Third Person POV
299 AC, Lannister War Camp – Evening, War Tent
The war tent of Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, was a stark contrast to the chaos of the camp outside. Its canvas walls were taut, its interior lit by flickering braziers casting long shadows over maps and scrolls strewn across a heavy oaken table. Tywin stood rigid, his golden-green eyes scanning a map of the Riverlands, his crimson cloak edged with gold pinned tightly at his shoulder. Kevan Lannister, his brother, stood nearby, ever the loyal shadow, his face weathered but attentive, his armor polished but practical. The air was thick with the weight of strategy and the distant clamor of soldiers sharpening steel.
A messenger, dust-covered and weary, entered with a bow, clutching a sealed scroll. "From King's Landing, my lord," the messenger said, handing the scroll to Tywin before retreating swiftly, as if sensing the storm brewing in the old lion's gaze.
Tywin broke the seal with a flick of his dagger, his eyes narrowing as he read. His jaw tightened, a rare crack in his iron composure. "Aemon Targaryen," he said, voice low, sharp as Valyrian steel. "Declared king in the North. Ned Stark's bastard, revealed as Rhaegar's trueborn son."
Kevan raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. "Let me see." Tywin passed the scroll, and Kevan's eyes scanned the inked words, his lips pursing. "Well, that's unexpected," he said, folding the scroll. "A Targaryen rising now, of all times."
Tywin's gaze returned to the map, his voice cold, precise. "This changes everything."
Kevan nodded, stroking his beard. "Perhaps it's a boon, Brother. The boy's claim could fracture Stannis and Renly's support. Baratheon loyalists may waver, split between two brothers and now a dragon. It weakens their position."
Tywin's eyes flicked to his brother, unyielding. "It complicates matters, Kevan. A Targaryen name carries weight—myth, history, danger. If the North rallies behind this Aemon, they're not just rebels; they're a cause. And the North is already marching."
Kevan's expression tightened. "Yes, Stark's banners are moving south. We must counter this before the realm truly believes he's a Targaryen. A dragon in Winterfell could stir old loyalties, even in the south."
Tywin's fingers tapped the table, a rare sign of agitation. "I'll send a letter to Walder Frey. The Twins must hold. He'll not let the northern army pass, not if he values Lannister gold and favor." He paused, his voice dropping. "The situation in King's Landing isn't helping. Cersei is unfit to rule—rash, emotional, prone to mistakes. Letting the Starks escape was her first blunder, and I wager not her last. Joffrey's worse—a spoiled, lunatic boy playing at king. I will not leave the capital in the hands of a foolish queen and a mad child."
Kevan's gaze softened, a flicker of sympathy. "If only Tyrion were here. His mind, sharp as it is, could—"
The tent flap burst open, cutting Kevan off. Tyrion Lannister strode in, his short frame cloaked in travel-stained leather, his mismatched eyes glinting with defiance. Behind him followed a motley crew: a hulking man with a shaved head and scars, another with wild red tattoos, a fierce woman with braided hair and a spear, and a lean sellsword with a smirk. Tyrion grinned, spreading his arms. "Did you think of me, Father? Your prodigal son returns."
Tywin's face remained impassive, his voice cold. "What took you so long?"
Tyrion's grin widened, undaunted. "Oh, the sky cells in the Eyrei were such a charming sight, I spent a night there to appreciate their… airy beauty. The wind howls so poetically when you're dangling over a cliff."
Tywin's expression didn't shift, his eyes boring into his youngest son. "Who are these companions of yours?"
Tyrion glanced back, gesturing with a flourish. "This fine lot? Shaga, son of Dolf, chieftain of the Stone Crows. Timett, son of Timett, ruler of the Burned Men. Chella, daughter of Cheyk, leader of the Black Ears. And this is Bronn, son of…" He paused, turning to the sellsword.
"You wouldn't know him," Bronn said, his smirk sharp as a dagger.
Tyrion continued, unfazed. "I promised them weapons and gold for their aid in our little war. Bronn here's my personal guard—handy with a blade, and not half bad at drinking."
Tywin's gaze swept over the mountain clansmen, his voice cutting. "Whatever my son promised, I'll double it. Your men will fight for House Lannister in the battles to come. Do you agree?"
Shaga grunted, his massive hand resting on an axe. "Gold and steel? We fight." Timett nodded, his one good eye glinting. Chella bared her teeth, a feral grin. "The Black Ears will spill blood for you, lion lord."
Tywin's eyes didn't waver. "Good. Make your camp outside. Food and ale will be provided until I summon you." The clansmen filed out, their heavy steps fading into the camp's din, Bronn lingering a moment with a raised eyebrow before following.
Tywin turned to Tyrion, his voice like iron. "You're going to King's Landing."
Tyrion blinked, his smirk faltering. "Me? To the viper's den?"
"Yes," Tywin said, his stare unyielding. "Cersei acts rashly, making mistakes that threaten our house. Joffrey's worse—a boy with a crown and no sense. You'll ensure they don't ruin us further."
Tyrion's eyes narrowed, his voice laced with mockery. "Ah, of course. Who better to temper the lioness than her beloved brother? I'm touched, Father, truly."
Tywin's stare hardened, his voice low, dangerous. "You are my son, Tyrion, whatever I think of you. I will not leave my legacy in the hands of two idiots. You'll go to King's Landing as Hand of the King."
Silence fell, heavy as a warhammer. Kevan stood still, his eyes flicking between them. Tyrion's smirk faded entirely, his mismatched eyes searching his father's face for a jest that wasn't there. After a moment, he inclined his head, voice dry. "Well then, I suppose I'd best prepare for the viper's den. Snakes, lions, and lunatics—should be a charming court."
Tywin turned back to the map, dismissing him. "Go. And don't fail me."
Tyrion gave a mock bow, his grin returning, though it didn't reach his eyes. "As you command, Father." He strode out, Bronn at his heels, leaving the tent to its heavy silence.
Kevan cleared his throat. "He'll handle Cersei, Brother. He's clever, for all his faults."
Tywin's eyes remained on the map, his voice cold. "He'd better. Or the North's dragon and the South's fools will tear this house apart."
Outside, the camp stirred, banners snapping in the wind, as the Lannisters' game grew ever more perilous.
Essos
Meanwhile, in the east, King Domonic Augustus marched on Volantis with three thousand of Uruk's finest soldiers. The Black Walls, fabled for their impregnability, crumbled under his Divine Departure, a cataclysmic strike that shattered stone and steel alike. Mercenaries fell before him, their blades useless against his wrath. The slaves of Volantis, inspired by the chaos, rose up, seizing weapons and turning on their masters. In a single day, Domonic razed the city's rulers, claiming their treasures and properties for Uruk.
The Uruk soldiers patrolled the streets, maintaining order as Domonic consolidated his power. He sat in the ruins of Volantis's great halls, his queens Daenerys and Missandei at his side, their eyes fixed on the horizon. The other Free Cities would soon band together, pooling their strength in a desperate bid to stop him. Domonic smiled, his mind already plotting the final strike that would bring them all to their knees.
Uruk's shadow loomed large, and the world trembled before its king.