A New World- Chp- 35 (Patreon)

Tyrion eyed the old knight in front of him, his mismatched eyes squinting through the gloom of the solar. "And you think we should interrogate him?"

Ser Barristan stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture as rigid as the steel he wore. He nodded, his face tight with a grim sort of determination. "It was his war that led to this, My Lord. It cannot be coincidental that while he sieged the capital, Littlefinger used that chaos to his own advantage."

Tyrion shook his head, his fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. "Yet, it can be coincidental, Ser Barristan. Littlefinger is an opportunistic snake; he has always tried to use situations to his advantage, successfully or not. He doesn't need a pact with a rebel king to see an opening in a burning city. He only needs the fire."

"We should still do it," the bold knight insisted, his voice dropping an octave. "I am not telling you to torture him, My Lord. I know the King's blood runs in his veins, however tainted his cause might be. Just interrogate him. Ask him."

The dwarf looked a bit perturbed, leaning back and weighing the benefits and drawbacks of the idea. His mind was working through them rapidly, calculating the risks of disturbing the King's favoured prisoner.

There was no issue, per se, about interrogating Stannis. Haridon had been very specific in his parting commands: he had only restricted his Hand from sentencing or trying his wayward uncle, not from questioning him.

It was one of the last things the King had said before riding off in search of his siblings. Stannis was his to punish; Haridon alone was going to sentence the man, for he viewed the betrayal of the Baratheon blood as a personal matter that no Hand could settle.

But until the King returned, Stannis could be a fountain of potential information that sat untapped.

The dwarf sighed, the weight of the office feeling particularly heavy. "Fine. Let us see if the Rebel king has anything to say besides grinding his teeth."

He hopped down from his chair, landing on his stubby legs with a dull thud. He began the trek across the solar, walking with Ser Barristan toward the heavy doors.

A Lannister guard, clad in red and gold, snapped to attention and opened the gate for him. Tyrion didn't stop to offer a witty remark; he turned his steps toward the White Sword Tower.

It was a strange irony, he thought, that the rebel who sought to tear down the Red Keep was now being held in the very tower meant for the King's most loyal protectors. But it was secure, it was isolated, and it was where the man who would be King waited for a judgment that was still leagues away.

His boots made a rhythmic, clicking sound against the stone floor as he walked alongside Ser Barristan.

The Red Keep felt hollower with Haridon away; the bustling energy of a new court had been replaced by a lingering, anxious silence. The absence of the king was clear to see, and it was not showing a very good picture.

"Stannis is not a man known for his wordiness, Ser," He said, his voice echoing in the hallway. "He is more likely to grind his teeth into powder than to offer a helpful admission. Questioning him is akin to interrogating a cliffside—you might get an echo, but you won't get an answer."

"A cliffside does not have a brother's legacy to answer for," The knight beside him replied. "He is rigid, yes, but he has always been obsessed with the law. Littlefinger's involvement in the abduction of the Queen and the royal siblings is an infringement of the law. If Stannis knew even a whisper of the plot, his own twisted sense of justice might compel him to speak, if only to spite the man."

Tyrion hummed a doubtful tune. He understood the knight's logic, but he also understood Stannis.

The elder Baratheon was a man of iron—stubborn and brittle. He had lost his fleet, his army, and his claim. He sat in the White Sword Tower not as a captive prince, but as a man who believed the world had failed him, rather than the other way around.

They reached the entrance to the White Sword Tower, the residence of the Kingsguard, now serving as a cage for the defeated rebel.

Two Lannister guards stood at the heavy oak doors, their crimson cloaks stark against the white stone. They snapped to attention as they saw him and his companion, the metal of their spears upward.

"Lord Hand," one of them acknowledged, bowing his head before pulling the heavy doors open.

The air inside the tower was cooler, scented with the faint aroma of beeswax and old parchment.

They descended the spiral staircase, Tyrion's short legs working double time to keep pace with the long, disciplined strides of the knight. When they reached the last level, Barristan signalled the guards outside the chamber.

"The prisoner?" The Old knight asked.

"Quiet as the grave, Ser," the guard replied. "He hasn't touched his midday meal either."

