Casterly Rock.
The great lion of the Westerlands perched atop the cliffs by the Sunset Sea, silently watching the tides of the Sunset Sea rise and fall.
Inside the castle, in a spacious study.
Lord Tywin Lannister sat behind his desk, reviewing accounts from various lords of the Westerlands.
There was no expression on his face; those pale green eyes were like two uncut gems, incredibly sharp.
A maester walked in quickly.
He respectfully presented a scroll of parchment.
"My Lord, a letter from King's Landing."
"Specially delivered by courier; it should be urgent."
Hearing this, Tywin finally looked up and extended his hand.
Unfolding the letter, Tywin's gaze swept over it quickly.
The study was quiet, only the slight rustle of parchment being turned.
When Tywin saw the line "Jaime Lannister resigns from the Kingsguard," a barely perceptible relaxation finally appeared on his face.
He slowly raised his head, handing the letter back to the maester.
"Reward the courier ten gold dragons."
Tywin's voice was calm and waveless, no emotion audible.
The maester accepted the order and withdrew.
Tywin was alone in the study again.
He stood up, walked to the balcony, overlooking the turbulent Sunset Sea below.
In Westeros.
1 gold dragon = 210 silver stags = 11,760 copper pennies.
That is, 1 silver stag = 56 copper pennies.
1 copper star = 8 copper pennies.
A table full of good wine and food, such as mutton, duck, oat bread, ale, etc., filling a whole table, costs no more than 1 silver stag, and one would get back a handful of copper coins.
A roasted sausage and a horn of ale cost only 1 copper penny.
A set of fine armor, including mail, gorget, greaves, full helm, a whole set costs only 800 silver stags, about 4 gold dragons.
Of course, the reinforced plate armor worth 20 gold dragons Lynn prepared for the Unsullied was definitely not something this fine armor could compare to.
And a set of not-too-rusty old iron armor could be sold for 200 silver stags.
A passable warhorse costs only about 750 silver stags.
The Iron Throne's debt exceeds 6 million gold dragons...
Notably, Ros's virginity was worth 1 gold dragon back then.
And a courier delivering a message was rewarded ten gold dragons by Tywin; this meant only one thing.
Tywin was truly happy right now.
Jaime finally took off that ridiculous white cloak and returned to the position he belonged to.
That is, the rightful heir of Casterly Rock.
An emotion of relief finally welled up in his heart.
He had poured half a lifetime of effort into this son.
He cultivated him into the most excellent commander, the most qualified lord, the most dazzling lion of his Lannister house.
He should have inherited everything of his, taking Lannister glory to new heights.
But for an illusory oath, he imprisoned himself in that white cage for twenty years.
Now, Jaime was finally back.
Although the way was somewhat unexpected.
But the result was good.
Tywin finally revealed a smile.
He thought of his other son, Tyrion.
That dwarf who brought him shame.
When was the last time they met?
The last time was... last time.
Tywin himself didn't know when he last saw Tyrion.
Then he followed Robert north to invite Ned and had no news since.
Perhaps he died in some unknown whore's bed, or fell into some wine barrel and drowned.
But Tywin didn't care.
He only knew.
House Lannister already had a qualified heir.
As for Jaime going to the North to help that Lynn...
Tywin didn't object.
He was even happy to see it succeed.
He saw through that fool Robert's scheme at a glance.
Nothing more than wanting to borrow a knife to kill, reaping the spoils without lifting a finger.
But he underestimated the wolf of the North too much, and the falcon of the Vale too.
More importantly, he underestimated the lion of Lannister.
Did he think the Lannisters wouldn't act because of his threat?
Jaime going to the North was just right to see with his own eyes what kind of character that Lynn really was.
And also to see how powerful that legendary dragon of his really was.
If Lynn could win, House Lannister would gain a powerful ally with a dragon.
His "granddaughter" would also become the most powerful mistress of the North.
The Westerlands and the Gift would sign an alliance agreement representing peace and friendship.
If Lynn lost...
That didn't matter.
Tywin would personally lead the army of the Westerlands north to "avenge" his granddaughter's husband.
