- Za Wurodo! -
As the conquest of Harrenhall became widespread—as Mattias made sure it would—he did nothing to hide his presence. He was not afraid of armies forming. If anything, he welcomed it. The greater the coalition, the easier it would be to justify crushing them all at once.
Mattias allowed information to leak deliberately, planting seeds of fear and uncertainty among the great houses. Civil war and rebellion would bloom on their own, without him needing to lift a single finger.
In war, it is the morale of a realm that keeps it from collapsing. But if rulers were foolish enough to challenge a man commanding dragons and wielding unknown sorcery, then their subjects would begin to question them. And once doubt takes root, loyalty becomes negotiable.
Honor and glory made good stories for singers and fools, but Mattias understood their limits. Honor did not feed starving levies or protect villages from dragonfire. Glory did not keep cowards from fleeing, nor did it stop ambitious lords from switching allegiances when the wind shifted. In the real world, armies followed strength, not idealism—and rulers who clung to 'honor' in the face of overwhelming power were often remembered only as corpses.
Mattias knew this truth well: reputations win more battles than swords. And his enemies' reputation…was not well liked.
Furthermore, enemies are rarely the true reason a nation collapses. More often, it is its own people that deliver the killing blow. Civil war topples kingdoms long before invaders do—ambitious lords clawing for power they are incapable of wielding, factions tearing at each other for pride, greed, or fear. A realm rots from within before it crumbles from without.
Mattias understood this. He did not waste energy worrying about the inner politics of Westeros because he knew they would destroy themselves in the face of his pressure. He simply advanced—leading, conquering, and moving forward without the delusion of grand ideals or heroic dreams.
To him, taking a land was not 'grand ambition.' It was merely an action. Holding it, shaping it, preventing it from fracturing under its own weight—that was the real challenge. Conquest was simple. Stability required competence. Most kings in Westeros had one, but not the other.
Mattias' philosophy was painfully pragmatic: power is not measured by the land you claim, but by how easily you keep it from devouring itself.
The [Grandmaster Leadership] skill was extraordinary—almost unfair in how much it simplified his work. Yet Mattias knew it did not grant him abilities he lacked; it merely smoothed what he was already capable of. It amplified his natural authority, made his commands resonate more deeply, and caused doubt to wither before it could take root. His people followed because they believed he could give them what they sought—stability, victory, and purpose—not because they were magically chained to him.
Even so, Mattias understood the difference between compelled loyalty and genuine loyalty. In that regard, he was fortunate. The Stark men were among the most honorable and steadfast soldiers in Westeros—loyal to a fault, disciplined, and fiercely committed once they pledged their swords. The Tully forces followed closely behind: principled, dutiful, and anchored in the ideals of order and justice.
Both houses provided him the kind of backbone most conquerors could only dream of—soldiers who did not require fear to stand firm, who did not break ranks because the wind changed, and who valued duty more than their own lives.
With such men at his side, Mattias knew conquest was inevitable. Stability—true, lasting control—was the part he had to earn.
Though for now, most of his strength lay with the Tully host. The bulk of the Stark forces had already departed with Catelyn and Arya, marching north to reclaim Winterfell from the Boltons under Darius' command.
Mattias held no doubts about Darius' ability to win battles—the man was born for strategy and combat. What he doubted was Darius' ability to maintain political control should Mattias ever leave him there to govern an entire kingdom. Strength wins wars; wisdom keeps them. Darius had one in abundance, the other somewhat less.
Still, it mattered little. The board moved as Mattias intended.
The war room was dim, lit only by iron braziers that cast long shadows across stone walls. Mattias sat before a large carved chessboard made of blackened weirwood and pale heart-tree bone. Each piece represented one of Westeros' great houses—lions, stags, krakens, suns, roses, falcons.
He moved a lion piece first, sliding it directly into a trap of his own design.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"The Westerlands panic," he murmured.
The lion was surrounded on three sides by sleek Noxian helm-shaped pieces—his army.
Next came the stag. He positioned it awkwardly, as if stumbling into a conflict it barely understood.
"The Stormlands react—late, confused, and marching exactly where I push them."
He nudged the rose piece representing the Reach between two emerging fronts.
"They still think themselves the realm's balance."
A small chuckle escaped him.
"They are not."
A kraken was moved outward, bold and reckless.
"The Ironborn will raid. They always raid."
A Noxian blade-shaped piece slid behind it like a shadow.
"Predictable tools are still useful tools."
Piece by piece, Mattias arranged every faction, each believing they acted of their own free will—when in truth, his rumors, fears, and opportunities were guiding their hands.
Finally, he reached for the wolf piece—Stark.
But unlike the others, he did not push it into danger, nor maneuver it as a pawn.
He moved it north with deliberate respect, placing it where the Boltons awaited.
"My allies reclaim what is rightfully theirs," Mattias said softly.
"And with Winterfell restored, the North grows stronger. For my lovers, and for the stability of this continent."
He tapped the wolf piece firmly, sealing the move.
"The Starks walk their own path. And I will not hinder it."
Closing the board, Mattias surveyed the room, the firelight gleaming in his eyes.
"Let the rest scramble, panic, and tear each other apart."
A slow smile formed.
"Every choice they make brings my victory closer."