The Dwarf sighed, adjusting his doublet. "Stannis usually considers hunger a virtue. Very well, let us see if the King of Dragonstone has anything to say to the Imp of Casterly Rock."

The door was unbolted and swung inward. The chamber was small but enough for a man, a far cry from the black cells beneath the Red Keep. Stannis sat by the window, his shape sharp against the afternoon sunlight.

He didn't even turn when they entered. He sat perfectly upright, his hands resting on his knees, staring out at the harbour where the charred remains of his ambition still bobbed in the water.

"Lord Stannis," He began, his tone polite but cautious.

"I am a King by every law of the land," Stannis replied, his voice a low, raspy growl. He didn't look back. "To you, I suppose, I am a rebel, anarchist or heretic for you. Call me what you wish, Lannister. It does not change the truth."

"The truth is a fickle thing these days," The Dwarf said, moving further into the room while Barristan stood by the door, a silent shadow. "For instance, the truth is that your war provided the perfect smoke screen for Baelish to spirit away Sansa Stark and the King's siblings, and kill Cersei and Joffrey. I find myself wondering if the master of coin was acting as your accomplice, or if he was merely your puppet."

At this, the Baratheon lord turned. His face was gaunt, his eyes deep-set and burning with a cold, flickering fire.

He ground his teeth—a sound like stones rubbing together. "I do not deal in shadows, and I certainly do not deal with men like Baelish. He is a panderer who grew rich on my brother's depravity. If I had taken this city, his head would be the first to decorate the walls."

"A sentiment we share," He admitted, hopping onto a stool. "But Baelish is gone, and he has the Queen. We have reason to believe that the Spider was involved, too, or perhaps someone even more dangerous. You had contacts in the city. You had a red priestess. Did she foresee this?"

Stannis's jaw tightened. "The priestess saw victory. She saw the stag triumph. She did not see the treachery of a baseborn treasurer." He stood up, his height imposing in the small room. "If you are here to accuse me of conspiring with Baelish to abduct the Stark girl, you are wasting your time and mine. I wanted the throne because it is mine by right. I do not steal children in the night."

"I believe you," The Dwarf said, and to his own surprise, he did. Stannis was too honourable for such a convoluted, messy plot.

Harry entered the solar of his uncle, the heavy oak door thudding shut behind him. Jon followed, his expression as stoic as always, and took his post as a silent guardian at the entrance.

His mind was a hub of guilt. He had expected Jon to be wroth with him over Sansa's disappearance; after all, it was he who had failed to overrule the council's hesitation to fortify the Iron Gate, a lapse that Baelish had exploited without any hesitation.

Yet, when he had broached the subject during their ride, his Northern guard had simply offered a weary nod.

"It was an honest mistake, Your grace," he had said, his voice devoid of the accusation Harry felt he deserved. But the absolution did little to soothe the King's conscience.

He was already mentally cataloguing the rituals he would need to perform to find her. His current locator was a specialised tool, keyed to the blood of his siblings through Joffrey—it was useless for tracking a Stark.

He had initially gambled that Baelish would keep his high-value captives together for ease of management, but the man was a master of manipulation. However, the man couldn't have known that he would be able to locate them through magic, so it was more like he had done it for safety.

By splitting Sansa from Tommen and Myrcella, he had unintentionally but effectively forced him to choose a path, doubling the difficulty of any rescue.

If he had been without magic, he wouldn't have been able to catch up to either and would have got news about their presence in Griffin's Roost a few days later.

Here at Storm's End, he lacked the essential components to perform magic: the weirwood runic tools, the obsidian ritual slabs, and the rare ingredients he had spent years collecting.

While the ambient magic of the world was undoubtedly shifting, it was not yet potent enough for him to weave complex enchantments from thin air. He realised, with a bitter sense of irony, that his best path forward was backward—to King's Landing.

There, in his chamber, he could forge a new locator for Sansa and perhaps one for Ser Loras. Rescuing the Knight of Flowers would be more than an act of mercy; it could be the only bridge left to repair the fractured alliance with the Tyrells.

