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The Coming Storm
The oil lamp cast a dim light, its flame flickering like summer fireflies in the darkness. It strained the eyes to read in such poor light.
Though Cole had good eyesight, he still moved his chair closer to the fireplace where the light burned brighter.
He unfolded the parchment again, admiring the neat, angular Westeros script. He hadn't expected Tyrion to have such elegant handwriting.
A small note fell out. Cole picked it up and read:
"From Tyrion Lannister, who always pays his debts."
"Are you still a virgin, my lord?" Cole could almost see Tyrion's mismatched eyes watching him mockingly. "I'm not sure what to call you now—Cole? Lord Marquis of Summerhall? Or Lord of Storm's End?"
"Never mind, to hell with formalities. My father ordered me to write and invite you to King's Landing. I know it's absurd—feel free to laugh—but I advise you to finish reading this letter."
He set aside the small note and turned his attention to the main letter.
[I, Tyrion Lannister, will wed Sansa of House Stark in King's Landing ten days hence. I formally invite Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone, and Cole, Lord of Summerhall and Storm's End.] The letter continued with a long list of names. Though it should have been sent to Dragonstone, it was clearly addressed to him.
Beyond the names and titles, the letter's content gradually shifted from invitation to more pressing matters.
"Lys has fallen to the combined forces of Tyrosh and the Dothraki, and the Ironborn have attacked the Arbor fleet in Whispering Sound. Why bother explaining these events?" Cole muttered. He'd heard of Lys and Tyrosh but knew little of the Free Cities. He was, however, quite familiar with the Dothraki because of the Dragon Queen.
These nomadic horsemen were the most formidable warriors on the continent of Essos. Their light cavalry and mounted archers were nearly unmatched on open plains.
Yet the Dothraki had obvious weaknesses. They rarely wore armor—if any at all. It seemed wearing armor was considered shameful in their culture, though Cole couldn't recall the exact details.
Siege warfare was another significant weakness of theirs.
These limitations had prevented them from ruling Essos as the ancient Ghiscari and Valyrian Empires once had.
Cole had never believed the Dothraki could conquer Westeros. This wasn't the great Dothraki Sea—it was a land of towering mountain ranges, Dorne's rugged terrain and scattered deserts, the Storm Lands with their dense forests, and the cold, forbidding Northern wilderness. How many of these terrains could grassland war horses overcome? If one wanted to learn conquest from a Khal, the Dothraki weren't the example to follow.
"Euron Greyjoy of the Iron Islands and Khal Drogo, the Dothraki horselord, have formed an alliance!?" Cole couldn't help rubbing his eyes. What was he reading? Khal Drogo, still alive?
What a shocking revelation.
So Drogo was the threat across the Narrow Sea? Did that mean Daenerys Targaryen was with him?
The Dragon Queen was coming with 40,000 Dothraki riders. The mightiest Iron Fleet of the Seven Kingdoms had already defected, and the Free Cities had become involved.
Cole couldn't suppress a laugh. The Lannisters were clearly in a panic.
He truly hadn't expected the horselord to survive. It seemed many unexpected events had transpired across the Narrow Sea.
Had the downtrodden princess finally returned, seeking vengeance?
The letter made no mention of dragons. Cole wondered if the three dragon eggs had hatched.
If dragons still existed, there would be no need to fight—they could simply raise the dragon banner and await the royal army's arrival.
As part of the Baratheon faction, they were bound to be enemies of the Targaryens.
After all, Robert Baratheon had taken the Targaryen throne, despite having some dragon blood himself.
Would Stannis kneel to the Dragon Queen? The answer was obvious.
The Lannisters shared their predicament in this matter.
The Lannisters' crimes would need to be answered for first. As the architect of the King's Landing massacre, Lord Tywin could not escape blame.
The Mad King Aerys had been slain by the Kingslayer, and Tywin had allowed his savage men to brutally murder the remaining Targaryens in the Red Keep.
Even if the Dragon Queen were merciful, she wouldn't easily forgive such enemies.
So the Lannisters sought an alliance? Cole continued reading.
"It's clearly an invitation to form an alliance," he muttered, though the letter only explicitly mentioned an invitation.
By sending the letter to him, did they hope he would persuade Stannis?
Should they stabilize the realm first, then resist foreign invasion? Or should they unite against a common enemy?
If the choice were his, the answer was obvious—with such danger looming, civil war was foolhardy.
Storm's End and Dragonstone were both strategic points directly in the path of any invasion. Before the foreign forces weakened the Lannisters, these strongholds would suffer first.
No one could challenge the Iron Fleet at sea now, unless the remnants of House Redwyne joined forces with the Royal Fleet.
The internal conflicts in Westeros provided the perfect opportunity for their enemies. Half the forces of the Westerlands and the North had been decimated. The Stormlands and the Reach were barely intact, to say nothing of the devastated Riverlands. Only Dorne and the Vale retained significant strength.
The letter's conclusion made it clear that King's Landing shouldn't be the only concern—they all faced grave danger.
It was a matter of mutual survival. If the Stormlands and Dragonstone fell, King's Landing would follow, unless the Lannisters abandoned the capital and retreated to the Westerlands.
Cole placed the letter on his lap and stared absently into the dancing flames.
Would the Seven Kingdoms accept barbarians sitting on the Iron Throne? Even those with Targaryen blood?
The Blackfyre Rebellion had begun because Prince Baelor, heir to the Iron Throne, looked more Dornish than Targaryen.
He should write to Dragonstone. No—he should go to Dragonstone himself.
Stannis must agree to an alliance. If he refused to join with the Lannisters, Cole could only suggest they retreat north.
Winter was coming, and winter in the North was harsh.
This winter in Westeros was destined to be remembered in history.
But who would record that history? The Andals, the Rhoynar, or the First Men? Or would it be the Dothraki? The Tyrosh?
Cole still remembered that a different enemy—beings not truly human—were slowly advancing from the Lands of Always Winter.
Night was falling, and dawn remained distant. He almost felt compelled to clasp his hands and pray to the Lord of Light.
Though the followers of the Red God seemed somewhat fanatical, theirs was the only deity who might actually help in the current crisis.
For a moment, he even considered fleeing from this troubled land.
"Ah~" With a long sigh, his breath misted before being dispersed by the fire's heat. In the swaying flames, vague images appeared.
A vast city teeming with people, a red castle, and a magnificent marble-domed sept.
And himself.