Before Robert Baratheon had even fully settled onto the Iron Throne, a well-feathered raven arrived gracefully from the fertile southern lands of Highgarden, bearing a letter of fealty from House Tyrell, filled with respectful wording and generous gifts.
This letter arrived at the perfect ti, like a tily rain.
In the letter, Highgarden went to great lengths to highlight their "goodwill" and "restraint." First, they emphasized that throughout the war, they had never actively attacked Robert's coalition forces. Second, regarding Storm's End, they had rely besieged it without launching an assault, maximally avoiding bloodshed. Finally, they pointed out that they had maintained neutrality during the decisive battle for King's Landing, offering no support to the Targaryen crown.
The most substantial move followed imdiately.
As Robert faced the ss of a massive famine in the newly conquered capital, Highgarden threw open its granaries. Convoys of wagons laden with grain marched north in grand procession. They cleverly packaged this necessity for survival as a "tribute of loyalty to the new King," attempting to use the fragrance of grain to wash away the stain of their past service to the Dragon Kings.
Jon Arryn, the new Hand of the King and an elder who prioritized the big picture, strongly advocated for forgiveness in the Small Council. Stroking his beard, he advised Robert, who still held a grudge: "Your Grace, the unity and peace of the Seven Kingdoms are far more important than pursuing past stances. Highgarden's grain can feed hundreds of thousands of hungry mouths in King's Landing, which is worth more than ten thousand swords. Their submission can lay a stable foundation for your dynasty."
Robert waved his hand as if dispelling an unpleasant sll and accepted Highgarden's surrender. He needed a kingdom that could stabilize, not endless purges. The roses of Highgarden, with their shrewd calculation and tily "loyalty," successfully preserved their original status and fragrance under the sun of the new dynasty. Highgarden's return also ant the Seven Kingdoms were reunited.
Post-war King's Landing was a tangled ss of thousands of threads. Scorched earth needed rebuilding, order needed restoring, and hearts needed soothing.
In this complex situation, as Robert's foster father and Hand, Jon Arryn's opinion carried imnse weight. Robert accepted and imdiately executed the vast majority of his suggestions.
However, there was one matter where the young King voiced exceptionally firm opposition—Lord Jon's urging to hold the coronation ceremony as soon as possible.
"No!" Robert's voice echoed in the Throne Room, carrying an unquestionable stubbornness. He pushed away the stack of dossiers before him like a lion refusing to be leashed. "Not now!"
His gaze looked past the broken windows toward Dorne in the south, burning with a near-paranoid hope. "I will wait for Ned to return, for Oberyn to return, for the Little Kraken..." His voice dropped lower but held deeper emotion. "Most importantly, I will wait for Lyanna to return."
In his heart, the coronation ceremony symbolizing the pinnacle of power had to happen simultaneously with another ceremony.
Before the eyes of the realm's nobility, he would not only wear the crown but also marry Lyanna Stark—the woman he had long adored and for whom he had started this war—as his queen. Royal power and love; he wanted both to be complete in this peak mont. Beside the Iron Throne, there had to be a place for her.
Lord Jon looked at the familiar stubbornness in his foster son's eyes, knowing that on matters concerning Lyanna, any persuasion was futile. He could only sigh inwardly, watching the beginning of the new dynasty forced to hang precariously on the edge of a power vacuum because of an obsessive love.
---
Eddard Stark's speed heading south was more resolute than migrating birds. The anxiety and urgency in his heart were no less than Robert's.
Because trapped in the Tower of Joy was his own flesh and blood—his sister, Lyanna.
Among the four children of the stern Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell, the one he favored most was not the valiant Brandon, nor the steady Ned or the clever Benjen, but Lyanna—the daughter who seed born of spring wind and fire, brimming with vitality, who always proudly claid the "wolf blood" ran in her veins.
In Ned's silent and deeply feeling heart, this sister who was so different from him yet so radiant was an irreplaceable treasure. Now, he spurred his horse madly, wishing only to reach the Tower of Joy one day sooner to see her.
After leaving King's Landing, the three riders moved like they were whipped by invisible lashes, galloping south along the Roseroad. Eddard Stark took the lead, as if trying to shake off the power and blood behind him completely. His mind held only the location of the Tower of Joy.
A day and a night, without rest or sleep. Only the sound of hooves striking the ground echoed in the night.
Not until dawn dyed the sky red again did Euron Greyjoy spur his horse to ride alongside Ned. He glanced at the foam gathering at the mouth of Ned's mount, his voice cold and clear as a sea breeze. "Lord Eddard, I know your heart is burning. n can hold on by sheer will, but beasts cannot. Look at your horse. Run it any further, and it will die on the road."
Oberyn Martell approached from the other side. His tone was more rational but pointed out the cruel reality. "Ned, n need rest too. The war just ended. From King's Landing to Dorne, the road is filled with routed soldiers, bandits looting in the chaos, unchecked sellswords, and desperate smallfolk. We must maintain enough strength and a clear head to deal with battles that could happen at any ti." He paused, asking a more practical question. "Besides, does your stomach not feel hunger? You can't swing 'Ice' on an empty belly."
Ned's knuckles were white from gripping the reins. He looked at his horse, which was indeed at its limit, then at the seemingly endless road to the south. After a mont of silence, he was ultimately the Northern lord known for pragmatism. He slowly reined in his horse and nodded heavily.
The three stopped to rest by the Blueburn river. The horses drank greedily from the cool water, while the riders sat on the ground, gnawing on hard rations. The fatigue of days of travel was etched on their faces, but heavier still was the cloud lingering over their hearts.
Euron took a swig from his waterskin and looked at Ned, whose expression remained grim, breaking the silence. "Still angry about Tywin's thods and Robert's... acquiescence?"
Ned didn't answer directly. His gaze turned to the silent Prince of Dorne, posing a sharp hypothetical. "Oberyn, if House Lannister intended to treat Elia Martell the way they treated Arriana Whent and her child, what would you do?"
Oberyn's fingers, which had been stroking the shaft of his spear, stopped abruptly. He looked up, a cold killing intent flashing in his narrow eyes, a near-cruel sneer curling his lips. "Then, I would personally go to Casterly Rock, cut off the head of every lion I could find, and mount them on spears."
Euron took up the conversation, his voice calm but carrying the undeniable power of a rising tide. "Princess Elia was formally divorced from Rhaegar and has returned to House Martell. If anyone still wants to use the absurd excuse of 'dragonspawn' to harm a Dornish princess protected by law..." He paused, his gaze sweeping over Ned and Oberyn. "That would an war begins again. And I would not sit idly by."
Ned nodded heavily. He clenched his fist, his voice low and firm, as if swearing a grave oath:
"If that day truly cos, the North will support you without reservation. The new dynasty must absolutely not be built upon the blood of the innocent."
The waters of the Blueburn murmured, as if silently witnessing this fragile alliance against future injustice ford quietly by the riverside.
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