Ravens flew to each corner of westeros and some who spotted them couldn't help but mutter the phrase "Dark wings Dark words" before the black birds flew into the darkened horizons.
There was a letter sealed with black wax bearing a new sigil none recognized, but was undoubtedly a three-headed dragon.
And carried to every king in Westeros.
---
The North, Winterfell
At the top of the world, where summer was short and memory waslong, the raven came to Winterfell beneath a pale, cold sky.
The message was read aloud in the Great Hall of the ancient seat of House Stark.
Upon the high seat carved of Ironwood and bronze marked by runes sat Torrhen Stark — King in the North and King of Winter.
He did not interrupt the maester as the words were spoken.
"From this day forth, there would be but one king in Westeros. Those who bent the knee to Aegon of House Targaryen would keep their lands and titles. Those who took up arms against him would be thrown down, humbled, and destroyed."
The hall fell silent when the reading ended.
The Umbers muttered first — loud, as was their nature.
"Southron arrogance," growled Lord Umber. "Let him bring him, try and come north. We will mount his soldiers' heads on sticks across the northern coast as we did to the Andels under King Theon the Hungry wolf ."
The Karstarks frowned.
A Mormont spat into the rushes.
Murmurs of agreement followed from the many gathered lords and ladies of the north, but Torrhen Stark, the king of the north and bearer of the crown of winter, did not speak.
He sat still, grey eyes distant, hands resting upon the arms of his seat.
He had heard the reports and rumors of Dragonstone and what gave them dominance of the narrow sea, and made most pirates hide away in more treacherous waters.
Three dragons, some might claim such things as tall tales and exaggerations.
The People of the North did not need such a thing, for they were of the first men their ancestors fought and treated with giants, and the Children of the Forest. They believed in the power of magic, for all who are born in the frozen lands of the north live under the protective shadow of the wall.
The Wall is a massive barrier of ice stretching across the northern border of the Seven Kingdoms, separating it from the wild lands beyond. The Wall is one hundred leagues long (three hundred miles) and reaches over seven hundred feet at its highest point.
It is said that the patriarch of House Stark, Bran the Builder, built the wall, with the help of giants and the magic of the Children of the Forest, who weaved protective magics into its foundations to keep the darkness at bay.
And so the King of Winter spoke.
"Send riders south. I would know where and when this dragonlord leaves Dragonstone and lands."
The Lords assembled knoded and bowed at his command.
---
The Vale, The Eyrie
High above the clouds, where cold winds screamed against sheer white stone, another raven arrived. It circled the towers of The Eyrie that sat upon the rocky mountain top of the peak known as the Giant's Lance, several thousand feet above the valley below.
By midday, the letter had reached the solar of the ruler of the House Arryn. Sharra Arryn sat beside the tall window overlooking the white mountain tops and deep caverns below, a cup of wine resting in her hand as the maester read the message aloud.
Once, men had called her the Flower of the Mountain.
In her youth, her beauty had been spoken of in every court from Oldtown to White Harbor, and yet the years of rule had not taken that beauty entirely from her, but had sharpened it into something harder.
Where once there had been softness, now there was steel.
As the maester finished reading the letter, he lowered the parchment, and silence lingered in the solar. Across the room, young Ronnel Arryn sat perched upon a high chair, legs swinging idly as he stared at the strange dragon seal impressed in the wax.
"So he means to conquer all the kingdoms?" the boy asked.
Sharra Arryn took another sip of wine before answering.
"That is what he claims," she said smoothly.
"A bold boast from a lord of a smoking island. dragons or not, he commands no great army and only has merchant lords as vassals." The maester said his many chains rattled softly against his grey tunic.
The Vale had high mountains and deep caverns for walls, the tight ledges that made for roads where easy to ambush espeially by the mountain tribes who would attack both nobles and knights of the vale and any invading force, not to mention the impregnable Bloody Gate to guard the only road to the Eyrie itself, which was almost impossible to lay siege upon.
No army had ever broken through it, but Sharra did not smile. Instead, she rose and crossed the chamber, taking the letter from the maester. Her eyes lingered on the words.
"From this day forth, there would be but one king in Westeros…"
"Arrogant," The maester muttered.
"No," Sharra said quietly. "Confident."
She turned toward the window, looking out across the vast mountains, the deep caverns, and green valleys below.
