General POV
The Straits of Fair Isle were the sort of place you visit if you really enjoy the idea of being trapped in a maritime version of a reality TV show—except the only prize is survival, and the challenges include fire, axes, and possibly drowning. On one side, you had Stannis Baratheon and his fleet, looking like they were preparing for a very angry barbecue. On the other side, you had Victarion Greyjoy and the Ironborn, who, while skilled at raiding and yelling things like "We do not sow," were about to learn that you don't always get to choose your battles. Sometimes, the battle chooses you—and it chooses the worst possible time.
The thing about Stannis is that he doesn't do "fun" in the usual sense. The man was as joyful as a raincloud during a drought, but when it came to battle, he was a force of nature. If you could bottle up Stannis Baratheon's mood and use it as a weapon, the entire Iron Fleet would've already been sunk before the first arrow even left the bow.
He stood on his flagship, Dragonstone's pride, with that permanently grim expression of his, like he was just waiting for the world to end so he could go on being right about everything. He didn't need a battle cry—his very presence was enough to make the Ironborn rethink all their life choices. And if that didn't do the trick, well, his ships would.
Stannis's tactics were simple. He didn't just blockade the Ironborn; he boxed them in. Every possible escape route was cut off, every potential reinforcements denied. The Ironborn could only scream in frustration as their ships piled into one another like a broken game of bumper cars. It was the nautical equivalent of getting caught in a trap, and Stannis was the one holding the strings.
The Redwyne fleet was out there too, firing arrows, catapulting flaming rocks, and probably using some ancient Arbor wine to wash it all down. Their sailors were like the overachievers in a group project, ensuring that every Ironborn ship had at least a few dozen arrows sticking out of it—just in case they weren't feeling sufficiently miserable.
Victarion Greyjoy wasn't going down without a fight. Oh, no. If anything, he was probably getting angrier by the second, that seething rage only someone with a name like "Victarion" could pull off. He stood tall on his ship, slashing his axe at anything that moved, yelling at his men, yelling at the sea, probably even yelling at the sky just for good measure. "This is MY fight!" he roared, which would have been more intimidating if he wasn't facing down an entire blockade, an endless wave of arrows, and ships that didn't seem to care about his feelings.
There was a moment of chaos when one of the Ironborn ships tried to break free, ramming through the blockade, but it was like watching a mosquito try to break through a concrete wall. The ship barely made it a few yards before Stannis's fleet closed in with the grace and efficiency of a giant, very angry machine. Every time Victarion tried to push through, a Redwyne ship would rain down more fire and arrows, and for a moment, it must have seemed like the Ironborn weren't even fighting an enemy—they were fighting a weather system, an unrelenting storm.
To make matters worse, the Ironborn had underestimated Stannis's approach to leadership. You see, Stannis didn't just command from the front; he commanded from everywhere. His soldiers weren't out there just for glory—they were there because if they failed, they'd have to deal with Stannis's grim stare. That alone was enough to make them work harder than a Redwyne sailor in a summer heatwave. The blockade tightened. The Ironborn ships grew smaller and smaller, their attempts to break free growing more desperate with every passing minute.
The final nail in the coffin was the Ironborn's defeat at the hands of the Redwyne's perfect storm of naval tactics. Their ships were shredded like paper in a fire, and Victarion's fleet didn't stand a chance. The sea churned with wreckage, blood, and flaming ships—the Ironborn's last-ditch efforts to fight back met with the cold, impersonal efficiency of a man who had already made peace with the fact that things were going to burn.
In the end, Victarion Greyjoy was left on his ship, watching as his fleet fell apart, and he was forced to slink away—probably swearing vengeance and trying to ignore the fact that his fleet was currently a very sinking metaphor for his entire life.
Stannis, meanwhile, stood there with his arms crossed, taking in the wreckage. He wasn't smiling—Stannis never smiled—but there was something in his eyes, something that might've been satisfaction or just the vague sensation of not caring about anything but winning. Either way, he wasn't about to throw a victory party. He might've been the one to win, but he sure as hell wasn't going to look like he was enjoying it.
"I guess that's one way to block a blockade," a sailor on the deck muttered, earning a cold, steel-eyed glance from Stannis. The guy shrank back. No one talked around Stannis. They just did what he told them to.
And as for Victarion? Well, he might've been the one to start this fight, but in the end, he wasn't the one finishing it. That honor went to Stannis Baratheon, the man who could turn a battle into a chess match and then light the chessboard on fire just to prove a point.
