Ned looked Robert in the eye, his voice calm but firm, laced with disappointment.
"Robert, no matter the circumstance, you should never send men to assassinate children—especially not a girl. What will the great houses think when they learn the King stoops to such tactics?"
Robert's expression darkened, his voice rising with fury.
"Glory? Have you forgotten Lyanna, Ned? Have you forgotten how Rhaegar stole her—how she died?! Did the Mad King or his son act with honor? No. And I'll be damned before I let another dragon take root while I sit idle on the throne."
He clenched his fists, his breathing ragged.
"After this visit to the North, I plan to march on the Stepstones. I need you, Ned. I need a Hand I can trust. I can't hold this kingdom together alone."
Ned's jaw tightened. His voice dropped low.
"I haven't forgotten, Robert. I live with it every day. But I won't endorse murder—least of all of an innocent girl. You've changed, my friend. The man I followed into war wouldn't have ordered this. Let her live, Robert. She poses no true threat to the Seven Kingdoms."
The argument boiled over, both men hurling words like blades. But after the firestorm of anger passed, silence hung thick in the tomb. Only the quiet flicker of candlelight and the sound of their shallow breaths remained.
Eventually, Robert's gaze settled on the stone effigy of Lyanna. His voice softened, edged with grief.
"The Long family must pay. Every last one of them. The blood they spilled... it can't go unanswered."
Ned said nothing. He lowered his eyes, torn between loyalty and conscience.
Robert placed a hand on Ned's shoulder, his tone shifting from defiance to desperation.
"Since Jon's death, I've been surrounded by flatterers and Lannisters. The council is a pit of vipers. You're the only one I still trust, Ned. Help me—for the sake of the realm."
Ned studied Robert, the weight of history heavy on his shoulders. After a long pause, he exhaled deeply.
"I'll speak with Catelyn. This isn't a decision I can make alone."
Relief and joy washed over Robert's face like a sunrise breaking through storm clouds. He gripped Ned's shoulders tightly.
"I knew you'd stand by me. I also plan to unite our houses—Joffrey and your Sansa. It's a perfect match. Catelyn will see the wisdom in it."
Ned hesitated, emotions clouding his features. Then, at last, he nodded.
"If it brings peace... perhaps it's for the best."
A broad smile spread across Robert's face.
"The wolf and the stag—bound by blood. The realm will heal, you'll see."
The tension melted, if only slightly, in the frigid tomb.
Meanwhile, across the Narrow Sea, a tempest of blood and fire engulfed the Disputed Lands.
War raged like a beast unchained. The cities of Myr and Tyrosh burned under relentless assault. Black smoke billowed into the skies, fire illuminating the night like a second sun. The screams of the conquered echoed through shattered streets.
Loot, gold, and supplies were seized in staggering quantities. Soldiers dragged chained slaves aboard vessels, trophies of their merciless victory.
The once-bustling shipyards were now charred ruins. Coastal defenses collapsed, and cries for aid spread like wildfire.
Malachor, stretched thin and frantic, dispatched reinforcements with increasing desperation. But the Stepstones' forces struck fast and vanished faster.
Often, by the time Malachor's men arrived, they found only ashes and corpses—grim testaments to Syndor's precision and power.
Worse still, the skies were no longer theirs. Dragons swept overhead like vengeful gods, raining fire upon reinforcements. Ambushes tore through their ranks.
Malachor, once composed, had become a walking storm. Bloodshot eyes, trembling hands, his voice hoarse from barking orders. Letters flew by raven—urgent, pleading—for Volantis's fleet to arrive. Yet still, no sails appeared on the horizon.
And with delay came doubt. Whispers bloomed in Tyrosh and Myr—doubts about Malachor's leadership. Murmurs turned to open accusations. Without Volantis, the alliance teetered on collapse.
Meanwhile, on the Stepstone Islands, the response was swift and calculated.
Under Gavin Bellerys's command, Boris acted with ruthless efficiency. Every seaworthy vessel—no matter how ragged—was claimed or bought. The Governor's Office buzzed with activity, ships flowing in and out like blood through veins.
The spoils piled high, ferried constantly to the Stepstones. Gossip spread like wildfire—Syndor had struck again, and the gods had smiled.
Crowds gathered in every tavern and alleyway, tongues wagging with speculation.
"They say Syndor flies under a black and gold banner now. That his dragon burned the Tyroshi fleet at anchor."
"I heard the dragon didn't even need fire. Its roar alone shattered a tower!"
Merchants, sensing blood in the water, flooded the islands. Greed gleamed in their eyes. They came not for conquest—but for profit. The spoils were too rich to ignore.
Among the watchers were two figures who understood the true weight of what was unfolding:
Margaery Tyrell, visiting under the pretense of diplomacy, but her eyes missed nothing.
Quentyn Martell, quiet and calculating, had dispatched riders for more information.
They, too, sensed the winds shifting—and they would not be left behind.