The plains of Myr stretched endlessly beneath the sky, flat and open as far as the eye could see. From horizon to horizon, dust clouds rose like dark smudges against the pale blue, heralding the approach of the Dothraki. They advanced like a living storm—vast, relentless, and impossible to ignore.
A chaotic era was dawning.
In the East, war gathered like thunder.
In the West, blood had already begun to flow.
Gendry stood atop the earthen ramparts, his cloak snapping sharply in the wind. Below him, the ground had been transformed into a fortress of preparation and intent. Several layers of anti-cavalry fences were driven deep into the soil, sharpened stakes angled outward like the teeth of a beast. Beneath them, wide trenches had been dug—some concealed, others filled with sharpened wooden spikes meant to break both horse and rider.
Four great banners fluttered above the fortifications, each bearing a different sigil. Their bold colors stood defiant against the open plain, symbols of unity and power meant to strike fear into the hearts of the Dothraki.
Behind Gendry stood Qyburn. Though the old maester's hair was white and his face lined with age, his posture remained straight, his eyes keen and observant. Time had not dulled his mind. To Gendry's left were Anguy and Grey Wolf, both silent, both watching the distant horizon.
"Your Highness," Qyburn said, his voice calm but deliberate, "the situation in King's Landing—and across Westeros—has changed significantly."
Gendry did not turn. "Because of Tyrion?"
"Yes. Because of the Imp, the wolf and the lion have fractured completely." Qyburn clasped his hands behind his back. "The Kingslayer attacked Lord Eddard in the streets at night, killing his men, and fled King's Landing before dawn. Meanwhile, the Mountain and other forces sent by Lord Tywin are ravaging the Riverlands under the guise of banditry."
Gendry's eyes narrowed slightly. "So Tywin has chosen blood."
"He always does," Qyburn replied. "In King's Landing itself, matters are no less turbulent. Lord Eddard has temporarily imprisoned Littlefinger in the dungeons beneath the Red Keep."
"That is… unexpected." Gendry finally turned. "Littlefinger has always been a man who slips through nets. Stark must be truly desperate."
"Or truly determined," Qyburn said. "Still, as long as Lord Stark remains in King's Landing, the situation is at a stalemate."
"The Riverlands won't be so fortunate."
"No." Qyburn sighed softly. "They are already bleeding. Lord Hoster Tully is gravely ill, barely able to rise from his bed. Command has fallen to his son, Ser Edmure—young, impulsive, and untested."
"Tywin will strike hard," Gendry said thoughtfully. "He will send men through the Golden Tooth. Edmure will respond by dispatching Lords Vance and Piper to guard the crossings, but they won't hold against Tywin—or Jaime, if he returns."
"The Riverlands are wealthy," Qyburn continued, "but fractured. Like the Reach, they are filled with powerful lords, each with their own ambitions. House Tully's authority, granted by the Conqueror, has always been… fragile."
Anguy crossed his arms. "Too many lords who don't like being told what to do."
"Precisely," Qyburn said. "House Bracken and House Blackwood feud endlessly. House Vance and House Piper guard vital roads. The Freys control the Twins and the crossing of the Trident. House Mallister of Seagard boasts ancient blood and strong defenses. House Mooton of Maidenpool is wealthy and well-positioned."
"And Harrenhal," Gendry added quietly.
"Yes." Qyburn nodded. "A monstrous castle, fit only for kings—or curses."
Anguy shuddered. "Everyone's heard the stories. That place eats its masters."
Qyburn chuckled softly. "Once, Harrenhal belonged to House Harroway. In their time, they were the greatest vassals of House Tully. Minisa Harroway herself married Lord Hoster. But the curse has not spared them. Their line withers year by year."
Gendry committed each name to memory. One day, he would deal with all of them.
"What of Catelyn Stark?" Anguy asked. "That woman stirred this whole mess. Where did she run off to?"
"The Eyrie," Qyburn replied. "After the failed abduction, she was seen on the mountain road. Her red hair makes her hard to miss. Lady Lysa is… devoted to Littlefinger. If she hears of his imprisonment, Lady Catelyn may find herself unable to leave."
"So Stark's family is scattered," Anguy muttered. "Children in King's Landing, wife in the Vale, boys ruling Winterfell."
"A dangerous position," Qyburn agreed. "Winterfell will likely call its banners soon. Once they do, this war will consume the Riverlands entirely."
"There are two keys to the war," Gendry said. "King's Landing and Harrenhal. The capital is the heart of the realm, but Harrenhal is the crossroads."
"Do you intend to take King's Landing?" Qyburn asked.
Gendry shook his head. "Not yet. It's a port city—too exposed, too difficult to govern. The people there are volatile. Harrenhal is more… useful."
"And many lords of the Crownlands and Riverlands once supported the King," Qyburn added. "If we move swiftly and decisively, they will bend the knee."
Anguy's expression hardened. "I want Tywin. And the Mountain."
"You will have them," Gendry said evenly. "But first, we end Khal Drogo."
The three men turned as one toward the distant dust cloud.
"When the Dothraki advance another half-day," Gendry continued, "we prepare for a night raid."
"Yes, Your Highness," Anguy said.
"I will return to Westeros," Gendry said quietly. "Sooner than many expect."
He paused, gazing westward. "There is said to be a white stag in the Kingswood. Only the chosen may hunt it."
Qyburn's eyes gleamed—but he said nothing.
Inside the Tower of the Hand, the air was thick with tension.
"Is this your justice?" Eddard Stark demanded, his voice trembling with restrained fury. "If so, then I am glad I no longer serve as your Hand."
Politics, he thought bitterly, should not be this hollow.
Cersei Lannister sneered. "If anyone spoke to a Targaryen king that way—"
"Do you take me for Aerys?" Robert interrupted sharply.
"I take you for the King of the Seven Kingdoms," she replied coldly. "Your kin have been attacked, insulted, humiliated—and you do nothing."
Robert's face darkened. "Enough."
"You cower," Cersei continued. "You ask if his leg pains him, offer him wine, while he insults you to your face."
Robert struck her.
The sound echoed through the chamber.
She fell, silent, touching her swelling cheek. "I will wear this as a badge of honor."
"Wear it quietly," Robert growled.
Later, alone with Eddard, the King seemed smaller somehow.
"Come hunting with me tomorrow," Robert said softly. "We'll talk then."
Eddard nodded.
He had no choice.
Far to the south, beneath the orange trees of Dorne, Prince Doran Martell sat in his chair as ripe blood oranges fell and burst upon the marble floor.
"The Water Gardens are still beautiful," he murmured.
"They are," Oberyn replied. "But the world is burning."
"I fear you'll die," Doran said quietly.
"I fear doing nothing more," Oberyn answered, smiling. "Everyone is hunting now. And I wish to hunt as well."
"To kill the Mountain?"
"Yes."
"No one has ever killed a viper," Oberyn said softly.
And somewhere, far away, war answered him.
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