Pyke, Iron Islands
The hall of Pyke echoed with the pounding of fists and the roar of fury.
"Ten years ago, the Northerners came," Victorion Greyjoy bellowed "They burned our halls, and took our treasures. They raped our women and butchered our men. But no more!"
The room trembled with rising voices.
"We will strike them," Victorion continued. "We will plunder the North. Take their grain, their treasures, their daughters. We'll hit where their armies are not present. Let's see how they will guard every inch of their coast."
He raised his axe. "Start training the men. Prepare the longships. And when we're ready, we will take what is owed!"
He paused, and then roared "What is dead may never die!"
The hall erupted with the cry, voices crashing like waves in a storm.
At the seat sat Theon Greyjoy, newly crowned King of the Iron Islands. His jaw was clenched, his eyes burning hatred. His older brothers were killed by Northerners in last war. His father had been stripped of his titles, and then sent to the Wall in chains like a common criminal, where he died.
Victorion had ensured Theon would be king—and more importantly, that he would not become a puppet to Rodrik Harlaw, the regent who tried to fill the boy's ears with talks of peace and caution.
_____________________________________________________________________
Winterfell, The North
Jaqen had just finished speaking when Aryan began to laugh.
It started as a low chuckle, then grew louder. Finally he was able to compose himself.
"So," Aryan said in a calm voice, "the krakens think themselves clever."
He stood, moving to the map stretched across the table, his fingers were tapping against the western coast of the North. "Alert the Free Folk settled along the western shores. Tell them the Ironborn are coming. Let's see how those reavers fare against people, who once had to fight daily to survive."
Jaqen gave a nod.
"Send words to William," Aryan continued. "He is to mobilize our standing army and move west. But not in Stark banners or sigils. I want them dressed as smallfolk, as fishermen, shepherds, crofters. Let the Ironborn think they've come for easy prey."
His eyes narrowed. "Then kill them all. Leave no survivors. Not even a single one of them."
Jaqen said camly. "As you command, my lord"
Aryan's gaze drifted to the map again. "Once the coast is cleared of the Ironborn filth, seize their ships. Every last one of them. Burn what can't be sailed. In place of the troops going there now—quietly rotate them with fifteen thousand men currently on leave. Tell William to select which men will take their place."
He stepped back and folded his hands behind his back.
"The time is coming," Aryan said. "Time to wipe the Ironborn from the face of Planetos, root and stem. No more of their Old ways. Those islands will soon belong to the North."
Jaqen gave a bow and slipped away without a word.
_____________________________________________________________________
The cell was quiet. Torchlight was flickering on cold stone, illuminating a single chair, a stool, and the slumped figure of a woman chained at the wrists.
Lysa Arryn.
Aryan Stark sat silently across from her, with elbows on his knees, wand in one hand. His looked calm, but the anger was boiling in him.
He had learned to master his wrath long ago.
This woman with another person, had started the fire.
Not the Mad King. Not Rhaegar. No—her and one more person.
The lie that had driven his father to his death had not come from the mouths of dragons or rebels, but from this woman's lips, on orders of another.
He had sworn to his mother that he would not lay a finger on Lysa Arryn. Ashara would deal with her. Aryan only needed one thing before he handed her over.
Confirmation.
Was it Petyr Baelish who stared the rumor in that tavern? Or someone else?
He raised his wand Ennervate.
Lysa stirred. Her eyelids fluttered, and her body jolted. She blinked in confusion, looking around in a daze—then froze when she saw him.
"Aryan…? Aryan Stark? Wh-where am I?"
"Winterfell," he said. "In the dungeons. You've been here since yesterday."
His voice was cold—but underneath it, it was filled with fury.
She tried to sit up. But her chains clinked.
"I—I've done nothing wrong—I'm the Lady of the Eyrie—"
He said nothing.
The wand lifted again, and the tip was pointed between her eyes.