So, in conclusion, the Ironborn learned a valuable lesson that day: Never mess with a guy whose face looks like it's permanently been struck by a storm. It never ends well.
—
Aeron Greyjoy, a.k.a. the Damphair (which, spoiler alert, is a title that sounds way cooler than it actually is), was having a really bad year. First, he'd been plucked from the midst of a naval battle by none other than Jaime Lannister—who, in case you were wondering, was annoyingly good at winning. And by "winning," I mean making everyone else look like they were playing checkers while he was playing 3D chess. Aeron, on the other hand, was just trying to keep his ship from sinking and his dignity from being completely obliterated. Spoiler: neither of those things went well.
And what does Jaime Lannister, Lord of the Kingslayer fame, do after capturing Aeron? Does he throw him a party? Perhaps offer a snazzy "I'm Sorry I Defeated You" medal? Nope. Jaime takes him to Casterly Rock, a place that looks like someone built a fortress and then forgot to add the amenities. Instead of a grand hall or a hero's welcome, Aeron ended up in a dungeon so dark and dreary, it made the Red Keep look like a resort. The air smelled like seawater, mildew, and the faint scent of "you've made some questionable life choices."
Now, let's talk about the cell he was stuck in for a second. Bed? Nonexistent. View? A whole lot of stone. Food? Well, let's just say that even the rats that occasionally scuttled by looked disappointed in the meal offerings. Seriously, Aeron had eaten better while stranded on an abandoned raft in the middle of the ocean. But hey, what else is a Drowned God priest supposed to do? The answer: complain. And complain he did. He was basically on a first-name basis with despair by this point.
Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into well, when will this end? Aeron passed his time counting the cracks in the ceiling—482, in case you were wondering. It was a nice distraction from the existential dread, but even that lost its appeal when he realized the cracks were multiplying faster than his patience.
And Jaime? Jaime didn't even bother to show up to rub it in. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Aeron would've preferred a dramatic monologue about how much better Jaime was than him. At least that would have meant someone cared.
Instead, Aeron spent his time alone in the dark, letting his thoughts drift like a ship lost at sea. The sea. Oh, the sea. Of course, it was always there in his mind, lurking like an old friend you can't shake off no matter how hard you try. He missed it more than he missed breathing. He imagined the waves crashing against the rocks, the salt spray in the air, and the Drowned God—who, let's be honest, was probably rolling his watery eyes and muttering, "You've really messed this up, haven't you, Aeron?"
And then there were his brothers. Balon, the "let's rebel against everyone" guy. Euron, the walking hurricane of chaos who could probably destroy a kingdom just by showing up. And then, of course, there was Victarion—his very own personal reminder that "stubborn" isn't always a good trait, especially when you're trying to survive a massive naval defeat.
Aeron wasn't sure if he missed them or if he just missed being anywhere but here. He couldn't even decide if he'd rather be on a ship or if he'd prefer a nice, quiet stroll through a battlefield. At least there, he could get a proper fight going. Instead, he was locked away, forgotten by the world.
But here's the thing about Aeron Greyjoy. He was like a stubborn weed. You could try to uproot him, but he wasn't going anywhere. Sure, his chains clinked and his spirit felt like it had been dunked in the coldest, most uncomfortable seawater imaginable. But deep down, deep, deep down where even the Drowned God's judgment couldn't reach, there was still a flicker of rebellion. It wasn't much, but it was enough.
Every day, that little spark of defiance whispered in his ear, "Hey, Aeron, remember when you weren't locked in this rock dungeon? Let's get back to that, yeah?" The Drowned God wasn't answering his prayers (classic), but Aeron liked to think the old sea deity was at least mildly impressed by his persistence.
As the war raged outside and his brothers continued to be way more dramatic than him (and by "dramatic," I mean Euron-level dramatic), Aeron was still there, stuck at Casterly Rock. Forgotten by most. But not by him. Not yet. Somewhere, out there, the sea was still calling. And Aeron Greyjoy—who had probably spent a little too much time alone in his head—was determined to answer it.
Or, at the very least, complain about it loudly enough until someone threw him overboard. Whatever worked.
—
Stannis Baratheon, ever the moody overachiever, had just pulled off what could only be described as the naval equivalent of a mic drop. The Iron Fleet? Reduced to floating scraps. Victarion Greyjoy? Who knows, probably crying into his own beard somewhere. And now, with the waters around Fair Isle secured like a freshly made bed, it was time for Robert Baratheon to do what he does best—make everything explode in a chaotic, glorious, very loud fashion.
