Chapter 1515 - vggg

Jon Arryn sat at the head of the ornate table in the Small Council chamber, his weathered hands folded before him. Shafts of morning light streamed through the high windows, casting long shadows across the polished floor. The familiar creak of the heavy wooden doors announced the arrival of his fellow council members.

Pycelle shuffled in first, his chain clinking with each deliberate step. The old maester's eyes darted around the room as he lowered himself into his chair with exaggerated care. Barristan Selmy followed, his white cloak pristine, his bearing proud despite his advancing years.

Varys glided to his seat, seeming to float rather than walk, his powdered face impassive. The Spider's silk slippers made no sound on the stone floor. Renly strode in with his usual flourish, adjusting his elaborately embroidered doublet as he took his place.

Petyr Baelish entered with that ever-present half-smile playing at his lips, his fingers trailing along the back of his chair before he sat. Stannis was last, his jaw clenched tight as always, his presence bringing a chill to the room that had nothing to do with the temperature.

"Shall we begin?" Stannis's voice was sharp as steel against stone. His fingers drummed an impatient rhythm on the table.

Jon Arryn shook his head, the movement causing a twinge in his neck. "We await His Grace."

A soft laugh escaped Petyr's lips. "My dear Lord Hand, surely you don't expect Robert to grace us with his presence? I can't recall the last time he attended a council meeting. He's likely still abed, nursing last night's wine."

"He will attend." Jon's voice carried the weight of certainty. "I've made sure of it."

Not a moment later, Jon Arryn watched with satisfaction as the heavy doors swung open once more. Robert's massive frame filled the doorway, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his black and gold doublet. The King's eyes were clear, his movements steady - a rare sight these days. Jon noted the absence of the usual wine-flush in Robert's cheeks and the tremor in his hands.

But it was the figure behind Robert that caused the Small Council members to straighten in their seats. Queen Cersei entered with the fluid grace of a cat, her emerald eyes scanning the room with careful consideration. Her presence was unexpected - in all his years as Hand, Jon could count on one hand the number of times she'd attended these meetings.

The Queen's dress was a masterwork of Lannister craftsmanship, crimson silk embroidered with golden thread that caught the morning light. Her golden hair cascaded down her back in carefully arranged waves, and a delicate golden chain graced her neck. Despite the early hour, she looked as though she'd stepped from a painting.

"Your Grace," Varys rose smoothly from his seat beside Jon, bowing deeply. "Please, take my place." The Spider's soft-soled shoes whispered across the floor as he relocated next to Littlefinger, who watched the proceedings with poorly concealed interest.

Robert dropped into the chair beside Jon, the wood groaning in protest. "Well, Jon? I'm here as you asked, and sober too, damn you." His thick fingers drummed against the table's surface. "What's so bloody important? Have the dragon-spawns been spotted? Is it war?"

The king's questions hung in the air as Jon noted how Cersei's perfectly shaped eyebrows arched slightly at her husband's words, her face otherwise remaining a mask of courtly serenity.

Jon Arryn raised his hand in a calming gesture. "No, Your Grace. The Targaryen children remain in exile." He turned to Varys, who dabbed at his powdered cheek with a silk handkerchief.

"Indeed, my little birds last spotted them in Myr," the Spider confirmed, his voice soft as silk. "The beggar king still dreams of armies, but finds only closed doors and empty promises."

Robert's shoulders relaxed, though his fingers continued their restless dance across the table's surface. "Then what's this about the North?"

"Actually, it's rather curious." Jon watched as Robert's entire demeanor shifted at the mention of the North, noting how the king's eyes sharpened with sudden interest. Any mention of Eddard Stark had that effect on Robert - always had, since their days in the Eyrie.

"Is Ned in trouble?" Robert's fist clenched. "Does he need aid? Just say the word, Jon. If some northern lords need their heads smashed in, I'll gladly do it myself." The king's voice carried the eager tone of a man hoping for action, for a chance to relive his glory days.

Jon shook his head, hiding his weariness behind years of practiced diplomacy. "Nothing of the sort, Your Grace. In fact, what's peculiar is how little we've heard from the North. The usual complaints about taxes, requests for aid, petty disputes between houses - they've all but ceased."

From the corner of his eye, Jon caught Stannis's scowl deepening. The middle Baratheon's jaw clenched so tight Jon could almost hear teeth grinding. It was no secret how Stannis resented Robert's preference for Eddard Stark over his own blood brother. The fact that Robert had straightened in his chair at the mere mention of Ned's name, showing more interest than he had in months of council meetings, only twisted that knife deeper.

Jon Arryn unrolled a thick parchment, its edges worn from frequent handling. The sound of crackling paper filled the tense silence of the council chamber. He watched as Robert's expression shifted from boredom to keen interest at the sight of the northern seal.

"It began roughly four years ago," Jon said, his aged fingers tracing the lines of text, "when Lord Stark announced the betrothal of his eldest daughter to a minor lord named Owen Longshore."

"Longshore?" Petyr's voice carried a note of barely concealed amusement. "I wasn't aware House Stark had fallen so far as to marry their precious daughters to insignificant lords. Perhaps these times have been harder on the North than we thought."

The laughter died in Littlefinger's throat as both Robert and Jon fixed him with murderous glares. Jon noted how Petyr's hand moved unconsciously to touch his throat, a gesture that spoke of remembered threats.

"If you're quite finished," Jon continued, his tone carrying decades of authority, "since that announcement, we've received... unusual reports from the North." He spread several more scrolls across the table. "At first, they seemed too fantastic to be believed. Tales of glass gardens spreading across the northern keeps, producing large summer harvests more than ever heard of. Stories of strange metal men working tirelessly day and night."

Robert leaned forward, his chair groaning under the sudden shift of weight. "Metal men? What nonsense is this, Jon?"

"That was our initial reaction as well, Your Grace. We dismissed them as tavern tales, exaggerations from merchants who'd had too much ale. But the reports kept coming, each more consistent than the last. The North's grain shipments to the Night's Watch have tripled. Their steel production has increased tenfold. And there are whispers..." Jon paused, studying the faces around the table, "of massive constructs, thirty feet tall, patrolling the northern borders."

Jon watched as the council members exchanged glances, their expressions ranging from skepticism to concern. Only Varys remained impassive, though Jon noticed how the Spider's fingers had stilled their usual restless movement - a sure sign that even he was caught off guard by these revelations.

Jon Arryn watched as Robert let out a dismissive snort, his thick fingers wrapping around his goblet of water - a rare sight indeed.

"Fever dreams from drunk vagabonds, nothing more," Robert declared, though his eyes betrayed a hint of uncertainty.

"I would tend to agree, Your Grace," Jon said carefully, his weathered hands smoothing another piece of parchment bearing the golden rose seal of House Tyrell. "However, I received this rather interesting letter from Mace Tyrell just three days past. He inquires if perhaps House Stark has fallen upon financial difficulties."

"The Starks? In financial trouble?" Littlefinger's eyebrows rose slightly. "Their coffers have always been modest, but stable."

"Indeed." Jon's eyes swept across the council members. "Lord Tyrell writes because all grain shipments to the North have been cancelled. Not just from the Reach, but from their own bannermen to the northern vassals as well."

The reaction was immediate. Pycelle's slouch vanished as he sat upright, his chain clicking against the table. Varys's hands stilled completely, while Stannis's jaw clenched even tighter than usual.

