Watching this family drama, Mysaria had to cough lightly to draw everyone's attention.
"There is good news."
"Yes?" a knight of House Kael could not help but ask.
Mysaria smiled faintly. "The North has decided to join us."
This time, genuine applause broke out in the hall.
"The North!" The Celtigar representative was so excited his beard lifted. "Stark has finally moved!"
"How many men?" Corlys asked.
"First, five thousand will march south to the Riverlands. More than thirty thousand more are being mobilized afterward—the Winter Wolves," Mysaria's voice carried an undeniable smile. "Under the command of Lord Cregan Stark himself."
Daemon frowned. "I tried to persuade him personally. He was indifferent."
Mysaria's smile deepened. "Because the Greens' puppet king, Aegon the Second, ordered the southern kingdoms not to allow grain shipments north. Moreover, the food that was originally meant to be sent to the North was prioritized for King's Landing, which was facing a food shortage."
Silence fell over the hall for a moment, then burst into laughter.
"Aegon, that fool!" A knight of House Kael laughed and slapped his thigh. "He's pushing the North into our arms!"
"The North was already preparing for winter," Mysaria explained. "The long winter approaches. Their grain stores can last up to two years, but an ordinary long winter lasts four to six years. If the South does not send them food, half the northern people will starve. Cregan Stark has no choice but to march south for food. He doesn't care who he takes it from—he'll take it first."
Daemon and Corlys exchanged glances and smiled—they had not expected Aegon to help them so much.
"In terms of military strength, we will not lose to the Greens," Daemon stood, walked to the stone table, and looked at the densely placed small banners on the map. "The North has more than thirty thousand men. The Vale can muster three thousand knights, eight thousand squires and men-at-arms. The Riverlands can scrape together twenty thousand. Add our own men and the Volantene allies..."
"But the key is the dragons," Rhaenyra interrupted. "If we can kill that bastard Aemond, the Greens will collapse."
Silence fell in the hall.
Aemond Targaryen, a sixteen-year-old dragonrider, commanded the largest dragon today, Vhagar, and the abnormally fast-growing black dragon Lothron.
"I certainly cannot face him alone," Daemon had to admit. "That boy is a monster. My brother Viserys the First created a monster. More precisely, we created such a monster together."
Daemon burst into laughter, the sound echoing through the stone hall as he looked at his wife.
"But do not worry, Rhaenyra. Even if I die, I will take that good nephew of mine with me."
Rhaenyra looked at him with a heavy gaze. She wanted to say something, but in the end remained silent.
"Has the letter been delivered?" Daemon looked at Mysaria.
Mysaria nodded. "He has received it."
Corlys was silent. He knew who they were talking about—Laenor Velaryon, his son, Rhaenyra's former husband, the man who had "faked his death" years ago and now lived across the Narrow Sea. If Laenor learned that his mother Rhaenys was dead, the son would surely take up responsibility and avenge his mother.
"He will be my bastard son," Corlys finally spoke, his voice hoarse. "I will join the battle in the name of my bastard son."
The vassals of Dragonstone exchanged glances, not understanding what they meant. But Rhaenyra nodded. "We need him. He will be our sharp blade."
Daemon looked at the bewildered vassals and waved his hand. "All of you, withdraw."
The vassals left the Stone Table hall with faces full of doubt, leaving only Rhaenyra, Daemon, Corlys, Mysaria, and Sara in the corner.
Daemon walked to the stone table and looked at the broken map. His finger traced across the map—from Dragonstone to Pentos, from Pentos to the Stepstones, from the Stepstones to the Riverlands.
"Next," he said slowly, "let Laenor ride Seasmoke and join Nettles and Sheepstealer to aid the Volantene fleet, find an opportunity to secretly attack the Braavosi fleet stationed at Pentos."
His finger moved to the Reach. "Where is the Hightower army now?"
Mysaria replied, "It is nearly at the Bitterbridge. Their next target should be Tumbleton."
"Tumbleton..." Daemon smiled. "Tumbleton, a good place."
He raised his head and looked at Rhaenyra. "I will take Sara to attack Daeron. If we are lucky, we can kill that child."
"I will go too," Queen Rhaenyra stood and looked at him.
Daemon shook his head. "Yes, but I will be the one to do it. As Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, you should not be stained with the reputation of a kinslayer."
Rhaenyra looked at him; a complex feeling flickered in her eyes. Daemon had always been like this—taking the dirtiest, most exhausting tasks upon himself, bearing the worst reputation. In King's Landing, they called him the "Lord of Flea Bottom"; in the future, they would call him "kinslayer."
"Aemond is expected to go to Rook's Rest and organize the army to attack the city," Daemon continued. "We will just strike him at a different time. By the time he reacts, Daeron will already be dead, the Hightower army will be leaderless, and their morale will scatter."
All nodded in agreement.
---
The Westerlands, Lannisport.
