The sky was dark, shrouded by thick clouds.
Horn Hill, the Lord's study.
At that moment, Lord Randyll Tarly stared impassively at a letter in the hand of his eldest son, Samwell Tarly, formally renouncing his claim to Horn Hill and the Tarly family titles.
Melessa Florent fixed her gaze on her husband, seated at the desk."Randyll, he made a brave choice. I'm proud of Samwell!"
Randyll gave a cold snort."A coward. He bravely chose to run away."
His reply finally broke the dam of emotion Melessa had been holding back.
"Randyll! I knew you would still look down on Sam. I shouldn't have come to you at all! Never forget—it was you who drove my eldest son away with your own hands!"
In Randyll's memory, his wife, the gentle Melessa, had always been mild and soft-spoken.
Though he didn't show it outwardly, today's Melessa stunned the famed battlefield commander for a moment.
Randyll set the letter down on the desk, his voice cold."If he still cared about the family, he should go to the Wall, don the black, and join the honorable Night's Watch."
He rose from his chair and went on."But instead, he chose that Baron Crabb—that smooth-tongued schemer who stirs up trouble with words alone, who's fooled the shallow-minded, belittled my achievements, and filled people's heads with lies that could only deceive the Others! Ten-some years ago I fought and bled—now I'm branded a criminal to the Targaryens?"
Perhaps Melessa was too angry to care about soothing him this time.
On any other day, hearing such words, she would have tried to calm her husband.
But today, her son had left her side—she was the one in need of comfort.
With biting sarcasm, she said,"Hah. This time, I support Sam's decision. I am truly proud of him. You've taken my eldest son from me, so… let your so-called battle honors go keep the Others company!"
"You—!" Randyll roared.
Having vented her frustrations, Melessa realized her words had perhaps been a little too harsh.
But apologize? Impossible.
She would never forget the day Samwell had come to see her alone.
After releasing much of her pent-up resentment, Melessa began to calm down.
"Lord Tarly, you now have only one son left. I'm warning you—don't drive Dickon away as well! If anything happens to Dickon, I will never forgive you!"
The normally gentle Lady Tarly was again firing on all cylinders.
In her eyes, Samwell had always been a clever, kind boy—Randyll's misguided upbringing had only made him timid over time.
To a mother, her child is always the best; the fault lay with the father who didn't know how to guide him, pushing a good boy into a shell where he dared not face the world.
Randyll took a deep breath at her words, but said nothing more.
Lady Tarly didn't wish to quarrel further—she feared that if this went on, the children would notice.
She didn't want them to witness such strife between their parents.
"Randyll, I don't want to see you for a while."
Leaving that final declaration, she swept out of the study, slamming the door shut behind her.
Randyll: "…"
He walked to the window and looked skyward.
The cloud-darkened heavens parted with the wind, sunlight spilling down to illuminate the world once more.
The brightness made him narrow his eyes.
A deserter—yet he dares to shame me?
The iron-hard line of Randyll's lips twitched, almost imperceptibly.
Red Keep, the Throne Room.
Lancel Lannister had been in distress lately.
Yet again, he found some excuse to seek an audience with Queen Cersei.
When they met, he boldly tried to get close to her—only to find that the unusually tender cousin from that night was gone.
Cersei had returned to her familiar hauteur, meeting his approach with utter indifference, even cold disregard.
It was, in truth, the Cersei Lancel had always known—but it left him unsettled, plagued by insecurity, feeling cast aside.
He often lay awake at night, wondering if her change in attitude meant she was dissatisfied with his progress.Without needing Cersei's prompting, he had already switched the wine he served to the one she had given him.
When King Robert took a sip, he paused briefly, then, for once, praised Lancel.
Now Lancel was confused… what else could he do to win Cersei's favor again?
"Idiot! Can't you see my cup's empty?"
King Robert Baratheon's thunderous roar jolted Lancel so badly his heart nearly leapt out of his chest.
Trembling all over, he hurried to fill the cup.
