The first major plot twist is coming.
Tension is rising, masks are falling, and political moves are beginning to show their cost. Nothing is guaranteed — not alliances, not loyalties. What began as a game of strategy may spiral into irreversible disaster. Get ready: the story's first major turning point is approaching.
If you're enjoying the story and would like to support my work, consider helping out on Patreon.
Advanced chapters will be released at a rapid pace for supporters.
📖 Currently, the manuscript has 26 completed chapters.
_____________________________________________________________________
Point of View: Tyrion Lannister
Northern honor, Tyrion Lannister decided after five days on the road, had the taste of watered-down beer, the smell of hypocrisy, and the texture of na invisible yet solidly forged chain.
He rode at the center of a small, tense formation—na island of crimson lions in a sea of grey wolves. Beside him rode his own men, Ser Vardos and Joss. They were his guard, his loyalty, his only tangible link to the power and safety of Casterly Rock. And yet, they were powerless—mere props in the theatrical performance orchestrated by the new Lord of Winterfell. With every league they traveled south on the Kingsroad, the invisible collar seemed to tighten.
Ahead, setting the pace with stoic determination, rode Alekk, the leader of the Stark escort. Behind, a constant and irritating presence, came Hallis—the rabid hunting dog who seemed to wish a bandit would appear on the road just to have na excuse to draw steel. And everywhere, like a shadow, moved Alyn the silent, whose eyes seemed to register every stone on the road and, more often than courtesy allowed, every expression on Tyrion's face.
This was no honor guard. It was a moving prison—and a masterfully crafted one.
Tyrion's mind kept returning to that conversation in the solar. Robb Stark. The boy didn't learn that from the honorable Eddard Stark. That coldness, that predator's logic—where did it come from? Tyrion thought as he watched the monotonous landscape. The old maester? Or does the little wolf have fangs no one's ever seen? Uncertainty was a poison, and a Lannister could not afford to drink poison. He did not fear the boy—but he feared the unknown that wore the boy's face.
He studied his jailers the way a man studies chess pieces. Alekk was the rook—solid and predictable in his defense. Hallis was the pawn—aggressive, limited in movement, useful as a sacrifice or distraction. Alyn was the bishop—moving on unexpected diagonals, the most dangerous for his ability to see the game from unusual angles.
That night, they made camp in a small grove east of the road. The tension, as always, was thick enough to slice with a knife. The men of Winterfell and those of Casterly Rock kept a calculated distance, each group huddled around its own fire. Then, the incident Tyrion had expected—and perhaps secretly wished for—occurred.
The dispute began over something trivial: the quality of steel.
Joss, the youngest and proudest of Tyrion's guards, was sharpening his longsword, the blade gleaming in the firelight. "Lannisport steel is the best in the realm," he said loudly enough for the other camp to hear. "Sharp, strong, and doesn't snap at a bit of cold."
Across the fire, Hallis—mending a leather strap—slowly raised his head. His eyes locked onto Joss's through the flickering flames.
"Steel from the North is forged in the cold," Hallis growled. "It doesn't bend. It doesn't break. It endures. It's not some shiny toy for southern lords to show off."
"A toy that would cut through that leather armor of yours like cheese," Joss shot back, rising to his feet. Ser Vardos placed a hand on his shoulder, but Lannister pride had already been wounded.
"Is that so?" Hallis said, standing as well, his face red with anger. "Why don't we find out? Or maybe you're only brave when you're with your pack, lion?"
Before the situation could escalate to drawn swords, Alekk intervened. His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the air like a whip of ice.
"Hallis. Enough," he commanded, placing himself physically between the two men. "You are here under Lord Robb's orders. Your tantrum is not part of them. You dishonor his name and the mission he gave us. Sit down and shut your mouth, or I swear by the Old Gods I'll tie you to your horse for the rest of the journey."
Hallis glared at Joss one last time before sitting down, muttering in defeat. Ser Vardos pulled Joss back, whispering orders in his ear. Peace—or something like it—was restored.
But Tyrion saw everything with crystalline clarity. He saw Hallis's predictable rage. Joss's foolish pride. Alekk's strained authority, struggling to contain a fundamentally unstable situation. He realized, in that moment, that his "protection" was the most dangerous thing on the road. He was in a cage with two animals who hated each other, and the cage keeper could barely keep them apart.
A war might begin not because of a king or a conspiracy, but because of two stupid guards and their wounded pride. The situation was volatile. Unsustainable. And for a man who valued his life above all, intolerable.
He looked to his men, then to the Starks, and finally to the long, dark road stretching south. Robb Stark's courtesy cage, he decided, was more dangerous than any bandit or assassin. There was only one logical move to make.
They will not take me to King's Landing, he thought, the resolve within him hardening like steel being tempered. I will find my own way.
The decision was made.
____________________________________________________________________________
Thank you for stepping into this story.
For me, it's truly incredible to be writing in a universe I've spent so much time reading and admiring.
I recently lost my job and decided to fully dedicate myself to this hobby. I sincerely hope to finish this fic, and for that, your support would mean a lot.
If you feel comfortable and enjoy extra chapters, consider supporting me on Patreon: PedroQuill