Two hundred and ninety-eight years after Aegon's Conquest marked the dawn of a new age, another turbulent era began.
At the start of this year, two great events shook the Seven Kingdoms — the rise of a new power across the Narrow Sea and the sudden death of Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King who had ruled Westeros in Robert Baratheon's stead for fifteen long years.
Following Jon Arryn's death, his widow, Lady Lysa Tully, and their young son, Robert Arryn, fled the capital overnight, returning to the Vale. At the same time, Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone and First Lord of the Sea, withdrew to his island fortress.
King Robert, baffled and helpless at their flight, cared little for politics. The Red Keep, the royal court, and even the City Watch of the Gold Cloaks were riddled with corruption — as porous as a sieve.
---
In the Westerlands, at Casterly Rock, Lord Tywin Lannister walked beside his brother, Ser Kevan, through the great Hall of Heroes.
The hall was lined with the gleaming armor of countless Lannister knights, lords, and kings — a proud testament to their golden lineage. The Hall of Heroes was famed not only across the Seven Kingdoms but even beyond the Narrow Sea. Here rested the Lannisters and their kin who had died in glory, immortalized in steel and gold.
"Poor old Jon — he died so quickly, so suddenly," Tywin said in his deep, measured voice.
Tywin was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his early fifties. Since his hair had begun to thin, he had taken to shaving his head completely, leaving only a close-trimmed golden beard at his temples. His pale green eyes glimmered faintly with gold — cold, keen, and utterly without warmth.
Since the death of his wife, Tywin seldom smiled. To him, fear was far more reliable than affection.
"Now that Lord Jon is dead," Ser Kevan said, "and you are the king's father-in-law, the royal family owes us thousands of golden dragons! The realm is in turmoil — the king's bastard and the Targaryen remnants are said to be stirring again across the sea."
For many years, Ser Kevan had been Tywin's most trusted lieutenant — loyal, reliable, and discreet. Slightly overweight and nearly bald, Kevan's square jaw and broad shoulders gave him an air of quiet strength. His trimmed beard and golden hair mirrored the family's proud hue.
"Absolutely not, Kevan," Tywin said sharply. "That war was fought by the eagle, the wolf, the stag, and the fish. Robert never had the courage to invite me to court! He trusted old Jon Arryn and his childhood friends more."
"Even so," Kevan pressed, "your talents as Hand of the King are known to all. Yet Robert chose to walk a path without guidance."
Tywin's mouth curled into a thin smile. "Poor Robert isn't completely witless, after all. The gods forbid anyone stand above the king."
"Cersei's letter says that Lysa Tully — that fat, hysterical woman — and Stannis have both fled," Kevan added.
"That's the troublesome part," Tywin replied, his tone cool and calculating. "With Jon dead, we become the natural target of suspicion. Everyone can see the truth — Stannis fled, Jon Arryn is dead, and King's Landing is, for the most part, under Lannister control. Even if we had nothing to do with it, appearances favor us."
"It was Jon Arryn who held the realm together," Kevan said thoughtfully.
"Yes," Tywin agreed. "Our good old Jon was a peacekeeper — nothing more. He dared not offend the Martells or the Tyrells. He turned a blind eye to Robert's excesses, letting the king drink and whore as he pleased. That is not rule — it is surrender."
"Lysa is a foolish, unstable woman," Kevan muttered. "But Stannis… he's not so easily dealt with. And then there's the Narrow Sea — the Targaryen remnants, and that bastard king. They may well unite."
Tywin's eyes narrowed. "The bastard… he's dangerous — ruthless, by all accounts. If he unites with the dragon princess, the realm could burn again."
Kevan sighed. "We were merciless to the Targaryens once. Perhaps the gods now demand payment."
"I can already feel the storm gathering," Tywin said grimly. "Chaos is coming. But I will win this war. I have spent my life restoring the glory of House Lannister — I will not allow it to fall."
