The More Troops, The Better

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The Vale's offensive in the Riverlands, after suffering bitter losses beneath the walls of the three castles and wasting hundreds of their precious cavalry — who had been forced to dismount and fight as infantry — finally began to lose momentum.

In the end, Lord Petyr was, after all, a man well-versed in dealings with gold dragons and tangled schemes. But when it came to the bloody business of the battlefield, that lay entirely beyond his reach.

Faced with the sharp questioning of the great houses of the Vale, led by Yohn Royce, Littlefinger could do little but grit his teeth and reluctantly agree to halt the assault. And with that, his grand scheme to lure the Trout out of Riverrun collapsed completely.

No matter what bait he dangled, Edmure Tully simply refused to bite. He remained holed up within the stone walls of Riverrun like an old, stubborn turtle, showing not the slightest intention of venturing out. As for the three eastern seats, it seemed they had already accepted the grim reality that no reinforcements would be coming to their aid. With no other choice, they clenched their teeth and prepared to fight to the bitter end.

The men of the Vale were known for their prowess on open fields, where banners flew and swords clashed under the sky. But when it came to the slow, grinding misery of siege warfare, they were clearly out of their depth. And for that shortcoming, they had paid a heavy price.

Further south, old lion Tywin Lannister had encircled Robb Stark's remaining three thousand troops within Harrenhal. He was throwing everything he had into the assault, determined to take the stronghold as quickly as possible.

To him, the alliance between the North and the Riverlands had always been a thorn in his side.

Say what you will about the Northerners — whether they harbored ambitions for the Iron Throne or not — Tywin Lannister was never truly worried about that. The North had always been simple in its demands. They wanted independence. They wanted the South to mind its own business and stay out of theirs.

The Riverlands, on the other hand, stood firmly beside the North, bound together by marriage and blood ties. That was the real problem.

And here lay the crux of it… the Riverlands sat squarely along the main eastern route out of the Westerlands. And these tens of thousands of men, they were clearly not on friendly terms with him. What if, one day… they got it into their heads to stab him in the back? What then?

To speak plainly, Tywin Lannister never truly wished to wipe out Robb Stark or the entire North. As far as he was concerned, as long as that boy knelt, acknowledged Joffrey as king, and obediently crawled back to the North to do whatever they pleased, that would suit him just fine — so long as they stayed far away from his troubles.

Of course, if they happened to grow a conscience and came south to help him deal with Stannis and Renly… oh, and let's not forget down in the south, that Targaryen girl, Daenerys, the Mad King's daughter, who had already started calling herself Queen of the Seven Kingdoms… well, Tywin would be more than happy to welcome their help.

As for what other schemes Lord Petyr Baelish might be hiding up his sleeve, Tywin could not say for certain. But the conditions Baelish had laid out for the Vale's participation into the war had been clear enough. He wanted Tywin to formally appoint him as young Robert Arryn's guardian and Regent of the Vale. And beyond that, he sought Harrenhal as his personal fief, styling himself Lord of Harrenhal.

In Tywin's eyes, that was a perfectly reasonable demand. After all, the Vale's decision to march to war had been driven partly by a desire to avenge Lysa Tully's assassination and partly by the opportunity to secure their own advantage amidst the chaos now engulfing the realm.

And now, looking at how the situation had played out, it was hard to deny that the results had been quite satisfactory. That little wolf cub, Robb Stark, had been caught completely off guard. The proud, battle-hardened army of the North, so used to victory, had been utterly collapsed by a sudden cavalry assault from the Vale of Arryn.

That was why Tywin was so desperate to bring down Harrenhal. Once the castle fell, he could get his hands on Robb Stark and keep the boy under his control. After that, he would be able to demand whatever price he pleased from the Northerners.

With Robb in his grasp, Tywin and his armies could free up their strength, reorganize their forces, and if all went well, Jaime could lead his troops out and rejoin him, combining their power into one.

After that, all they needed to do was sit back and quietly wait for the Baratheon brothers in the King's Landing to finish tearing each other apart.

Truth be told, Tywin had never stopped keeping a close watch on the situation in King's Landing. After all, that little game of switching houses at the last moment had been his own handiwork. He had even sacrificed a son he barely cared about—Tyrion Lannister — as part of that grand design.

Tywin understood perfectly well that Renly would not kill him. They were all seasoned players of the game. They all knew that a living noble was far more valuable than a dead one.

But now, even with his growing impatience and the fierce momentum of the Lannister offensive, there was no denying the simple truth. The walls of Harrenhal were too tall, too thick, and too ancient to be breached so easily. The Lannisters had no siege engines at their disposal, and building them was no task that could be completed overnight.

Wave after wave of soldiers had stormed the fortress, climbing long ladders, rolling logs, hurling massive stones, and braving the endless storm of arrows that rained down from the battlements. Yet after all this time, not a single Lannister soldier had managed to set foot upon those walls.

There was nothing Tywin Lannister could do about this stalemate. If the fortress couldn't be taken… then it simply couldn't be taken, no matter how many men were thrown at it or how fiercely they fought. It was as simple as that.

And while he stood here, helpless and simmering with frustration, far away, someone else was already celebrating the arrival of their latest reinforcements.

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Dorne, Sunspear

"Your Grace, this time, we've received another two thousand Unsullied. They've already come ashore and are currently resting in the military camp outside Sunspear."

