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The golden halls of Casterly Rock had never felt so tense. Lord Tywin Lannister stood before the great window overlooking Lannisport, his hands clasped behind his back, reading the raven's message for the third time. The parchment bore the seal of their agents in King's Landing, and the words within made his jaw clench imperceptibly.
"Jaime was defeated," he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of a landslide. "In front of the King and the Small Council. A demonstration that became a humiliation."
Ser Kevan Lannister, standing near the door, cleared his throat carefully. "The reports are consistent, brother. The King demanded a display of the northerner's martial prowess and chose our Jaime to face Arthur Snow." He paused, choosing his words with the delicacy required when discussing family pride. "It lasted mere moments. And afterward, when the King looked upon Arthur Snow directly..."
"The Mad King fell into stupor," Tywin finished, his voice flat as steel. "The realm whispers of northern sorcery, of unnatural powers that can render kings senseless with a glance."
Tywin moved to his desk, where maps of the Seven Kingdoms lay spread like battle plans. "Whether the sorcery is real or mere perception, the damage is done. Jaime's reputation lies in tatters before the entire court, and the King appears broken before his own lords."
"What of our position?" Kevan asked quietly.
"We adapt. We prepare. And we ensure that when this northern upstart finally overreaches—as they all do—House Lannister is positioned to benefit." His finger traced the map from Casterly Rock to King's Landing, pausing over the capital. "Owen Merryweather won't last as Hand with a king the realm believes incapacitated. When he falls, I'll be ready to step in."
Kevan shifted uncomfortably. "And Jaime?"
"My son serves at the pleasure of the King in the capital. He is proud, talented, and now utterly humbled." Tywin's expression remained stone, but something flickered behind his green eyes. "A Kingsguard defeated so thoroughly that even the smallfolk speak of it in taverns across the realm. The Lannister name has not suffered such a blow in generations."
A longer pause stretched between them before Tywin continued, his voice softer but no less controlled. "This defeat will either forge him into something greater or break him entirely. I pray it's the former, because as things stand, our golden lion must prove he's more than decoration on a white cloak."
---
Miles to the south, in the sun-drenched halls of Sunspear, Prince Doran Martell received his own disturbing reports. His brother Oberyn lounged in his chair with typical casual grace, but his dark eyes were sharp with interest as he delivered intelligence from the capital.
"The Kingsguard boy never stood a chance," Oberyn reported, setting aside a cup of Dornish red with deliberate casualness. "Our little birds describe it as less a duel than a lesson in humility. Arthur Snow moved like water, struck like lightning. Young Jaime couldn't even touch him."
Doran shifted in his chair, his gouty leg throbbing as he considered the implications. "And the King's reaction?"
"Ah, that's where it becomes truly interesting." Oberyn's smile was sharp as a viper's fang. "Aerys demanded the demonstration, watched his golden boy get dismantled in heartbeats, then stared directly at the northerner. Whatever he saw in that gaze left him catatonic for hours. The court speaks of sorcery, but I suspect it was simply the shock of witnessing true skill."
"Has he recovered?"
"So our sources whisper, but the realm believes otherwise. Brilliant strategy, really, whether intentional or not." Oberyn leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "A northern bastard has effectively neutered royal authority without drawing a sword against the crown itself."
Doran's fingers drummed on the arm of his chair—a habit when deep in thought. "This creates opportunities. If the King is seen as incapacitated, if the Hand grows weak trying to govern in his name..."
"Dorne could assert itself more boldly," Oberyn finished with evident satisfaction. "But there's something else, brother. Whispers from across the narrow sea. The red priests grow agitated, seeing this Arthur Snow as a threat to their prophecies rather than their foretold savior."
"They plan action?"
"They're gathering resources. Shadow-binders from Asshai, if the whispers prove true. This northern warrior has made enemies in strange places."
---
Far to the north, in Oldtown's towering seat of knowledge, Lord Leyton Hightower gazed out over the vast expanse of the Reach from his high window. Multiple ravens had arrived throughout the day, each bearing increasingly incredible reports that challenged conventional understanding of martial prowess.