Outside, thunder rumbled faintly beneath the Rock, echoing through the Hall of Heroes — as if the very stones of Casterly Rock sensed the unease of the age to come.
---
Far to the east, in Tyrosh — one of the nine Free Cities — dark clouds gathered over the sea.
Tyrosh stood proud upon the northeasternmost tip of the Stepstones, its walls of fused black dragonstone gleaming under the sun. From atop the high watchtower of the Black Inner City, the High Lord of Tyrosh gazed grimly at the horizon.
Out upon the waves, the Wolfpack Fleet prowled — sleek, deadly warships that once bore the banners of Myr but now flew the grey-and-white sigil of the howling wolf.
Around the High Lord stood his council — governors, nobles, mercenary captains, and a few exiled Myrish lords. Tyroshi culture was famed for its flamboyance: brightly dyed hair and beards of blue, green, purple, and crimson, and extravagant hats adorned with jewels and feathers.
"I am willing to surrender my ships and half my fortune," the exiled governor of Myr cried, his voice trembling. "If only you will help me retake my city!"
"Do it, Your Grace!" urged one of the governors. "This isn't a matter of whether we can — it's whether we dare! The Wolfpack Fleet has blockaded the sea from Myr to the Stepstones. Our slave ships cannot sail, our merchants are trapped in port. If this continues, Tyrosh will crumble!"
The High Lord, his beard dyed a vivid green, sighed. "And what can we do — fight them ourselves? Our slaves whisper of revolt, our estates in the Disputed Lands have been seized, and now the sea is closed. The reinforcements from Lys and Volantis are slow — we can scarcely hold the walls!"
"What of the Unsullied?" someone asked.
"The price is too steep, and their march too slow," the High Lord replied. "Besides, Braavos despises slavery. They will not tolerate it."
"We cannot stand alone," another governor declared. "But we have allies! Lys, Volantis — even Slaver's Bay! Will they allow this movement of slave liberation to spread unchecked?"
"Across the Narrow Sea," said a Myrish noble, "King Robert's bastard has joined forces with an exiled Targaryen princess. They've made enemies of the great houses — and Tywin Lannister is among them."
"Then we cannot expect help from the Iron Throne," the High Lord muttered. "Jon Arryn is dead, and the king's interest in foreign wars died with him."
"Distant water cannot quench nearby fire," said another bitterly. "We are burning now — and no reinforcements will come in time."
The council fell into uneasy silence. Tyrosh's politics were as tangled as its streets — endless elections and rival factions pulling in every direction. Decisions came slowly, if at all.
"If only your tongues were as sharp as your swords," the purple-haired admiral sneered. "Perhaps we'd win a battle or two."
"We have barely two hundred warships," the admiral continued. "That mercenary king commands more than two hundred of his own, plus one hundred and forty Myrish vessels — and his armies are well-trained."
"The Pentoshi are weak, Braavos remains neutral, Lys hesitates, and Volantis is still under the Elephant Party. Even the Golden Legion is seeking to ally with the mercenary king," another added grimly.
"Then are we doomed?" one governor whispered. "Is there truly no way out?"
The High Lord of Tyrosh slammed his fist on the table. "There is always a way. The Horse Kings — those greedy savages — will not tolerate Myr's independence for long. They crave tribute. If we offer them gold and slaves, they will march."
He looked around the chamber, eyes gleaming beneath his jeweled circlet. "Now is the time to unite. The crisis we face threatens Tyrosh more than any Silver Tongue or Wolf King ever could. Each of you must give what you can — wealth, ships, men. We will hire swordsmen and knights, and send envoys to the Horse Kings to buy their aid."
The governors exchanged uneasy glances. The sea roared outside, echoing through the high windows of the council hall.
Far beyond the waves, the wolves of the west and the dragons of the east were both stirring — and in the heart of Tyrosh, the colors of the Free Cities gleamed bright as blood.
The New Era of Chaos had begun.
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