The royal procession moved like a glittering river of gold, silver, and steel across the muddy road. Banners embroidered with the crowned stag of House Baratheon fluttered high above, catching the weak northern wind. More than a dozen standard-bearers marched proudly at the front, followed by knights in polished armor, bannermen, sworn swords, and free riders—nearly three hundred people in all.
Behind them, the Queen's massive wheeled palace creaked and groaned under its own weight, slowing the entire column to a sluggish crawl.
After days of travel, King Robert's entourage finally entered the Neck—a narrow, rugged stretch of wetlands and decaying swamps. The causeway twisted like a snake through endless stretches of black mud, its stones slippery from moisture. Traveling through the Neck usually took more than ten days, even in good weather.
And the weather was not good.
"What a terrible, dreadful journey!" Joffrey complained loudly, staring at the black bog stretching as far as he could see.
Joffrey Baratheon—tall, handsome, with golden hair and sharp green eyes—wrinkled his nose as if the swamp itself insulted him.
The Neck was not kind to travelers. Thick forests sagged under the weight of moss and fungi that hung like curtains. Huge flowers bloomed from murky pits, floating on pools of stagnant water. Quicksand surrounded the causeway, poisonous snakes hid in the shadows, and half-submerged lizard-lions lounged beneath the surface, waiting for prey.
Tyrion Lannister rode near Joffrey, his small legs dangling comically from his saddle.
"Although this place is harsh," Tyrion said, studying the swamp with interest, "the causeway is the only safe path to Winterfell. Even a prince shouldn't wander off the road."
Tyrion looked almost amused by the scenery.
"I've only read descriptions of the Neck in books. Seeing it with my own eyes is… a rare treat."
Joffrey scoffed.
"Why must we travel thousands of miles to this miserable wasteland? It's cold, filthy, and no place for a king!"
Sandor Clegane, the Hound, rode beside the prince. His burned face twisted into its usual expression of disdain. Black armor clung to his massive frame like a carapace.
"My prince," Sandor growled, "the King's lands belong to the King. All of them. Even swamps."
Joffrey clicked his tongue.
"It's probably about that bastard again."
Tyrion snorted.
"A powerful bastard is no longer a simple bastard. Across the Narrow Sea, you'd have to call him a Khal."
Tyrion himself looked as odd as ever: mismatched eyes—one green, one black—a large head, a too-prominent forehead, nearly white-blonde hair, and a tangled beard of brown and gold. But despite his deformities, his voice remained sharp as a Valyrian blade.
"A King doesn't need nonsense," Joffrey retorted. "When I'm king, I'll execute him myself. With my longsword—Longspear!"
"And what is he anyway? I don't want to hear another word about that whining bastard."
Tyrion chuckled.
"On a battlefield, no one gets to whine. If you lose, you die. And from what I know, your sword is not nearly as sharp as your mouth."
"You—!"
Joffrey glared at him, then spurred his horse forward, unwilling to lose face.
"One day," he shouted back, "I'll show you what it means to be king!"
Sandor looked down at Tyrion from his monstrous height.
"My lord, the prince will not forget your mockery."
"He'd better not," Tyrion replied casually. "A king is not made by words alone. You, his loyal dog, travel with him every day—do remind him again."
At that moment, Jaime Lannister rode up beside his brother. The golden lion of Lannister armor gleamed even under the gloomy sky.
"Do you truly believe the Khal across the Narrow Sea is preparing for war?" Jaime asked, his tone lighter than most members of his house.
Tyrion shrugged.
"I was merely teasing Joff. You didn't actually believe it, did you?"
Jaime gave him a pointed look.
Tyrion sighed and lowered his voice.
"If our so-called Mercenary King is sane, he'll wait. He'll watch. He'll gather strength. Would the sellswords and slave traders of Myr and Tyrosh truly be so willing to risk everything?"
Tyrion's voice turned serious.
"The sweet rule of Myr and Tyrosh is fragile. If he leaves his kingdom and loses a war abroad, everything he built will crumble like sand slipping through fingers."
Jaime frowned.
"Even so, the armies across the sea are not to be underestimated. A bastard king is bad enough—but then there are those last two Targaryen siblings."
"Indeed. The Mercenary King is consolidating power. Once he's done, the Triarchy will find a place to strike."
Jaime nodded.
"We should be prepared. If those armies truly land in Westeros, I'll have to draw my longsword—like Ser Duncan the Tall of old."
He sighed, glancing ahead at King Robert's heavy wagon.
"But the enemy is still a thousand miles away, and Robert insists on traveling north. He trusts Eddard Stark. Everyone knows the Starks and Lannisters stand on opposite ends of everything."
Tyrion raised a brow.
"And yet, here we are."
Jaime clenched his jaw.
"I'm not afraid of Eddard Stark. The Mad King was a monster, yet I'm the one they call Kingslayer."
Years ago, Jaime killed Aerys II Targaryen and his pyromancer, saving countless lives. But history remembered only the stain, not the sacrifice.
He recalled sitting on the Iron Throne afterward, his blood-soaked sword across his knees. When Eddard Stark entered, he found Jaime waiting in silence.
From that moment… they were destined to clash.
---
Across the Narrow Sea — The Fall of Tyrosh
Far away, above the black stone walls of Tyrosh, the Archon and his governors stood watching the outer trenches.
The inner city was surrounded completely, like a sealed iron barrel. Tyroshi nobles—with their brightly dyed green, purple, and red hair—looked pale under the tension.
Outside the walls, the sight was gruesome.
Longspears had been stabbed into the trenches, each spear topped with a severed head—those of Khal Jhaqo, his son, several Dothraki screamers, and rebellious Myr soldiers.
The message was clear.
The mercenary army had no intention of retreat.
Inside the city, panic simmered. The Tyroshi had always been proud, but pride did not fill stomachs. Famine had carved deep hollows into their cheeks; fear made their dyed beards tremble.
"The ratio of slaves to citizens is three to one," the Archon murmured. "Volantis has even more—five slaves for every free man. And still they hesitate?"
His governor looked equally grim.
"Volantis and Lys are both waiting. Waiting for us… or waiting for us to collapse."
"If we hold out, we starve," another whispered. "If we open the gates, we die."
The Archon's shoulders sagged.
"Prepare what men we have left. If Tyrosh must fall, then let us pray to the three-headed god that our end is swift."
Tyrosh was not built to withstand a prolonged siege. They had once obeyed the man called Silver Tongue. Now they were forced to bow before someone even stronger.
As the Myr rebellion collapsed outside and the Dothraki Khal fell, voices of surrender inside the walls grew louder.
It was either starve… or be slaughtered.
The Archon knew the truth.
Without foreign reinforcements—no aid from Braavos, Lys, Volantis, or even Slaver's Bay—Tyrosh was doomed.
Then—
A terrified shout echoed from the walls.
"Archon! The city gate—
THE CITY GATE HAS BEEN OPENED!"
"What?!"
The Archon nearly collapsed.
The worst nightmare had arrived.
"Merchants! Some merchants could no longer endure their hunger—they opened one of the gates!"
Outside, a roar shook the air.
"KILL!"
Ser Jorah Mormont charged forward, a green cloak flowing behind him, the stitched bear sigil whipping in the wind. His plate armor shone under the dim sunlight, gleaming with battle-hunger.
His longsword swung downward in a deadly arc, cutting through defenders.
For the first time in years, Jorah felt the same fire he felt during the Greyjoy Rebellion—an unstoppable surge of strength and courage.
Behind him, the mercenary forces surged through the breached gate like a tidal wave.
Tyrosh's fall had begun.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)