Picture it: Robert Baratheon—King of the Stormlands, the man who could drink an entire tavern dry and still somehow keep his warhammer upright—leading an army to the Iron Islands. His goal? To crush the Ironborn rebellion, spread his legend, and make everyone remember why it was a terrible idea to mess with the Baratheon dynasty. Spoiler: The Ironborn were about to get a crash course in why "anger issues" were Robert's greatest superpower.
With Stannis acting as the unamused naval gatekeeper (seriously, how does the man never smile?), Robert and his fleet of battle-hardened knights set sail. Was it a daring move? Well, yeah. The Iron Islands were less "vacation paradise" and more "nature's obstacle course," with jagged rocks, howling storms, and a population that viewed "pillage and burn" as a valid career choice. But Robert Baratheon was nothing if not stubborn. And there was no way he was going to miss a chance to smack the Ironborn around for old time's sake.
The journey? Oh, it was fun. Or at least, Robert made it sound like it was. The ships were crowded like a cattle drive, the air smelled like fish and unwashed soldiers, and Robert's personal commentary about how much he hated boats could be heard echoing from every corner of the deck. But you know what? No one dared complain. Not when the king was actively trying not to hurl into the sea while holding a warhammer the size of a small tree.
When they finally reached the shores of the Iron Islands, the scene was less of a stealth invasion and more of an in-your-face, "Hey, Ironborn, we're here to ruin your day!" Robert, probably holding his warhammer aloft and yelling something inspiring (like, "For the realm!" or "I really hate this damn saltwater!"), led the charge. Knights swarmed ashore, banners flapping, swords gleaming, and the sound of battle drums pounding so loudly even the seabirds took flight in terror. It was as if the earth itself was shaking under the weight of Robert's enthusiasm.
And the Ironborn? Well, let's just say they weren't exactly prepared. Their entire navy had been turned into a heap of floating scrap metal, which meant they had roughly as much fight in them as a wet cat. The villages along the coast fell like dominoes—except they didn't even get the satisfaction of that much resistance. Every Ironborn stronghold that tried to stand their ground was quickly smashed under the sheer force of Robert's battle-hardened army. It was almost sad, really—like watching someone try to stand up to a bear with a toothpick.
Meanwhile, Robert himself was in his element. Battle was his happy place. There was something about smashing things with a hammer and shouting orders that just made him feel alive. And sure, he might have been more interested in getting the job done quickly so he could go home and crack open a barrel of ale, but for now, he was having the time of his life. You'd think he'd be exhausted by the constant slaughter, but nope—Robert Baratheon was like a kid in a candy store, except the candy was destruction, and the store was the entire Iron Islands.
The knights in his army, though? They were less focused on winning and more concerned with things like bragging rights and loot. (A lesson for all future conquerors: never let soldiers who've just pillaged a village get competitive about who can steal the most interesting thing. It never ends well.) One knight even tried to steal a ceremonial fish from an Ironborn priest—yeah, that didn't go over too well. Word of advice: never mess with an Ironborn priest's fish. It's practically sacred.
But as the green hills of the Iron Islands slowly turned red with the aftermath of Robert's unstoppable march, it became clear: this wasn't just a military victory. No, this was Robert Baratheon making a statement. The Ironborn rebellion was dead in the water. Their forces? Broken. And Robert? Well, he was probably already thinking about how he could throw a victory feast and get another drink in his hand. The man lived for this.
As for Stannis? Oh, he was probably somewhere, watching from the deck of his ship and not smiling, because, let's face it, smiling isn't in Stannis Baratheon's emotional range. But he had done his part—held the seas and given Robert the perfect opening to stomp through the Iron Islands like a giant, drunken toddler. The war was turning in the Baratheon's favor, and the Ironborn had finally learned the very hard way that poking the Baratheon bear was not the smartest move.
And the Ironborn? Well, they were learning a harsh truth: messing with Robert Baratheon was like trying to face off with a hurricane—unpredictable, devastating, and most likely to leave you broken and bitter. The tide had turned, and there was no going back.
—
Okay, picture this: The Iron Islands, a rocky mess of sea and savage warriors, were about to get the Westerosi equivalent of a wrecking ball—only this one came with a warhammer, a bad attitude, and a king who was one bad mood away from punching through walls. Yeah, that's Robert Baratheon for you.