The crisp sound of parchment snapping drew Harry's focus back to the present. Renly stood behind a massive desk of blackened wood, dressed in a sharp black doublet slashed with yellow. He was methodically sorting through a stack of correspondence before sliding three specific letters toward the edge of the desk.

His uncle looked up, his eyes searching Harry's face. "There is a letter from your Hand, a second that arrived through anonymous channels, and this third one... which appears to have been sent to every Great House in the realm," he said, gesturing to each in turn.

He caught the subtle edge in his uncle's voice when he mentioned the "Hand." It was no secret that the Lord of Storm's End felt slighted by Tyrion's appointment.

He made a mental note that his uncle needed to be brought back into the fold; as a Lord Paramount and a man of significant influence, Renly belonged on the Small Council. Perhaps the Master of Laws, the seat he had held under Robert, would suffice to soothe his pride.

Harry moved to the desk and inspected the letters. The first bore the crimson lion seal of House Lannister—Tyrion's report, more likely.

The second was a plain, unmarked parchment. He turned it over, and there was nothing on the other side either, no name or seal.

The third, however, was the most unique: a sea-green parchment sealed with the image of a Sea King possessing a green beard and a black crown.

Curiosity piqued, he broke the green seal first. As he scanned the lines of the letter, his eyes widened, they rose and hid into his hairline. He read it once, then again, his brow furrowing in surprise.

"What is it?" His uncle asked, leaning forward.

Harry looked up, the parchment crumpled slightly in his hand. "It's a declaration from a man calling himself Lord Vickon Greyiron."

"The Northern house from Blazewater Bay?" Renly asked, puzzled.

"No, though he must be kin to them, perhaps the current lord's cousin," Harry explained. "He has declared himself the Lord of the Iron Islands. He claims the Greyjoys are either dead, exiled, or married into his line. He says he invoked the ancient Kingsmoot and has been chosen as Lord Paramount by the captains."

His uncle leaned back, a look of profound scepticism on his face. "And the war? Does he intend to continue Balon's war of independence?"

He shook his head. "He says the war is over. He claims he has no desire for further conflict with the Iron Throne and seeks a peaceful transition. More interestingly, he says he intends to 'revolutionise' the Islands and move away from the Old Way. Until then, he promises that any reaving or pillaging will be redirected toward the lands North of the Wall or across the sea to Essos."

Renly's expression soured. "Do you trust a squid who claims he's forgotten the taste of salt?"

"I don't trust him at all, Uncle," He replied, his voice hardening. "But it is an opportunity. I will have Tyrion summon him to the capital to swear his oaths and pay homage. If he is serious, he will return the gold looted from Lannisport. If not, we will know soon enough."

"So," His uncle prompted, a hint of smugness creeping into his tone, "I take it you won't be needing the Redwyne fleet to blockade the Pyke after all?"

Harry sighed, walking over to the hearth where a fire crackled, casting orange light across the stone walls. "No, I don't think I will. And even if I did, the Tyrells would likely ensure the fleet arrived far too late to be of any use."

"Why is that?" Renly asked, though his eyes suggested he already knew the answer.

"You know why, Uncle. Don't play the fool," He said, staring into the flames. "Without Joffrey to wed Margaery, the Reach has no path to the crown. The Queen of Thorns wanted her granddaughter's head beneath a golden circle. I am already wed to a Stark, and Tommen is far too young to serve their immediate ambitions. I am a King who offers them nothing but a return to their own borders."

Renly waited a beat, then walked over to stand beside Harry. The firelight played across his handsome features. "You could always set the Stark girl aside. A King's marriage is a political tool, not a cage."

There was a sound like the movement of armour from the door, and Harry knew Jon was probably agitated.

Harry turned, shooting a glare so sharp and predatory that his uncle actually winced and took a half-step back. The air in the solar seemed to grow cold despite the fire.

"It's a no, then," Renly muttered, clearing his throat. "Understood."

Harry turned back to the hearth, the orange glow reflecting in his eyes. "Finding my wife, Uncle. That is the only 'setting aside' we shall discuss."

Renly nodded, his gaze drifting toward the storm-lashed window. "You must read the other letters, Harry."

Harry moved back to the desk and picked up the message from his Hand. Breaking the crimson seal, he unrolled the parchment.

