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Game of Thrones: Azeroth? This Is Westeros!
Game of Thrones: Starborn Conqueror
Game of Thrones: My Pets Evolve Into Dragons
Game of Thrones: Joffrey the Ruthless Emperor
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When Euron Greyjoy's silhouette appeared once more on the docks of Gulltown, the vital port city had been completely transformed.
The red three-headed dragon banners of House Targaryen had all been torn down, replaced by the sky-blue falcon and crescent moon of House Arryn.
The faint scent of blood and smoke still lingered in the air, a silent testament to the brutal purge that had just taken place. The royalist forces that once entrenched themselves here had been ripped out by the roots.
Of House Grafton, only Gerold Grafton survived; the rest had fallen in battle. In the most conspicuous spot in Gulltown, the head of Essen Arryn was impaled high on a spear. The face that had once been full of ambition was now twisted and stiff, swaying slowly in the salty breeze, empty sockets staring at everyone who entered or left.
Without a word, his final state served as the clearest possible warning to every lord and noble in the Vale: This is the price of choosing to support the Mad King, Aerys II.
High above, the white towers of the Eyrie pierced the clouds like spears. All the key bannermen of the Vale had answered the summons and gathered here, solemnly awaiting the final war orders from their liege lord, Jon Arryn.
The air was thick with the tension of a gathering storm.
Euron and his Ironborn army stayed at the Eyrie for two days, during which he received the latest intelligence from King's Landing and the North from Lord Arryn.
When Euron heard about the personnel changes in King's Landing, even he had to admit that the Mad King, amidst his fury, had finally made a decision that followed the logic of war.
The former Hand of the King, Lord Owen Merryweather, was deemed a useless old man by Aerys II due to his hesitation and weakness at the start of the conflict. In a fit of rage, the King stripped him of all titles and lands and exiled him across the Narrow Sea.
Replacing him was Lord Jon Connington.
This new Hand was one of the few close friends and steadfast followers of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. He was proud, brave, full of passion, and had a burning desire for glory. He was also a seasoned warrior and a capable commander. His beard was neatly trimmed, and though age had etched lines around his eyes, his face remained as hard as rock.
More interestingly, Jon Connington had once served as a squire to Prince Rhaegar at the Red Keep. There were whispered rumors that he held a devotion to the "Silver Prince" that went beyond loyalty—an unrequited admiration that bordered on love, privately referring to Rhaegar as "my Silver Prince." This complex emotion was perhaps the deep motivation driving him to take command in this crisis and prop up the teetering Targaryen dynasty.
Compared to the old and conservative Owen Merryweather, the vigorous and aggressive Jon Connington was undoubtedly a far more suitable Hand for wartime. Aerys desperately needed a banner that could match Robert Baratheon in energy and presence, and Jon Connington fit the bill perfectly.
The second piece of news came from the North.
In the courtyard of Winterfell, the cold wind whipped the Direwolf banner of House Stark.
Eddard Stark—the newly minted Lord of the North—stood on the dais, wrapped in heavy grey furs. His face was even harder than when he left, his eyes heavy with the grief of losing his father and brother, and an unshakable resolve.
The horrific torture and murder of Lord Rickard and his heir Brandon in King's Landing had swept across every inch of the North like a winter gale. The atrocities of the Mad King were not just a persecution of House Stark, but an insult and provocation to the entire North. This naked cruelty ignited the fury stored in the chest of every Northern bannerman.
No excessive speeches were needed. Loyalty and the will for vengeance had tightly bound this vast, cold land together.
House Bolton, House Umber, House Karstark, House Manderly... every vassal, large and small, regardless of their past closeness to Winterfell, sent their armies to answer Eddard Stark's call. They might have had doubts about the young lord's experience, but the conviction to share the burden of House Stark's blood debt superseded everything.
Now, the massive Northern host was assembled.
Spears stood like a forest, warhorses neighed, and the white breath of the soldiers merged into a fog in the freezing air. With a command from Ned, this army, carrying a sea of blood debt, began its march south like a surging glacial river. Their target was singular: King's Landing.
---
On the high terrace of the Eyrie, the cold wind swept over the snow-capped eaves. Euron threw his black velvet cloak over his shoulder, his gaze fixed on the mountain ranges to the northeast.
"Lord Jon, the Northern army should be reaching the Neck soon." He tapped his fingers lightly on the granite railing. "I'll take the Ironborn and leave today to meet Lord Eddard at the Twins."
Jon Arryn rubbed his crescent moon brooch, deep in thought. "The Vale forces will march in three days. But..." He suddenly let out a cold sneer. "I need to make the wildlings of the Mountains of the Moon understand the situation first."
Euron smirked. "Did those cave dwellers steal your sheep again?"
"Raiding caravans is tolerable in normal times," Jon's knuckles whitened as he gripped the rail. "But if they dare cause trouble behind my back now..." His unfinished sentence froze in the air with his breath.
"Actually, if you could recruit them," Euron suddenly curled his lips into a smile, "wildlings who dare to wrestle shadowcats with their bare hands would make for an instant elite force."
Jon looked at the undulating silhouette of the distant mountains, sighing with a bitter smile. "Do you think I haven't wanted to? I tried twenty years ago..." He shook his head, then slammed his gilded cane heavily on the ground. "But this time, they must remember who is the Lord of the Vale!"
Euron turned, his black robe flapping like raven wings. "Then I wish for your falcon banners to fly on every peak." His footsteps faded as he descended the spiral staircase, his last words carried back by the wind: "See you at Harrenhal."
Prince Oberyn Martell leaned lazily against a marble pillar in the Eyrie's great hall. Hearing the conversation between Euron and Jon, he shrugged, a playful smile touching his lips.
"I marched all the way from Sunspear, crossing mountains and rivers to get here, and I haven't fought a decent battle yet. My hands are itching." He flexed his long fingers, his eyes glinting like a hunter's. "I hope Lord Jon will let me see just what these legendary wildlings of the Mountains of the Moon are capable of."
Jon Arryn laughed loudly, the sound echoing in the empty hall. "Prince Oberyn, the real war is far from started." He walked to the window, looking down at the mist-shrouded valley below. "So far, we haven't even clashed with the main royal army. And our ultimate goal—King's Landing—isn't a city that falls easily. The walls of the Red Keep are a hundred feet high, the Blackwater Rush is a natural barrier, and the entire Royal Fleet is on guard..."
He turned to face Oberyn, his gaze deepening. "When the time comes, there will be plenty of chances for you to show your skills."
Oberyn raised an eyebrow, unhooking a wineskin from his belt and taking a swig. "I'll be waiting then. But until that time..." He wiped the wine from his lips, a dangerous light flashing in his eyes. "I really wouldn't mind meeting those mountain savages that give even the Falcon of the Vale a headache."