"Impossible," Pycelle declared, his trembling voice suddenly firm. "The North cannot sustain itself without southern grain. Their growing season is too short, their soil too poor. They've relied on imports since before Aegon's Conquest."

"The Grand Maester speaks true," Stannis ground out. "Even in summer as we are now, the North requires substantial food imports to feed its population. In winter, they'd starve without southern grain."

Jon allowed himself a small smile as he rose from his seat. His joints protested the movement, but he managed to maintain his dignity as he walked to the chamber doors. With practiced timing, he pulled them open to reveal a waiting servant.

The young man entered, pushing a cart laden with platters. As he set them on the table, even Cersei's careful mask of indifference cracked slightly.

Before them lay the most perfect produce any of them had ever seen. Tomatoes gleamed like polished rubies, their skin unmarred and flesh firm. Lettuce leaves curled in elegant layers, a deeper green than the finest emeralds. Carrots stretched as long as a man's forearm, their orange hue rich and even.

But it was the fruits that drew gasps. Grapes hung in clusters larger than a man's fist, their purple skin dusted with a perfect bloom. Apples shone in shades of red and gold that put the Lannister banners to shame. Peaches and pears sat plump and perfect, their scent filling the chamber with sweet promise. Each piece looked as if it had been plucked at the precise moment of ripeness.

Jon Arryn watched the council members examine the produce before them, their reactions ranging from disbelief to outright suspicion. He cleared his throat, drawing their attention back to the matter at hand.

"These fruits and vegetables," he began, his voice steady and clear, "were purchased from a merchant captain named Sallanor Yuan, who trades regularly between the Free Cities and King's Landing. He acquired them from several northern houses, including House Stark."

Robert reached for one of the apples, turning it in his thick fingers. "Bought from the North? Impossible. The North doesn't grow such things."

"That's not the most remarkable part," Jon continued. "The merchant paid a premium for these goods - three times what similar produce would cost from the Reach. And yet he still turned a significant profit selling them here in King's Landing and across the Narrow Sea."

Pycelle's chain rattled as he leaned forward to inspect a cluster of grapes. "My lord Hand, surely you don't expect us to believe-"

"The most extraordinary claim," Jon cut him off, "is that all of this produce was purchased three months ago."

The chamber erupted in chaos. Pycelle sputtered indignantly about the impossibility of such preservation. Littlefinger's mocking laughter rang out above Renly's exclamations of disbelief. Stannis's voice cut through the din, demanding proof of such outlandish claims.

Only Varys remained silent, his powder-dusted face betraying nothing as he studied the fresh produce before him. Jon noted how the Spider's eyes narrowed slightly - a tell he'd learned to recognize over the years when something truly surprised the Master of Whisperers.

Jon raised his hand for silence, and years of authority made the council members fall quiet, though Pycelle continued to mutter under his breath.

"I have personally interviewed Captain Yuan and his entire crew," Jon stated. "Separately, under careful questioning. Their stories match perfectly - these goods were indeed purchased three months ago from northern houses. The crew members who helped load the cargo, the merchants who bought portions in various ports, even the stewards who stored it in their holds - all confirm the timeline."

Jon watched as the implications of his words sank in. Even Cersei's carefully maintained mask of indifference cracked slightly as she reached out to touch a perfect peach, its skin still carrying the blush of freshness that should have faded weeks ago.

Jon Arryn watched the faces around the table as realization dawned. The North - traditionally one of the poorest regions of the Seven Kingdoms - had achieved something unprecedented. His aged eyes settled on Petyr Baelish, who sat with that characteristic half-smile playing at his lips.

"Lord Baelish," Jon's voice carried the weight of his office, "the northern taxes these past four years - have they been regular?"

Jon noticed how Petyr's fingers, usually dancing across the table's surface with practiced confidence, stilled for a moment. The Master of Coin's hesitation was subtle - so subtle that most would miss it - but Jon had not survived decades of court politics by missing such details.

"More," Petyr murmured, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

Robert's fist crashed against the table, making the perfect produce bounce. "Speak up, damn you! What about the northern taxes?"

Petyr straightened in his chair, his composure returning though his usual smugness seemed somewhat diminished. "They've been more than usual, Your Grace. The North's contributions to the royal treasury have not only been punctual but have increased significantly. In fact," he paused, consulting a ledger he pulled from his robes, "their payments have matched, and in some cases exceeded, what we receive from the Westerlands or the Reach."

The silence that followed was deafening. Jon watched as Stannis's face darkened with disbelief, while Renly's usual playful expression gave way to genuine shock. Pycelle's mouth opened and closed several times, like a fish gasping for air.

But it was Cersei's reaction that caught Jon's attention. The Queen's face had lost its usual golden luster, taking on an almost ashen quality. Her fingers clutched at what appeared to be a letter, the parchment crinkling under her grip. The slight tremor in her hands betrayed an anxiety that her carefully schooled features tried to hide.

Jon's eyes narrowed slightly at the sight of that letter. In all his years serving as Hand, he had never seen the proud Queen display such obvious distress.

Jon watched as Robert's face turned a dangerous shade of red, his fingers clenching around the apple until the perfect fruit began to show signs of bruising.

"Why wasn't I or jon informed of this increase in taxes?" Robert's voice boomed through the chamber, causing Pycelle to flinch visibly.

Petyr shifted in his seat, his usual composure wavering under the king's intense glare. "Your Grace, I... I merely thought..." He paused, collecting himself. "An increase in tax revenue is only beneficial for the crown. I assumed the North had finally begun more aggressive trading with Essos and beyond to acquire more gold. There seemed no reason to question good fortune."

Jon noticed how Petyr's fingers drummed against his ledger - a nervous tell he'd never seen from the usually unflappable Master of Coin.

"In fact," Petyr continued, his voice growing stronger as he found safer ground in his numbers, "thanks to the last payment of taxes, I'm pleased to announce that the crown is no longer in debt to House Lannister. We've managed to pay it in full."

The silence that followed was absolute. Even the distant sounds of the castle seemed muted, as if the very air held its breath. Jon watched as Cersei's knuckles whitened around her letter, her face a mask of barely contained fury.

Stannis's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "How much?" When Petyr looked at him questioningly, Stannis ground his teeth. "How much was the debt to House Lannister?"

"Three million and five hundred thousand gold dragons, my lord," Petyr replied promptly.

"And the northern taxes?" Stannis pressed, his eyes boring into the Master of Coin. "How much has the North been sending these past four years?"

Petyr consulted his ledger, though Jon suspected the man knew the numbers by heart. "The North has been sending one hundred thousand gold dragons every month for the last four years. This represents an increase of ninety thousand gold dragons over their previous monthly payments."

Jon watched as the council members did the mental calculations, their expressions shifting as they realized the staggering amount of gold that had flowed from the traditionally poor North into the royal coffers.

Jon watched as Robert's face contorted with fury. The king's massive arm drew back and hurled his water goblet with shocking speed directly at Petyr's head. The Master of Coin barely managed to dodge, the silver vessel clanging against the wall behind him and splashing water across his expensive silks.

"You useless fucking worm!" Robert roared, his face purple with rage. "You mean to tell me the North has been sending that much gold, and you didn't think to inform me or Jon? What else have you been hiding in those pretty little books of yours?"

Petyr tried to maintain his composure as he dabbed at his wet clothing with a handkerchief. "Your Grace, I-"

"Shut your mouth before I shut it permanently," Robert snapped, then turned to Jon. "After this meeting, you're to sit down with this idiot and go through every bloody record. I want to know exactly how much Ned has been sending us, down to the last copper penny. And I want a full accounting of the royal coffers."

