Gods Gate loomed wide and magnificent, its iron gates and stone façade carved with meticulous detail. The eyes of the Seven Gods seemed to follow every passerby, observing all who entered and departed the city. The grandeur of the gate reflected not just the wealth of King's Landing but the weight of power resting behind it.
Leading the army were thousands of knights, their expressions fierce, their spirits high, and their armor gleaming silver under the bright morning sun. Countless banners snapped sharply in the wind, creating a kaleidoscope of color against the grey stone of the city. Behind them, the streets thronged with life, yet even in the crowd, one could feel the pulse of fear and anticipation; these were the footsteps of conquest and authority.
Along the sides of the street, brothels overflowed with activity. Prostitutes waved handkerchiefs, reluctantly bidding farewell to the men of the North. In just over half a month, these soldiers had spent an amount of gold dragons that would usually take a full year to amass. Though each soldier spent modestly, the sheer numbers made the brothels and taverns along Silk Street brim with wealth and laughter. The Northern men were young, strong, and vigorous, yet disciplined: they did not strike indiscriminately, paid promptly, and left only after completing their business. Such patrons were rare, even in a city like King's Landing.
Eddard Karstark looked back as his army moved forward. From a distant high platform, several monks preached to the gathered populace. Their sermons were likely filled with warnings and complaints, prompted by the wagons overflowing with gold dragons and treasures. Peddlers continued shouting their wares, while children were held back by cautious adults, ensuring they did not stumble into the ranks of the disciplined Northern soldiers. Ordinary citizens dared not speak against the army occupying the streets, faces blank, hearts heavy.
In the distance, the banner of Stannis Baratheon fluttered slowly over the Red Keep. Whether it was mere illusion or reality, a flash of orange-red light seemed to glint on the city walls. Eddard tugged sharply at his reins and shouted, "Go!" The soldiers surged forward, their long spears upright and gleaming like a moving forest of steel. Eddard, leading his retainers and Northern soldiers, advanced from Gods Gate, while Lord Royce commanded the Vale soldiers through Old Gate. Their paths converged along the Golden Road, their destination Harrenhal.
Meanwhile, a small contingent of Vale lords would travel from Ruby Ford to Bloody Gate, carrying Stannis Baratheon's decree to the Eyrie, tasked with arresting Littlefinger and Lysa Tully. Most accepted Allan's employment, ready to accompany him to the Westerlands to witness the grandeur of Casterly Rock and Lannisport.
Eddard's eyes fell on Kalas Snow, captain of his personal guard. "Pass along my orders," he commanded firmly. "No one is to race their horses. No one is to scatter livestock or trample farmland. No one is allowed to harass the people along the way. Violators will receive fifty lashes; those with severe offenses will be beheaded."
Kalas nodded, his expression loyal and resolute. "I will enforce it myself."
Though many whispered of bastards being fickle or treacherous, Eddard had never seen such qualities in Kalas. His loyalty was steadfast, his courage unquestionable.
A lazy, melodic voice interrupted the march. A richly decorated carriage, draped with purple curtains, drew alongside Eddard. The curtain lifted, revealing Prince Oberyn Martell's slightly wrinkled face. His dark, gleaming eyes glimmered like oil on water beneath finely arched brows. Bronze skin glowed against the sunlight, and his strong chest and muscles were exposed beneath a loose, sand-colored silk robe. In his arms lay his mistress, Ellaria Sand.
"Would you like to come in and sit, Lord Eddard?" Oberyn asked, his voice teasing.
Eddard's gaze fell on Ellaria, whose long, dark hair tumbled across her chest, obscuring yet revealing her beauty. She smiled, dark eyes sparkling with charm, yet Eddard remained unshaken.
"No need," he replied calmly. "Prince Oberyn, speaking of kindness, I recall once sending my subordinates to Sunspear with a gift for Your Grace Doran. They were attacked, and it was your men who saved them."
Oberyn raised a dark eyebrow, feigning innocence. "Was there such a thing? Perhaps, but that doesn't count for much."
Eddard pressed further, asking if Doran Martell had been dissatisfied with the gift. Oberyn confirmed that the gift had been well received. "House Martell was pleased. They even invited the lords of Dorne to Sunspear to denounce that blood-soaked bastard," Oberyn said, a wry grin on his face. "I also had the finest craftsman turn him into a specimen for all to remember."