"What will you do, Mother?" young Ronnel asked.
Sharra Arryn's lips curved into the faintest smile.
"A conqueror must begin somewhere."
She folded the letter.
"And I believe it is not here, but that does not mean we don't prepare."
---
The Isles and Rivers, Harrenhal
The raven reached the Riverlands beneath a sky the color of iron. It circled the monstrous towers of Harrenhal before descending toward the rookery.
Few castles in Westeros inspired awe; Harrenhal inspired dread.
Its walls were taller than any fortress ever raised by men. Five colossal towers clawed at the sky like blackened fingers of a dead god, their shadows stretching for miles across the flatlands of the Trident and over the god's eye lake.
Forty years it had taken to build.
Forty years of chains, whips, and death.
Men from the Riverlands and captives from Ironborn raids had been driven like beasts through quarries and forests to raise the castle stone by stone.
Thousands had died hauling its blocks.
Thousands more had perished, cutting down the last sacred weirwoods of the riverlands to roof its halls.
All so that one man might sit higher than any king before him, or currently ruling that man sat now upon a black throne of burnt weirwoods within the vast Hall of a Hundred Hearths.
Harren Hoare was an old man, but there was nothing weak about him. Grey hair spilled across the shoulders of his black armor, armor he wore even in his own hall. Paranoia had become a habit, and his cruelty had become legend.
The letter from Dragonstone was placed in his gauntleted hand, and he read it aloud to his many sons and lords who feasted in his hall.
"From this day forth, there would be but one king in Westeros. Those who bent the knee to Aegon of House Targaryen would keep their lands and titles. Those who took up arms against him would be thrown down, humbled, and destroyed."
When the reading ended, silence lingered.
Then, Harren, the Black, laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. The hall quickly joined him as Ironborn captains slammed fists and mugs against tables, roaring with drunken amusement.
"A little island lordling king?" one raider barked.
"Let him come, let us see him and his lizards burn the seawater!" another shouted.
Harren rose slowly from his throne.
Even in his age, he was a towering figure, his black armor reflecting the glow of the hundred hearths burning in the hall.
He walked with the letter and threw it into one of the many hearths, letting it burn and crumble before spitting on what remained of the three-headed dragon stamped in wax.
"Dragons," he said, his voice deep and contemptuous.
He looked upward toward the vast stone ceiling, then his many ship captains and lords.
"These walls are thicker than any castle ever raised."
His gauntlet struck the stone beside him the sound echoed like a war drum.
"Let this Targaryen bring his flying lizards."
His cold smile widened.
"Harrenhal was built to defy all man and beast."
The ironborn roared their approval.
Outside, the wind howled through the black towers of Harrenhal.
---
The Westerlands, Casterly Rock
The raven came to the west at sunset.
It circled the marble white stone towers of Casterly Rock before descending toward the rookery cliff carved into the shape of a great stone lion overlooking the sunset sea below, the port city of Lannisport bustled as it always had—ships unloading spices, wool, wine, and many other foreign goods beneath the fading light.
Gold had built the West, and that gold had brought many enemies but also led to its many protections, and gold had crowned its king.
In a chamber overlooking the Sunset Sea, the ruler of the House Lannister listened as the maester read the message aloud.
Loren I Lannister did not interrupt.
He rarely did.
Tall and broad-shouldered, Loren wore a simple crimson doublet rather than armor or a crown. His expression, as always, was difficult to read.
Many men called him dull.
Those who ruled beside him knew better.
When the maester finished reading the letter, silence filled the chamber.
"From this day forth, there would be but one king in Westeros…" A young knight laughed first.
"Another Essosi dreamer," another said.
"Let him try to conquer the West," spoke one lord as he nodded. "The Rock has never fallen."
Loren Lannister remained seated, his fingers resting lightly upon the table before him, tapping once against the parchment.
Once.
Twice.
Then he spoke.
"Three dragons."
The room quieted.
"We have all heard the same reports," Loren continued calmly. "Dragonstone commands the Narrow Sea. Its lord commands creatures no army in Westeros has faced except in tall tales and singers' songs."
He looked down again at the seal pressed into the wax The three-headed dragon.
"Boasting men rarely send letters to every king in the realm."
A lord frowned.
Loren's golden eyes lifted.
"I believe he intends to try."
He rose and walked toward the window overlooking the sea.