Jon nodded, pleased to see Robert taking an interest in the realm's finances for once. "Of course, Your Grace. Lord Stannis, perhaps you'd care to join us? Your expertise in these matters would be invaluable."

Stannis gave a curt nod, his jaw finally unclenching enough to speak. "A wise suggestion. The crown's debts have been a burden for too long."

The irony wasn't lost on Jon - that Robert, whose excessive feasting, drinking, and whoring had contributed so heavily to those debts, now seemed eager to resolve them. Still, Jon wouldn't question this rare display of fiscal responsibility from his former ward.

"I want every detail," Robert continued, jabbing a thick finger at Petyr. "Every payment, every date, every source. And gods help you if I find you've been skimming anything off the top."

Petyr bowed low, though Jon noticed his usual smirk had been replaced by something closer to genuine concern. "As you command, Your Grace. I assure you, all the records are meticulously kept."

Jon watched as Cersei finally straightened in her chair, smoothing the crumpled letter with trembling hands.

"These revelations," she began, her voice tight with controlled anger, "corroborate what my lord father wrote to me." She held up the letter, its Lannister seal broken but still visible. "Lord Tywin recently received a delegation from Lys. Among them was one of their most prominent courtesans."

Jon noticed how Robert's eyes narrowed at the mention of Tywin Lannister. The king's loathing for his father-in-law was no secret.

"The courtesan," Cersei continued, "had purchased two necklaces of extraordinary craftsmanship from a trader in Essos. This trader claimed he acquired them in White Harbor, from a merchant who was selling them on behalf of Lord Stark's wife." Her lip curled slightly. "Apparently, Lady Catelyn had 'enough of them.'"

The implications of her words hung heavy in the air. Jon remembered Catelyn Tully from her youth - a practical woman who valued duty over ostentation. The idea of her possessing multiple pieces of jewelry so valuable that she could casually dispose of them seemed utterly foreign to her character.

"My father," Cersei's voice cut through the silence, "purchased one of these necklaces from the courtesan. He paid three hundred thousand gold dragons for it."

Stannis's head snapped up, his perpetual frown deepening. "Three hundred thousand dragons? For a necklace?" His voice dripped with skepticism. "No piece of jewelry could be worth such a sum. Not unless it was crafted by the Valyrians themselves."

Cersei nodded, her composure returning as she shifted into more familiar territory. "My father thought the same, until he saw the necklace itself. He sent it by guarded courier a week ago, and I must..." she paused, the admission clearly paining her, "concede that I wish he had bought the other as well."

Jon watched intently as Cersei reached into the folds of her crimson dress and withdrew a small box of dark wood. The chamber fell silent as she opened it with deliberate slowness, revealing its contents to the council.

Even Jon, who had seen the wealth of three kingdoms in his long years of service, felt his breath catch. The necklace was a masterwork that defied description. Golden wolves prowled through intricate snowflakes, each detail so fine it seemed impossible they were worked by human hands. Rubies and diamonds larger than any Jon had seen outside a crown caught the light, scattering it across the chamber in brilliant patterns. The craftsmanship made the finest work from Lannisport or Pentos look crude by comparison.

The necklace passed from hand to hand around the table. Jon noted each reaction carefully. Pycelle's hands trembled as he held it, his scholarly interest overwhelming his usual pretense of infirmity. Varys cradled it with uncharacteristic reverence, his powdered face betraying genuine wonder. Even Stannis, who normally showed disdain for such luxuries, examined it with intense focus.

When it reached Petyr, the Master of Coin spent several long moments studying it through narrowed eyes. His fingers traced the metalwork with the expertise of someone who had spent years assessing valuable items. For once, his customary smirk was absent.

"My father," Cersei continued, her voice carrying a note of barely suppressed anger, "had the merchant who sold it to the courtesan tracked down and questioned. He confirmed it without hesitation - the necklace came from the North, from House Stark."

Jon watched as Robert lifted the necklace to the light, his thick fingers surprisingly gentle as they traced the wolves running through the intricate design. The king's face showed an emotion Jon hadn't seen in years - not rage or lust or drunken merriment, but genuine wonder.

"Even the finest craftsmen in King's Landing couldn't create something a quarter as beautiful as this," Robert declared, still mesmerized by the necklace. "Not even if I gave them ten years and all the gold in Casterly Rock."

Heads nodded around the table in silent agreement. Jon noticed how even Cersei, despite her obvious displeasure at the North's apparent wealth, couldn't hide her admiration for the piece.

"Jon," Robert turned to him, finally setting the necklace down. "What other whispers have reached your ears about the North? Out with it - all of it."

Jon Arryn straightened in his chair, his aged joints protesting the movement. "The reports are... extraordinary, Your Grace. Merchants speak of glasshouses appearing overnight in villages and lords holds throughout the North - not just one or two, but dozens at a time. They claim to see crops growing even in the harshest weather."

"Impossible," Pycelle interjected. "The cost alone of building so many glasshouses-"

"The roads," Jon continued, silencing the Grand Maester with a sharp look, "have been repaired throughout the North with some strange material - harder than stone, yet smooth as polished marble. Traders claim their journey times have been cut in half."

Stannis's brow furrowed deeper. "What material?"

"Unknown, my lord. But there's more. A castle has risen at Sea Dragon Point - built in just two weeks, apparently the home of the mentioned Lord Longshore and lady Sansa. If the reports are to be believed. Merchants describe it as vast and well-defended, with walls higher than those of Storm's End."

"Two weeks?" Renly laughed. "It takes years to build a proper castle. These must be exaggerations."

"Perhaps," Jon conceded, "but the ships are no exaggeration. I've had reports from captains all along the eastern coast. The North has new vessels unlike any seen before - larger than war galleys but faster than trading cogs. They patrol the northern shores with impressive efficiency, and those that sail to Essos return laden with exotic goods and gold."

"And the metal men?" Robert prompted, leaning forward.

Jon noticed how Varys shifted slightly at this mention - clearly, the Spider had heard these particular whispers as well. "Yes, Your Grace. Reports speak of metal constructs - some describe them as men made of bronze or brass, others as giant spiders of steel - patrolling the North's borders and roads. They say these... things... work tirelessly, needing no rest or sustenance."

The chamber fell silent as the council members absorbed these revelations. Jon watched as Petyr's fingers resumed their nervous drumming on the table, while Pycelle's chain rattled with his agitated movements.

"There are other reports as well," Jon continued. "Strange lights seen in the night sky above Winterfell, sounds like thunder from clear skies, and traders swear they've seen massive figures - taller than the walls of Winterfell itself - moving in the distance during snowstorms."

Jon watched as Robert sank back into his chair, the wood creaking under his considerable weight. The chamber fell into a heavy silence as the council members absorbed the implications of Jon's report. The quiet was broken only by the distant sounds of the castle and the nervous shuffling of papers as Pycelle fidgeted with his documents.

Robert's hand clenched and unclenched on the armrest of his chair. "Why?" he finally growled, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. "Why are we only hearing about this now? Four bloody years, and not a whisper reaches us except for Littlefinger's blunder with the taxes?" He swept his gaze around the table, fixing each council member with an accusing stare.

Jon cleared his throat, his aged voice steady despite the tension in the room. "I cannot explain everything else, Your Grace, but regarding their grain contracts with the Reach - that was done gradually, over an extended period. The North reduced their orders bit by bit, so slowly that it appeared natural. By the time they had cut off all trade entirely, it seemed merely the result of changing circumstances rather than a deliberate strategy."