Then, under this name, logically take over the vast land of the North.
In this war, House Lannister would never stay out of it!
Of course, they wouldn't appear as allies.
They would step onto the battlefield in the posture of saviors when everyone was exhausted.
Then ruthlessly collect the final fruits of victory.
Whether Stark, Arryn, or Tully...
All would become stepping stones for House Lannister on the road to dominating the Seven Kingdoms.
Lannister would inevitably be the final winner.
As for the threats from Dorne and Highgarden?
Just a bunch of clowns.
He didn't care.
Tywin turned around, sitting back behind the desk.
Spreading a new piece of parchment, Tywin dipped the ink again.
He was going to write a reply to Jaime.
The content of the letter was simple.
[Go ahead and do it; Casterly Rock will always be your shield]
---
King's Landing.
The familiar smell of rotten fish and shrimp.
A man wearing a grey robe walked off the "Sea Snake" merchant ship that had just docked.
He looked unremarkable.
Like the most ordinary apprentice in the Citadel of Oldtown.
Or an inconspicuous squire beside some minor noble.
His face was ordinary; thrown into a crowd, he could never be found again.
No one noticed him.
In this city full of conspiracy and desire, everyone's eyes focused on the towering spires of the Red Keep, and on those big figures about to stir the winds and clouds of the Seven Kingdoms.
The arrival of a nobody was less significant than a drop of rain falling into Blackwater Bay.
The man passed through the crowded docks and walked into the stinking Flea Bottom.
The air here was even more turbid; drunkards' vomit and children's feces could be seen everywhere.
In a dim tavern, the man exchanged a few copper pennies for a cup of cheap ale.
The liquid was cloudy, carrying a strange sour taste and a familiar bitterness.
He didn't mind.
Just sitting quietly in the corner, listening to the messy conversations around.
"Heard?"
"That Earl Lynn from the North married Princess Myrcella!"
"More than that! The King also granted him the Gift!"
"Most importantly, he has a dragon! A real dragon! The kind that breathes fire!"
A mercenary flushed from drinking gestured, spittle flying.
"I saw it with my own eyes!"
"On Earl Lynn's wedding day, that dragon circled over King's Landing; its wings spread wider than the dome of the Great Sept of Baelor!"
"You're just blowing hot air; I was there that day too, how come I didn't see it?"
"I think you drank too much!"
Dragon...
The man's hand holding the cup didn't move a muscle.
But a completely different picture emerged in his mind.
It was the Valyrian mines buried deep underground, eternal darkness and despair.
It was boiling magma, scorching air, and the blood-stained whips in the hands of slave overseers.
And, the giant dragons circling over the mines, casting huge shadows.
They were the masters' weapons, symbols of power, eternal nightmares for slaves.
The Many-Faced God was born in that darkness of despair.
The first Faceless Man gave the gift of "release" to those compatriots suffering in pain.
Then, he gave this "gift" equally to those high-and-mighty dragonlords.
The hatred between Faceless Men and House Targaryen had been engraved in their bones since the day Faceless Men were born.
Dragons were incarnations of fire, miracles of life.
But in the eyes of Faceless Men, they were just remnants of the old era's tyranny.
Valar Morghulis. All men must die.
Dragons were no exception!
The man's thoughts returned to reality.
He thought of another matter.
That Ironborn man calling himself "Crow's Eye."
Euron Greyjoy.
Using a petrified dragon egg obtained from who knows where, he tried to buy the life of his brother Balon Greyjoy from the House of Black and White.
He came here for dragon control techniques and the weaknesses of giant dragons.
Collecting dragon eggs was also just to destroy them.
Assassinating Balon was just done in passing.
His real purpose in coming to King's Landing was that living dragon and the man controlling it.
Lynn.
A mortal shouldn't possess such power.
Anyone mastering such power would eventually go mad.
The man drank the last mouthful of sour ale in the cup.
He needed an identity, an identity that allowed him to approach the North, approach that man silently.
He stood up and walked out of the tavern.
Go assassinate Balon first; destroying dragon eggs was the urgent matter, Lynn's matter could be put aside for now.
