The Reach
House Caswell's lands were known for their lush wheat fields and golden barley, for orchards heavy with fruit and cottages tucked between winding brooks.
They came before the sunrise—dozens of mounted men in armor, bearing the sigils of Polliver's band.
They struck first at a small hamlet outside Bitterbridge, a collection of farmsteads and timber barns. There was no warning. The gates were broken by an axe to the hinges. The dogs were the first to die—throats slit, the yelps swallowed in the early mist.
A young girl fled across a field barefoot, screaming for her mother. One rider followed her down, swinging low from the saddle. The girl's skull had burst like a melon beneath his mace.
No orders were shouted. These men were fighting like savages.
In the village square, they dragged people from their homes. Old men, wide eyed babes, women in nightclothes. One of the men smashed a child against a wall and laughed as the blood painted his armor.
The baker's family was burned alive inside their house, the door was barred from the outside. The stench of scorched flesh was mixing with the sweet scent of rising bread still in the ovens.
When a hedge knight raised a sword to defend a handful of terrified farmers, they gutted him and tied his entrails around his neck like a garland. The corpses were stacked in the village center, some missing limbs, others scalped or eyeless.
On the fourth farmstead, they found a sept. A kindly old septon had hidden twelve people inside, praying for mercy beneath the gaze of the Seven. They torched the sept with the doors nailed shut.
By midday, the flames reached the wheat fields. A blaze that started killing the harvest and would starve the land. Ash was floating like snowflakes through the air, drifting over corpses and smoldering beams.
They moved quickly, leaving destruction in their wake. No food stores were spared. Every sack of grain was ripped open and salted. The animals were slaughtered and left in the water troughs. Wells were poisoned with dead livestock.
It was a butchery.
And they left signs—subtle, but telling who these people were.
A few survivors escaped to tell their lord what has happened.
A farmer was missing a hand. A mother whose children had been torn from her arms. A septa whose face had been slashed. They would speak. They would carry the tale to Lord Caswell, and then he to Highgarden and other Lords. And slowly the whole Reach would know.
They would know that the Westerlanders had turned its savagery towards the Reach.
They would know that Tywin Lannister's mad dogs had come.
________________________________________________________________________
The Reach
The camp was filled with fury. The banners of House Tyrell and House Baratheon flew high, but beneath them, there was no joy to be had. News of the brutal massacre in Caswell lands had spread like wildfire through Renly's ranks, and the lords were simmering with rage.
They had no lack of men, and no lack of supplies. The road ahead was wide open for him to march on Kingslanding if he chose. But that wasn't the issue now. The attack on Caswell lands had shifted everything. The lords, once uncertain, now burned with the kind of outrage that could ignite an entire region.
Lord Tarth, standing at Renly's side, was the first to break the silence. His face was tight with fury, his usually calm demeanor shattered. "What is the point of marching to Kingslanding if we let the Lannisters go unpunished for this?" He jabbed his finger at the map. "We have the strength, we have the power. They butchered Caswell's people. We must strike the Lannisters hard and fast—before they launch another attack."
Renly held his ground. "And what, Lord Tarth? March straight into their lands? You want me to attack the Westerlands now, when we should be aiming at the capital?"
Lord Redwyne's angry voice rang out across the tent. "Your Grace, what's the point of taking the throne if we let the Lannisters trample the Reach in the meantime?"
Lord Rowan had fire in his eyes. "Lord Caswell is one of our own. His lands are burned, his people had been slaughtered. My own lands lie close to the Westerlands border. It was them who attacked us first. The Lannisters must pay for this."
Renly clenched his jaw.
Randyll Tarly spoke with his usual bluntness. "Your Grace, we have to act. The people of the Reach are screaming for blood. If you wait too long, you'll lose control of them. We must act before the Lannisters launch a full invasion."
Renly's brow furrowed as he weighed their words.
He turned to Loras, whose face was stone. "Are you telling me we turn toward the Westerlands and leave the capital behind?" His voice was quiet, but hard.
"Yes, Your Grace," Loras said without hesitation, stepping forward. "They've already attacked our lands. This was only a small strike. If we delay, they'll come with full force—just as they did in the Riverlands. We must strike now."
The lords were right—every single one of them. The Reach had been violated.
Renly looked around the tent at the faces of the men who had followed him this far. He saw only rage.
"I will not let this insult stand," Renly said at last. "We will march to the Westerlands. The Lannisters will answer for the destruction they've brought upon House Caswell's lands."
