Cold winds rolled down from the far North, sweeping across the ridges of the Wall, then drifting southward over the great expanse of the Seven Kingdoms. As they crossed mountains, grasslands, and deserts, those winds gradually shifted—losing their icy bite and becoming warmer, almost feverish.
With them travelled news.
Dangerous news.
Explosive news.
And all of Westeros trembled.
---
Dorne — The Water Gardens
The tranquility of the Water Gardens was shattered by a thunderous voice.
Oberyn Martell—fiery, impulsive, reckless—burst into the gardens like a desert storm. His long strides kicked up sand, scattering petals and alarming servants as he stormed past fountains and rose-filled courtyards. He moved so fast that even Areo Hotah, the towering captain of the guard, had no time to intercept him.
Not that Hotah intended to stop him. If he truly wished to, one swing of his great longaxe—his "wife," as he called it—would end the Viper's charge. But the letters delivered moments ago explained everything.
And Hotah, loyal and perceptive, knew Prince Oberyn would never stay calm after reading such news.
Oberyn's face was a mask of barely restrained violence. Excitement, fury, bloodlust—they twisted across his sharp features like snakes writhing beneath sun-baked sand.
He strode through the gardens, the scent of fountains and citrus trees clinging to the air. At last he saw the man he sought: Prince Doran Martell, seated in his wheeled chair, surrounded by lilies and rippling streams.
Doran was bent over two sheets of parchment, his expression unreadable.
The Viper lunged forward.
"DORAN!"
His voice crashed like thunder.
"This is it! Our time has come!"
"They're tearing themselves apart—the lion and the stag have finally turned their fangs on each other!"
Oberyn spoke quickly, as if afraid the moment might vanish if he didn't seize it. This, after all, was the opportunity he'd waited for decades.
Yet Doran Martell—cautious, calculating, patient Doran—remained composed. Slowly, he lifted his gaze.
A faint smile tugged at the corners of his thin, weathered lips.
Despite the grey in his hair and the hollowness carved by years of gout and suffering, his eyes gleamed—a deep, sharp fire that revealed the true Prince of Dorne beneath the gentle façade.
"Yes," Doran murmured. "You are right, brother."
"But we must not rush. We have waited for so many years—enduring humiliation, swallowing anger. A viper that strikes too soon may miss its mark."
Oberyn's breath hitched.
His manic grin faltered.
But anticipation continued to spark beneath his skin.
"And when we strike," Doran continued, voice soft yet deadly, "our fangs must be precise. Even if our prey flees… they must still die."
Oberyn exhaled slowly, excitement simmering beneath his rage.
"Then tell me," he breathed, "what should we do?"
Doran's fingers tightened around the letters until the parchment crumpled.
"Prepare," he said, the word ringing like a tolling bell.
"We prepare for the moment we have prayed for."
"And Robert Baratheon—along with the Lannisters—" Oberyn whispered, eyes flickering with venom, "—will finally pay for what they did."
---
The Reach — Highgarden
From the sun-scorched red sands of Dorne to the lush, blooming splendor of the Reach, the winds carried rumors far and wide.
In Highgarden, Lady Olenna Redwyne—known to all as the Queen of Thorns—walked with her cane through a corridor draped in vines and golden roses. Marble fountains gurgled softly, and the scent of honey and fresh grapes drifted lazily on the breeze.
Highgarden was beauty made stone: white marble walls, flowering terraces, sweeping courtyards, ancient towers that stretched toward the summer sky. Singers had written countless ballads praising it—and even they underestimated its splendor.
"Grandmother!"
A tall, handsome man appeared at the end of the long hall. Garlan Tyrell—second son of Highgarden—wore a green silk robe embroidered with twin golden roses. He bowed politely as he approached.
Lady Olenna's sharp eyes focused on him.
"Garlan, what are you doing here?" she demanded. "Or should I assume you've finally grown bored of your sword and come to pester an old woman?"
Garlan offered a tight smile. "Willas sent me. He said, and I quote, 'Grandmother has the sharpest eyes in the world. Please tell her I can't walk quickly enough to greet her myself.'"
Olenna snorted.
"Hmph. That boy may be crippled, but he's still not the most foolish member of this family."
Garlan wisely chose silence.
"And where is Margaery?" Olenna asked, scanning the corridor. "I have words for that girl, and none of them are gentle."
"Willas already sent someone to call her," Garlan replied. "Father is also waiting. We should hurry."
Olenna harrumphed. "If I were ten years younger, I'd ride out myself and conquer Dorne. What do you think?"
Garlan blinked.
He wisely said nothing.
He simply offered his arm, and Lady Olenna accepted it, allowing him to guide her through the marble corridors.
The rose petals rustled gently under her feet as she whispered, more to herself than to him:
"War is coming. And the Reach must decide where it stands."
---
The Vale — The Eyrie
Far to the east, high atop the Mountains of the Moon, winds screeched around the towers of the Eyrie.
Inside her chambers, Lysa Tully—now Lady Arryn—rocked a pale, fragile boy in her arms. Little Robert Arryn had only just finished nursing. His brown curls clung to his forehead, and a thin trace of milk dripped from his lip.
But Lysa wasn't looking at him.
Her eyes were fixed on a small piece of parchment clutched tightly in her hand.
She reread it again and again—though every word had already burned into her memory. Her brows knitted, her face sharp and cold, as if she stood alone on a cliff with the wind roaring around her.
"What's that, Mama?" little Robert asked, tugging at her gown. "What does it say?"
Before Lysa could answer, Robert lunged—tiny hands grasping for the letter.
But Lysa was faster. She drew her arm away, lifting the letter high out of reach. Robert let out a frustrated whine.
For a moment, she simply stared at him. His complaints, his cries—normally they pierced her heart. But this time, she barely heard him.
A shadow had fallen over her thoughts.
Finally, she moved toward the candle on her desk, held the parchment over the flame, and watched it curl into blackened ash.
Only when the fire consumed every scrap did she turn back with a gentle smile.
"Nothing important, sweet boy," she murmured. "Just a silly letter."
Robert's face brightened. "Mama, I want to see the kite! Can we see the kite now?"
His voice was shrill, trembling with excitement.
Even the servants flinched.
But Lysa stroked his cheek tenderly. "Yes, my precious. Mama will take you. We'll go now—"
A knock interrupted her.
A nervous handmaiden peeked in.
"My lady," she said softly, "Ser Yohn Royce and the other knightly lords request an audience."
Lysa's smile disappeared.
Her grip tightened around Robert's arm.
The winds howled outside the Eyrie walls.
Trouble had come to the Vale.
---
Across the Seven Kingdoms
As ravens flew and rumors spread, a storm brewed behind the scenes.
Dorne sharpened its fangs.
The Reach began to stir.
The Vale trembled behind its mountain walls.
The North waited in silence.
The Riverlands held their breath.
The Stormlands whispered of rebellion.
The Iron Islands listened eagerly for war.
And all the while…
the truth of the conflict between the stag and the lion continued to ripple outward, shaping alliances, sowing distrust, and setting the stage for the bloodshed to come.
The calm before the storm had ended.
Westeros was waking.
And chaos was coming.
Advance Chapters avilable on patreon (Obito_uchiha)