His daughter Malora emerged from the shadows of the chamber, her arms laden with ancient texts, her eyes bright with scholarly intensity. Known throughout the city as the "Mad Maid" for her obsession with obscure knowledge, she had spent the morning diving deeper into histories that others dismissed as fantasy.
"The old books speak of exceptional warriors, father," she said softly, setting the volumes down with reverent care, "but nothing quite like what's described from King's Landing. Warriors capable of defeating multiple foes, yes. Those who could inspire fear through reputation, certainly. But the power to render a king senseless through presence alone?"
"You doubt these reports?" Leyton asked, though his tone suggested he was beginning to believe them himself.
"I believe something extraordinary walks among us. A Kingsguard defeated in moments, a king rendered helpless by a look—these are not normal events." Malora moved closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "The maesters of the Citadel grow nervous. They request access to our private libraries, particularly the sections dealing with ancient martial traditions and eastern fighting disciplines."
Leyton was quiet for a long moment, watching the ships in Oldtown's harbor far below. House Hightower had always been keepers of knowledge, patrons of learning who understood that information was the truest form of power.
"Let them request all they want. Knowledge shared carelessly is power squandered." His smile was thin as parchment. "We'll observe and learn while others panic. If this Arthur Snow truly possesses abilities beyond normal ken, I'd rather understand them than fear them."
"There's more, Father." Malora opened one of the ancient texts, its pages covered in faded script. "It speaks of the first men, said to possess martial powers far beyond ordinary limits. Still, I believe much of it is exaggerated—the accounts lack any real logic. But the events that happened at King's Landing make this passage far more believable now."
---
In the blooming gardens of Highgarden, Lord Mace Tyrell paced among the roses while hiso mother, Olenna, sat on a carved stone bench, watching her son's agitation with thinly veiled amusement. The morning's ravens had thrown the great house into an uproar that she found both tedious and opportunistic.
"You're going to wear a path in my roses," she observed tartly, not looking up from her embroidery. "Sit down, Mace. Panic never improved anyone's complexion."
"Mother, this northern boy has just humiliated the finest knight in the realm and rendered the King senseless through some unknown technique!" Mace's face was flushed with anxiety, sweat beading despite the pleasant morning air. "The Faith grows militant, the Ironborn smell opportunity, and now we have proof that there are warriors capable of feats beyond normal understanding—"
"And House Tyrell grows stronger by the day," Olenna interrupted smoothly, her voice carrying the authority of decades spent navigating court politics. "Really, Mace, sometimes I wonder if I should have had daughters instead of sons. At least girls understand that chaos is often just opportunity wearing a different dress."
Mace collapsed onto the bench beside her, his bulk causing the stone to creak ominously. "How can you be so calm? If he can defeat Kingsguard knights and render kings catatonic..."
"Then he's either a very dangerous enemy or a very valuable ally. I know which I'd prefer." Olenna set down her needle with deliberate precision. "This Arthur Snow has done what none of us dared attempt—removed effective royal authority without committing overt treason. The King lives but appears broken, the Hand flounders trying to govern in his name, and the realm looks for new leadership."
Understanding began to dawn on Mace's broad features. "You think we should make a play for influence?"
"I think we should position ourselves so that when the realm seeks stability, they find it in Highgarden." She picked up her teacup, examining the delicate porcelain as if it held secrets. "Send ravens to our bannermen. Increase our levies quietly—for harvest security, of course. And prepare a generous gift for Lord Stark's remarkable retainer."
"What sort of gift?"
Olenna's smile was sharp as a thorn. "Gold, naturally. And perhaps a suggestion that a man of such exceptional abilities might benefit from allies who appreciate excellence over bloodlines."
---
Across the narrow sea in Volantis, the flames danced higher than they had in years within the Red Temple, but the mood among the red priests was far from celebratory. High Priest Benerro stood before the sacred fire, his face grim as he addressed his fellow servants of R'hllor.