A chorus of approval rang out. They were hungry for war—this war. Their fury had turned into bloodlust, and Renly knew there would be no turning back now.
________________________________________________________________________
Harrenhal, The Riverlands
Kevan Lannister sat with his brother Tywin in the dimly lit war room. The maps of Westeros, marked with ink offered little solace now.
Kevan broke the silence. "Tywin, we didn't order this attack."
Tywin's eyes were cold, as he examined the parchments before him. He didn't look up. "No, we didn't. Polliver and his men are in the Riverlands, stirring trouble there."
Kevan's brow furrowed. "What is the news from the Reach?"
Tywin finally met his brother's gaze, his expression a mask of calculated fury. "They believe it was us."
Kevan's mouth tightened into a grim line. "And what have they decided?"
"There is a huge uproar." Tywin's voice was tight, the weight of the situation pressing on him. "Renly has no option. He will attack us."
Kevan stopped pacing, turning back to his brother. "Then what do we do? We'll be stretched thin if we engaged by The Reach too."
Tywin spoke after a pause. "We can't move from here. We need to hold Kingslanding also. We can't risk weakening our position. We'll have to deal with the Riverland and Vale lords before we can even consider engaging another."
Kevan nodded slowly. "And what of the Reach?"
Tywin's face hardened. "I'm ordering Jaime to move against the Reach's forces. He'll take the field. I'll send half the sellswords we've hired to assist him. They may be mercenaries, but they're better than nothing."
There was a moment of silence before Kevan spoke again, quieter this time. "And what of the Targaryens?"
Tywin's eyes narrowed. "We will focus on the here and now, Kevan. The Targaryens are still on that side of the Narrow sea. After dealing with enemies we have here, we will handle them."
Kevan nodded, agreeing. The looming threat of Renly's attack was a danger they could not afford to ignore.
________________________________________________________________________
Kingslanding, Crownsland
Tyrion Lannister sat at the head of the Small Council table, with legs crossed and a goblet cradling lazily in one hand. His eyes swept the room with a mixture of boredom and mild amusement.
The others were filtering in one by one—Littlefinger, all smug charm and false humility; Pycelle, who shuffled in like his bones were made of old parchment; and Varys, gliding rather than walking.
"My lords," Tyrion drawled, "It seems you've all survived the night without being poisoned, stabbed, or strangled. Miraculous, truly."
"Sadly," said Baelish, taking his seat with that ever present smirk, "though there's always tonight."
Pycelle coughed into his sleeve but said nothing.
Varys inclined his head, with all politeness. "A pleasant morning to you all. As always, my little birds have brought some whispers."
Tyrion gave an exaggerated sigh and took a sip from his goblet. "Of course they have. Let's hear the latest disaster."
Varys folded his hands in his sleeves. "These whispers are from the Iron Islands. Theon Greyjoy has declared himself King of the Isles."
That made Baelish's brow lift. "How bold of him. But considering the current state of the realm, not entirely unexpected."
Tyrion blinked, then snorted into his whiskey. "So 'The War of the Three Kings' becomes 'The War of the Four Kings.' How quaint. I daresay it'll be five by next week."
Pycelle grumbled something about the realm tearing itself apart, but no one paid him any mind.
Baelish leaned back. "Do we know his intent?"
Varys gave a delicate shrug. "Not fully. But the Ironborn are stirring. Longships are gathering, and there are whispers of attacks planned on the western coast."
"Let me guess," Tyrion said. "They mean to raid the North?"
Varys nodded. "It would seem so."
Tyrion swirled his whiskey. "Well, good luck to them then. This time there is no Jon Arryn to save them."
He glanced sideways at Varys. "What about Aryan Stark? Any word?"
"None," Varys replied smoothly. "But I would imagine that he is not sleeping through this."
"Seven save the fool who stirs that wolf," Tyrion muttered, then raised his goblet in mock salute. "To Theon Greyjoy. May his crown be made of barnacles."
________________________________________________________________________
Tyrion Lannister was having a bad day.
His head was throbbing, a dull and persistent ache that no amount of vodka could dull, and this morning's letter had brought him nothing but trouble. Dorne was lost to them.
He had expected some resistance. Doran Martell was not the sort of man who leapt into bed with Lannisters without a long look at the sheets. But he hadn't expected a flat refusal. Not when the offer had been Myrcella—beautiful, courteous, noble blooded. A princess. But it seemed the Martells had already cast their lot elsewhere.