Robert nodded slowly, then turned his attention to Varys. The Spider sat perfectly still under the king's scrutiny, his powdered face betraying nothing.

"And what of your little birds, Lord Varys?" Robert demanded. "Have they all frozen to death in the North?"

Varys spread his soft hands in an apologetic gesture. "My little birds have sent nothing unusual from the North, Your Grace, save the typical rumors one might expect - lords and ladies in their indiscretions, whispers of the summer festival some years past. Nothing to suggest..." he paused, choosing his words carefully, "such dramatic developments."

Robert's attention shifted to Stannis, who sat rigid in his chair, jaw clenched tight.

"And the Royal Fleet?" Robert barked. "Have all our captains gone blind?"

Stannis ground his teeth before responding. "If these northern ships exist as described, they have never made contact with our vessels. Either they use different routes entirely, or..." he paused, clearly disturbed by the implications, "if they are indeed as swift as reported, they could easily avoid any encounter with our ships."

Cersei's perfectly manicured fingers smoothed her skirts as she leaned forward as stannis finished, her voice taking on the measured tone she used when presenting her father's wishes as her own.

"My lord husband, it's clear the Starks have discovered vast mines of precious metals and gems. These necklaces, the sudden wealth, the increased taxes - they must be withholding the true extent of their resources from the crown." Her green eyes flickered to Jon briefly before returning to Robert. "My father suggests-"

"Oh, does he now?" Robert's laugh was harsh and bitter. "And what does the great Lord Tywin suggest? That I summon Ned Stark like some errant child to explain himself?"

Cersei's composure slipped for just a moment. "The crown has a right to know-"

"The crown knows exactly what it needs to know," Robert thundered, slamming his fist on the table. "Ned Stark has paid his taxes threefold and cleared the crown's debt to your father. Or does that displease Lord Tywin?"

Jon suppressed a grimace as he watched Cersei's face flush with anger. Her words were having precisely the opposite effect she'd intended. Robert's dislike for Tywin ran deep, and any suggestion from that quarter was likely to be met with instant opposition.

"My love," Cersei pressed on, though Jon could see the tension in her jaw, "my father only wishes to ensure the proper accounting of the realm's resources. If the North has indeed found such wealth-"

"Then it belongs to the North," Robert cut her off. "And I'll not have Tywin Lannister's grasping hands reaching for it."

Jon observed the other council members' reactions. Varys watched the exchange with practiced neutrality, though his eyes betrayed keen interest. Pycelle seemed to be trying to make himself smaller in his chair, while Stannis ground his teeth in his usual fashion. They all knew the truth - this had nothing to do with proper accounting and everything to do with Tywin Lannister's relentless pursuit of power and control.

"The North's newfound prosperity benefits the entire realm," Jon arryn finally spoke, his aged voice carrying the weight of authority as Hand of The King. "Whether through mines or craftsmen or other means, their contributions have strengthened the crown's position considerably." He fixed Cersei with a steady gaze. "Perhaps Lord Tywin's concerns would be better addressed to the impressive sum they've just repaid to his house."

The queen's face twisted into a sneer, but before she could respond, Robert let out a bark of laughter.

"Well said, Jon!" He raised his empty goblet in mock salute. "Let Tywin count his returned gold and leave the North to those who've earned its trust."

Jon watched as Cersei's fingers curled into fists beneath the table, her father's carefully crafted scheme crumbling before her eyes. The old Hand of the King had seen this pattern before - Tywin Lannister, reaching for any source of power that might emerge in the realm, treating each new development as if it were his divine right to control it.

But this time was different. The North's transformation was too vast, too mysterious to be simply claimed by Lannister ambition. And Robert, for all his faults, recognized the attempt for what it was.

Jon watched as Robert shifted in his chair, his expression thoughtful - a rare sight these days.

"The truth needs finding out, though," Robert declared, turning to Jon. "Draft a letter to Winterfell, Jon. Ask Ned what in seven hells is happening up there." He scratched his beard, considering. "Make it friendly-like, mind you. I won't have him think I'm questioning his loyalty."

"Of course, Your Grace," Jon replied, already composing the letter in his mind. He'd need to choose his words carefully - Ned Stark was direct by nature, but even he might balk at certain questions.

"And Jon," Robert added, his voice growing firmer, "if we hear any more of these tales - metal men walking the North, harvests that defy the season, ships that outrun our fastest vessels - then it'll be time to pay Winterfell a proper visit." A grin spread across his face. "Been too long since I've seen Ned anyway. And I'll need to bring something special for his daughter and that new good-son of his."

Robert pushed himself up from his chair, his considerable bulk making the wood groan in protest. The council members rose and bowed, save for Cersei, whose rigid posture spoke volumes about her displeasure. She followed closely behind Robert as he strode from the chamber, no doubt ready to continue pressing her father's interests. Ser Barristan fell into step behind them, his white cloak sweeping the floor as he went.

As the others filed out, Jon remained seated, spreading the various reports and letters across the table before him. Each piece told part of a story, but the whole of it remained frustratingly out of reach. Merchant manifests showing unprecedented northern wealth. Tales of mysterious constructions appearing overnight. Whispers of metal giants patrolling the winter snows.

Jon picked up one report, then another, his aged eyes scanning the details he'd read dozens of times before. What was happening in the North? More importantly, what was Ned Stark planning? Like Quote 

Tywin Lannister stood motionless before his desk, his back rigid as stone as he faced the window of his solar in Casterly Rock, the morning sun illuminating the bustling port of Lannisport below. In his hand, he held a letter from Cersei, the parchment crumpling slightly under his tightening grip.

Behind him, Kevan maintained a respectful silence while Tyrion slouched in his chair, still battling the effects of last night's wine. The dwarf's mismatched eyes were bloodshot, his clothes wrinkled from what was clearly a hasty dressing.

"Your sister," Tywin began, his voice cutting through the silence like Valyrian steel, "has failed to convince that oaf Robert to summon Ned Stark to King's Landing." He turned the letter over in his hands, contempt evident in the subtle tightening around his eyes. "The North grows stronger by the day, and that fool Robert dismisses it as nothing more than his old friend's good fortune."

"Perhaps Robert's trust in Stark isn't entirely misplaced," Kevan ventured carefully. "The Starks have always been loyal to the crown."

Tywin's sharp glance silenced his brother. "Loyalty? The North has never been truly loyal to the South. They bend the knee because they must, not because they wish to." He placed the letter on his desk with deliberate precision. "And now they possess wealth that rivals our own. Ships that outmatch the royal fleet. Weapons of impossible quality. Yet Robert drinks and whores while the North builds its strength unchecked."

Tywin watched as Tyrion shifted in his seat, his son's eyes narrowing with sudden interest despite his hangover.

"And are any of these tales true, Father? Or just the ravings of smallfolk with too much time between harvests?"

"The necklace alone speaks volumes." Tywin's jaw tightened. "The Lysene courtesan that approached me last month, offering to sell what she claimed was Northern craftsmanship. Three hundred thousand gold dragons - that was my price for a piece that our finest jewelers in Lannisport could not hope to match."

"Three hundred thousand?" Tyrion straightened. "That's-"

"More than what most lords see in a decade," Tywin cut him off. "Your sister has been gathering intelligence through Jon Arryn's investigations." He handed the letter to Kevan first. "Read."