"The flames show us troubling visions," he intoned, his voice carrying across the vast chamber like distant thunder. "A warrior of impossible skill walks in the far west, but the light that burns within him is... different. Unexpected. He interferes with the patterns we have seen."
In the shadows of a side chamber, Melisandre touched the ruby at her throat, feeling its warmth pulse with something that might have been unease. "The agents we sent westward—there has been no word since they departed Pentos."
"Then we must assume they have failed," another priest said quietly, his blue lips marking him as one who had studied the darker arts in distant Asshai. "This Arthur Snow has proven more than elusive."
"The northern warrior has shown he can defeat mortal foes," Benerro declared, his voice carrying absolute conviction. "Let us see how he fares against enemies that arrive in shadows and leave no traces of their passing."
Melisandre nodded slowly, though something in her ruby eyes suggested caution rather than confidence. She had looked into the flames seeking visions of this Arthur Snow, and what she saw was not easily dismissed—a warrior who moved beyond mortal limitations, who carried knowledge that seemed to span more than one lifetime. Whether enemy or ally, he was clearly not a man to be underestimated.
---
In distant Qarth, where merchant princes counted gold by the shipload and warlocks whispered secrets older than memory, the House of the Undying stirred with profound unease. The blue-lipped practitioners felt disturbances in the very air around their ancient stronghold, ripples that spoke of changes in distant lands that they neither understood nor welcomed.
"Something has shifted in the western kingdoms," one warlock murmured to his brothers as they gathered around their pale, twisted tree. "Something that carries the taste of disciplines we have not encountered before, techniques that do not follow the patterns we know."
The others nodded in agreement, their pale eyes reflecting an unnatural light. They had spent centuries perfecting their arts, mastering techniques that allowed them to peer across vast distances and influence events through subtle manipulation. Yet this disturbance felt different—more direct, more physical, rooted in training and discipline rather than the ethereal arts they practiced.
"We will watch," the eldest among them declared. "And if this northern warrior proves a threat to the order of things, we will remind him that there are powers in this world that even the greatest warriors cannot simply defeat with sword and strength."
---
Back in the Red Keep, King Aerys sat upon the Iron Throne, his purple eyes clearer than they had been in months. The strange episode following his direct confrontation with the northern bastard had passed, leaving him shaken but paradoxically more lucid than he had been in years. Yet the realm believed him broken, incapacitated—a mad king finally rendered harmless by northern techniques beyond their understanding.
Let them believe it, he thought with growing cunning, his fingers tracing the twisted metal of his ancient seat. Let them show their hands while thinking me weak. The boy's technique—whatever unnatural discipline he had employed—had cleared away months of fog and confusion from Aerys's mind like a strong wind clearing smoke. For the first time in years, the King could think clearly, plan precisely, and remember why dragons had once ruled the world through fire and blood.
In the shadows near the throne, Ser Jaime Lannister stood at attention, his white cloak pristine and his golden armor gleaming, but his green eyes held a new weight that had not been there before his encounter with Arthur Snow. The humiliation burned in his chest like a brand, but beneath the shame was something else—a grudging respect for skill so far beyond his own that it had seemed almost supernatural.
I must learn, Jaime thought, his hand resting on his sword hilt with unconscious tension. I must discover how such abilities are possible, or I will never be worthy of this white cloak again.
The King noticed his young protector's distraction and smiled—a expression more lucid than any he had worn in months. When the time came, he would remind them all that even broken dragons could still bite, and that underestimating royalty was a mistake that had cost many their lives throughout history.
The game had changed across the known world, and every player felt the shift like a tremor in the earth. Arthur Snow had become the center of a web of intrigue, fear, and ambition that stretched from the Wall to the Shadow Lands. Whether he understood it or not, the bastard of the North had just made enemies and allies of powers that could reshape the very foundations of the realm.
The world held its breath, waiting to see what impossibilities the northern stranger would make manifest next