Once it was full, Robert drained it in one gulp, face flushed."You Lannister fool! Standing there again? Can't you see it's empty?"
Before the great, black-bear bulk of Robert, Lancel could only cower.
"Get out of my sight! Stand over there where you won't annoy me! Daydream again and I'll smash your head in!"
Clutching the wine jug, Lancel darted aside like a startled hare.
Head down, his throat tight, he could barely breathe.
He wanted to cry—this wasn't what he imagined a king's squire to be.
Why was it that King Robert's squire only ever poured wine?
What would people call him in the future—Cupbearer?
His mind drifted to his father in the Westerlands.Would he be shamed by this? Had Lancel disgraced the Lannister name?
Was this why Cersei now looked at him with such cool eyes?
"Bastard! Fool! Fool! Fool!"
Robert's booming curses made Lancel flinch—he nearly dropped the jug.
At the last instant, he clutched it tight.
"Daydreaming again? You Lannister swine! Move it, or shall I wring your neck? Get over here and pour!"
Robert's "training" was working—Lancel no longer dared to drift off.
King's Landing, the Master of Coin's residence.
Afternoon sunlight crept up the window lattice, casting dappled shadows that warmed every corner, every mote of dust in the room.
Petyr Baelish listened to his squire's report, a smile curling his lips.
"Information is wealth—I do like these little surprises."
"My lord, your orders?" the squire asked.
Petyr's green eyes flickered, his smile as elegant as ever."Not worth much, perhaps, but as a gift after such a long absence, it will do. He will feel my sincerity."
After a pause, he added,"Make arrangements at once. Keep it safe for me—no mistakes. I would be most displeased."
The squire shuddered. "At once, my lord!"
When he was gone, Petyr leaned back in his chair, gazing out the window.
Lord Jon Arryn's condition had been dire not long ago—Petyr had thought him on the verge of death.
His ladder of schemes was not yet fully in place; this would have been inconvenient.
But King Robert's arrival had brought an unexpected turn.
After meeting Robert, Jon Arryn's health had visibly improved.
Was it Robert's influence—or Grand Maester Pycelle's doing?
Petyr had no time to dwell on it before another worry arose.
If Jon recovered too quickly, it would be a headache; Petyr didn't want him to die just yet, but neither did he want a healthy Hand of the King.
A healthy Hand would weaken the power Petyr had already claimed.
Half a year at most… a cold gleam flashed in his eyes.
Overall, things had gone well of late—just as he had planned—leaving him in a fine mood.
A strange thought flickered through his mind: was it only while Baron Crabb was away from King's Landing that things had gone so smoothly?
Petyr shook his head, dismissing the notion.A man of his intellect had no use for superstition—he trusted only reliable information, his surest weapon.
At present, he suspected Pycelle most.
Robert was no healer; faced with difficulty, his only answer was to swing a hammer.
Others might think the king's timely return had cured Jon Arryn—but Petyr thought otherwise.His instincts told him that the seemingly guileless Pycelle was hiding something.
He would not act on instinct alone—he had already begun to investigate, to see if his suspicions were correct.
Maegor's Holdfast, the Queen's chambers.
On the bed, Cersei Lannister lay atop Jaime Lannister, their coupling just ended.
Her long fingers still trembled slightly as she stroked his handsome face."Jaime, have you thought it through now?"
Jaime kept his eyes closed, savoring her tenderness, offering no reply.
Losing patience, Cersei slid off him, grabbing a white robe from beside the bed and pulling it over her shoulders.
Jaime sighed, opened his eyes, propping his head on one hand, a smile playing at his lips."What do you think I can say, Cersei?"
She glanced at him sidelong but kept dressing.
When she moved to rise from the bed, Jaime smiled indulgently and caught her wrist."I know, I know—in the end, I can only support you. What else can I do?"
At that, the corners of Cersei's mouth lifted.
She leaned down, patted his face lightly, and said softly,"Jaime, you've grown sly—making me work for it first. Pleasant enough, but annoying to remember."