He hadn't even had time to pour a fresh cup of drink before Cersei stormed into his solar, with her eyes blazing, hair unkempt, and lips curled into that all too familiar sneer.
"You monster!" she spat before the door had even fully closed behind her. "Myrcella is my only daughter. Do you really think I would let you sell her like some common whore?"
Tyrion didn't flinch. He had been expecting her.
"Myrcella is a princess," he said coolly. "Some would say she was born for this."
Cersei's hands clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. "I will not let you ship her off to Dorne as I was shipped off to Robert Baratheon."
Tyrion sighed. He rose from his chair, and faced her squarely.
"Dorne was the safest place for her. The North and Dorne—those are the only two kingdoms that haven't moved since Robert's death. Everywhere else war is going on. If you have a better idea of where she'll be safer, I would love to hear it."
"The Martells loathe us," she snapped. "Elia—"
"Yes, yes, Elia Martell," Tyrion interrupted, waving a hand. "Every Martell has her face carved into their memories like a saint's. I know. That's why the offer mattered. Because if we had succeeded in turning Dorne to our side, we might have balanced the board again. We needed to seduce them."
"And what do you mean needed?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.
Tyrion didn't answer right away.
"They refused."
Cersei's face went rigid. "What?"
He met her eyes. "The Martells rejected the match. Apparently, Princes Quentyn and Trystane are to wed in Dorne, because Arianne Martell has married Aryan Stark. Do you understand the position we are in? The Reach is also moving against us now."
"You think I don't know that?" she snapped.
"Then think on this: if Kingslanding falls—if Renly or Stannis—they take this city, do you really think Myrcella will be spared because of your tears and screams? That there is a possibility that we can lost this war now."
He stepped closer now, voice dropping.
"Do you wish to see her raped? Ripped from her bed and butchered like the Targaryen babes during the Sack? Do you want her pretty little head paraded on a spike beside yours?"
Cersei's breath caught. Her face turned pale with rage.
"I did everything I could," he said, his voice raw now. "You think I want her hurt? You think I don't care what happens to her? She's your daughter, yes. But she's my blood too. And there are vultures circling this city, all of them are starving."
She turned her back on him. Her shoulders trembled—whether from anger or grief, he couldn't tell.
"This could have been avoided," he said softly. "You brought this on us."
He picked up his cup at last and drained it in one long swallow.
________________________________________________________________________
The Iron Born attack on The North
Fifteen thousand Ironborn came upon the North like a storm, with the songs of the Old Way on their lips. They were going to attack their whole western coast. They would attack small settlements in small numbers instead of castles. After all Northern Army can't be everywhere.
~~~~
Harl Stormharrow, strode ashore with four hundred men. The village of Lordsport-by-the-Lake was small—barely a hundred souls, mostly goat herders and fishmongers.
His scouts had reported a few torchlights in windows, a child's laughter, the lowing of cattle. He grinned.
"Easy prey."
The moment they reached the central square, the torches in the windows flickered and vanished.
It was too late, when the Ironborn realized how quiet it truly was.
Then the earth exploded.
Pitfalls opened beneath their feet, covered by cloth and snow. Spiked trenches swallowed men whole. Firepots rained from the rooftops. Flaming arrows stitched the sky.
From behind goat pens and hay carts rose Northmen, dressed in sheepskins and wielding spears and axes. The villagers were armed, and fought with an intensity the Ironborn had never expected.
A woman with a cleaver slit the throat of an Ironborn raider as he reached for her daughter. Her eyes were wild.
Within the hour, every Ironborn lay dead or dying—burning in a pyre of fish oil and pine.
~~~~
At Coldwater Bay, over a thousand Ironborn landed under Captain Dyren Volmark. His ships spread out across the pebbled shore, fanning toward nearby hamlets: Stagmouth, Brinefield, and Grey Hollow.
But the moment they split up, the traps were sprung.
In Stagmouth, fishermen's nets disguised with sharp, spiked chains were dragged tight as Ironborn flooded the docks, cleaving men in half, entangling their axes and armor in a mess of blood and seaweed. The raiders were caught in a tangle of death, unable to retreat or regroup.
From the rooftops, bowmen fired down arrows, while women with curved knives emerged from behind barrels and cellars, slitting throats in the chaos. Northmen who had disguised themselves as villagers rose from their hiding places, cutting down any Ironborn who managed to free themselves from the traps.
In Grey Hollow, the Ironborn found the gates open, livestock penned, and smoke curling from chimneys.
