292 AC
Third Person POV
In the formidable, golden-hued fortress of Casterly Rock, Lord Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West, sat in his solar. The telegram, bearing the urgent Targaryen three-headed dragon sigil, lay flat on his polished desk. Its stark message had arrived mere hours after King Maekar's court was dismissed, a speed unimaginable a century ago.
Tywin's face, usually a mask of granite resolve, was grim. He reread the message, his eyes, sharp and calculating, absorbing every word. Wild dragons... gone. All of them. Flew away. No trace.
He clenched his jaw, the muscle ticking in his cheek. This was not merely a curious event; this was a cataclysm. Dragons were the ultimate symbol of Targaryen power, the very foundation upon which their golden age was built. Their disappearance, especially all at once, spoke of an unknown, terrifying force at work.
His daughter, Cersei, wife to Prince Baelor Targaryen, was still in King's Landing, having witnessed the panic firsthand. He knew she would relay every detail. But the impact of the letter was chilling
"Kevan," Tywin called, his voice flat, but the underlying tension clear. His brother, Ser Kevan Lannister, a man of unwavering loyalty and quiet competence, entered, bowing.
"Yes, Brother," Kevan acknowledged, his expression attentive. "What troubles you?"
Tywin pushed the telegram across the desk. "Read this. From Kingslanding."
Kevan picked up the parchment, his eyes quickly scanning the contents. His brow furrowed as he read, his usual calm demeanor giving way to a look of profound disbelief, then concern.
"The wild dragons?" Kevan murmured, looking up at Tywin. "All twenty of them gone? It beggars belief."
"Indeed," Tywin stated, leaning back in his chair, his gaze fixed on his brother. "And it changes everything. The Crown's strength, its very legitimacy, is rooted in those beasts. Without them, even the 'golden age' begins to look... tarnished."
Kevan nodded slowly. "This is unprecedented. No single entity, no known force, could simply make twenty dragons vanish."
"Precisely," Tywin said, a cold, predatory flicker entering his eyes. "Which leaves us with two possibilities: either a force beyond our current understanding, or a very clever enemy we have yet to discern. Regardless, the Targaryens have lost their greatest asset. Their ultimate deterrent."
He rose, walking to the window that overlooked the bustling city of Lannisport, thinking of the vast wealth beneath his feet. "Send word to all our bannermen, Kevan. Double patrols along the coast and in the hills. Ensure vigilance. Any unusual sightings in the sky, any strange phenomena, are to be reported immediately."
Kevan nodded, understanding the unspoken implication. "To bolster our own strength, brother. And to weather any storm."
"And to ensure that if the foundations of power shift," Tywin concluded, his voice low and dangerous, "House Lannister is ready to seize whatever advantage presents itself. The Lannisters always pay their debts. And they always watch for opportunity."
In the verdant, sun-drenched splendor of Highgarden, the seat of House Tyrell, the news arrived with a jarring abruptness. Lord Mace Tyrell, portly and fond of grand gestures, received the letter while overseeing the arrangements for a new fountain. His usual booming laughter died in his throat as he read the message.
"Mother!" Mace exclaimed, rushing to the side of Lady Olenna Tyrell, the formidable Queen of Thorns, who sat in her garden, tending to her prize roses. Olenna, sharp-witted and cynical, fixed her gaze on her son.
"What now, you oaf?" she snapped, though her eyes held a flicker of concern at his pallor. "Have you broken another lance trying to impress a maiden?"
"Worse, Mother! Far worse!" Mace stammered, handing her the telegram. "The wild dragons! They're gone! All of them from Dragonstone!"
Olenna's sharp eyes scanned the message. Her usual playful smirk vanished, replaced by a grim line. "Gone? All of them?" she repeated, her voice low. "Curious. Very curious. That's not good, Mace. Not good at all."
She looked up at the sky, then back at her son. "The Targaryens have ruled on the back of those beasts for generations. This... this could sow immense instability. What does Maekar say?"
"He just demands we look for them," Mace replied, still flustered. "And asks for vigilance."
"Vigilance, indeed," Olenna muttered, plucking a dead rose petal. "It means he's worried. And when the Targaryens are worried, everyone else should be terrified. This golden age of theirs, it rests on dragon wings. What happens when the wings are clipped?"
She stood, her movements surprisingly agile for her age. "Send letters to all our bannermen. Double patrols. And tell the reapers to work faster. We need full granaries, Mace. A long winter sometimes comes from unexpected directions." She had seen too much history repeat itself not to be wary.
At Storm's End, the ancient, unyielding fortress, the news of the missing dragons arrived from Rhaelle Targaryen to Lord Robert Baratheon. Robert, a man of booming laughter and hearty appetites, was in the midst of a hunt when the message reached him. He read it, his brow furrowing with a mixture of confusion and growing unease.
"Robert," Rhaelle said, her voice unusually subdued, as they sat down to a late supper in the castle's great hall. "This news from Dragonstone... it is troubling. More than just troubling."
