"From His Grace, King Stannis: one dragon skull, belonging to Silverwing."
"From House Serrett: seven peacocks."
"From House Marbrand: seven destriers."
"From House Westerling of the Crag: a pair of red corals."
"..."
"..."
"From House Frey: five jade bracelets."
"From House Tyrell of Highgarden: two wheelhouses."
"From House Martell of Sunspear: a ship full of blood oranges."
"From House Stark: ten bearskins."
"From House Karstark—"
"..."
"From House Darry of Darry—"
Less than a week after Jon and Margaery arrived at Casterly Rock, the maester confirmed that Margaery was with child. Jon spread the news, and within a month, gifts from all corners of the Seven Kingdoms came pouring in.
As an expectant mother and the Lady of the Rock, and since she was not yet showing, Margaery personally hosted the noblewomen of the Westerlands.
Ladies from Houses Marbrand, Serrett, Estren, and Crakehall gathered to pay their respects.
They sat in a circle around her, the room filling with endless laughter and warm congratulations.
After observing the political landscape for some time, Margaery was astonished to realize that in just a few short months, Jon had completely restored Casterly Rock's absolute dominance over the Westerlands—perhaps even surpassing the Lannister era.
A massive number of premier Westerland nobles had either perished on the battlefield or burned in the wildfire. Their overall strength had plummeted. They were utterly powerless to demand anything from Jon. In fact, their own houses were so plagued by internal strife that they frequently had to beg Jon to mediate and dispense justice.
This, of course, indirectly cemented Casterly Rock's absolute authority.
Now wearing her hair pinned up in the style of a married woman, Margaery was more than happy to play the role of mediator. She thoroughly enjoyed the feeling of being the true Lady of the house.
Just then, another noblewoman approached. Margaery's informants had already whispered the woman's details into her ear long before she entered the room.
So, the moment the woman stepped forward, Margaery put on a look of pleasant surprise. "Lady Westerling, is it not?"
"Lady Margaery, I am deeply honored that you know of me," replied a slightly aging but impeccably dignified woman.
Her name was Sybell, wife of Lord Gawen Westerling, and mother-in-law to Robb Stark.
Sybell had brought her youngest daughter, Eleyna, and her youngest son, Rollam, to meet Margaery.
"Lady Margaery," Eleyna, who was about Sansa's age, said shyly as she curtsied. Margaery generously slipped a pearl bracelet from her own wrist and fastened it around the girl's.
"Thank you, Lady Margaery."
Unaware of Jon's grand plan to build a bureaucratic system to govern the sprawling Westerlands, Margaery maintained her habit of courting and winning over the nobility.
House Westerling had, after all, marched back into the West alongside Jon. As the Lady of the Rock, her stance was crucial; she had to show them a level of respect and importance far above the other houses.
At Margaery's warm invitation, Sybell took the seat closest to her. Her daughter was enthusiastically entertained by Margaery's ladies-in-waiting, while young Rollam, suddenly surrounded by a flock of beautiful girls, turned bright red and could barely stammer out a coherent sentence.
As a first-time mother, Margaery humbly sought Sybell's advice on pregnancy.
Sybell mysteriously produced a vial of potion, claiming it was a secret recipe from her maiden family, House Spicer, and that it worked wonders for expecting mothers.
Though Margaery expressed joyous gratitude on the surface, she had absolutely no intention of drinking it.
Even though she knew House Westerling wouldn't dare harm her, it was still something meant to be ingested. She wasn't about to swallow some random concoction.
"The Lord Duke has only just taken control of the Westerlands. He must be incredibly busy, yes?" Sybell asked, steering the conversation toward Jon.
"My Lord Husband seems to have many... unique ideas," Margaery replied. Thinking back on the past month with Jon, she found many of his actions somewhat baffling.
For instance, gathering orphans. Around Casterly Rock alone, he had taken in over a thousand orphaned children.
Jon called the place where these orphans lived a "school." He personally taught them classes and taught them how to read. He didn't do it every day, of course, but he made sure to show his face frequently.
Margaery could understand his kindness toward the orphans; once they grew up, they would become his most fanatically loyal subjects.
What truly confused her, however, was that Jon had the orphans address him as "Principal" rather than "Lord Duke."
Margaery simply chalked it up to one of Jon's eccentric little quirks.
Furthermore, Jon showed considerable compassion for the widows and the destitute, actively finding ways for them to earn a living.
In Margaery's eyes, none of this was harmful. If anything, it simply proved her husband was a man of good heart.
The expenses might be a little high, but Jon didn't have any costly vices himself, so the overall financial strain was manageable.
However, one thing deeply baffled Margaery: Jon was restructuring the Westerlands into "administrative districts." He claimed he was going to divide the West into five to seven "Counties."
So far, he had established Casterly County in the center, Crag County in the north, and Oxford County in the south. The southeast and east hadn't been fully mapped out yet, but Jon seemed intent on carving out a "Golden Tooth County" centered around the Golden Tooth.
Just then, Robert Frey hurried in from outside to report to Margaery. "My Lady, the Lord is tied up at the port and likely won't be able to make an appearance today. He asks that you host the banquet in his stead."
"Very well. I understand," Margaery nodded, then offered a polite, apologetic smile to her guests.