Kevan's eyes widened as he scanned the contents. "Gods be good," he muttered, passing the parchment to Tyrion.

Tyrion's face grew more serious with each line. "Glass gardens yielding harvests that put the Reach to shame... fruits and vegetables growing in the dead of winter..." He looked up. "Mechanical sentinels of bronze and gold patrolling their lands?

Tywin watched as his brother's face contorted with disbelief.

"This sounds like nonsense, Tywin. Tales better suited for children's stories than matters of state." Kevan shook his head. "Mechanical sentinels? Fresh crops in winter?"

"I thought the same." Tywin strode to his desk and retrieved another letter from a locked drawer. "Until Cersei sent word of what transpired at the Small Council three weeks past." He unfolded the parchment with precise movements. "Jon Arryn presented fresh fruits and vegetables to the council. Not preserved - fresh. Purchased from Northern merchants selling their surplus."

"Surplus?" Tyrion's eyebrows shot up. "The North barely feeds itself in summer."

"These vegetables had been stored for three months," Tywin continued, his green eyes sharp with intensity. "Without a hint of decay. The maesters examined them thoroughly."

Kevan's skepticism faltered. "Three months? That's impossible."

"Grand Maester Pycelle confirmed it in his own correspondence." Tywin produced a third letter. "He claims the Citadel is in complete disarray over the implications. Their archives contain nothing like it."

"And you believe this?" Kevan asked.

"Pycelle has served House Lannister faithfully for decades. He knows better than to waste my time with fairy tales." Tywin's voice carried an edge of steel. "Something is happening in the North. Something that threatens the balance of power we've maintained since Robert took the throne."

"And what of these ships we keep hearing about?" Kevan's tone remained measured, but Tywin detected the underlying tension. "Surely those tales are exaggerated."

"I thought the same." Tywin moved to pour himself a glass of water, his movements precise and controlled. "Until my agents in Braavos confirmed what I refused to believe."

He took a careful sip, savoring the moment before continuing. "I dispatched a group of trusted men to the Free City two months ago. Their sole purpose was to observe and report on any vessels arriving from the North."

Tyrion leaned forward in his chair, wine forgotten. "And?"

"Two days. That's all it took before five Northern ships entered the harbor." Tywin set his glass down with deliberate care. "Ships unlike anything seen before in all of Westeros. Larger than our greatest warships here in Lannisport. Larger even than the Redwyne fleet's flagships."

Kevan's brow furrowed. "How is that possible?"

"The hulls were a combination of ironwood and some metal our observers couldn't identify. Darker than steel, lighter than iron, yet seemingly stronger than both." Tywin's jaw tightened. "But it was what powered them that truly caught my attention."

He turned to face his brother and son fully. "Yes, they carried sails, but at the stern of each vessel sat some manner of device. Metal constructs that churned the water behind them, driving the ships forward even when the winds died completely."

"Moving without wind?" Tyrion's voice carried a note of genuine surprise. "That would revolutionize naval warfare."

"Precisely." Tywin's green eyes narrowed. "And these ships now sail freely between the North and Braavos, carrying goods and materials we can only guess at."

Tywin's fingers traced the rim of his water glass as he continued. "For a full week, these Northern vessels dominated the Braavosi markets. My men reported their cargo holds seemed endless - hundreds, perhaps thousands of crates of fresh produce. Grain. Fruits that should have rotted weeks ago during or before the journey."

He moved to his desk and retrieved another report, this one bearing the purple seal of House Lannister's most trusted spy in Braavos. "The merchants practically fought each other to secure contracts. Fresh Northern crops, available in quantities that shouldn't be possible, sold at prices that undercut even local producers."

Kevan's expression darkened. "The economic implications alone-"

"Are staggering," Tywin cut in. "But that wasn't all." He pulled out another piece of parchment. "On the fourth day, they conducted a private auction. Jewelry. Not the crude metalwork we'd expect from the North, but pieces of such exquisite craftsmanship that they put our finest artisans to shame., just as wondrous as the lysene courtesans necklace if not better."

Tyrion leaned forward. "How fine?"

"Necklaces of white gold inlaid with patterns they had never seen before. Rings set with perfect diamonds. Bracelets studded with emeralds that seemed to glow from within." Tywin's voice carried an edge of contained fury. "By the end of the day, they'd sold every piece. Five million in gold dragons - that's what the Braavosi merchants and citizens paid."

He paused, his green eyes fixing on both men. "And then one of my agents managed to loosen the tongue of a drunken sailor from one of these ships. After purchasing silks, spices, and every luxury Braavos had to offer, their holds still carried chests upon chests of gold. Fifteen million dragons worth, by the sailor's loose-tongued admission."

Kevan's face had gone pale. "Twenty million in gold from a single trading mission? That's-"

"More than the crown's yearly revenue, more than any Targaryen king has ever had at one time in their whole tenure perhaps," Tyrion finished, his mismatched eyes wide with disbelief.

"And that was just one week, with five ships," Tywin said coldly. "While we've been watching King's Landing, the North has been quietly building an economic empire that rivals our own."

Tywin's fist crashed onto the solid oak desk, making both Kevan and Tyrion jump. The sound echoed through the solar like thunder.

"To make matters worse," he snarled, "we have no way of knowing how long they've been trading across Essos. If these activities began four years ago when the first rumors started circulating..." His voice trailed off as he straightened, his green eyes blazing. "They may have already amassed wealth that would make the legendary Sea Snake weep with shame."

Tywin's jaw clenched as he paced behind his desk. "And make no mistake - that gold isn't returning to the North, at least not all of it. My sources indicate the bulk of it is being deposited with the Iron Bank." He pulled out another report from his desk. "But that's not the worst of it."

He fixed his piercing gaze on Kevan and Tyrion. "My men uncovered plans for an even larger fleet - thirty ships strong - preparing to sail beyond Volantis on a trading mission. Their destination? Yi Ti and Asshai."

Tyrion's wine cup slipped from his fingers, spilling red across the floor. Neither Tywin nor Kevan paid it any attention.

"Yi Ti's population dwarfs all of Westeros combined," Tywin continued, his voice tight with controlled fury. "And Asshai cannot grow its own food. Both would pay fortunes for reliable food supplies in bulk even if just to store for harsher years or droughts in YI-TIs case, brought by the fastest ships and in large quantities. If we don't act soon..." He let the words hang in the air. "The Starks and the North will eclipse us within a year if they haven't already."

Kevan's face had gone ashen, while Tyrion sat slack-jawed, all traces of his hangover vanished. The implications slowly sank in - the North, traditionally the poorest of the Seven Kingdoms, transforming into an economic power that could overshadow even the mighty Lannisters.

"The North?" Kevan whispered, as if saying it aloud might make it more real. "The Starks?"

"An economic force greater than the entire South combined," Tywin confirmed, his words falling like hammer blows in the stunned silence.

The silence in Tywin's solar hung thick and oppressive, broken only by the distant cries of seabirds wheeling over Lannisport's harbor and the muffled sounds of commerce drifting up from the streets below. Tywin watched as the shock on Tyrion's face transformed into that familiar calculating expression he'd seen countless times before. Despite his numerous failings, his youngest son possessed a mind that could occasionally prove useful.

"These new ships," Tyrion said, straightening in his chair. "What house colors or symbols did they carry? Were they all Stark vessels?"

Tywin reached for the reports again, appreciating the pertinent nature of the question. His dwarf son's mind was already working through the implications, just as he had done when first receiving this intelligence.