Robert wasn't just any king. Oh no, he was the kind of king who walked into a room and made the walls nervous. The guy had muscles the size of small mountains, a temper that could melt steel, and a hammer that looked like it was designed for smashing, not thinking. He had decided that it was time to teach the Ironborn a lesson, and honestly, if you were the Ironborn, you were probably already regretting life choices.
Now, this wasn't some half-baked invasion. No, no. Robert was planning a full-on smash-and-grab. And the base of operations? Botley Castle. It wasn't the most luxurious place on the map, but it had a hell of a view over what was left of Lordsport. By "what was left," I mean it was a pile of rubble that could've been a villain's lair if it weren't so… well, depressing. Seriously, it looked like someone had handed a toddler a sledgehammer and said, "Go wild."
But the banners? Oh, the banners were top-notch. The Baratheon stag, the Lannister lion, and Stark direwolf all fluttering in the wind like some kind of medieval parade. If you squinted and ignored the whole "impending battle" thing, you might've thought this was some kind of noble version of Coachella, only with more armor and less music. Robert might've even been dancing to the beat of his own drum—except he'd probably just punch the drummer for the fun of it.
Now, this battle wasn't just about Robert getting to swing his hammer around. No, the Northern Army still hadn't shown up. Word on the street was that they were either lost, taking a snack break, or just slow-moving—take your pick. Either way, Robert didn't seem concerned. And why would he be? He was too busy making battle plans that mostly consisted of, "We march. We crush. We win." Subtlety was apparently a foreign concept to him.
The soldiers on the ground? Oh, they were busy being soldiers. The usual stuff: sharpening swords, yelling at each other, and figuring out who would get stuck with latrine duty (spoiler: it wasn't the king). The air was thick with tension—like when you know you're about to fail a test but you don't want to admit it. Even the seagulls were getting into it, circling overhead like they were expecting a disaster. It was like watching a nature documentary where the animals know more about the situation than the humans do.
As the sun began to set, the sea turned into a giant mirror of fire. The waves caught the dying light, reflecting Robert's mood—fierce, angry, and ready to burn down everything in his path. If you asked Robert what he thought about the situation, he'd probably say something like, "Well, I'm just here to beat some Ironborn senseless and remind them why you never mess with a Baratheon."
The troops were ready. The Ironborn were not. And as Robert marched off to the front lines, his warhammer swinging at his side, you could practically hear the drums of battle in the distance. It was the perfect setup for a history-changing moment.
Except, you know, Robert didn't really care about making history. He cared about making the Ironborn regret ever thinking they could take on a Baratheon. The fate of the Iron Islands, the fate of the Seven Kingdoms, heck, the fate of dinner that night was hanging in the balance. But Robert? Robert was just thinking, "I really hope there's ale after this."
And, just like that, the stage was set for the final hammer blow.
—
The war chamber at Botley Castle was buzzing like a swarm of angry bees. Lords crowded around the massive table, their hands waving dramatically over maps, their voices full of ominous phrases like "strategic bottleneck" and "logistical nightmares." But Robert Baratheon? Robert was not into all that. No, Robert was more of a "kick down the door and start smashing things" kind of guy.
"Damn it all, Jon!" Robert roared, slamming his fist onto the table with a thud that could've knocked over a mountain. "We've been sitting here for days! DAYS! I didn't come all this way to sit around and play knights and maps. I came to smash some Ironborn skulls!"
Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King and a man whose patience could probably rival a saint's, sighed. Long and deep. "Your Grace, if you smash their skulls without a plan, they'll smash back. And you won't like it."
Before Robert could explode (because, let's be honest, he was about to), the heavy doors of the war room creaked open with a groan, cutting through the tension like a broadsword slicing through butter. A messenger stumbled in, looking like he'd just run the length of the North while being chased by an angry bear.
"Your Grace, Lords," the messenger gasped, clutching a stitch in his side like his lungs were trying to escape his chest, "the Northern Army has arrived!"
There was a brief, electric moment of silence. You could practically hear the collective breath of the room held in suspense. Robert's scowl slowly morphed into the kind of grin that usually came right before someone had to start a drinking contest.
"Are you sure?" Robert boomed, already halfway to the door, knocking over a chair in the process.
"Yes, Your Grace!" the messenger wheezed. "The Northern Fleet is anchored in the harbor! Their banners are flying high!"
At this point, Tywin Lannister, who had been standing in the corner like a particularly well-dressed thundercloud, opened his mouth in his signature voice—the one that dripped disdain like honey on a cold morning. "This changes everything. With the North reinforcing our position, we can press the advantage and coordinate a full assault."