It didn't really matter. Most of the arrivals were just envoys bearing gifts; none of them were important enough to warrant Jon greeting them personally anyway.
---
Theon... The Iron Islands...
Jon woke up in his temporary quarters in Lannisport, a faint look of melancholy on his face.
Ever since returning to Casterly Rock, Jon hadn't relaxed his surveillance of the Iron Islands for a second. He knew Euron wouldn't die that easily. Sure enough, less than ten days after Jon got back, Euron had returned to Pyke.
Naturally, Jon had also witnessed Theon's funeral through the eyes of his ravens.
He had originally planned to feed Theon some strategy, helping the boy secure more power on the islands.
He never expected that bastard Euron to change his target—opting to murder his nephew instead of his brother.
Yet, thinking it over, Euron's approach made ruthless sense.
First of all, the political landscape had drastically changed. In the original timeline, Balon faced a fractured, bleeding Westeros. But now—
Looking across the Seven Kingdoms, Balon was the only usurper king left standing. The external pressure was immensely worse.
Euron knew that sheer terror alone wouldn't be enough to bind the ironborn together right now; they desperately needed a leader with absolute, established prestige to guide them through the storm.
By killing Theon, Euron made himself the immediate heir. Combine that with his dark magic and Balon's advancing age, Euron could simply bide his time and seize the Seastone Chair at the perfect moment.
Feigning temporary submission killed two birds with one stone. Say what you will about Euron's battlefield tactics, but based on his manipulation of Mace Tyrell and his reading of the current political board, the man was an absolute master at playing human nature and weaving dark conspiracies.
Jon had intended to keep a constant, unblinking eye on the Iron Islands. However, Euron quickly replenished his own flock of dark ravens. With Euron actively sweeping the skies, Jon could no longer maintain his day-and-night granular surveillance without risking detection.
Still, if the ironborn launched any major military movements, Jon would know about it in time.
Jon left his room and stepped out onto the terrace, looking down over the sprawling expanse of Lannisport. He took a deep breath, letting the salty sea breeze fill his lungs.
Merchants possessed the sharpest instincts in the world. The war had barely ended, yet Jon could already spot ships that had sailed all the way from the Free Cities.
Hundreds of merchant cogs and cargo galleys were moored in the harbor, alongside an even greater number of fishing trawlers. Upon the sapphire sea, the myriad colored sails looked like a shattered, vibrant mosaic of clouds beneath the clear sky.
Right now, Lannisport resembled one massive construction site, working furiously to build up its coastal defenses. Besides the merchant ships, there were numerous flat-bottomed barges used for hauling stone and timber. The men responsible for the grueling labor were primarily the troops Alester Florent had brought with him.
Years ago, shortly after Robert overthrew Aerys, Balon sparked Greyjoy's Rebellion. He ordered a surprise attack on Lannisport, burning the lion's share of the Lannister fleet at anchor. Only the dozen or so warships docked in the heavily fortified sea caves beneath Casterly Rock had survived.
While the caverns beneath the Rock were impenetrable, their capacity was severely limited. Only Lannisport had the sheer volume needed to host a true armada.
In the near future, the two hundred warships of the Redwyne fleet, Stannis's remaining forty-odd galleys, and Casterly Rock's own thirty ships would all be stationed here.
To ensure history didn't repeat itself in a fiery disaster, Jon essentially drafted Alester's four thousand men into a massive construction crew, ordering them to fortify Lannisport's seawalls and watchtowers.
It was also a highly effective way to make sure they earned their keep, instead of just bleeding his granaries dry.
Speaking of Alester, ever since the Lord Hand arrived at Casterly Rock, he had been endlessly hounding Jon for a straight answer: When are we launching the grand invasion of the Iron Islands?
Jon knew the ugly truth perfectly well. This was nothing more than the Iron Throne trying to use him as a battering ram again.
However, he had already struck a quiet agreement with Willas Tyrell: beat the war drums as loudly as possible, scream for vengeance, but drag their feet agonizingly slow during the actual preparations.
Jon absolutely wanted to conquer and absorb the Iron Islands, but he refused to let the campaign devolve into a grueling, bloody meat grinder.
The ironborn were unparalleled in naval warfare, and their longships were terrifyingly fast. They held the absolute initiative in both offense and defense on the water.
Charging in blindly was suicide. Stannis had already written the playbook on how to beat them years ago: an ambush.
Jon's strategy was to choke them with a brutal naval blockade, forcing the ironborn to lash out and attack on his terms, luring them straight into a pre-selected kill zone.
Obviously, this cold, calculating strategy completely clashed with Alester's ambitions. The Lord Hand desperately needed glorious, overwhelming military victories to cement House Florent's standing. He wanted nothing more than to personally plant his fox banner atop the walls of Pyke.
Just then, Sandor stepped onto the terrace. "My Lord, the eight hundred acolytes you requested from the Citadel have arrived."
"Let's go have a look, then."
Jon pulled himself from his dark plotting. He was the Lord of the West now, and the Westerlands were the absolute fulcrum for every single one of his grand designs. With winter barely a year away, he needed to get the region's agriculture and industry churning at full capacity immediately.
These eight hundred Citadel acolytes were the foundation of his future bureaucratic empire. He had to welcome them personally.