"One bore the direwolf of House Stark, gray on white," Tywin stated, consulting the detailed observations. "Another flew the merman of House Manderly." He paused, his green eyes scanning the parchment. "The remaining three ships carried identical colors and heraldry - winter blue and gold. Their sails displayed two crossed golden swords within a blue circle, topped by a silver snowflake."

Kevan's brow furrowed. "I don't recognize those arms."

Tyrion remained silent, his mismatched eyes distant as he processed this information. Tywin could practically see the wheels turning in his son's head as he pieced together the fragments of intelligence that had been filtering south.

After a long moment, Tyrion's eyes widened slightly. "House Longshore," he said, certainty in his voice. "The new lords of Sea Dragon Point."

Tywin's brow furrowed at the mention of House Longshore. For a moment, even his legendary composure wavered as he searched his memory. Then his eyes widened with sudden recognition.

"The blacksmith," he said, his voice carrying an edge of disbelief. "4 years back Stark apparently elevated a common smith from sone small village near sea dragon point to lordship and married his eldest daughter to him." His hand clenched around the report he held. "A decision that caused quite a stir among his bannermen, if I recall correctly."

"Most of Westeros thought it a weak match from what i recall," Kevan added. "To give the hand of the eldest Stark daughter to a newly elevated house instead of cementing alliances with stronger bannermen."

Tyrion leaned forward, his mismatched eyes gleaming with insight. "But what if it wasn't weakness at all? What if Stark knew exactly what he was doing?" He gestured at the pile of reports on Tywin's desk. "These innovations, these impossible advances - they didn't spring from Eddard Stark's mind. The man is honorable to a fault, but he's never shown any particular genius for commerce or invention."

Tywin's jaw tightened as the pieces fell into place. "You suggest this blacksmith-turned-lord is the source?"

"Think about it," Tyrion continued, his voice gaining momentum. "The timing matches perfectly. The first rumors of Northern prosperity began shortly after this smith appeared. Then Stark, instead of making an advantageous marriage alliance with one of his powerful bannermen, elevates this man to lordship and binds him to House Stark through marriage."

Tywin moved to his window, staring out over Lannisport as he processed this new perspective. The political implications were staggering. If Stark had indeed discovered someone capable of such innovations...

"Stark didn't make a weak match," Tyrion said, voicing what Tywin was already concluding. "He secured the most valuable alliance possible - binding this smith's loyalty to the North through blood and marriage before anyone else realized his true worth."

The solar fell silent as the full weight of this revelation settled over them. Tywin's mind raced through the possibilities, the threats, the opportunities. Eddard Stark, that honorable fool, had outmaneuvered them all, all the lords in westeros, while they dismissed his actions as provincial weakness.

Tywin turned back to his desk, rifling through the stack of reports from Cersei with practiced efficiency. His fingers found the particular letter he sought, pulling it free from the pile. The parchment crackled as he unfolded it, scanning the neat rows of his daughter's precise handwriting.

"Listen to this," he said, his voice cutting through the contemplative silence. "Jon Arryn spoke of reports and rumors from the northern shores during the small council meeting - a castle unlike any seen before in Westeros, constructed near Sea Dragon Point." His green eyes narrowed as he read further. "Built, if these accounts are to be believed, in the span of two weeks."

Kevan's face registered pure disbelief, but Tyrion slammed his hand on the arm of his chair.

"That's it!" Tyrion exclaimed, his mismatched eyes blazing with certainty. "It all fits together - the ships, the glasshouses, every impossible rumor we've heard from the North. This new lord is the source of it all."

Tywin's jaw clenched as he considered his son's words. The pieces aligned with infuriating clarity - Eddard Stark, that honorable fool whom they'd all underestimated, had secured a weapon more powerful than armies. With a single marriage, he'd bound this innovative force directly to House Stark, ensuring the North would reap all benefits of these revolutionary advances.

"Well played," Tywin muttered, the admission tasting bitter on his tongue. He had to acknowledge the strategic brilliance of the move, even as it threatened everything House Lannister had built.

Kevan shifted in his chair, his practical mind already moving to counter-measures. "What can we do about this? We cannot bind this new lord to our interests through marriage if he's already wed to Stark's daughter." He glanced at Tyrion. "What was his name?"

"Owen," Tyrion supplied, reaching for his spilled wine cup.

"Owen," Kevan repeated, testing the common-born name that now carried such weight. "We can't approach him directly without raising Stark's suspicions."

Tywin nodded slowly, his fingers drumming against the polished surface of his desk. If this Owen was cut from the same cloth as other Northmen, steadfast and honorable like Eddard Stark himself, then any attempt at bribery or backdoor negotiations would be futile. Such men couldn't be bought - their loyalty, once given, was absolute.

"What if we were to... acquire one of these vessels?" Tyrion suggested, refilling his wine cup. "Surely a large enough force of sellswords or pirates from the Free Cities could overwhelm a single ship. Bring it to Lannisport where we could study its construction, replicate its innovations."

Tywin's eyes narrowed as he reached for one of the reports from his Braavosi agents. "That would be... inadvisable." He scanned the detailed observations before continuing. "These are not mere merchant vessels with token guards. Each ship carries a crew of approximately two hundred sailors, supplemented by another two to three hundred Northern soldiers - hardened veterans by all accounts."

His finger traced a particular paragraph that had caught his attention when he'd first read it. "And then there are the ships' defenses themselves. My men observed large, square openings along the sides of the vessels - "gun ports", they're called. Behind each sits a weapon known as a "cannon." "

Tywin's expression darkened as he read further. "The captain of one vessel gave a demonstration of these weapons' capabilities in Braavos. A single cannon fired twice at an old warship. Two shots were all it took to blast the vessel apart."

Kevan leaned forward, his face pale. "These weapons... all we have are scorpions and all those are good at doing are breaking small parts of a hull apart."

"Indeed," Tywin replied grimly. "Any attempt to seize one of these ships would be suicide. Five hundred trained fighters aboard a vessel that can destroy other ships from a distance..." He shook his head. "We'd need an entire fleet, and even then, success would be far from certain."

Tywin lowered himself into his high-backed chair, the weight of all these revelations settling over him like a cloak of lead. His green eyes moved between his brother and his son, measuring their reactions, gauging their understanding of the gravity of the situation.

"We need more information," he declared, his tone brooking no argument. "And we won't get it by waiting."

He turned to Kevan first. His brother had always been his most reliable agent, understanding implicitly what needed to be done without requiring elaborate explanation. "Send ravens to every connection we have in the North. Every merchant, every lesser lord who might be amenable to our interests. I want detailed reports on everything happening north of the Neck."

Kevan nodded, already reaching for his writing implements.

"And send word to Genna," Tywin continued, his lip curling slightly. "That fool husband of hers might finally prove useful. The Freys' position on the Neck means they should have some insight into Northern movements. Tell her to ensure he puts every resource into gathering information."

"At once," Kevan replied, understanding the urgency in his brother's voice.

Tywin's attention shifted to Tyrion, who had remained unusually quiet, still processing the implications of their discovery. "You will go to King's Landing."

Tyrion's mismatched eyes widened slightly. "To what end, father?"

"Jon Arryn," Tywin said flatly. "He's not a fool. He'll be gathering his own intelligence on these developments. I want to know what he knows, what actions he's considering." His fingers drummed against the desk's surface. "And while you're there, assess the possibility of betrothals between Joffrey or his siblings and the remaining Stark children."