Robert, ever practical, speared a piece of roasted boar. "Aye, a bloody mystery. Where in the seven hells would twenty dragons go? A particularly large flock of gulls, perhaps?" He attempted a joke, but his laughter was hollow.
Rhaelle shook her head, her eyes wide. "No, Robert. This isn't some ordinary disappearance. This is... unprecedented. And the Dragonkeepers are beside themselves."
Robert's jovial face grew grim.
Robert slammed his fist on the table, making the plates rattle. "Damnation! Just when things were settled! Steffon, Myrcella," he called to his children, who were listening with wide, worried eyes. "Go to your chambers. And send a letter to all our bannermen. Every fort, every town along the coast. Report any unusual sightings. Anything that flies. And double the patrols along the Kingswood," he was going to prepare for a coming storm.
High in the serene, unassailable fortress of the Eyrie, Lord Jon Arryn, Warden of the East and Lord of the Vale, sat in his solar, gazing out at the breathtaking view of the Mountains of the Moon. He had received the telegram with his customary quiet dignity, but his expression had grown troubled.
He was an old man, wise and steeped in the realm's history. He had seen kings come and go, witnessed the rise and fall of houses, and remembered the bitter sting of the Three Sisters' loss to Asgard.
"Dragons... gone," Jon murmured to himself, his voice raspy. "All of them. That's a ill omen. A very ill omen."
His own family, though less numerous than the Targaryens or Starks, felt the tremor of the news. His son and heir, Lord Arryn's son Elbert Arryn, was a dutiful man, and his wife, Lady Helen Royce, a woman of nervous disposition, fretted openly.
"Father," Elbert said, entering the solar, a copy of the telegram in his hand. "This news... it has the knights uneasy. Where could twenty dragons vanish to?"
Jon sighed. "The world is older than our histories, my son. And full of mysteries. This is a shift. The Targaryens' greatest power, simply... gone. It speaks of a force that fears neither fire nor steel."
"Increase the vigilance along the Bloodgate," Jon commanded, his voice firm despite his age. "Ensure the mountain clans are closely monitored. And sendravens to every keep in the Vale. Any unnatural occurrences, any strange sightings, must be reported. The Vale must be ready. For anything." He knew their mountain passes were strong, but even stone could crumble.
At Riverrun, the bustling seat of House Tully, the news arrived with a ripple of anxiety that spread through the castle like a cold current in the Red Fork. Lord Edmure Tully, ever well-meaning but prone to being overwhelmed by grand events, stared at the message, his face pale.
"Missing?" Edmure stammered, reading the message aloud to his wife, Lady Roslin Tully, a kind woman, but equally concerned by the sudden crisis. "Twenty dragons? That's... that's a lot of dragons to just vanish!"
The Riverlands, ever the battleground of Westeros, were particularly sensitive to any sign of instability. Their prosperity was built on peace and secure trade routes, and this news threatened both.
"What could it mean, Edmure?" Roslin asked, her hand fluttering to her throat. "Could it be a new war? A secret enemy?"
Edmure paced his solar, running a hand through his hair. "King Maekar demands vigilance. And for us to report any sightings. But how can twenty dragons simply disappear? It defies all reason."
"Send ravens to all our bannermen," Edmure commanded, his voice gaining a bit more firmness. "All river patrols are to be doubled. All boats travelling the Trident are to report any unusual occurrences. Any large, flying shadows. We must be ready for whatever this means. The Riverlands cannot afford to be caught unawares." He knew the Trident was a crucial artery, and its security was paramount.
In the serene, shaded gardens of Sunspear, Prince Doran Martell, ruler of Dorne, received the letter. His face, usually unreadable, remained impassive, but his eyes, dark and intelligent, held a deeper, almost knowing, glint. He read the message slowly, then folded it with deliberate precision.
His children, Princess Arianne Martell, bold and ambitious, and Prince Quentyn Martell, quiet and dutiful, were present. His sister, Princess Elia, was in King's Landing, privy to the immediate panic.
"The wild dragons are gone," Doran announced, his voice calm, almost unnervingly so.
Arianne's eyes widened. "Gone? All of them? That's a significant blow to the Targaryens, Father. A major weakness."
Quentyn, ever pragmatic, frowned. "Where could they go? It defies the laws of nature for so many to simply vanish."
Doran merely took a sip of his wine, his gaze distant. "Perhaps."
"This is not a weakness for the Targaryens," Doran stated, his voice firm, "so much as it is a harbinger. A sign of something greater. Something that even dragons might flee from, or be drawn to."
He looked at Arianne and Quentyn. "Send messages to every keep. Every watchtower along the Red Mountains. Every village by the Sea of Dorne. Report any unusual sightings, any strange movements in the sky, any unnatural cold. We will keep our own counsel on this, for now. But we will watch. We will be prepared." He had spent a lifetime playing the long game, and this, he sensed, was a game on a scale that dwarfed all others. The sun of Dorne still shone, but a chill wind was beginning to blow from the North.