"Please," she whimpered, tears forming. "Don't hurt me…"
"I won't," Aryan said. "But I will take what I need."
"W-what—"
Legilimens
He saw it.
Memories. Feelings. They were jagged and chaotic.
Aryan saw Petyr whispering. Telling her what to say. Telling her that Brandon Stark would believe her if she said Lyanna Stark had been kidnapped by Rhaegar Targaryen.
That the Starks would pay for Petyr's humiliation.
And she said it. Later on giggling in some corner of Riverrun like a girl spinning stories.
And his father rode to his death.
He saw more.
Robyn Arryn was no son of Jon Arryn.
The child was Petyr Baelish's bastard.
Aryan pulled back.
Lysa collapsed forward—sobbing.
Lysa wept. "I only—Petyr saw me—he—he needed me—"
Then Aryan again pointed his wand at her Obliviate.
Her sobs stilled, and her head dropped. Her memories of the past few moments were erased.
Aryan thought I can't let mother know about my magic.
He turned toward the door.
"I gave my word to my mother," he said "I will not harm you. She will decide your fate."
Outside the cell, Jaqen was waiting for him.
"Quietly tell my mother," he said, "that the woman who told that rumor to my father is in the dungeons. She will be… pleased to know this."
Jaqen nodded. "And the other?"
Aryan had a small smile that didn't reached his eyes. "Send word to our people in Kingslanding. I want Petyr Baelish in these dungeons unharmed. I don't need him to create chaos, I can do that myself."
He paused.
"And bring all his ledgers. Every single one of them. I want to see what he had built, brick by brick, before I burn it to ashes."
Jaqen inclined his head. "Valar morghulis."
Aryan greeted back "Valar Dohaeris"
______________________________________________________________________
Riverrun, The Riverlands
Lord Hoster Tully sat propped against cushions in his high-backed chair. His fingers clutched the edge of the letter that had arrived from the Vale that morning, the parchment was shaking in his grip.
Across from him stood Edmure Tully and Blackfish.
"They crushed her head with a stone, in her own chambers. It is not even recognizable," Edmure said, jaw clenched. "They also saw the assassin but she escaped."
Hoster's breath rattled. "Lysa..." he whispered. "My daughter..."
Edmure said, his hand clenching at his side, "Uncle Brynden was there, in the Vale. He heard Lysa was telling Lords and Ladies that it was the Lannisters who killed Jon Arryn."
"She believed it," Brynden added in low his voice. "That Jon was killed by the Lannisters. Quietly. Too quietly."
Hoster coughed. "Jon was too good for that viper's nest. He should have left when he had the chance."
"The Lords of the Vale have declared for Stannis," Brynden continued. "They want vengeance, for what happened to Jon and Lysa. Also Cersei's children are all bastards, we also read Stannis' letter and confirmed it."
Hoster squinted at him. "And you believe it? That it was Lannisters?"
"Who else?" Edmure demanded. "We all know what happened during the Sack of Kingslanding. The way the Lannisters act. Anyone who is in their way, they just remove them."
"The timing...," Brynden said, folding his arms. "First, Jon Arryn dies. Then Lysa escapes Kingslanding. Then when she speaks out, she is killed. Now only Robyn is living. Every Arryn who goes against them, is being silenced."
Hoster sat in silence. Then he looked at Brynden.
"What of the North?" he rasped.
"Aryan Stark has barred the Neck to everyone," Brynden replied.
Hoster grimaced. "That's why, I wanted Ned to become the 'Warden of the North'. Aryan does things only for himself. He always has. That means the North will sit this war out. We will receive no help from them."
"The Vale lords will march through the Mountains of the Moon," Brynden said. "War will be fought in the Riverlands. No matter what we do, Riverlands will bleed."
Hoster coughed again, deeper this time, and gestured weakly toward the map laid out before them.
"Then we'll fight. I won't die in my bed while Lannisters killed my daughter and go unpunished. We stand with the Vale. We stand with Stannis. Send word to every bannerman."