Tyrion's eyebrows rose. "Cersei will not take kindly to such suggestions."

"Cersei's feelings are irrelevant," Tywin snapped. "If we cannot access these innovations directly, we must secure them through blood ties. The North is rising, and House Lannister must rise with it - or risk being left behind."

Both men nodded their understanding, though Tywin could see Tyrion already anticipating his sister's inevitable rage at the suggestion of binding her precious children to the Starks, regardless of their newfound wealth and power.

Kevan shifted in his chair, his weathered face creased with concern. "And if we can't get the information we need? What if even our best agents fail to penetrate their secrets?"

Tywin remained silent, his green eyes fixed on the reports scattered across his desk. The question hung in the air like a sword suspended by a thread. Every fiber of his being rebelled against the notion of House Lannister being outmaneuvered, particularly by the Starks of all people.

He rose from his chair with deliberate grace, his presence filling the solar as he turned to regard both his brother and his dwarf son. The late afternoon sun streaming through the windows cast long shadows across his severe features.

"Then it will be time for House Lannister to take a trip to the north to 'build ties' as it were," he said, his mind already planning for the future.

Tyrion's wine cup froze halfway to his lips, and Kevan's eyes widened slightly at the implications. They both knew Tywin Lannister never made social calls without purpose. But with what little they knew….

Perhaps a visit to the north was what was needed….. Like 

Olenna Tyrell's weathered fingers traced the edge of a particularly interesting letter as the morning breeze carried the scent of roses through the garden terrace. The marble table groaned under platters of sizzling bacon, freshly baked bread still steaming from the ovens, and colorful fruits arranged in artistic patterns. But her attention remained fixed on the documents spread before her and Willas.

Her grandson leaned forward; his crippled leg stretched out beneath the table as he studied another missive with the same intensity she'd cultivated in him over the years. The rest of the family indulged in their breakfast with varying degrees of decorum.

Margaery sat beside her, occasionally glancing at the papers while delicately selecting grapes from a silver bowl. Mace dominated the head of the table, his rich doublet already showing signs of the honey he'd drizzled too liberally on his bread. Alerie maintained her usual grace beside him, cutting her food into precise portions.

Garlan and Loras provided a study in contrasts from opposite ends - Garlan eating with the hearty appetite of a man who'd already spent hours training, while Loras picked at his food, his mind clearly elsewhere.

Olenna lifted her glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, the tart liquid a welcome distraction from the mounting evidence before her. She'd barely taken a sip when Mace's booming voice shattered the relative peace.

"Mother, what has you so engrossed this morning? You've hardly touched your food."

Olenna's sharp eyes flicked up from the documents, taking in the various servants positioned around the terrace. With a mere arch of her eyebrow and slight tilt of her head, she sent them scurrying away. Years of service had taught them to recognize when the Queen of Thorns required privacy for family matters.

Only when the last servant disappeared through the archway did she speak. "I'm reading about the most fascinating developments in the North, my dear. It seems our friends above the Neck have been rather busy these past years and we haven't deigned to notice."

"The North?" Margaery's interest piqued immediately. "What could possibly be interesting about that frozen wasteland?"

"That 'frozen wasteland' has somehow managed to pay their taxes to the crown three times over this year alone," Willas replied, tapping one of the documents. "And that's just the beginning."

Olenna watched her son's face redden as he reached for another orange slice, his thick fingers fumbling with the delicate fruit. "The North has never been that important in the grand scheme of Westeros, Willas. They're too isolated, too proud, and too cold to matter much beyond their borders."

Her fingers drummed against the table's surface, a sharp staccato that matched her rising irritation. "If you weren't so busy stuffing your face with oranges, you might have noticed that every kingdom from here to Dorne is about to turn their eyes northward. The Crown certainly has."

Loras stopped pretending interest in his breakfast, while Margaery straightened in her chair. Even Garlan set down his fork, his usual easy smile replaced by focused attention.

"What do you mean, Mother?" Mace asked, juice dribbling down his chin.

Olenna's lips pressed into a thin line as she watched Alerie quietly pass her husband a napkin. "I mean, my dear son, that the North has just paid their taxes to the Crown - a sum so substantial it has cleared the entire royal debt to the Lannisters."

Mace choked on his orange. "Three million gold dragons? That's impossible!"

"Apparently not." Olenna's voice carried the weight of steel beneath its silk. "Our friends in King's Landing report that Petyr Baelish himself presented the news of the payment to the Small Council. The North, which could barely scrape together enough coin to pay its regular taxes in previous years, has somehow managed to clear a debt that has plagued the realm since Robert's Rebellion."

"But how?" Margaery leaned forward; her breakfast forgotten. "The North has never been wealthy."

"That," Olenna replied, "is precisely what makes this so interesting."

Olenna watched the impact of her words ripple across the faces gathered at the breakfast table. She'd orchestrated enough revelations in her time to appreciate the artistry of a well-timed disclosure.

"The news nearly cost us our Master of Coin," she said, selecting a perfectly ripe grape. "Robert's aim with a goblet has improved since his hunting days. From what i hear, poor Littlefinger barely ducked in time - though I daresay the loss wouldn't have been mourned by many."

The ghost of a smile played across her lips as she recalled the detailed account from her sources. "The Small Council chamber apparently descended into quite the spectacle during its next convening. Pycelle bellowing about 'Northern sorcery,' Jon Arryn attempting to restore order, and Varys sitting there with that insufferable knowing smile of his."

She paused, noting how Margaery's eyes had taken on that calculating gleam she'd worked so hard to cultivate in her granddaughter. The North had been quiet for so long - through Robert's Rebellion and even the Greyjoy's foolish attempt at independence. Now, after years of relative obscurity, they'd produced enough gold to clear the Crown's substantial debt to the Lannisters.

Olenna turned to her son, who was still struggling to process the implications. "Mace, dear, when was the last time you reviewed our financial reports? The taxes paid to House Tyrell over these past four years?"

Mace puffed up like a proud peacock, exactly as she'd expected. "Mother, I assure you our finances are more than stable. We still maintain fifteen million gold dragons, with six million safely deposited in the Iron Bank." He gestured expansively at their surroundings. "We are the breadbasket of Westeros. Our wealth is as certain as the sun rising in the east."

Olenna sighed, the sound carrying decades of practiced exasperation. She set down her goblet with deliberate care, the crystal making a soft clink against the marble tabletop.

"Yes, yes, you've seen the final figures in our coffers. But have you actually reviewed the tax collections from our bannermen? Gone through the reports from each village and holdfast?" Her keen eyes fixed on Mace, who suddenly found great interest in adjusting his napkin. "Have you noticed any differences in their contributions?"

Mace's silence stretched across the breakfast table like spilled honey, thick and telling. His fingers fumbled with the edge of the fine linen cloth, a nervous habit he'd never outgrown despite her best efforts.

"As I thought." Olenna's voice cracked like a whip. "You're being lazy again, Mace. The Lord of Highgarden should show more seriousness in these matters. The ledgers don't review themselves, and our steward shouldn't be the only one who knows the state of our vassals' finances."

Around the table, her grandchildren's faces lit with barely contained amusement. Loras didn't even try to hide his smirk, while Margaery covered her smile with a well-timed sip of juice. Even Garlan, usually the most diplomatic of the bunch, couldn't quite suppress his grin. Willas, bless him, at least attempted to maintain a neutral expression, though his eyes danced with mirth.