Eddard, slightly puzzled, asked why then Dorne had refused his request for mercenaries. Oberyn leaned back, gesturing for Ellaria to pour him wine. "Why did you return King's Landing to Stannis Baratheon?" Eddard inquired.
"If it were me," Oberyn replied, swirling the crimson wine, "I would have taken the Iron Throne myself, forged the grandest crown, and reveled in the power of kingship. Any who opposed me would have been crushed."
Eddard shook his head. "Such an act would have torn the Riverlands apart, and the Crownlands and Stormlands would have suffered too. My vassals would be exhausted, and countless lives would be lost."
Oberyn chuckled, "You think like a man fifty years older. Worrying about territory, vassals, the lives of others—it is no way to enjoy life."
"I prefer results without unnecessary bloodshed," Eddard replied with a faint smile. "Patience often yields more than recklessness."
The Martell prince laughed heartily. "Your restraint will be remembered. My brother's gratitude for you far outweighs any desire for vengeance. Should the opportunity arise, it will be repaid."
Eddard returned the smile. "Good. I can wait."
Oberyn offered again, but Eddard refused firmly, pressing on with his procession. The Northern soldiers raised clouds of dust along the King's Road, loyal and disciplined, as the city gradually receded behind them.
---
Meanwhile, in the Stormlands, Cider Hall stood at the confluence of the Mander River and the Tumblestone. The ancestral seat of House Fossoway, its golden banner bore a red apple. Yet the Golden Apple army now served Stannis Baratheon. Facing the might of Tywin Lannister's tens of thousands of troops, the Fossoways opened their gates and surrendered, yielding the castle without resistance.
Inside the meeting hall, oil lamps flickered along the walls, casting light on a gathering of Westerosi lords. Tywin Lannister, dressed in a deep purple velvet coat with the golden Hand of the King chain resting against his chest, sat calmly at the head of the table. To his left were the pale-faced Duke of Tyrell, Ser Loras, Lord Rowan, and the heirs of House Redwyne—Ser Horas and Ser Hobber—representing their absent fathers.
To his right, the stern-faced Ser Adam Marbrand, Earl Roland Crakehall, Earl Charrion of Silverhill, and Ser Harys Swyft of Corn City listened intently. Behind them stood the towering figure of Sandor Clegane, the Hound, clad in black chainmail and a dog-head helmet.
Tywin's pale green eyes scanned the room. "Lord Tarly still refuses to appear?" he asked in a measured tone.
"Yes," Ser Loras confirmed. "The envoy I sent was denied an audience with the Lord himself; only Dickon Tarly received him. He claims Lord Tarly suffers from severe injuries and cannot serve the King."
Lord Rowan added in disbelief, "But Ser Marvin Flowers reported that Lord Tarly withdrew strategically and did not engage Eddard Karstark at all."
"Yes," Loras replied, "yet Dickon claimed he witnessed Eddard Karstark using magic—a bolt of lightning exploded near him."
"Magic?" murmured the lords.
"Lightning?" repeated Ser Adam Marbrand, his anger flaring. "That word disappeared from Westeros long ago! How dare he refuse the Hand of the King's summons!"
Tywin remained calm. "Perhaps. Yet there were reports at the time of Ser Gregor Clegane's death, that Eddard Karstark imbued his spear with rainbow light. I thought it was sunlight or imagination, but now it seems he is growing in power." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "Still, loyal soldiers can exhaust such tricks on the battlefield. Fear is not required."
"Earl Crakehall," Tywin continued, "update us on the Westerlands."
The skeletal figure of Earl Roland Crakehall rose, recounting the dire situation: Blackfish had besieged Lannisport and Casterly Rock. Areas around Cleftjaw and Crakehall were occupied. Kayce and Feastfires resisted under siege. Deep Den had fallen, and the Golden Road was blocked. Only Crakehall, Silverhill, and Corn City remained untouched.
"My Lord," Crakehall concluded, "we must return to the Westerlands immediately!"
Tywin's calm gaze swept over his lords, yet the air was tense, heavy as a storm on the horizon.
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