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The Hall of Heroes inside Casterly Rock had been completely transford into a council chamber. Under Margaery's direction, every last lion carving had been ground smooth and replaced with sweeping murals.
The first painting showed Jon turning the tide at the Green Fork, twin swords flashing as he stood atop a crashing wave. The second captured his solo strike on King's Landing, cutting down the false king with no one else at his side. The third depicted the fall of Casterly Rock itself—Jon summoning storm clouds, lightning almost crackling in his fist—as he beca the undisputed Lord of the West.
Jon felt a little embarrassed by the outright myth-making, but Margaery was adamant. "We're founding a dynasty that could last a thousand years or more," she told him. "The man who started it deserves to be rembered like this."
She was already sketching ideas for a fourth mural: the slaughter at Beheading Bay.
The old throne had been replaced too. The new seat rose more than six feet high, dominated by a fierce white wolf's head—modeled unmistakably after Ghost—with rubies for eyes. The armrests ended in snarling wolf heads. Thorns and roses wound around the base, and a crouching stone lion served as a footrest.
Margaery had a real gift for this kind of design.
The lords gathered for the war council had co from every corner that mattered. Black Walder Frey and Rhaegar Frey arrived together, making the family's loyalty crystal clear. Rickard Karstark had been a guest at Riverrun since the fighting ended; the mont he heard there was another war to fight, he rode straight in with his own guard. Edmure Tully ca in person—securing the Riverlands ant he had skin in the ga. Lymond Darry sent a small contingent of knights even though Jon had politely told him to stay ho. Garlan Tyrell brought Randyll Tarly, the Reach's best battlefield commander. Paxter Redwyne and his two sons had sailed in days earlier; their warships now sat safely in Lannisport's harbor, with Paxter's second son Hobas literally sleeping aboard to make sure nothing happened to them.
People still called the place Lannisport out of habit, even though Jon and Margaery had quietly decided to rena it Margaeryport once the war was over.
It was the year 298 AC, halfway through the year, and winter was already breathing down everyone's necks.
Inside the hall the lords sat in small clusters, trading low conversation about the coming campaign and the Citadel's letter warning about sorcery. Paxter Redwyne looked the most worried—he had the most ships to lose if Euron pulled another storm out of his sleeve.
Two n entered the chamber. One was rrell Florent, Alester's youngest nephew, still baby-faced and clearly nervous. The other was Sandor Clegane, helm on, shoulders wide enough to block the doorway. Everyone recognized the Hound instantly.
Both n walked straight toward the high seat at the head of the hall.
Sandor reached it first. rrell cleared his throat. "Ser Sandor, the Hand of the King is the supre commander. That seat belongs to Lord Alester."
Sandor didn't even look at him. "Oh? Then tell —what's carved on the back of this chair? What place are we standing in? And who is the lord of this place?"
He yanked off his helt. The burned ruin of his face made rrell flinch and back away fast. The young Florent retreated to the lower right-hand seat without another word.
The lords in the hall relaxed. The chain of command had just been settled in plain sight. Alester might hold the title of Hand, but everyone knew who would actually be calling the shots.
Rhaegar Frey watched the exchange with narrowed eyes. The Freys had been moving carefully in King's Landing lately; they knew Stannis's court was split between the King's n and the Queen's n. Jon's relationship with the Florents was icy. Rhaegar made a ntal note to tell his grandfather they should keep playing both sides and avoid picking a fight with either.
A herald's voice rang out: "The Hand of the King, Lord Alester Florent! The Warden of the West, Duke of Casterly Rock, Jon Stark!"
Every head turned. Jon strode in beside Alester, the Valyrian steel armor gleaming under the torchlight. The dragon-scale plates caught the fire like living tal. A ripple of envy moved through the room—every lord there had heard stories about the priceless suit, but seeing it up close was sothing else.
Many of them had already visited Casterly Rock in the last few weeks and seen the armor in private. Rickard Karstark had co mostly to talk strategy and get a look at the legendary plate. Rhaegar Frey had co for politics and to ask Jon, point-blank, about magic. When Jon confird the threat was real, Rhaegar quietly decided he'd be far more useful coordinating supplies from the Rock than risking his neck on the battlefield.
Jon and Alester took their seats—the ones their attendants had already claid for them. Jon gave Sandor a small nod of approval. The Hound's scarred face split into a grin.
Alester was not smiling. He cleared his throat, ready to speak first, but Jon beat him to it.
"My lords," Jon said, voice carrying easily across the hall, "the Ironborn have plagued the Sunset Sea for thousands of years. If Aegon the Conqueror and Balerion hadn't burned their rule out of the Riverlands, their greed would have carried them even deeper into the Seven Kingdoms. History has shown us one thing: no matter who sits the Seastone Chair, their nature never changes. They do not sow. They only reave. At my own wedding, Euron Greyjoy tried to use a dragon egg to get close to my father-in-law, Mace Tyrell. He nearly hard my family. So hear clearly—this war will not end with a few burned longships or a sack of Pyke. We are going to end the threat once and for all. For the Seven Kingdoms. Forever."
Rickard Karstark shot to his feet first, white beard bristling. "Forever!"
Loras Tyrell was right behind him, eyes blazing. "Invade the Iron Islands! End them forever!"
The Westerlings, Brynden Tully, and the rest of the Western lords rose next. Then Rickard again, Paxter Redwyne, Randyll Tarly—every voice joined the shout until the Hall of Heroes rang with it.
They had the numbers. They had the ships. They had the best commanders in the realm. Victory felt certain.
But every man in that hall carried the sa cold knot in his gut: sorcery.
The Queen's party had tried to sacrifice Maester Aemon. Euron had summoned a blizzard over Winterfell. If the fleets t and the Crow's Eye called down a storm…
That was the one shadow no one could quite banish.
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