The report was brief; as required, his Hand had successfully ordered the Tyrell host to begin their march back to Highgarden, clearing the city of a potential occupation force. However, the Hand's mind had already turned toward retaliation.

Tyrion proposed sending a formal decree to Lady Lysa Arryn, ordering her to seize Petyr Baelish's holdings in the Fingers. For his high treason, the man was to be stripped of all titles, his keep handed over to a loyal landed knight.

Harry knew it was a clever move, designed less as a punishment for Baelish and more as a litmus test for the Vale. Yet, he also knew the likely outcome: Lysa would refuse or simply vanish into a wall of silence.

To Harry, Lysa Arryn was little more than Baelish's puppet, his whore if he was to be honest—a woman who would strip or kill at a mere whisper from the man. They would find nothing but defiance in the Vale.

Instead, his thoughts turned to the Royces. His previous offer to appoint Ser Robar Royce to the Kingsguard had been a well-planned move; the man was not a very skilled one, but it tethered the second most powerful house in the Vale to the throne.

Lord Yohn Royce was also a close ally to the guardians of Harrold Hardyng, the heir to the Vale, should anything happen to the sickly Robert Arryn.

He had never been cruel to the young heir of late Lord Arryn while he resided in the Capital; honestly, he had never been too keen on the lad. He had shown some passing interest, but nothing more. He had full suspicion that his wife's cousin wasn't even trueborn; he was likely the result of Baelish and Lysa's affair.

And while he had allowed his own brother to take the throne, Robert was not malleable. No, the boy was whiny, stubborn, and still not weaned from his mother. He would serve no purpose to him if the Vale revolted, which was a possibility considering Baelish's current blatant approach.

With Meryn Trant's death leaving an empty seat in the Kingsguard, he had a vacancy that could be used to buy further loyalty.

Planning to reply to Tyrion after finishing the correspondence, he reached for the final, anonymous letter. It felt unusually heavy, the parchment thick and stiff.

He tore away the seal, but as the paper unfurled, a streak of emerald green darted out with the speed of a striking viper.

The creature landed on his hand—a jewelled scarab, shimmering with a lethal beauty. It let out a sharp, metallic hiss, its mandibles clicking.

With a jolt of instinct, He threw the thing away. It hit the stone floor near the hearth and immediately coiled to spring again, but the flash of steel was faster.

Jon was there in an instant, his blade plunging through the creature's carapace and pinning it to the floor. The scarab writhed for a moment, its legs twitching as a foul, black ichor leaked onto the stone, before falling still.

Harry stood frozen, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked down at the letter still clutched in his trembling hand.

There, in a jagged, scrawling script that looked like it had been written with a sharpened bone, was a single, mocking line:

A nice gift from the Lord of the Dunes.

The heavy, stifling heat of the Water Gardens seemed to press against the walls of the hallway, but the atmosphere inside was colder than a winter gale in the North.

Lord Doran Martell was finally seated in his wheeled chair, which Ser Manfrey had brought, after his brother had marched here in fury.

His gout-swollen joints were hidden beneath fine silks, but his eyes were sharp, piercing, and alight with a rare, incandescent fury that silenced the room.

"And you thought the best of actions was to kidnap them?" His brother asked, his voice cracking like a whip across the silent hall.

Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper, stood tall, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword. He met his brother's gaze with the defiance of a man who believed himself a hero of his own story. "It is a sound plan, Doran. We have leverage against the crown that we haven't possessed in twenty years. We have the usurper's daughter-in-law, the Stark girl who wears the crown. We can now crown Rhaenys and demand the justice we were promised—"

"A sound plan? Really, Oberyn?" Doran interrupted, the sarcasm dripping from his mouth like slow-acting poison. His fingers gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles turned as white as the bone beneath. "The sound plan was to wait. To watch. To not engage the crown until the foundations of their power were truly rotten. The new King has already defeated his uncle Stannis at the Blackwater, handled the rebellion of the North and Riverland, and now this."

With a sudden, sharp motion, his brother threw a letter toward his brother. The parchment fluttered through the air, landing on the ornate tiles with a soft, ominous sound.

The Red Viper bent down, his movements fluid and quick, and picked the letter from the floor.

