Watching this display of family drama, Mysaria cleared her throat to draw everyone's attention back.
"I have more good news."
"More?" a knight of House Cargyll couldn't help but ask.
Mysaria offered a faint, serpentine smile.
"The North has decided to join us."
This time, a genuine, ringing cheer erupted through the Great Hall.
"The North!" the representative of House Celtigar exclaimed, his beard trembling with excitement.
"The Starks have finally moved!"
"How many men?" Corlys asked sharply.
"Initially, they are sending five thousand men south to rendezvous in the Riverlands. The subsequent mobilization will include over thirty thousand more, the Winter Wolves."
Mysaria's voice carried an ill-concealed hint of joy.
"Lord Cregan Stark will lead the army personally."
Daemon's brow furrowed. "I went to persuade him myself once, and he remained entirely unmoved."
Mysaria's smile deepened.
"Because the Green pretender, Aegon II, issued an order forbidding the southern territories from providing grain to the North. Furthermore, he took the winter reserves originally intended for the North and distributed them as a priority to King's Landing, which is currently facing a food shortage."
The hall fell silent for a heartbeat, then exploded into a fit of laughter.
"Aegon, that fool!" the Cargyll knight laughed, slapping his thigh.
"He's practically pushing the North into our arms!"
"The North was already preparing," Mysaria explained over the noise.
"With the long winter approaching, their current reserves could last two years at most, but a normal long winter lasts four to six. If the South doesn't send them food, half the people in the North will starve. Cregan Stark has no choice but to march south to seize grain, regardless of whose it is, he has to take it."
Daemon and Corlys exchanged a look and smiled grimly. They truly hadn't expected Aegon to do them such a massive favor.
"In terms of military strength, we are no longer inferior to the Greens."
Daemon stood up and walked to the painted table, looking down at the dense cluster of carved markers.
"Over thirty thousand from the North. The Vale can muster three thousand knights and eight thousand squires. With some effort, the Riverlands can provide twenty thousand. Adding our own men and our Volantene allies..."
"But the key is the dragons," Rhaenyra interrupted him, her voice pulling them back to reality.
"As long as we can butcher that bastard Aemond, the Greens will collapse."
The hall grew deathly quiet. Aemond Targaryen.
Sixteen years old, a rider of two dragons, possessor of Vhagar, currently the largest beast in the world, and Morghul, a black terror growing with abnormal speed.
"I can't do it alone," Daemon admitted, his jaw tight.
"The boy is a monster. My brother Viserys created a monster. Or rather, we all created such a monster together."
Daemon suddenly laughed, his harsh voice echoing off the stone walls as he looked at his wife.
"But rest easy, Rhaenyra. Even if it means my death, I will take this 'good nephew' of mine with me to the grave."
Rhaenyra looked at him, her gaze heavy and sorrowful. She wanted to say something, but in the end, she remained silent.
"Has the letter been sent?" Daemon turned to Mysaria.
Mysaria nodded. "He has already received it."
Corlys remained silent. He knew who they were talking about: Laenor Velaryon. His son. Rhaenyra's former husband.
The man who had been "dead" for years and was now living across the Narrow Sea.
If Laenor learned of his mother Rhaenys's death, he would undoubtedly take up his responsibility to avenge her.
"He will be my bastard," Corlys finally spoke, his voice raspy and broken.
"He will join the war under the name of a bastard."
The Dragonstone vassals looked at each other, thoroughly confused by the cryptic conversation.
But Rhaenyra nodded. "We need him. He will become our blade."
Daemon looked at the bewildered vassals and waved a hand dismissively.
"All of you, dismiss."
The lords and knights exited the hall with faces full of questions, leaving only Rhaenyra, Daemon, Corlys, Mysaria, and Sara standing in the corner.
Daemon walked to the stone table, staring at the map.
He traced his finger from Dragonstone to Pentos, Pentos to the Reach, and from the Reach up to the Riverlands.
"Next," he began slowly, "let Laenor ride Seasmoke and, along with Nettles and Sheepstealer, assist the Volantene navy. They will find an opportunity to ambush the Braavosi fleet stationed at Tyrosh."
His finger moved down to the Reach. "Where has the Hightower army reached?"
Mysaria answered immediately.
"They are nearing Bitterbridge. Based on their movements, their next stop should be Tumbleton."
"Tumbleton..." a dark smile touched Daemon's face.
"A good place. I will take Sara and launch a surprise attack on Daeron. If our luck holds, we should be able to kill the boy."
"I am going as well," Queen Rhaenyra said, standing up and looking at him firmly.
Daemon shook his head.
"You may come, but the one to strike the killing blow will be me. As the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, you should not be stained with the foul name of a kinslayer."
Rhaenyra looked at him, a flicker of complex emotion in her red eyes.
Daemon was always like this, taking the dirtiest, hardest jobs upon himself and bearing the worst of reputations so she wouldn't have to.
Back in King's Landing, he was called the "Lord of Flea Bottom"; now, he would be reviled as a "Kinslayer."
"Aemond will likely go to Rook's Rest to organize the siege," Daemon continued, his mind already spinning tactics.
"We will use the time gap to our advantage. By the time he reacts, Daeron will be dead, the Hightower army will be leaderless, and their morale will be shattered."
The group nodded in grim agreement.
