298 AC, the beginning of a new age.
At the start of the year, two events stood above the rest: the sudden rise of a new power across the Narrow Sea, and the death of Jon Arryn, who had served as Hand of the King for fifteen years.
After Jon Arryn died, the old Hand's widow, Lysa Tully, fled back to the Vale overnight with her son Robert Arryn. Stannis, the Master of Ships, also withdrew to his own seat on Dragonstone.
King Robert could neither understand their flight nor do much about it. He had never cared overmuch for the politics of King's Landing. The Red Keep, the court, even the Gold Cloaks had been infiltrated so thoroughly they were like a sieve.
...
The Westerlands, Casterly Rock, the Hall of Heroes.
Great Lord Tywin walked through the vaulted chamber with his younger brother, Ser Kevan, at his side.
The hall displayed the precious armor of hundreds of Lannister knights, lords, and kings. The Hall of Heroes was famed throughout the Seven Kingdoms, its name even known across the Narrow Sea. Any member of House Lannister—or close kin—who had died bravely might be laid to rest here.
"Poor old Jon," Tywin said to Ser Kevan. "He died too quickly. Too suddenly."
Tywin was tall and lean, broad-shouldered, only just past fifty. When his hair began to thin, he had shaved it all away, leaving only thick golden whiskers at his temples and a heavy, golden beard. Even his pale green eyes seemed flecked with gold.
Since his wife's death, Great Lord Tywin rarely smiled. Fear, after all, was more dependable than laughter.
"Now that Great Lord Jon is dead," Ser Kevan said, unable to hide a note of hope, "you are King Robert's father-in-law. The crown owes us so many golden dragons. And these are troubled times. The king's bastard and the remnants of House Targaryen are tangled up together now, ready to rise again at any moment."
For years Ser Kevan had been Tywin's most trusted right hand, his loyalty and steadiness known to all. He had grown somewhat stout and was nearly bald. His square jaw was heavy with flesh, his beard kept close-cropped, his shoulders rounded and his waist thick. His hair and whiskers were both the bright Lannister gold.
"Impossible, Kevan," Tywin snapped. "That war was started by the falcon, the wolf, the stag, and the fish together. Robert never had the courage to invite me to court. He trusted old Jon and his boyhood companions far more."
"Even so, your ability as Hand is beyond question, and the gods know it," Kevan insisted. "The king ignores what is close at hand and looks elsewhere."
"Poor Robert is not completely witless," Tywin snorted. "The gods do not permit anyone to stand above the king."
"Cersei's letter says that fat woman Lysa Tully has run, and Stannis has run as well," Kevan added.
"That is the most troublesome part," Tywin said, voice turning colder. "With Jon dead, we become the obvious target. Look at it plainly: Stannis flees, Jon dies, and King's Landing is suddenly filled with Lannister men. Even if we had nothing to do with it, it benefits us on the surface, and that is enough."
"All these years, it was Jon Arryn who kept things from falling apart," Kevan said, acknowledging the old man's contribution.
"Yes," Tywin replied. "And his 'keeping things together' meant playing peacemaker. He dared not offend House Martell, and he dared not offend House Tyrell. As for the king's indulgences and excesses, he could not restrain them at all. He let Robert do as he pleased."
"Lysa is only a woman, half-mad and hysterical," Kevan said. "The dangerous one is Stannis. That man does not bend easily. And across the Narrow Sea… the remnants of House Targaryen, and the king's bastard. That bastard is a hard one."
Kevan let out a long sigh. House Lannister had indeed been ruthless to House Targaryen in the past.
"I can already smell chaos in the air," Tywin said at last. "Then I will fight this war properly. I spent years restoring our house's glory. I will not allow House Lannister to slide into ruin."
When the sea surged against the rock, a deep rumble rose from beneath the Hall of Heroes, like distant thunder, as though the castle itself were echoing the unrest of the age.
...
Tyrosh, one of the Nine Free Cities, lay not far from the shores of the Disputed Lands.
It was a fortress city guarded by towering walls, perched at the northeastern edge of the Stepstones. Its inner walls were fused from black dragonstone.
The Archon of Tyrosh stood atop the highest watchtower of the black inner city, his face clouded with worry as he looked out over the sea. The Wolf Pack fleet cruised and patrolled in the waters beyond. Those once-elegant Myr warships had struck their Myr banners and now flew the roaring sigil of the Wolf Pack.
Around the Archon gathered veteran Tyroshi Magisters, nobles, several Tyroshi sellsword captains, and a handful of exiled Myr nobles.
If there was one trait all Tyroshi shared, it was flamboyance. They adored vivid colors, dyeing their hair and beards in brilliant shades—blue, green, chestnut, pink, purple, scarlet, and vermilion. Their elaborate hats were just as distinctive.
"I will offer my warships and half my fortune," vowed the exiled Myr Magister, though it felt as if his heart were bleeding.
"Do it, Archon!" urged one Tyroshi Magister. "This isn't about whether we can. It's about whether we dare. The Wolf Pack fleet stretches from Myr Bay to the Stepstones. They've practically sealed off the entire sea route. Our slave ships don't even dare sail out to capture slaves, and our merchant vessels are trapped by their blockade. If this continues, Tyrosh will collapse sooner or later."
"And how are we to do it?" sighed the green-bearded Archon. "On our own?"
He shook his head.
"I know Tyrosh is in a dire position. Slaves in the city are stirring toward revolt. Our estates and towns in the Disputed Lands have been seized. Now even our sea lanes are being choked off. Reinforcements from Lys and Volantis have yet to arrive. We are barely holding on."
"What about hiring the Unsullied?"
"Too expensive. Too slow. And Braavos opposes slavery. I don't see that working."
"On our own, perhaps we cannot match them," another Magister said, "but we have allies. Lys and Volantis are slave cities as well. And Slaver's Bay. Will they truly tolerate this frenzy of slave liberation spreading unchecked?"
"Right now it's King Robert's bastard joining forces with an exiled Targaryen princess," someone else added. "They have plenty of enemies across the Narrow Sea too. The wealthy Great Lord Tywin is one of them."
The Magisters and nobles spoke over one another, each laying out their arguments with confidence.
"Let me raise a concern," one said. "The old Hand whom that whoring king trusted is dead. The Iron Throne likely has no interest in meddling across the Narrow Sea."
"Distant water cannot quench a nearby fire," the Archon replied sharply. "My lords, if flames break out here, how long are we supposed to wait for aid?"
No one understood the workings of a Free City better than he did. Elections and factional politics pulled them in different directions like horses harnessed to the same cart but running apart. Reaching a decision was always difficult.
"If only your tongues were as sharp as your blades," sneered the purple-haired Admiral of Tyrosh. "Why don't you board ships and fight yourselves?"
"We have only around two hundred warships," he continued. "That sellsword king has two hundred assorted vessels of his own, plus one hundred and forty Myr warships. And his army on land is well trained."
"Pentos is weak. Braavos is ambiguous. Lys is hesitating. Volantis is not in an election year; the Elephant Party still holds power. And as for the Golden Company, they're currying favor with that sellsword king as well."
"So we're finished, then?" Despair began to spread. Some Magisters looked as though they were about to weep.
"We are not without options," the Archon said, raising a hand to quiet them.
"The horselords. Those greedy khals are unlikely to appreciate Myr's independence if it refuses to continue paying tribute."
He looked at the men around him.
"This is the time for Tyrosh to stand united. The crisis before us is more dangerous than any silver tongue. Contribute your wealth. We will hire swords and knights. And we will send envoys to tempt the horselords into riding to war."