He laced his fingers behind his head, grinning up at her."That, my love, is what delights me."
Cersei's gaze softened; she bent to press a warm kiss to his brow.
His beauty ensnared her in turn.
Resting her cheek against his broad chest, she murmured,"Jaime, you've changed lately—I can't name it, but I can feel it."
"You always know me best," he said, ruffling her golden hair."I started out confident in uncovering the truth behind things… but the more I learned, the less certain I became. By the end, I couldn't tell truth from lies. The change you sense is me realizing who I am. Perhaps that's a good thing."
"What good thing?" she asked, eyes narrowing.
"I think… I'm not suited to handling tangled intrigues. I'm better off as a sword—your sword."
Her eyes lit at his sincerity. Where he couldn't see, she allowed herself a proud smile.
In a calm tone, she said,"Jaime, I support you. Your sword and my wits—no one can stand against us. You'll have fewer troubles and more joy."
"More joy?" he asked.
Cersei nodded against his chest."A sword without thought is only sharp. To keep my sword sharp… I'll reward you first from now on—so you won't waste energy trying to earn it. For you, I'll spend the effort willingly, my Jaime, my sword in hand."
The Free City of Pentos, the Magister's manse.
"Brother, you can't! I'm not a bargaining chip!" Daenerys Targaryen cried.
Slap!Viserys Targaryen struck her to the floor.
Straightening his clothes, his voice was edged with barely restrained madness."My sister, do not awaken the dragon's wrath."
One hand supporting herself, the other clutching her stinging cheek, Daenerys sobbed.
Her maid, though trembling in fear of Viserys, dared to rush to her, kneeling to hold the shaking princess tight.
"I told you last time was the last!" Viserys snapped, his words chilling the maid to the bone.
"No… please, brother!" Daenerys threw her arms wide to shield the girl.
The gesture enraged Viserys.
"I am King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men—Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm—Viserys Targaryen the Third, the one true king of the Iron Throne!
"And you dare defy me? Congratulations—you've awakened the dragon's wrath!"
He shoved Daenerys aside, seized the maid by the hair, and beat her with fists and boots.
Ignoring her own pain, Daenerys tried to stop him, only to be kicked to the floor.
"Please, let her go, let her go…" she pleaded, powerless.
At first the maid cried out in pain; soon she lay limp, silent.
Breathing hard, Viserys stood still a moment, then smoothed his silver hair.
He gripped Daenerys's chin, forcing her to face him, her red, swollen cheek inches from his narrow, pale face.
"My will is not to be defied. Do you understand now?"
A pale smile touched his lips, deepening her fear.
When she didn't answer, his grip tightened."Is your silence rebellion?"
Her face was distorted in his hand.
"I… understand…" she whispered, tears spilling again.
Satisfied, he released her—only to steady her gently when she swayed.
For an instant, she wondered if her brother had returned to himself—only for him to crush the thought.
"My sister, I need an army. With an army, I can go home—bring the host that will retake the Iron Throne.
"If marrying you off will buy me that army, then you will do it. If it meant letting every soldier have you, I'd agree—and their horses too. Now I'm only giving you to one man; you should be grateful.
"Wipe your tears. Illyrio will bring him soon, and I won't have you sniveling in front of him. If you ruin this, I won't forgive you. Do not awaken the dragon's wrath."
He smoothed her hair, then pressed a burning kiss to her brow.
Daenerys obeyed his lesson in noble decorum, but her eyes were empty, lifeless.
Dawn, outskirts of King's Landing.
Dun dun dun dun-dun…Gawen Crabb gazed at the towering silhouette of the city, an old melody from another life echoing in his mind.
He tugged at the reins.
Two months ago, when he'd first arrived, he had been Baron of Whispers Hall on the Crab Claw Peninsula.
Two months later, returning for the second time… he was still Baron of Whispers Hall.
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🔥 The Throne's Last Flame — A Song Forged in Ice and Wrath 🔥
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