- - - - - - - - -
Lannisport, The Westerlands
Golden sunlight spilled over the shimmering waters of Lannisport.
Outside the great city walls, the dense ranks of the Westerland army were assembling, the golden lion banners of House Lannister snapping proudly in the coastal wind.
Lord Jason Lannister sat atop a magnificent white stallion, looking down at his army with unadulterated smugness.
Eight thousand men. Eight thousand Westerland elites, every one of them a warrior in full plate and fine equipment.
House Lannister had gold; who in the Seven Kingdoms didn't know that?
Their soldiers wore the best armor, swung the best swords, and ate the best rations.
Watching the columns of soldiers in crimson and gold plate march past, Jason's heart swelled with pride.
"Tyland!" he shouted to his side.
"Look at this! This is an army! This is the roar of the Lion!"
Tyland Lannister, the Hand of the King, rode a bay horse, following his brother with an expressionless face.
He had been advising his twin the entire way, talking until his lips were nearly raw, but his arrogant brother simply wouldn't listen.
"Brother," Tyland spoke again, his voice tinged with deep exhaustion.
"We should follow Prince Aemond's orders. We should take the route through the Deep Den, then march along the Goldroad to King's Landing to rendezvous with the Hightower army. That is the safest route."
Jason Lannister wagged a gauntleted finger, looking utterly dismissive.
"No, no, no, Tyland. You are still far too conservative. We will take the Golden Tooth, go straight to our final destination at Harrenhal, and meet them there. We'll pass right through the Riverlands and give those river-mud trouts a good scare along the way."
"Brother!" Tyland's voice rose in exasperation.
"This is Prince Aemond's order! We must, "
"Prince Aemond?" Jason interrupted him with a patronizing smile.
"Tyland, have these years in King's Landing turned you from a proud lion into a tamed dog?"
Tyland's face stiffened. Jason continued, "We are Lannisters! I am the Lord Paramount of the West! We support them because of our feudal oaths, but that doesn't mean I am their lapdog! Do we do exactly whatever they tell us to do without thinking for ourselves?"
He pointed at the passing ranks of polished steel.
"Do you see this? Eight thousand elites! The best-equipped army in the Seven Kingdoms! Prince Aemond? I admit his dragons are formidable. But when it comes to war, he is still a boy with the scent of mother's milk on his breath. What does he know of grand strategy? What does he know of marching? What does he know of war?"
Tyland took a deep breath, fighting to keep his voice calm.
"Brother, I admit our army is powerful. But precisely because it is powerful, we should be steady. If we simply follow the plan and join the other armies, we create an absolute, overwhelming advantage. That is the most secure path to victory."
"Secure! Secure! Secure!" Jason waved a hand impatiently from his white horse.
"I don't understand you. Do you look down on our own army? Do you truly think this march is fraught with peril?"
"Brother, that isn't what I meant..."
"My mind is made up," Jason said decisively, leaving no room for argument.
"The advantage is entirely ours. How can those Riverlands peasants in boiled leather fight us? They don't even have proper steel, let alone armor. Once our lions charge, we will leave them with nothing but the mud they stand in."
Tyland fell silent. He knew he couldn't move his stubborn brother.
Jason Lannister had been like this since childhood; once he made up his mind, nine oxen couldn't pull him back.
When their father was still alive, he often said his eldest son was "as proud as a lion, and as foolish as a real lion."
Seeing his twin was silent, Jason patted his shoulder affectionately.
"Rest easy, Tyland. In this war, I will show every noble in the Seven Kingdoms just how powerful we Lannisters truly are."
Tyland gave a bitter smile and said nothing.
"My Lord!"
A voice called from the distance.
Tyland looked up to see a group of horsemen galloping toward them, led by a noble in highly ornate armor.
He was followed by several attendants and a massive, horse-drawn iron carriage.
Jason's eyes lit up when he saw the contents of the carriage.
"Lord Reyne!"
Lord Reyne dismounted and bowed deeply to Jason, then pointed at the iron carriage with a triumphant smile.
"My Lord, my house obtained this recently through trade with the Eastern Continent. Knowing you were preparing to lead the army personally, I brought it as a gift for you."
Behind the thick iron bars of the carriage, two massive lions lay resting.
Their fur shimmered like spun gold in the sunlight; though caged, their aura as the Kings of Beasts remained undiminished.
Jason was overjoyed. He dismounted and walked quickly to the carriage, circling it as he looked at the two lions with awe.
"Good! Good! Excellent!"
He turned to his vassal.
"Lord Reyne, I accept this magnificent gift! Once we have won this war, I will reward you handsomely!"
Lord Reyne smiled broadly. "It is my absolute honor to serve you, My Lord."
The more Jason looked at the lions, the more he loved them.
"Take them to the front lines! Let the world see the lions of Lannister!"
Tyland looked at the two lions, and a sudden, ominous premonition welled up in his heart. Lions...
The Lannister sigil was a golden lion, but here were lions trapped behind iron bars, what was the true meaning of this?
He opened his mouth to say something, but in the end, he remained silent.
Jason Lannister remounted his white stallion and shouted to his army, "March!"
The eight thousand Westerland elites slowly began to move, their golden lion banners fluttering fiercely in the wind.
From within their iron cage, the two lions let out a low, deep roar that echoed over the waters of Lannisport.
-----
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