The golden sun shone on the waters of Lannisport, creating a shimmering scene. Outside the city, the Westerlands army was densely gathered, the golden lion banners of House Lannister snapping in the wind.
Lord Jason Lannister rode a white stallion, looking triumphantly at his army.
Eight thousand men. Fully eight thousand elites from the Westerlands—all well-equipped warriors in helmets and armor. House Lannister was rich—who in the Seven Kingdoms did not know that? Their soldiers wore the finest armor, carried the finest swords, and ate the finest food.
Watching the troops in lion-red armor march past, Lord Jason's heart swelled with pride.
"Tyland!" he shouted to the side. "Look! This is an army! This is a lion!"
Hand of the King Tyland Lannister rode a red horse and followed his brother expressionlessly. He had already tried to persuade him thoroughly—his mouth was nearly worn out—but this proud brother simply would not listen.
"Brother," the Hand spoke again, a note of helplessness in his voice. "We should follow Prince Aemond's orders, march to the Crag, then take the Gold Road to King's Landing to join the Hightower army. That is the safest route."
Lord Jason waved his finger in disapproval. "No, no, no, Tyland, you are still too conservative. We will march to the Golden Tooth, then go directly to our destination—Harrenhal—to meet them. We will pass through Riverrun and frighten the Riverlands trout."
"Brother!" Tyland's voice rose slightly. "This is Prince Aemond's order! We should—"
"Prince Aemond?" Lord Jason interrupted, a mocking smile on his face. "Tyland, have you changed from a proud lion to a tame dog all these years in King's Landing?"
Tyland's face changed.
Lord Jason continued. "We are Lannisters! I am the Lord of the West! We support them because of our vassal oath. But that does not mean I am their dog! Whatever they want, we do?"
He pointed at the passing troops. "Do you see this? Eight thousand elites! The best-equipped army in the Seven Kingdoms! Prince Aemond? I acknowledge his dragon is strong. But when it comes to war, he is still a suckling babe. What strategy does he know? What does he know of marching? What does he know of war?"
Tyland drew a deep breath and tried to speak calmly. "Brother, I acknowledge that our army is strong. But precisely because we are strong, we should fight steadily. If we follow these steps and join with the other armies to gain absolute advantage, that is the safest path."
"Safe! Steady!" Lord Jason on his white horse waved his hand impatiently. "Do I not understand? Are you looking down on the Westerlands army? Is our march not more than favorable?"
"Brother, that is not what I meant..."
"I have made my decision," Lord Jason said decisively. "I have the advantage. How can those peasants in leather armor fight us? They don't even have proper weapons, let alone armor. When our lions charge, we can slaughter them without leaving a single suit of armor."
Tyland was silent. He knew he could not persuade this stubborn brother. Jason Lannister had been like this since childhood; he would not change course even if you pulled him with nine oxen. When their father was still alive, he often said that the eldest son Jason was "as proud as a lion and as stupid as a real lion."
Seeing his brother silent, Lord Jason reached out and patted his shoulder. "Do not worry, Tyland. In this war, I will let all the nobles of the Seven Kingdoms know how powerful we Lannisters are."
Tyland smiled bitterly and said nothing.
"My lord!"
A voice came from a distance. Tyland looked up and saw a group of people riding toward them, led by a noble in magnificent armor, followed by several attendants and two huge iron wagons.
Lord Jason's eyes lit up when he saw what was inside. "Lord Reyne!"
Lord Reyne dismounted, saluted Lord Jason, and then pointed at the iron wagon with a smug smile.
"My lord, these are what my house recently obtained from the eastern continent. I heard you were going on an expedition and specially present them to you."
Behind the iron bars of the wagon lay two enormous lions. Their fur gleamed golden in the sun, and though they were locked in cages, the aura of the king of beasts had not diminished at all.
Lord Jason was delighted. He dismounted, quickly walked to the iron wagon, looked around, and examined the two lions, his eyes full of wonder. "Good! Excellent! Excellent!"
He turned to Lord Reyne. "Lord Reyne, I accept your gift! When we win, I will surely reward you generously!"
Lord Reyne smiled and bowed. "It is an honor to serve my lord."
Lord Jason looked at the two lions, and the more he looked, the more he liked them. "Take them to the front! Show the world the Lannister lion!"
Tyland looked at the two lions, and a sudden sense of foreboding rose in his heart.
Lions. House Lannister's sigil is a golden lion, but what does it mean that the lion is now in a cage?
He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but in the end remained silent.
Lord Jason had already mounted his horse and shouted to his army, "Forward!"
The eight thousand elites of the Westerlands slowly moved forward, the golden lion banner snapping in the wind. The two lions locked in the wagons let out low roars, their voices echoing through Lannisport.
╔══════════════════════╗
📘 Want more?
Join me on Patreon for bonus chapters
and early access!
🔗 https://www.patreon.com/cw/OverlordD
╚══════════════════════╝