In the wide central plaza of the Water Gardens, Prince Doran Martell smiled as he spoke to Daenerys Targaryen, who stood nearby, gently communicating with the green dragon, Rhaegal.

Daenerys turned around, one hand resting lightly on the green dragon's neck, and gave the Prince of Dorne a small, approving nod.

"Good. That means we now have twenty-four thousand men at our disposal. Once news arrives from Clay, we will march north through the Prince's Pass."

When Daenerys spoke these words, her tone was calm and composed, utterly different from the excitement that used to surge in her voice whenever this matter was brought up.

Four massive dragons, paired with the Unsullied legions, had filled her with an unshakable confidence.

Beneath the banner of House Martell, the great and lesser lords from across Dorne had all gathered within the sun-baked walls of Sunspear.

And when Gaelithox appeared alongside the three young dragons circling overhead, their fierce roars reverberating across the skies, the Dornish lords had sworn their allegiance to Daenerys Targaryen without the slightest hesitation. From that moment on, Dorne — the southernmost of the Seven Kingdoms — had officially become the logistical heart of the Targaryen campaign to reclaim the Iron Throne.

Naturally, news of such magnitude could not be concealed. Even with the Seven Kingdoms locked in chaos, no amount of war and turmoil could completely sever the flow of information among the people. Besides, everyone, more or less, had eyes and ears planted on each other's lands.

And so, the news that the dragons had returned and Dorne had changed its allegiance spread like a storm across the Seven Kingdoms in no time. The entire realm tensed at once. After all, back when Aegon the Conqueror came with his dragons, there had only been three. But now? Now there were four. The pressure was immense.

The Reach and the Stormlands, which both bordered Dorne, were currently too busy waging war with Stannis to bother with anything else. Their finest troops were all tied up at King's Landing.

However, even after hearing this news, they showed no intention of pulling soldiers back home.

What could anyone really do against dragons? Everyone knew the answer. Did they truly believe that moving their armies around would make a difference?

No matter how many soldiers you commanded, in the end, they were all just a few mouthfuls of dragonfire away from being reduced to ashes. The two hundred years of Targaryen rule, built upon the backs of dragons, had already burned that truth into the hearts of men with fire and blood — Before Dragons, All Men Were Equal.

So, after a brief moment of panic, everyone simply… gave up resisting.

They went back to eating, drinking, and carrying on with their lives. And really, if a dragon did one day soar across the sky, what could they possibly do? Gather the whole family, young and old alike, fall to their knees, and pray for mercy. No one would call that cowardice.

Of course, that was how the lesser lords and the middling nobles thought. But the great lords — the ones with both power and ambition, the ones who could realistically dream of grasping the crown of the Seven Kingdoms — they were different. They still wanted to struggle, to resist, even if only a little.

The problem was, now everyone's enemies were still alive and kicking, and the grudges between them were far from being resolved.

What was more, even after glaring south toward Dorne for days on end, no one saw any sign of them sending letters to the Seven Kingdoms, declaring with fanfare that the Targaryen dynasty—read aloud as "your new overlord"—had returned to claim its place.

And so, as time dragged on, people simply grew accustomed to it. One by one, they shifted their attention back to the foes right in front of them, turning a blind eye to the whispers and tidings from Dorne, pretending as though none of it concerned them.

In the old days, everyone had been good brothers in rebellion. Even if they couldn't stand one another, at least they'd all managed to fight side by side under Robert's banner when the Mad King's daughter came back.

But now Robert was dead. The Seven Kingdoms were shattered. For the sake of the Iron Throne, they'd already beaten each other's brains out on the battlefield. Countless nobles from every house had fallen in this brutal, endless struggle. The hatred and bloodshed ran too deep to simply let go.

And now? You expected them all to stand hand in hand again, raising their cups and laughing away old grudges like nothing ever happened? Dream on!

By now, several months had passed since Clay's northern departure. And Astapor, under the rule of Oberyn Martell, had already been tamed considerably.

So far, he had shipped two thousand Unsullied soldiers toward Sunspear. The army directly under Daenerys Targaryen's command now numbered over six thousand strong.

Oberyn had never felt this close to avenging his sister, Elia. Day after day, he kept himself busy, never daring to grow complacent. The women and wine that used to fill his life had become scarce, leaving little trace of the Red Viper of old.

At the moment, beyond continuing the strict training of the Unsullied, his eyes had turned to several of the large and famous mercenary companies of Essos.

After all, it was all gold from the Iron Bank anyway. His only job was to spend that money, and in return, bring back seasoned soldiers ready for war.

Training Unsullied to peak form wasn't something that could be achieved overnight. But mercenaries? They were ready-made. So why not give it a try?

And so, after securing Daenerys's approval, the Dornish Prince began reaching out to powerful sellsword companies like the Golden Company.

But much to his surprise, he encountered resistance. And not the kind he had expected.

After some thorough investigation, he finally discovered where the problem lay.

It was Pentos. More precisely, it was a man named Illyrio, the Magister of Pentos.

This so-called Magister, it seemed, viewed the Golden Company as his own private resource. He would never allow anyone else to lay a finger on them.

And, as Oberyn had also heard… this Magister Illyrio appeared to have certain ties to House Targaryen as well.

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