But every house was rigged. Barrels of oil concealed under the floorboards. Boiling water above the doors.
The moment they entered, villagers screamed the word: "Now!"
Flames and screams followed.
Then the Northmen burst from underground tunnels with axes and mauls, butchering the trapped reavers like cattle. Not one Ironborn escaped.
Brinefield, the largest of the three, became a bloodbath. Three hundred Ironborn marched through what they thought was a quiet market. The bread stalls were real. So were the women at them. But when the Ironborn reached for them—
The women drew blades from baskets and cut deep.
Hidden in wagons were warhounds—hulking beasts bred in the Wolfswood. They were loosed in waves.
Men screamed as the hounds tore through tendon and flesh. Small spears fell from above, launched by slingers perched high in the trees.
The last of the Ironborn tried to flee down the hill, but a line of spearmen met them halfway. They did not break formation.
And the Ironborn fell.
~~~~
Five hundred Ironborn had marched for Saltshore Hold, a small stone fort surrounded by woods. A perfect target. Only a garrison of fifty old men.
The Ironborn entered the outer yard unchallenged.
Then came the sounds of drums from the trees.
The sky turned black—not from stormclouds, but from arrows.
The old men inside were the veterans of Robert's Rebellion and Greyjoy Rebellion, clad in leather and snow-camouflaged cloaks.
They let the Ironborn enter the courtyard—then closed the gates.
Fire spilled from the walls. Oil rained. And the screaming didn't stop for hours.
By morning, the courtyard was red, and Saltshore Hold had lost only two men.
~~~~
And many such massacres happened on the whole western Northern coasts.
~~~~
By the time the sun rose, the shores were littered with the bodies of the Ironborn. Their raid had cost them dearly.
Fifteen thousand Ironborn came to raid the Northern coast. But only few survived—who were later on captured and killed.
~~~~
The Wolf of Winterfell is stirring. He is preparing to expand his reach. And to claim what he is owed.
The kraken had drowned in its own blood. And the wolf is hungry again.
________________________________________________________________________
Winterfell, The North
Jaqen entered with his usual usual calm way.
"The Ironborn have been decimated, my lord," Jaqen reported "Your plan has worked."
Aryan raised an eyebrow. He stood up, and walked towards the map on another table. His fingers were tracing the coastline where the Ironborn had tried to land. A gleam of satisfaction was in his gaze, though he showed no other sign of emotion.
"Jaqen," Aryan said in an even voice. "Are our forces ready?"
Jaqen informed. "Yes, my lord. As you ordered, Lord William Dustin has gathered forty five thousand men from the Northern Army. The remainder of the Northern forces are still positioned on the western coast, prepared for any further incursions. Additionally, fifteen thousand former Free Folk volunteers are en route and will arrive soon."
Aryan nodded slowly. "And the fleets?"
"The Manderly and Seastark fleets are ready and waiting for your orders," Jaqen replied.
Aryan's eyes flickered toward the Iron Islands on the map, imagining the attack. It was time.
"Send orders to the Northern Army on the western coast to resume their normal positions," Aryan commanded in cold voice. "But have the former Free Folk remain vigilant for any surprises. Tell William to mobilize our forces towards Moat Cailin. That will be our launching point. And tell Uncle Benjen and Lord Manderly to mobilize their fleets towards Moat Cailin," Aryan continued, his gaze sharpening. "I will lead this attack myself."
Jaqen gave a slight nod. "As you command, my lord."
Aryan's thoughts were already shifting to the coming war and it's consequences.
"Send for my mother and wife," Aryan said quietly.
"As you wish," Jaqen responded, stepping back and bowing his head. "I shall fetch them immediately."
It is time to hunt.
______________________________________________________________________
Aryan sat at his desk. In front of him, his mother and wife were sitting.
"Mother, Arianne," he began, his voice steady, "the Ironborn have attacked our shores. But my plan had worked. Our preparations, our traps—they have paid off. We have decimated their fighting force."
Arianne's eyes narrowed slightly as she processed his words, lips pressed tight in thought. She had known Aryan would handle this situation, but hearing the finality in his tone still sent a chill through her.
"I've sent orders to mobilize the army and the fleet," Aryan continued, his voice leaving no room for doubt.
Ashara spoke then, probing. "And the former Free Folk?"
Aryan nodded. "The former Free Folk on the western coast are to stay alert for any surprises. And fifteen thousand of them have volunteered for this attack. They'll be with us."
