you can't judge all of Westeros by your mountain tribe's standards."
Daggo turned, brown eyes locking on Quentin. "Civilization? Quentin, I heard you were a civilized man before you bent the knee to the lord. You even captured a Citadel maester and studied with him, didn't you? Now you ride with us savages. And I remember the first time you met the lord—your 'civilization' didn't help you much then."
Quentin's face tightened for a moment but he didn't argue. Daggo was right.
He had worked hard to learn the ways of the southern nobles, hoping one day to truly belong among them as a landed lord in a castle. That was why he had always looked down on his own rough kinsmen, seeing them as backward and uncivilized.
"The lord is different," Quentin finally said, a complicated respect in his voice. "He understands both savagery and civilization. He knows when to use the axe and when to use the pen."
Rosse nodded. "That's exactly why we're here. Why the lord brought the four of us to King's Landing. Lord Daggo, did you think he only came to serve as a royal advisor?"
Daggo frowned. "What else? Those ravens kept coming one after another, urgent as death—"
Truth was, he would rather have stayed on Crabclaw Point. He had finally tasted the real comfort and safety Pierce had brought: new castles rising one after another, wider roads, more grain and livestock than anyone had ever seen. Life now felt like paradise compared to the old hand-to-mouth days.
If Pierce hadn't summoned him, he never would have come to this stinking southern city. He knew perfectly well these so-called nobles looked down on Crabclaw folk as savages.
"My maester already told me," Daggo said. "Jon Arryn is dead. New Hand in place. The crown wants the lord to show his face. That's it, right?"
"It is and it isn't," Rosse replied. "The lord does need to come to King's Landing and take up his duties. But he could have brought just a few guards. Why bring the four of us?"
Rosse had followed Pierce longer than anyone. He understood exactly what the young lord wanted and what he was planning.
"Why bring Lord Daggo—the fiercest but least courtly warrior from Crabclaw Point? Why bring Lord Quentin—the smartest but least socially polished former chieftain? Why bring me and Bernard?"
He let the question hang for a moment. "Because the lord wants us to see the world. Because he truly sees us as his own people. King's Landing is the center of power in the Seven Kingdoms. Here you'll watch the real game of thrones being played. You'll see how nobles smile while hiding knives, wrap poison in oaths, and weave webs with marriage alliances."
Bernard added with youthful enthusiasm, "And the lord said Crabclaw Point can't stay closed off forever. We have to deal with the outside world—trade with the Reach, do business with the North, keep good relations with the crown. If our people only ever know how to chop wood and dig mines on the Point, we'll never become a real power."
Quentin looked thoughtful. "That's also why the lord insisted on bringing the Tyrants—not just for protection, but to make a statement."
At the mention of "Tyrants," all four men glanced toward the back of the column.
Behind the four knights rolled a wide, luxurious carriage pulled by four tall black horses. The ebony-wood body was edged in silver, windows draped with deep-purple silk curtains. Occasionally the wind lifted a corner, revealing soft velvet cushions inside and the faint shapes of people—Pierce and his companions: Arianne Martell and her three Sand Snake sisters. The carriage had special shock-absorbing design, a small ice chest for fruit and wine, even a folding bookshelf and a chessboard Pierce had invented.
But what really drew the eye were the guards around it.
Ten Crabclaw Point warriors rode alongside in matching gray leather armor, spears and curved swords ready. These were Rosse and Bernard's own hand-picked veterans from the unification wars—sharp, professional, and watchful.
Farther out marched ten Tyrant wights on foot.
Even after seeing them many times, Rosse and Bernard still felt a chill down their spines.
Each stood well over six feet tall, encased head to toe in black plate armor of ancient, cruel design. Spikes jutted from the joints. The faceplates were blank metal masks with only two narrow eye slits showing bottomless darkness.
They walked with stiff but perfectly steady steps, every iron boot striking the ground in perfect unison, like one single creature.
Worst of all was their silence. They never spoke, never rested, never ate or drank. Maester Qyburn called them "improved battle constructs"—a blend of ancient sorcery and modern craft. But Rosse and Bernard had seen them fight.
Three months ago a rebellious tribe in the northeastern mountains had raided new villages. Rosse led the counterattack with five Tyrants. During the battle one Tyrant took three spears at once—one in the gut, one in the thigh, one in the shoulder. Thick black blood sprayed out, smelling oddly sweet and tar-like.
The creature didn't even flinch. It swung its axe and took the nearest rebel's head clean off, then yanked the spears free and kept fighting. Its own intestines spilled from the belly wound and dragged on the ground, yet it fought another twenty minutes until every enemy was dead.
Afterward Maester Qyburn came to examine the body. When he cut open the armor, Rosse saw something that gave him nightmares for weeks: no human flesh, just a dark-red, living gelatinous substance that slowly writhed and tried to heal itself at the severed edges.
"Do they understand orders?" Quentin had once asked Qyburn privately.
The maester had given that fanatical, unsettling smile. "Higher commands still no, but simple attack, defend, follow—perfectly. The lord improved the control method. Now they can handle more complex tactical instructions…"
Right now Bernard lowered his voice. "What do you think the people of King's Landing will make of them?"
"They'll be afraid," Rosse said simply. "And that's exactly the effect the lord wants. In King's Landing you can't be too weak or everyone will step on you. But you can't be too strong either or they'll all band together against you. By bringing the Tyrants, the lord is telling everyone: I have power you don't understand. Don't test me."
Daggo snorted. "If it were up to me, I'd bring five hundred Crabclaw warriors instead of these iron-shell monsters."
"And have King Robert think we're rebelling?" Quentin shot back. "Lord Daggo, this is why you need to learn politics. The Tyrants are guards, curiosities, a strange collection of House Celtigar. But five hundred armed men? That's an army. That's a threat."