He noted the paper was sea-green, thick and expensive-looking, sealed with a sigil he thought he might have seen somewhere, in the dusty archives of the Citadel perhaps, though he couldn't immediately put his finger on its origin.

The seal was already broken by his brother, and he began to read, his face transitioning from a mask of placid defiance to a deepening scowl.

The letter was a declaration, bold and loud. It stated that the Greyjoy rebellion—the distraction they had pinned their hopes upon—had been put down.

It wasn't a Lannister or a Baratheon who had done it, though, but a boy claiming to be a Greyiron, a name of a small dynasty that resided in the North. But if he remembered his history right, they had been a great house of the Iron Islands in past.

He was a member of a small northern house with a keep along Blazewater Bay, and claimed the blood of the Ironborn kings. The boy claimed he was the son of a Greyiron and a Greyjoy woman, a child believed to have died years ago.

Oberyn didn't trust the boy's claim for a moment—names were easily forged in the wake of war—but the truth of the lineage mattered little. What mattered was that the Iron Islands had a new Lord who had forbidden reaving in Westeros.

He and his niece had banked on the Lannister forces being pinned to the western coast, their eyes fixed on the sea to guard against the Ironborn. But with this new peace, the armies of the West were free.

They were ready to back the new King's rule with the full weight of their steel and gold.

He winced, the strategic slip stinging more than his brother's words, and handed the letter to Rhaenys.

The girl had stood silently beside him and took it with a frown. Her eyes, the deep, haunting violet of the Targaryens, scanned the lines with a rapid, hungry intensity.

"Now, do you still think this is a sound plan?" Doran asked, crossing his hands in front of his chest. "You went behind my back, both of you. You conspired with a petty tax-collector to kidnap the Queen and a Tyrell Kingsguard Rhaenys?"

"I thought—" He tried to interject, his voice lacking its previous iron.

"That is the thing, brother! You either never think before acting, or you think and put your mind to the wrong angle entirely," the Lord of Dorne shouted, his voice tight with a fury that made Arianne, standing in the shadows, wince. "You thought I had forgotten? You thought I had forgotten what happened to my sister? What happened to Aegon? You thought I was being submissive because I did not scream for blood every waking hour?"

Rhaenys looked up from the letter, her expression affronted and sharp. She was a vision of old Valyria, her silver-gold hair braided in the Dornish fashion. "But that was exactly what you were doing, Uncle. We had a good chance—the best chance—to revolt when the North was in open rebellion, when Dragonstone was at the usurper's throat, and the Iron Islands were burning. Yet you sat here in your gardens, doing nothing. You neither aided the rebels nor declared for me."

Doran glanced at her. In all the years they had lived under the same roof, Oberyn could not remember a single time his brother had ever frowned at their niece. Rhaenys was the pride of Sunspear.

She was perfect; a blend of Targaryen nobility and Martell resilience. She spoke High Valyrian and the Common Tongue with equal grace.

She had been tutored in politics, history, and philosophy by the best minds in the realm, sometimes even by him and Doran. She could wield a scimitar and a dagger, and she knew the subtle arts of poisons as well as himself.

There had never been a reason for Doran to admonish her. He favoured her, often asking for her advice on diplomacy and administration. Until now.

Now, he looked at her as if she were a stranger who had set fire to his house.

"What have I ever done to lose your trust, niece? Have I not kept you safe when the rest of the world wanted you dead? And in return, you and this idiot go behind my back to abduct the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?"

Rhaenys stiffened, her chin lifting. "That is my crown you are talking about, Uncle. It was stolen in blood, and it will be reclaimed in kind."

His brother placed his hands over his face, rubbing his brows. The stress was etched into every line of his forehead.

He looked toward the corner of the room where Baelish stood. The former Master of Coin looked entirely too comfortable, his small, mocking smile suggesting that he viewed this familial collapse as an early festive occasion.

His brother sighed heavily, then turned his gaze back to Rhaenys. "You have always been a smart girl. I prided myself on the education I gave you, believing it had made you wise. What could have possibly possessed you to think that kidnapping the Stark would bring you a throne? Do you not remember what happened the last time a Targaryen took a Stark girl?"

