The Small Council meeting ended far more abruptly than anyone had expected.
The cause of this sudden conclusion was none other than Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King. His firm stance and uncompromising decisions had brought the discussion to a swift halt, leaving many matters unresolved—for now.
However, while the meeting itself ended behind closed doors, its consequences did not remain confined within the Red Keep.
Rumors began to spread.
At first, they were nothing more than whispers drifting through the corridors of power, carried by servants, guards, and minor officials. But within a day, those whispers had transformed into a tide of speculation sweeping across all of King's Landing.
The King, it was said, intended to celebrate the recent victory over House Lannister.
And not merely with a feast.
But with a grand tournament.
Although such talk had surfaced before, this time it carried a different weight.
It felt… confirmed.
And so, the city reacted.
From the crowded streets of Flea Bottom to the bustling markets near the River Gate, the news ignited excitement among the people. Lords and knights began making preparations, imagining glory, honor, and perhaps even royal favor.
For the common folk, however, the matter was far less significant.
Their lives would not change because of a tournament.
At most, they would gather to watch, to cheer, to momentarily forget their struggles.
Yet within this wave of excitement, another piece of information quietly circulated.
The newly appointed Master of Coin—
Ser Karl Stone.
The man hailed as the hero who had saved King's Landing.
It was said that he intended to use this tournament not merely as a celebration… but as an opportunity.
An opportunity to reform the very structure of such events.
Karl himself stood by a tall window in the Red Keep, gazing toward the distant silhouette of the Great Sept of Baelor atop Visenya's Hill.
His fingers tapped lightly against the stone ledge as he thought.
"So… the reaction is lukewarm."
He had deliberately revealed only a fragment of his intentions, testing the waters.
And the result was clear.
If he wanted to bring real change—
It would not be easy.
Still, Karl was not discouraged.
If anything, his resolve only strengthened.
"If it must be done… then it should be done boldly."
His gaze shifted slightly, settling on the towering sept.
The Faith of the Seven.
A force often overlooked—but far from insignificant.
"Perhaps… it's time to involve them."
If the Faith supported his reforms, resistance would weaken considerably.
After all—
In King's Landing, power was never absolute.
Not even the Iron Throne could impose its will without opposition.
While matters in the capital progressed steadily, the true weight of the realm rested elsewhere.
On the battlefields.
To the east.
And to the west.
Casterly Rock
The ancient stronghold of House Lannister stood silent.
Garlan Tyrell had been residing there for nearly two months now, along with the forces of the Reach.
Yet the castle—
Was empty.
When Garlan first arrived, he had expected resistance.
A siege, perhaps.
A battle worthy of song.
Instead—
He found nothing.
No defenders.
No resistance.
Casterly Rock, said to be impregnable, had been taken without a single drop of blood.
It felt almost unreal.
Like claiming something that had already been abandoned.
But where had the Lannisters gone?
That question lingered.
No one knew.
No servants remained to tell the tale.
No signs pointed to their destination.
It was as though the entire family had vanished overnight.
Even their fleet—
Had disappeared.
Now, the seas near Lannisport were dominated by two forces.
The fleet of House Redwyne.
And the iron fleet of House Greyjoy.
Both had taken advantage of the chaos, plundering the wealth of the Westerlands.
Yet neither side had clashed directly.
They watched each other.
Waited.
Measured.
But then—
Everything changed.
Tywin Lannister surrendered.
The news spread quickly.
And with it—
The war in the west came to an abrupt end.
"Ser Garlan Tyrell… what are your orders?"
One of his knights stepped forward, breaking the silence.
"The Iron Throne has requested our withdrawal."
Garlan did not respond immediately.
Instead, he continued to stare at the letter in his hand.
A letter from Highgarden.
From the Queen of Thorns—
Olenna Redwyne.
He had been waiting for this.
The order from King's Landing had arrived days earlier.
But Garlan knew better than to act without guidance.
House Tyrell's position required careful consideration.
Finally, he spoke.
"My grandmother… advises compliance."
He handed the letter to Lord Paxter Redwyne, who read it with keen interest.
"The Reach has no need to expand further," Garlan continued.
"And this… is not our spoils."
Paxter raised an eyebrow.
"Then what is?"
Garlan smiled faintly.
"King's Landing."
Paxter's expression shifted as he read further.
"Margaery… is going to the capital?"
"And Olenna with her?"
Garlan nodded.
"And I am to escort them."
Understanding dawned.
Olenna had made her move.
If the Reach could not expand its lands—
Then it would expand its influence.
At the heart of the realm.
"Prepare to withdraw," Garlan ordered.
"But not all of us."
A small force would remain.
A cavalry detachment—
Heading straight for King's Landing.
At Sea
Aboard his longship, Victarion Greyjoy stood in silence.
A letter lay discarded at his feet.
Another, bearing the stag seal, rested on the table before him.
After a long pause, he spoke.
"Withdraw."
His voice was low, resolute.
"We have taken enough."
There was no need to press further.
Not now.
The iron fleet would return home—
Heavy with plunder.
Thus, both forces withdrew.
Not in defeat—
But in satisfaction.
Dragonstone
Far across the Narrow Sea, another scene unfolded.
The fleet of House Martell had arrived.
Their mission—
Successful.
The mercenary fleets besieging Dragonstone had been driven away.
Arianne Martell stepped onto the shore.
The ground beneath her feet was rough, covered in gravel and coarse sand.
Before her—
Rose Dragonstone.
She looked up.
And for a moment—
She was captivated.
The castle was unlike anything in Westeros.
Black stone towers twisted into the shapes of dragons.
Walls adorned with grotesque gargoyles.
A structure born not of ordinary craftsmanship—
But of Valyrian mastery.
"Perhaps the tales of dragons are not mere legend," Arianne said softly.
Behind her, Quentyn Martell nodded.
"They are not."
Both of them knew the truth.
Ahead, Stannis Baratheon waited.
He stood rigidly, his posture firm, his expression unreadable.
The sea wind tugged at his cloak, but he did not move.
His face was stern, carved with lines of duty and hardship.
His eyes—
Cold.
Relentless.
Beside him stood Davos Seaworth.
And—
Another figure.
A woman in red.
Melisandre.
The Red Priestess.
Davos frowned slightly as he glanced at her.
He did not trust her.
Did not like her.
Ever since her arrival, she had whispered strange ideas into Stannis's ears.
Ideas of prophecy.
Of destiny.
"Lord…" Davos said quietly.
Stannis raised a hand.
"I know."
His gaze shifted briefly to Melisandre.
She smiled.
A calm, knowing smile.
"She is not your enemy," she said softly.
"At least… not yet."
Stannis said nothing.
He merely turned his attention forward.
Arianne approached.
Graceful.
Confident.
"Lord Stannis Baratheon," she said, bowing slightly.
"It is an honor to be received at Dragonstone."
Stannis nodded.
"As an ally, you have done your duty."
"And I… will do mine."
He gestured toward the castle.
"A feast has been prepared."
"It is not grand."
"But it is sufficient."
Arianne smiled.
"That is more than enough."
And so—
The players gathered.
In King's Landing.
In the west.
On Dragonstone.
The game of power continued.
And the next move—
Was already in motion.
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