Robert, oblivious to Tywin's typical "I'm so much smarter than you" attitude, slapped him heartily on the shoulder. A little too heartily, maybe, because Tywin stiffened like he'd just been branded with a hot iron.
"Brilliant!" Robert barked, oblivious to Tywin's discomfort. "That's what I like to hear. A proper plan!"
Mace Tyrell, eager to contribute but struggling with the whole "coherent sentences" thing, piped up. "Yes, Your Grace! Quite, um… remarkable news! With the Northern banners… uh… flying, and the harbor—harbored? We'll be victorious in no time!"
Tywin shot him a look that could've frozen a river. Seriously, Mace, just go back to gardening, buddy.
Jon Arryn cleared his throat, stepping in like the diplomatic powerhouse he was. "It is indeed good news, but we must proceed with caution. Pyke isn't some small village to be raided. It's a fortress, and the Ironborn are at their most dangerous when cornered."
Robert grunted, clearly unimpressed. "You always have to rain on my parade, don't you, Jon?"
Jon, deadpan as ever, raised an eyebrow. "It's why you keep me around, Your Grace."
Without missing a beat, Robert roared at the nearest squire. "Fetch Ned Stark and his nephew. If we're going to break down Pyke, I want the North in the room. Stannis can hold the harbor, but I need someone who knows how to fight like a wolf. Not some overgrown stag."
The squire scrambled out of the room as fast as his legs could carry him, probably because he didn't want to be anywhere near Robert's rage when he inevitably decided to break something else.
Turning back to the council, Robert beamed. "Right, lads. This is it! The final nail in the Ironborn coffin! By the time I'm done with Pyke, even the Drowned God will be wondering what hit him!"
Mace, attempting to chuckle in agreement, produced a sound somewhere between a cough and a hiccup. Tywin pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to block out Robert's enthusiasm like it was a particularly loud party next door. And Jon? Jon just shook his head, muttering under his breath, "War councils shouldn't feel like tavern brawls waiting to happen."
And then, just like that, the room erupted into chaos. Lords shouting, Robert gearing up to do whatever it was Robert did best—smash things—and everyone else trying to keep up. The Northern Army was on their way, and the siege of Pyke? Oh, that was about to get very interesting.
As the door slammed behind the squire, Robert turned back to the table, his grin returning in full force. "Alright, lads, let's make sure the Ironborn get the warmest welcome ever. And after we've crushed them, there's a barrel of ale with my name on it!"
And just like that, the fate of Pyke—and maybe the entire Iron Islands—was about to be decided. But hey, no pressure, right? It was just Robert Baratheon, a warhammer, and a whole lot of anger.
—
Cregan's POV
You'd think walking into a war council packed with lords, knights, and the occasional slightly grumpy king would be intimidating. Spoiler alert: It wasn't. Not for me, anyway.
I mean, when you're ten years old, heading into a room full of grown men yelling about swords, strategies, and making plans to wipe out a bunch of Ironborn, you'd think you'd feel a little out of place, right? Nah. Not with Uncle Ned and Benjen flanking me and Arthur Dayne—yes, the Arthur Dayne—walking beside me, looking like he could slice a mountain in half if he wanted to. Pretty sure the mountain would apologize first.
My two Valyrian steel swords, Red Rain and Nightfall, were strapped across my back. Yeah, I looked awesome. They were more than just sharp metal though—when you've got blades like that, you're basically walking around with a couple of "do-not-mess-with-me" signs. Practical? Not really. Cool? Oh, absolutely.
The war room went dead silent the moment we stepped inside. The kind of silence you get when a whole bunch of important people realize you just walked into their fancy meeting, and they didn't even hear you coming. Robert Baratheon, predictably, was the first to speak up. You could always count on him to break the ice—usually with a bang.
"Lord Cregan!" Robert boomed, his voice carrying like a thunderclap. "You're just in time! We were just about to start smashing skulls!"
I could practically hear the grin in his voice. Robert always sounded like he was two seconds away from either grabbing a flagon of ale or starting a war. Sometimes both. I gave him a polite nod, keeping my face as serious as possible. Because hey, this was war, not a game of tag.
"Your Grace," I said. "We are here to lend our strength to the cause."
Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King, gave me that fatherly, diplomatic nod he always did. It was like he was trying to remind everyone that war wasn't just about smashing things. Not that I disagreed. There was definitely some smashing that needed to happen.
"Welcome, Lord Cregan," he said, his voice warm but carrying that undertone of "I'm probably disappointed in you but trying to be nice." "Your presence will strengthen us."