He shut the board.
"Check."
Far from Harrenhal, in King's Landing at the Red Keep, the Small Council had gathered in the familiar chamber known as the council hall. The hall was a long room with high, vaulted ceilings, its walls adorned with banners of the Baratheon stag and the Lannister lion. Light filtered through tall, narrow windows, casting long patterns over the polished stone floor and the table that dominated the room's center. This was where the kingdom's affairs were managed, and where whispers of power often carried more weight than armies.
Seated around the table were the key players of the realm:
King Joffrey Baratheon, the young and cruel "Incest-Born" king, sat stiffly in his chair, his golden hair catching the sunlight, a crown atop his head that seemed too large for his narrow shoulders. Known for his capricious temper, Joffrey was as quick to anger as he was to order executions, and his inexperience made him easily influenced.
Queen Regent Cersei Lannister, Joffrey's mother. A woman of beauty of allure who used this to her advantage to maintain control and manipulate anyone she desires.
Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Hand of the King, sat at the head of the table. Every line in his face spoke of authority and ruthlessness, a man who saw the realm as a game and knew exactly which pieces must be sacrificed. His presence alone commanded respect and fear.
Grand Maester Pycelle, an elderly man in flowing robes, carried the weight of tradition and knowledge. His counsel was often ignored, but his presence was essential, as he was the keeper of histories and the crown's learned advisor.
Varys, the spymaster known as the "Spider," moved quietly at the edges of the council. Cloaked in muted colors, he listened more than he spoke, each gesture deliberate. His web of informants and little birds gave him knowledge that rivaled any army in the realm.
Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, sat with an air of sly confidence, his sharp eyes always calculating. Though he handled the finances of the realm, his true strength lay in manipulation and scheming. Every word he spoke seemed carefully chosen, as if the threads of future events were spun through his mind before reaching his tongue.
The Small Council itself was the king's advisory body, composed of the realm's most trusted and skilled advisors. Its purpose was to manage the day-to-day affairs of Westeros: from diplomacy and taxation to intelligence and justice.
Though the king had ultimate authority, it was within this chamber that the decisions that shaped the kingdom were debated, plotted, and enforced.
"As you all know, I have received news of Harrenhall's downfall," Tywin began, his voice heavy as he held the raven that carried the grim tidings.
Joffrey sneered, tossing his hand dismissively. "Dragons? Bah! Nonsense. Anyone who believes such tales is a fool. I am the king! No mere fairy tale beast can dare touch my realm."
He leaned back in his chair, a cruel smirk curling across his lips. "Perhaps the peasants there deserved it. I hope they burned well. What a spectacle it must have been… screaming, running, begging. Truly, the world is entertaining when others suffer."
Cersei shot him a sharp glance, warning him silently to temper his cruelty in front of the council, but Joffrey only laughed, a high-pitched, mocking sound that echoed in the hall.
"Let them fear. Let them know that the king tolerates no weakness. I would have crushed them myself if given the chance."
Varys spoke carefully, his voice low but sharp, "My lords, my spies—my little birds—have brought whispers and rumors of a man unlike any other. They call him the 'Man from Nowhere,' 'Conqueror of Harrenhal,' 'Second Coming of Aegon the Conqueror,' 'The Dragon Monarch,' 'Scourge of Kings,' even… 'A God.'"
He paused, letting the weight of the titles hang in the room before continuing.
"It is said he commands a dragon with three heads. Unlike normal dragons, which have only two legs and a pair of wings, this creature has four legs and a set of wings growing from its back. They say he wields magic that can bend iron to his will, and moves with a speed no mortal can match.
His soldiers… they carry strange instruments of war, far deadlier than crossbows, though I do not know their names. And their armor… Valyrian steel, the finest ever forged."
Hearing the news, the council members' faces hardened with dread, but Tywin Lannister remained an unshaken pillar of calm. Behind his composed exterior, his mind worked like a machine, weighing the grim reality: no force in Westeros could hope to overcome a conqueror with dragons, unknown sorcery, and an army armed with weapons beyond comprehension.
For Tywin, personal pride meant nothing compared to the survival of his house. Born into the lion's legacy, he had grown up in the shadow of Lannister ambition and ruin—his father, Tytos, a weak lord whose indecisiveness had left the family nearly bankrupt and humiliated.
Tywin had spent decades painstakingly restoring the wealth, power, and fearsome reputation of House Lannister, eliminating rivals, bending kings to his will, and ensuring that the Lannister name commanded respect. To him, failure was not an option; the preservation of his legacy was the ultimate measure of a man's worth.
Even with his cunning, he realized the stark truth: the foreign conqueror had the loyalty of the Starks and Tullys. Any attempt to leverage Cersei as a bargaining piece might fail or even backfire, further endangering the family name. Tywin's logical mind calculated the cold alternatives: sacrifice, deception, and tactical submission if necessary.
'If the survival of the Lannister name demands it, I will offer anything even the life of my own grandson because legacy is not preserved through sentiment, only through survival and power.'
Tywin's approach was always pragmatic. Honor, glory, or vengeance mattered only insofar as they strengthened the house. He would not act rashly; every decision would be measured, calculated, and precise, aimed at maintaining the influence, wealth, and terror of his family name.