Ships moved slowly through the harbor below.
Trade routes. Supply lines. Wealth. Prosparity
War would threaten all of it.
"What would you have us do, Your Grace?" the maester asked carefully.
Loren Lannister watched the horizon for a long moment before he turned back to the room.
"Send riders to Highgarden."
Several lords exchanged surprised glances.
The Reach had long been the West's greatest rival.
But Loren's voice remained steady.
"If this dragonlord means to conquer Westeros…"
His gaze hardened.
"…he will face more than one kingdom when he comes."
Outside, the last light of the sun faded across the sea.
---
The Reach, Highgarden
Spring ruled the lands of the Reach even as other kingdoms prepared for war and watched the skies with unease or contempt; the fertile fields surrounding Highgarden were green and full of life.
Golden wheat bent in the wind.
Vineyards stretched across gentle hills.
The Mander flowed broad and peaceful beneath the castle walls of Highgarden.
The Kingdom of the Reach was the richest nd the largest land in Westeros save only the mines of the Westerlands.
The raven arrived at dawn.
By midday, the letter was read aloud before the court of House Gardener.
Upon the living throne of twisted oak and flowering vines sat Mern IX Gardener.
The king listened without interruption as the maester finished the message.
"From this day forth, there would be but one king in Westeros. Those who bent the knee to Aegon of House Targaryen would keep their lands and titles. Those who took up arms against him would be thrown down, humbled, and destroyed."
When the reading ended, murmurs spread through the hall, yet some lords laughed openly.
"A lordling king?" one knight scoffed. "Let him come test his beasts against chilvery of the reach."
"Perhaps he means to conquer the world with three lizards." Another lord smiled, and laughter followed, but King Mern did not laugh.
A tall man even in his later years, his brown beard began to gain slivers of grey, but his posture still proud, Mern Gardener leaned forward slightly upon his throne.
From the shadows near the throne stood the king's steward, Harlen Tyrell.
Unlike the lords surrounding him, Tyrell did not smile much like his king.
"My king," he said carefully, "three dragons may not defeat fifty thousand men alone."
Mern turned toward him.
"If this Targaryen seeks to conquer the Seven Kingdoms, he will face many enemies."
He glanced toward the west.
"The Rock will not kneel easily."
Mern's stern expression softened slightly.
"A fair point."
He rose slowly from his throne.
"Send riders to Casterly Rock."
The hall stirred.
---
Dorne, Sunspear
The southernmost kingdom of Westeros had always been different.
In the lands of Dorne, rulers did not call themselves kings or queens. Instead, they bore the titles of prince and princess, a tradition tracing back to the Rhoynar who had crossed the Narrow Sea centuries before. Unlike the rest of Westeros, the Dornish practiced absolute primogeniture—inheritance passed to the eldest child regardless of gender.
At the time of Aegon's invasion, the ruling princess of Dorne was Meria Nymeros Martell.
Age had taken much from her.
By the beginning of the Conquest, Meria was nearly eighty years old. She had grown heavy with the passing decades, and blindness had long since stolen her sight. What little hair remained upon her head was thin and pale. To many beyond Dorne, she appeared little more than a frail relic clinging to power.
The Storm King, Argilac Durrandon, had once mocked her openly, calling her the Yellow Toad of Dorne.
But those who knew Princess Meria understood that the insult poorly captured the truth.
Though her body had weakened, her mind remained sharp as a blade.
Within the shadowed halls of Sunspear, she listened as a maester read aloud the message carried by a raven from Dragonstone.
The letter bore the seal of Aegon I Targaryen.
The words were the same, sent to every ruler across Westeros.
Aegon declared that the Seven Kingdoms must unite beneath a single crown. Those who bent the knee would keep their lands and titles. Those who resisted would be cast down.
When the reading ended, the chamber fell silent.
The princess did not speak at once.
Her milky eyes stared sightlessly ahead as she considered the words. Around her stood the lords of Dorne, men and women hardened by desert sun and mountain winds.
At last, Meria Martell gave a dry chuckle.
"So," she said slowly, "Once again, the Valyria demands that the last children of Mother Rhoyne kneel."
She ordered that a raven be sent in reply to Dragonstone.
The message was short.
Dorne would gladly join Aegon Targaryen as an ally against the Storm King if war came between them.
But Dorne would never bend the knee.
Not now.
Not ever.