His niece remained preternaturally calm. "It was my idea. I saw the rebellion, and I realised we needed a piece that would force the usurper's son to the table. I plan to blackmail him into giving me my birthright in exchange for his wife's life."

The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of his brother's disappointment. He looked at Oberyn, then at Sansa Stark, who stood by the door under heavy guard.

The young Queen was eyeing the proceedings with wary, curious eyes, her red hair a stark shining brightly in the Dornish sun. Finally, he looked back at his niece.

"Out. All of you," He commanded. "Except Oberyn, Rhaenys, and Arianne. Now."

The room cleared rapidly. The Sand Snakes, who had been lurking near the tapestries, slipped away with lingering glances at their father. "Ser Manfrey!" Doran called out.

The dark-skinned, handsome knight who served as the castellan stepped into the hallway. "My lord?"

"Please host Queen Sansa in one of the high towers. See that she does not lack for any comfort—I will not have it said that Dorne treats its 'guests' like animals. The same goes for Ser Loras; give him a chamber not too far away from his queen. And give Lord Baelish a quarter," Doran ordered.

Oberyn knew his brother didn't care for Baelish. He didn't even think much of the man, viewing him as a scavenger.

But Doran was a man of protocol, even in his rage. He would ensure Baelish had his comforts, if only to keep the man under a golden thumb while he decided how best to dispose of him.

The knight nodded, signalling the guards to lead Sansa and Ser Loras out, a guard escorting Baelish behind them.

As the heavy doors groaned shut, leaving only the blood of the dragon and the sun, his brother leaned back in his chair, looking suddenly very old. His greying hair only makes his age more pronounced.

"You have invited a Stag's wrath to our shores," His whispered, the fury replaced by a hollow calm

He looked at his brother, then his daughter, and finally Rhaenys. "You speak of justice, but you have brought us only peril. The North will not forgive this. The West will not forgive this. And the boy on the Iron Throne? If he is half the man the letters suggest, he will burn the world to get to her."

"He's a boy—" Arianne started, her voice laced with a dismissive edge, but she was cut off instantly by the sharp voice of her father.

"A boy?" His brother's voice was tight again, the skin around his eyes pulled taut with a mixture of discomfort and disbelief. "Have you heard what he did, Arianne? Truly heard, or have you only heard the songs you desired to be real?"

He leaned forward, the effort causing a grimace to flash across his face. "He defeated his own Kingsguard uncle to pacify the North. Jaime Lannister might be a Kingslayer, but he did not earn his fame through his father's gold. He is a man who was forged in the fires of a hundred battles." He paused, his gaze sweeping over the three of them. "There have been tales that the King brought a sword to life—a blade as white as a septon's robe—and with it, he melted the steel of the Kingslayer as if it were common tallow."

"Tales, Uncle. Likely tales spread by his own master of whispers to exaggerate his martial prowess and cow his enemies," Rhaenys countered.

Her voice was annoyed, the silver-gold hair framing a face that was a mask of Targaryen superiority. To her, magic was a slow thing, and the Baratheon-Lannister boy was merely a pretender playing with phantom tales.

Doran narrowed his eyes, a dangerous stillness falling over him. He nodded slowly. "You might think that, wouldn't you? It is a comforting thought for a rebel. But consider the facts that followed. When his own brother, the boy-king Joffrey, sought to punish Lord Stark for his son's rebellion, that boy manhandled the King in front of the entire court. He took the position of Hand by force, and not one person—not the Small Council, not the gold cloaks—was able to refuse him."

"We both know the court in King's Landing is filled with cowards and lickspittles," Oberyn said, leaning back and crossing his legs. He dismissively flicked a speck of dust from his tunic.

His brother's frown deepened. "Or smart men, Oberyn. Men who recognise a predator when it enters the room. Ser Barristan Selmy was still in the Kingsguard then, a man who had seen every great warrior of the last fifty years. He was not under the boy's personal employment, yet by all reports, he stood aside and let the boy humble the King single-handedly."

His brother's voice grew softer, more pressing. "And I hope you know how he earned his knighthood. He and that 'Red Wolf' of his—the bastard son of Ned Stark—defeated the Mountain. Not through trickery, but through sheer skill."