Street corner, two City Watch guards wearing gold cloaks.
A perfect opportunity.
The man adjusted his breathing, changing his walking posture.
His shoulders raised slightly, steps became somewhat unsteady, eyes also carrying a trace of greed and cowering belonging to a thief.
He targeted a fat merchant who had just come out of a brothel.
The merchant's purse at his waist bulged, bouncing with his fat body.
The man followed quietly like an unremarkable shadow.
At a corner, he "inadvertently" bumped into the merchant.
The movement was very light, attracting almost no one's attention.
But when he passed the merchant, that heavy purse had already fallen into his sleeve.
He didn't leave immediately.
Instead, he deliberately slowed his pace, even looking back.
He wanted to ensure those two City Watch guards could clearly see the "smugness" flashing across his face.
"Catch him! My money! He stole my money!"
The fat merchant's scream came as expected.
Those two bored City Watch guards, like flies smelling blood, immediately surrounded him.
"Kid, stick out your hands!"
One guard with a face full of flesh pointed his sword at the man, shouting sternly.
The man obediently raised his hands, wearing a panicked expression on his face; the purse in his sleeve "accidentally" slipped to the ground.
Ironclad evidence.
"Caught red-handed!"
"Come with me, little thief!"
The Gold Cloak laughed hideously, reaching out to grab him.
"Wait a moment."
The man suddenly spoke; his voice wasn't loud, but it paused the movements of both guards.
"You can arrest me, but can you tell me what crime I committed?"
"Ha?"
The other tall, thin guard seemed to hear a joke.
"You stole things, and you ask us what crime you committed?"
"I think your brain is broken!"
"What is the crime for theft in King's Landing?"
The man continued to ask.
There was no fear on his face, only a pure curiosity.
"Cut off a hand, then throw into the black cells!"
The fleshy-faced guard said impatiently.
"If you're lucky, maybe you can be sent to the Wall in the North, become a Night's Watchman, serve the realm till death!"
"The Wall..."
The man repeated the word in a low voice, as if savoring its meaning.
"Is it cold there?"
The two guards were completely confused.
They had caught if not a thousand then eight hundred thieves, but never seen one like this.
Caught and not begging for mercy, not resisting, but caring if the Wall was cold?
"Nonsense! That's the North!"
"Cold enough to freeze your balls off!"
The fleshy-faced guard cursed.
"Stop fucking talking nonsense, come with us!"
"Okay." The man nodded.
Then, under everyone's astonished gaze.
He suddenly ducked, shoulder slamming fiercely into the fleshy-faced guard's chest.
The guard grunted.
Subsequently, the guard, like an enraged bull, swung the heavy sword pommel smashing toward the man's head!
The man didn't dodge or evade, letting the pommel hit the back of his head.
Thump!
A muffled sound.
The world instantly became quiet.
At the last moment before losing consciousness, the corner of the man's mouth curled up.
...
When the man woke up again, he was already in the dark and damp black cells of the Red Keep.
The back of his head was still throbbing with pain.
The cell stank to high heaven; moldy straw and unknown filth piled in the corners.
Several similarly ragged prisoners curled up in the corner like a pile of trash, emitting painful moans.
The man sat up, leaning against the cold stone wall.
He looked around at this filthy environment, eyes calm as water.
Everything was going according to plan.
Assaulting a Gold Cloak, added crime.
He was no longer qualified to have his hand cut off.
The only outcome was being sent to the Wall.
Becoming a "glorious" Night's Watchman.
The Night's Watch recruitment team exiled to the Wall; this was his best camouflage.
No one would care about a bunch of scum.
A gaoler walked over carrying a dim oil lamp.
He stuffed a bowl of black, paste-like substance made of unknown things through the gap in the bars.
"Eat, scum."
The gaoler's voice was full of disgust.
"This is the last good meal before you go to the Wall."
The prisoners swarmed up, fighting like hungry dogs for that bowl of food emitting a rancid smell.
Only the man didn't move.
He just sat quietly in the dark, closing his eyes.
The noise of King's Landing, the stench of the cell, the wails of prisoners...
Everything drifted away from him.
He just needed to wait now.