Right. Probably disappointed. Great. Uncle Ned shot me a look that said, "Don't roll your eyes, Cregan," but you know what? I was ten. I'm pretty sure eye-rolling is part of the package deal at this age. So, yeah. Eye-roll, but only on the inside.
"Thank you, Lord Arryn," I said, keeping it polite. "I'm ready to discuss our strategy for the siege of Pyke."
Which, I should've known, wasn't gonna happen just yet. Because Lord Robert was already leaning forward, looking at me like I was some kind of pet project he wanted to take on. Or maybe he just wanted to play a drinking game. Hard to tell with him.
Jon's face suddenly took on that "I'm about to make you feel like you're in trouble" expression. I don't know how he does it. One minute, he's all chill, and the next, he's got you feeling like you just lost a game of "Who Can Stay Quiet the Longest."
"I must express my concern, Lord Cregan," he said, making sure everyone in the room knew he was all about the concern. "The conduct of the Northern Army during this war has been... less than exemplary."
Ouch. Like a sword to the gut. Okay, deep breath. Don't flip the table.
I straightened up and kept my voice steady. "I assure you, Lord Arryn, our actions were necessary to secure victory."
Uncle Ned, as always, backed me up. "We faced a dangerous enemy, one that required swift action," he said, putting that Stark seriousness into his words. He didn't need to say much more. That was the Stark way. Kill or be killed.
Jon, though, wasn't having it. "Swift action, yes, but at what cost? We cannot lose sight of our values."
I may have actually rolled my eyes this time. I'm not even sorry. Values? I'd seen the Ironborn destroy whole villages. I wasn't about to let them run around like they owned the place. But instead of snarking, I just let the words fall out of my mouth before I could stop them.
"The Ironborn show no mercy. They deserve none in return," I said, my voice sharper than I meant. "In the North, we understand that survival sometimes requires sacrifices."
And just like that, the room froze. Even Robert stopped grinning for a moment. I think Jon Arryn might've been trying to figure out if he should lecture me or just agree with me. Either way, I could practically hear the awkward tension. Tywin Lannister looked at me like I'd just kicked his dog. But then, Robert, ever the optimist (or, more likely, the I'm-gonna-make-this-fun-no-matter-what guy), cleared his throat and grinned like a madman.
"Well, speaking of victories…" he said, like he was suddenly remembering a joke he'd been dying to tell. "I've heard they've started calling you the Demon Wolf, Cregan. Quite the name, I must say."
I nodded, trying not to look too pleased. "It's an honor to serve the North and the realm," I said, keeping it cool.
"Oh, sure," Robert said, slapping the table like I'd just told him I was giving him all my gold. "An honor! But those swords—Red Rain, Nightfall—they're magnificent." He practically drooled at the mention of my swords. "Where do I get a pair of those?"
I shrugged. "Maybe when you're done fighting the Ironborn, we can talk about it."
Tywin Lannister, of course, couldn't just let Robert have his fun without adding his two cents. "Congratulations on your victories, Lord Stark," he said, all smooth and calculating. "But tell me this—how did you manage to travel from White Harbor to Harlaw so quickly and without anyone noticing?"
And just like that, the room went still again. Tywin, always playing the chess game even when we're just trying to get through the day.
I grinned and leaned back, crossing my arms. "A northern lord must know his lands well, Lord Lannister," I said, my voice smooth as butter. "We've constructed a canal that connects the Fever and the Bite rivers. It allows for swift passage across the North."
Yeah, that definitely got their attention.
Tywin's eyes narrowed, but he stayed quiet, calculating. Mace Tyrell actually looked impressed for once. I mean, I did just drop the knowledge bomb of the century. And Robert? He was grinning like someone who'd just been given a free pass to everything he wanted.
"We're refurbishing Moat Cailin," I added, dropping the mic like I was born for this. "Once that's finished, it'll be open to all. And the tolls will help make the North stronger."
The room buzzed with murmurs. Mace Tyrell, who usually couldn't string two sentences together without embarrassing himself, managed to look impressed. Even Brynden Tully seemed like he understood the value of this little northern gem. And Robert? Robert was clapping the table like he'd just been told he could keep all the dragons.
"That's brilliant!" he exclaimed. "By the gods, Stark, the North's getting stronger every day!"
I just gave a slight nod, trying to look like I had it all together. Inside, though? I was already imagining the tolls raking in. Let's just say my "Northern Investments" plan was looking pretty solid.
And yeah, it was only getting started.
---
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