He let that sink in. The Mountain That Rides had been the shadow over Dorne for nearly two decades, a monster they all whispered about in their sleep.

To have him defeated by a youth was not a tale; it was a slap to their face. They had not been able to punish him, yet the Prince had beaten him unconscious with his bastard guard.

"By all accounts, brother, he is much smarter than his late father or his brother, and as formidable as his father ever was," Doran said, his voice decreasing to a whisper. "And in the process of abducting his wife, you got his mother killed. You killed Cersei Lannister."

"It was revenge," Oberyn hissed, his body coiling like a serpent. He leaned forward until he was inches from his brother's face. "A vindication, a reckoning that was twenty years in the making for Tywin Lannister. He allowed Elia to be slaughtered. He ordered the death of her son, our king. It was a debt that I finally paid back in her own blood."

His brother shook his head slowly, a look of deep weariness in his eyes. "It could have been done silently, brother. You could have taken her life in the dark and let Tywin rue her death without knowing where the strike came from. Instead, you left a trail of sellswords and blood that leads straight to the Water Gardens."

"He has suppressed his uncle's revolt," Doran said, turning the conversation back to the board they had set.

"Stannis is broken, yes. But he did it with Tyrell forces, brother. And with Ser Loras in our custody, we hold the key to the Reach. Highgarden will march for us to ensure the boy's safety." He relaxed in his seat, a smug smile tugging at his lips. "And Baelish—the man you dismiss as a petty tax collector—has the ear of Lady Lysa Arryn. If he asks her to revolt, the Vale will rise in a heartbeat."

His brother leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment. "And if she tries, she will be ousted as regent before the moon turns. Bronze Yohn Royce was the leading force alongside Jon Arryn in the rebellion; he is a staunch friend of the North and would sooner die than side against Ned Stark's son-in-law. He is a man of loyalty and law, and he will not follow a woman's madness into treason."

"Don't you see the bigger picture, brother?" His brother pushed, his voice rising in righteous fury. "The North has a daughter as Queen. Hoster Tully has a granddaughter as Queen—the very girl you have abducted. They will rise as one with a single raven!"

"If the Riverlands rise, I have a contingency placed there," Oberyn replied quickly, his eyes flashing. "A revolt will rise with one spark from the right house. The Tully's hold on their vassals has always been tenuous."

"And what about the Westerlands? The Stormlands? Dragonstone?" Doran asked, his voice counting off their enemies like a death toll. "This Greyiron boy has freed the Westerlands from the threat of the Ironborn. The Bastard of Driftmark is imprisoned in the capital, as are the Lord and Lady of Dragonstone. The King holds all the pieces."

"The Stormlands' strength is spent; Stannis's failed march saw to that. And Dragonstone never possessed a major army—navy, perhaps, but no blades on the ground," Rhaenys replied, her voice steady and clinical.

"The only two provinces that would truly support the King are the Westerlands and the North," Arianne added, trying to bolster her cousin's confidence.

Doran looked at them all, his gaze lingering on each of their faces before he shook his head in pity. "The Daynes were powerful once, too, brother—look at what they are now. The Boltons were the second most powerful house in the North for a thousand years; now they are down to two members and a keep. Power is a shadow on the wall, and yours is shrinking."

"I don't know what house you have bought in the Riverlands—Blackwood, Bracken, Frey, or Mallister. They will not stand against the Tullys for long," he said, his voice heavy with omen. "Bronze Yohn, on the other hand, can and will stand against Lady Arryn, and the Lords of the Vale will follow the man who wears the bronze armour of their ancestors."

"We have the Reach," Rhaenys insisted, standing tall. "They have the largest host in the Seven Kingdoms, and the Redwyne fleet is still fresh and untouched by the war. Dorne does not have the highest numbers, perhaps, but we have the most skilful lancers and infantry in the world."

"We can handle Bronze Yohn," Arianne said, her voice filled with certainty. "We will get the Vale knights to support the true Queen. We will,"

Doran didn't answer. He simply looked at the dying fire in the hearth, wondering if he was the only one who could see the ash already falling over Sunspear.