Trials and Tribulations of the Oathkeeper

Chapter 126: The Stage is Set

YEAR 304 AC

―At King's Landing―

Red Keep ― War room...

Daveth paces the floor of a small courtyard on which a painted mural of Westeros has been done beautifully. He looks down upon it – taking in every detailed structure of the map: every stronghold, lakes, rivers and mountainous terrain... he studied them all. The Young Stag wasn't just donning his royal attire, but rather clad in his black armor—his Valyrian steel sword Stormbringer remained strapped to his waist, tapping the pommel anxiously; all his six years ruling the Seven Kingdoms from the Iron Throne have been spent preparing the entire realm for this inevitable confrontation.

The artisan painter in the corner finishes up what's left of some coastlines along the administrative region of the North; before long the painter looks up at the sound of someone's footsteps approaching and puts away his brushes to give the King some privacy.

"How long are you going to keep staring at that mural, nephew?" approached Tyrion, his uncle and Hand. "You've been quiet these last Small Council meetings."

"I've been standing here, looking at this map for... I don't know how long," he replied. "Has word been sent to Dragonstone?"

"Word has already been sent as quickly as possible. Lord Stannis and the majority of his forces, along with the Royal Fleet, have been forced to evacuate as many as possible. Only Ser Rolland Storm and a small token force will remain behind, though the island itself will still fall. But I'm sure you knew that already. I suppose it doesn't matter now, does it?"

Daveth shook his head. "No. It doesn't matter now," he replied.

Tyrion could sense the barest hint of vulnerability slipping momentarily through Daveth's calm exterior. When he was informed of Daenerys Targaryen sailing her forces to Westeros and of Euron Greyjoy's return, Daveth was quiet. Who could blame him? How could you get ready for something like this? Even he's never faced such a test of this scale. The Young Stag, meanwhile, looked away from his uncle and returned his focus back to the mural as Tommen and Myrcella entered as well.

"Brother," they announced. "We wondered where you were."

Daveth glanced at them from the corner of his right eye, his back still faced to them. Since then, his sister Myrcella had started developing a small bump on her belly. Tommen, in the meanwhile, remained innocent looking despite whatever muscles he was able to develop for his physique.

"This is it... isn't it?" Myrcella imposed.

"Yes, my sweet sister. It is," he answered. "Daenerys Targaryen has chosen Jon Connington to be her Hand. Right now, they're sailing across the Narrow Sea at the head of an armada, hoping to take back the Iron Throne. If what Varys' little birds say is true, he'll be leading the Targaryen host. Formulating all her battle plans. Cold, ruthless, calculating. Connington will stop at nothing to secure victory. Like our grandfather. As he did for the Mad King, he now gives his daughter counsel. Uncle Tyrion and I have already determined they'll be landing here on Dragonstone," he points to an eponymous island in the Blackwater Bay hundreds of miles northeast of the capital. "It has deep-water ports for the ships and it's also where she was born twenty-two years ago. But with Stannis ordering a forced evacuation, both the castle and the island itself will fall to the Targaryens while the rest of our fleet will be left forming a defensive blockade around the capital until they receive further instructions."

"Do you feel ready, brother?" asks Tommen. "I mean, considering how the maesters are calling this a war to end of all wars. I just hope there's still a Westeros left to protect. And everyone's counting on you to do it for us once again. It must be overwhelming."