In the council chamber of the Red Keep, Tyrion Lannister's small frame belied the force of his presence. His voice rang clearly, echoing off the stone walls as if a true lion had taken the floor.
"Now that we have the support of House Tyrell, we hold the upper hand against the forces of the North. Though the Starks and their bannermen have achieved several victories on the battlefield, their losses have been considerable. The lords of the Riverlands are likely still consolidating their strength, tending to their wounded, and rebuilding what has been damaged."
He paused briefly, letting the weight of his words settle. "I propose we temporarily acknowledge their demands for independence. A truce would serve both sides. This would allow us to redirect our attention to Stannis Baratheon's rebellion, which threatens the very stability of the Iron Throne. Once Stannis is dealt with, we can revisit the North and Riverlands, when the time is in our favor."
Tyrion's sharp eyes swept the room. "Furthermore, we could leverage Sansa Stark and Ice as bargaining tools to exchange for Jaime Lannister and my uncle. This ensures the Lannisters face no undue risk. Finally, we can use our existing captives, combined with gold, to negotiate for the release of lords and knights who have fallen into enemy hands. They could then muster additional forces to strengthen our position in future conflicts."
He drew a deep breath and concluded, "I volunteer to go as an envoy myself to negotiate. Our strength lies not only in armies, but in strategy and diplomacy."
For a moment, silence hung in the room like a heavy fog. Tyrion's words carried weight, and while they came from a man often underestimated, they were sound and strategic.
Cersei's response was immediate—and entirely predictable. She laughed, the sound sharp and high-pitched, as if the council chamber had turned into a theater and Tyrion had just delivered a punchline. She covered her mouth, but her amusement was unrestrained.
Varys, however, remained silent, his dark eyes shifting to Lord Tywin. The Master of Whisperers sought to read the old lion's thoughts, to discern whether there was any hint of approval or disapproval.
Indeed, the military might of the North and Riverlands paled in comparison to the combined forces of the Reach and the Westerlands. Once Stannis had been defeated, the Iron Throne would also gain the support of the Stormlands. At that moment, the North and Riverlands would face a three-front disadvantage, further complicated by potential interference from the Greyjoys.
Archmaester Pycelle, as always, seemed disengaged, his eyes closed as if such worldly affairs were beneath him.
Tywin's gaze, however, was sharp, cutting through the council's tension like a blade. He looked directly at Tyrion and said, voice flat and unyielding, "I do not agree to any of it. That wolf cub from Stark will never consent to release all captives immediately. Do not overthink this. Perform your duties as Master of Coin and leave the politics to those with experience."
He had already made his plans and saw Tyrion's proposal as an unnecessary complication.
"Pycelle," Tywin continued, "ensure Eddard Stark's body is returned to Riverrun. Let that serve as our reply to the Starks regarding negotiations."
Tyrion's expression soured, disappointment flickering across his features. He had hoped for a more strategic compromise, but his father's orders left no room for negotiation. Tywin then proceeded to issue further instructions, organizing the preparations for the arrival of the new queen and ensuring the Lannister household remained firmly in control.
---
Far to the north, in Twin River City, the Karstark military camp was a stark contrast to the opulence of King's Landing. Eddard Karstark had spent two restless days in a room provided by House Frey, the damp chill seeping into his bones. The confined quarters had been intolerable; even a brazier struggled to keep the cold at bay.
Finally, Eddard moved into a tent within his own camp, where he could be closer to his soldiers. The change brought relief, and the familiar sounds and smells of the camp soothed him.
Abel, dust-covered and weary from travel, returned to Eddard's side and recounted the events of their journey.
"Young Master," he began, voice heavy with exhaustion, "the roads were chaotic, filled with the remnants of war. We avoided the main paths and took smaller routes. Aside from a few reckless bandits, we faced no major obstacles."
Abel's eyes darkened with remembered fear. "We successfully met Prince Doran Martell and presented your gifts. Everything went according to your instructions, flawlessly."
A shadow crossed Abel's face. "But on our return, someone followed us. By evening, as we camped along a secluded path, dozens of figures emerged from the woods. Arrows gleamed in the firelight, nocked on strings, ready to strike. If not for quick intervention, all five of us would have perished."
Eddard poured Abel a glass of wine, smiling. "The fact that everyone returned unscathed suggests someone intervened. Who helped you?"
Abel's relief was palpable. "It was Martell's people. Cavalry, even a few women warriors. Their customs allow women to fight alongside men."
Eddard chuckled, shaking his head. "If Lady Maege knew that, she'd ensure you tasted her morningstar."
He paused to explain the cultural context. "In the North, men and women have distinct roles, shaped by both environment and necessity. Women in the wilds north of the Wall fight because survival demands it. In Dorne, however, inheritance rights are equal, and women are trained to wield arms as proficiently as men. Treat them with respect, and seek guidance from your maester when in doubt. War is as much a matter of intellect as of strength."
Abel nodded enthusiastically. "Understood, Young Master."
Eddard smiled warmly, pulling out a coin purse and tossing it to Abel. "Twenty gold dragons. Share them among yourselves, rest for two days, and then return to your duties."
Abel's eyes gleamed. "Young Master, I swear by the Old Gods to obey your commands. I will serve faithfully, no matter the danger."
Eddard helped him to his feet, smiling broadly. "Then you shall always have a seat at my hearth. Drink at my table, eat at my board. I pledge that your service will bring no dishonor to your name."
As Abel departed, Eddard reflected on the journey. The women who had aided his envoys were likely Prince Oberyn Martell's Sand Snakes. Their presence confirmed that Prince Doran had been pleased with the gifts. Strategic, measured alliances were essential, particularly when dealing with a common enemy: the Lannisters.
Eddard considered distant possibilities. Daenerys Targaryen, far across the Narrow Sea in Essos, might be the Martells' preferred ally, but cooperation from the North was an opportunity he could not ignore.
A voice interrupted his thoughts. "My Lord, Captain Black Ward reports that the bandit lair has been located."
Eddard smiled, drained the wine from his cup, picked up his battle-axe and shield, and prepared to confront the threat firsthand.
---
Meanwhile, across the sea in Essos, Qarth rose from the sandy coast like a jewel of wealth and decadence. Its streets were crowded with merchants, entertainers, and travelers, the air alive with the scent of spices and sea spray.
Alysane Mormont disembarked, her eyes wide with wonder. The city walls were adorned with vivid murals depicting acts of love, battle, and daily life, each more extravagant than the last.
"My Lady," whispered Quinn, a loyal retainer, "let us find lodgings first."
Alysane's face flushed as she took in the bold attire of the women around her—clothing that left little to the imagination, swaying provocatively as they walked. Even she, a seasoned mother of two, felt a twinge of embarrassment.
"Allan!" she scolded, smacking the young lad's head. "See the lack of decorum in your eyes? Haven't you ever seen a woman before?"
Allan, only fifteen, stammered, "N-no, My Lady…" and quickly averted his gaze.
The trio had sailed for months from White Harbor under Lady Maege's orders, initially aiming for Meereen and Yunkai. Due to trade restrictions and the slave-free policies in Westeros, their route diverted to Qarth first. Their mission was clear: locate Jorah Mormont, gather intelligence, and, if possible, secure his return.
Alysane scanned the bustling streets, determination settling on her features. This city was strange, vast, and unfamiliar, but it offered opportunities. Their mission depended on courage, wit, and a careful reading of the people around them. Failure was not an option.
The streets of Qarth shimmered with intrigue, and the winds of fate were shifting for all who walked them.
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