Arianne's brow furrowed in concern. "Will you lead this attack yourself?"
"Yes," Aryan replied simply, his eyes meeting hers. "This is our golden chance to end these scums, once and for all. I can't let this chance escape from my hands."
His gaze softened as he turned to Arianne, his expression became so tender. "In my absence, Winterfell will be in your charge, Arianne. But with your pregnancy, I want you to lean on mother. She'll be here to help you."
Arianne's heart ached at the thought of him leaving, but she nodded, understanding the necessity of this attack. Then, she stood and walked over to him, her hand brushing against his as she cupped his cheek. Her eyes softened with love, and she spoke with quiet reassurance. "I'll manage, Aryan. I know you have to do this, but..." Her voice faltered slightly as she looked up at him. "I wish you didn't have to go, my love."
Aryan placed his hand over hers, his thumb gently brushing her skin. He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers for a moment. "I wish I didn't either. I will be missing our child's birth," he murmured. "But I promise I'll return to you. And to our child. I'll make sure of it."
________________________________________________________________________
Dragonstone
Stannis Baratheon looked up when the doors opened.
Davos Seaworth entered, and knelt briefly. "Salladhor Saan has agreed, Your Grace."
Stannis's jaw tightened, but he gave a single nod. "How many total ships do we have now?"
"After including Saan's, other pirates and free cities, we have one hundred fifty ships. Saan will also bring almost three thousand men. He says the coin was generous. Says you have bought his loyalty for now."
Stannis almost made a face. "Loyalty bought is loyalty measured in days."
Davos said nothing.
Melisandre entered, her red robes touching the cold floor.
She did not bow.
Stannis did not look at her.
"The Lord of Light clears the path," she said quietly. "Obstacles falls like ash before a cleansing fire."
Stannis turned away from the map and faced the brazier, watching the flames. "You said the fires would show me victory."
"I said they would show you what must be done," she replied.
He studied the flames a moment longer. Then, slowly, he turned back to Davos. "Tell the men to be ready to sail when Saan arrives."
Davos hesitated. "To where, Your Grace?"
Stannis's eyes gleamed. "Stormlands. I will not sit here, and wait while thieves are sitting on the Iron Throne."
Davos frowned. "And Dragonstone?"
"I will leave it in trusted hands."
Melisandre stepped closer, eyes fixed on the king. "There are still truths to uncover here. And power beneath the volcano. Let me come back here, after you gain the loyalty of men in the Stormlands."
Stannis didn't respond immediately. "Do as you will. But you serve my cause."
She inclined her head. "I serve Azor Ahai."
Davos's unease flickered across his face, but he said nothing. He felt that something is wrong.
_____________________________________________________________________
Kingslanding, Crownsland
It was night, and Petyr Baelish had just locked the door when a calm, unfamiliar voice spoke from the shadows.
"Mockingbird."
Petyr froze.
Out from the darkness stepped a man with smooth features. He had the kind of presence that never seemed to draw attention—until it was far too late.
Baelish's voice remained steady, though his fingers began drifting toward the dagger beneath his sleeve. "Who are you? You're not supposed to be here."
"This one is exactly where this one is meant to be," came the reply.
Two more figures emerged behind him.
Petyr's hand shot for his blade—but the man was already there. One fluid motion, and Baelish's wrist was pinned to the wall. And a blade pressed against his throat. He hadn't even seen it drawn.
"You should not resist," the man said quietly.
Petyr looked into his eyes—and he knew he can't reason with this man.
Still, he tried. "What do you want?" he asked in a low voice. "I can pay—"
The man spoke calmly. "The debt was owed in blood, not in gold. So, you have to pay in blood too. Come."
Behind him, one of the cloaked men was already tearing through Baelish's study—uncovering hidden compartments, pulling ledgers, cipher wheels, and blackmail parchment out of places even Petyr had forgotten.
Each document, every carefully hoarded secret, was placed inside an ordinary looking chest. There was nothing remarkable about it, save that it seemed to swallow everything without ever filling.
Petyr watched the chest, bewildered. How is everything fitting in there?
He didn't get an answer. One of them approached with a small vial.
"What is that—"
He never finished the sentence. The liquid touched his tongue, and soon, darkness took him.
Unconscious, Baelish was folded and placed into the same chest—his body vanishing into the hidden depths like the rest of his empire.
By the time dawn kissed the rooftops of Kingslanding, the Mockingbird was gone.
Spirited northward.