Brynden nodded and turned to leave.
______________________________________________________________________
Golden tooth, The Westerlands
In the solar of Lord Lefford the war council had gathered.
Tywin Lannister was standing at the head of the table. Around him were the men he trusted in matters of war—his brother Kevan, Addam Marbrand, Harys Swift, Lyle Crakehall, Andros Brax, and Leo Lefford.
Kevan unrolled a fresh map across the oak table. The Riverlands. The Stormlands. The Vale. The Reach. Kingslanding—were marked with tokens.
Tywin said "As we know, the Lords of the Vale have declared for Stannis. After the deaths of Lysa and Jon Arryn, they've accepted the rumor that we were behind both killings—and now they fear the boy will be next. Now the Tully's also believe this rumor. The Vale lords are marching for war. The Riverlords are also gathering their banners."
Tywin continuing, "We are now facing three fronts. Renly to the south. Stannis from Dragonstone—he will likely strike at Kingslanding. And now the Vale and the Riverlords from the Riverlands."
"Stannis does not have the numbers to take the capital, not alone," Ser Addam Marbrand said.
"Not alone," Tywin echoed, "but if the Vale and the Riverlords keep us busy here for long, then Stannis will have enough time, to gather enough men to take Kingslanding. Also, it will give Renly enough time to make his move. The timing is critical."
Kevan looked up from the map. "Jaime will be arriving soon, and Tyrion will also reach Kingslanding soon."
Tywin gave a single nod. "Jaime will join us, and will lead one of our forces. Tyrion can hold the capital until this war is finished."
Kevan asked, "And the North? Dorne?"
Tywin's lips thinned. "Aryan Stark has barred the Neck for everyone. Nothing in or out."
Kevan asked, "And Dorne?"
"Doran Martell has sealed the Prince's Pass. These are the only good news."
Ser Addam cleared his throat. "The sellswords should arrive within the sennight, my lord."
Tywin gave a curt nod. "Good. Till then all our forces will also be gathered. We will not move until all our forces are assembled. Once they arrive, we will divide our forces and strike. One force to hold against the Vale and Riverlords, one to hold against the Reach, and one to reinforce the capital."
He turned to Kevan. "Send Polliver and his men ahead. Their task is to destroy every supply line of the Riverlords they can. Burn their grain. Kill their horses. Drive their levies into the woods. Destroy anything their forces can use."
"I'll see to it," Kevan said without hesitation.
Tywin studied the map. Enemies were closing in from three sides. No help will come from the North and Dorne. It would take everything he had to hold.
______________________________________________________________________
The Reach
The Rose road was choked with men.
It was a slow march of thousands, with banners of the rose and the stag above their heads.
At the head of it all rode Renly Baratheon, with an antlered crown on his head. He was laughing at something Loras had said. From a distance, they looked like young gallant knights on a summer ride, not men leading an army to war.
But not everyone was smiling.
Lord Randyll Tarly rode behind them, with grim face, alongside his bannermen from Horn Hill. He didn't speak unless he had to. He hated delays, hated the pomp, and hated the pageantry of this entire procession.
That night, he had enough.
Renly was seated on a cushioned chair, with his boots off, and wine in hand, while singers played soft music nearby. Loras Tyrell stood to his side, polishing his gauntlets and watching the musicians with vague boredom.
Randyll didn't bother with pleasantries.
"This is not a feast hall, Your Grace," Randyll said. "You are marching to war, not parading through the Reach like some lovestruck fool in a ballad."
Renly blinked, clearly unbothered. "And yet the Reach loves me for it. Have you seen how they come out to cheer when we pass? Smallfolks and lords alike. Better that than fire and blood, don't you think?"
"They'll cheer less when the Lannisters burn their crops," Randyll said a low voice. "And cheer even less if Stannis reaches the city first."
At the mention of his brother, Renly's smile thinned.
"Stannis has no friends," Renly said. "And I have Reach behind me. That is all that matters."
Randyll stepped closer. "Your army is too slow. If we had marched properly, we could've been at the gates of King's Landing by now. Instead, you're playing lord of summer and giving the Lannisters time to attack. And now with the Tullys and Vale declaring for Stannis—"
Renly cut him off. "Rumors."
"They're not rumors. Lord Hoster has raised the Tully banners. The Lords Declarant in the Vale, are march through the Mountains of the Moon. And the North has barred the Neck to everyone. Aryan Stark won't lift a finger for you. And Dorne might attack you." Randyll said.
Renly said nothing for a moment. The musicians were still playing.
"I have the Tyrells and Stormlands," Renly said at last. "And Highgarden's gold and grain. That's more than my brother can claim."
Randyll scowled. "Grain won't matter if Stannis takes the city and wins the Iron Throne before you even reach the gates."
"You think I should fight him?" Renly asked.
"I think you should act like a king," Randyll snapped. "A real king doesn't wait for others to decide the war for him. He wins it himself."
Loras turned from the armor table. "And what would you have us do, Lord Tarly? March into the city now and sack it?"
"If it wins the war? Yes." Randyll said
The tent went silent.
Renly set his goblet down, slowly. "I appreciate your bluntness, Lord Tarly," he said. "You'll have your battle soon enough."
Randyll gave a stiff nod and turned to leave. "Just make sure you're ready, Your Grace. War is not a tourney."
____________________________________________________________________
Winterfell, The North
Aryan was seated at his desk, reading a parchment. Then there was a knock on the door.
"Enter" Aryan said.
He didn't look up when the door opened.
Catelyn Cailstark stepped inside. She didn't wait to be welcomed.
"Lysa is dead."
"I know," Aryan said, folding the parchment. He glanced at her. "Sit, if you want."
She didn't.
"The Vale has declared for Stannis," she said. "The Riverlords are also gathering and they have also declared for Stannis. They want justice—for Jon Arryn, and now for Lysa."
Aryan said nothing, only waited.
"I've come to ask you," she continued, "not as the Lord of Winterfell. But as my nephew."
Aryan sighed. "No."
Catelyn stepped forward and took the chair. "Tell me why. Stannis Baratheon is the rightful heir. He'll also rid the realm of Lannister rot."
"I don't care what Stannis wants," Aryan said. "Soon I'll be facing war on the western coasts. And then there is an enemy beyond the Wall. As far as the Lannisters are concerned, I can deal with them on my own, if I ever felt the need to."
Catelyn's voice dropped. "They murdered my sister."
"No one knows who killed Lysa," Aryan said. "The Vale Lords blames the Lannisters. They don't even know who sent the assassin."
"She was the wife of Jon Arryn," Catelyn said. "And her death followed his—after she named the Lannisters as his killers."
Your sister is not dead. She is in my dungeons, Aryan thought, and my mother is teaching her what justice means.
"You're here to seek my support for the Riverlands," he said. "But I won't fight because others tell me to. I'll fight when it's in the North's interest. Or when the North is wronged."
Catelyn's mouth tightened. "You speak as if nothing touches you."
"I'm touched by many things," Aryan said quietly. "I just don't let them cloud my judgment."
"We have our own enemies," he added. "And I intend to deal with them first."
Silence hung between them.
At last Catelyn said, "The Riverlands will bleed, Aryan."
"I'm sorry for that," Aryan said, his voice softer. "Truly. But I'm not raising Northern banners for Stannis Baratheon."
She stood slowly. "Will you offer nothing?"
"Because you're my aunt," Aryan said, "I'll offer asylum to any Tully who wants it. No one will touch them here. They'll be safe. But I'll offer no more than that."
Catelyn looked at him for a long moment. Then she gave a single nod.
"Thank you… for your honesty."
She turned and left. Aryan watched her until the door closed behind her.
Aryan thought There was no way it was going to end well. I will have to make sure she doesn't makes any rash decision.