"Mother," Alerie's soft voice cut through the tension, "must you-"

Olenna's head snapped toward her gooddaughter. "Stop calling me mother. And must I what? Coddle him? Pretend his negligence is acceptable?" She waved off Alerie's protest with a flick of her wrist. "No, my dear. I won't have you defending his laziness. Someone must ensure House Tyrell's continued prosperity, and it clearly won't be your husband if he can't be bothered to read beyond the final sum in our treasury."

Olenna rapped her cane against one of the parchments, the sharp sound cutting through the lingering amusement at Mace's expense. Her weathered face had lost its earlier mirth, replaced by lines of genuine concern.

"This report arrived three days ago. While you've all been laughing at your father's inadequacies - justified though that may be - something far more troubling has been occurring under our very noses."

She smoothed the parchment with fingers that had lost none of their strength despite their age. "As of last month, fifteen small villages and six major ones throughout the Reach have been all but abandoned. Only five or six families remained in each, and even they moved on shortly after."

The silence that fell over the breakfast table was immediate and complete. Even the birds in the garden seemed to sense the shift in mood, their songs fading to distant echoes.

"Three of these villages lie within sight of Highgarden itself," Olenna continued, her voice hard as steel. "Our own backyard, and we didn't notice until they were empty."

Garlan leaned forward; his warrior's instincts evident in the tension of his shoulders. "Bandits? Have raiders grown bold enough to strike so close to our seat?"

"Disease perhaps?" Loras added, his hand unconsciously moving to the sword he wasn't wearing. "A plague could empty villages quickly."

Olenna shook her head at both suggestions. "No bodies, no signs of violence, no reports of illness. They simply... left." She looked around the table, her gaze sharp as a razor. "Tell me, what makes the Reach strong?"

"Our ability to produce food," Margaery offered immediately. "We feed half of Westeros."

"No." Olenna's response was swift and certain.

Mace straightened in his chair, clearly hoping to redeem himself from his earlier embarrassment. "Our gold, Mother. The wealth of Highgarden-"

"Wrong again." Olenna cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"Our armies," Garlan ventured. "We can field more men than any other kingdom."

Loras jumped in right after his brother. "And our knights. The finest cavalry in the Seven Kingdoms."

"No and no." Olenna's fingers drummed against her cane as she waited.

Willas, who had been quietly contemplating the question, finally spoke. "Our people. The population of the Reach is what gives us everything else - the farmers to grow the food, the soldiers to fill our armies, the craftsmen to create our wealth."

A proud smile spread across Olenna's face, the first genuine one since she'd brought up the troubling news. "Finally, someone in this family shows some sense. Yes, Willas. Our people are our true strength."

The pride in Willas's astute observation faded from Olenna's face as quickly as it had appeared however. She pulled another stack of documents from beneath the first, these ones older and worn at the edges.

"I've had to go back through our records." Her fingers traced the faded ink of dates from three years past. "What we're seeing now didn't just start with these recent abandonments. It began long before any of us noticed."

She spread the documents across the table, pushing aside half-empty plates and forgotten cups. "Three years ago, it started. One village, then another. Tax collectors would arrive to find only the village head waiting with the final month's collection. By the time they returned the following month, everyone had vanished."

Mace's face had lost its usual ruddy color. "But surely not many-"

"More each month," Olenna cut him off. "The pattern was clear, if anyone had bothered to look. Smallfolk packed up their belongings in the night, leaving nothing behind but empty homes. A family or two might linger briefly in each village before moving on to others, but eventually, they too disappeared."

Her sharp gaze fixed on her son. "This is why I asked if you'd reviewed the tax collections from our bannermen, Mace. Did you truly not notice the steady decline? The growing gaps in our income that should have raised alarm?"

The silence that followed was broken only by the distant sound of servants preparing the midday meal, unaware of the storm brewing at their lords' breakfast table.

Margaery set down her goblet, her brow furrowed in thought. "But why would they leave, Grandmother? The Reach has always provided well for its smallfolk."

Olenna smiled grimly, remembering the reports from her most trusted tax collectors. She'd made sure to place observant men in those positions - ones who knew the value of asking questions beyond mere coin counts.

"One of our more astute collectors thought to ask that very question to the remaining families before they too departed. After three or four such conversations, the pattern became quite clear." Olenna lifted her wine glass, abandoning her juice, taking a measured sip as she recalled the details.

"It seems our 'Reach-born' smallfolk aren't quite as Andal as we'd like to believe. Over generations, a significant number of our farming families have been descended from First Men who traveled south. They've intermarried with the local smallfolk, of course, but their bloodlines remain more Northern than we realized."

She watched understanding dawn on Margaery's face, while Mace still looked bewildered. Willas nodded slowly, his quick mind already connecting the pieces.

"These families," Olenna continued, setting her glass down with deliberate care, "have kept to the old gods, though quietly. They came south long ago, seeking better lives when the North could offer them little but harsh winters and poor soil. But now..." She spread her hands over the scattered reports. "Word has reached them of the North's rising prosperity. And like birds sensing the change of seasons, they're migrating back to their ancestral lands."

Olenna watched the impact of this revelation ripple across her family's faces. It wasn't the loss of a few thousand smallfolk that troubled her - the Reach could survive that. It was what their departure represented: a shift in the balance of power that had stood for centuries.

"Can they actually do that?" Loras asked, his handsome face scrunched in confusion. "Just... leave? Without permission from their lords?"

Willas let out an inelegant snort, turning to face his younger brother. "We're not slavers, Loras. There are no laws preventing smallfolk from moving to greener pastures whenever they feel like it, as long as they've paid their lords' taxes before departing." He paused, his expression growing thoughtful. "Besides, if they're more First Men than Andal in looks or religion, I doubt they've felt particularly welcome here, considering how our septons and septas treat those who still worship the old gods."

Olenna nodded, pleased at Willas's insight. Her eldest grandson had always shown the keenest mind among her son's children. "Precisely. And this should worry us all." She tapped her fingers against the scattered reports. "True, the majority of our Reachmen are still Andals and devoted followers of the Seven. Our harvests and food supplies to the other kingdoms won't be significantly affected by this exodus."

Her weathered face grew stern as she surveyed her family. "But it's the other implications of this migration that should concern us."

Olenna watched her son's face scrunch up in that familiar way that reminded her so much of when he was a confused child learning his letters. Some things, she mused, never changed.

"What exactly do you mean, Mother?" Mace asked, dabbing at his beard with a napkin. "Surely a few farmers-"

"A few farmers?" Olenna's voice cracked like a whip. "Oh, you fool. If only it were just farmers. These Northern smallfolk, these descendants of the First Men - they've been the backbone of our skilled labor force for generations. Every time they settled somewhere, they took up the harder trades."

She pushed herself up straighter in her chair, her fingers wrapping tightly around her cane. "Think, Mace. Think about the smiths in our villages. The carpenters who build our ships and homes. The craftsmen who work with wood and stone. The miners who dig our quarries. Even the washerwoman and kitchen maids who serve in noble houses - how many of them have that Northern look about them?"

Realization dawned slowly on her son's face as Olenna continued, "Yes, some of them farmed our lands, but that wasn't their primary contribution to the Reach. And now they're leaving, taking with them not just their skills, but the taxes, the businesses, the trade knowledge they've accumulated over centuries of living here. All of it returning to the North."

She paused, her keen eyes sweeping across the breakfast table before adding with deliberate emphasis, "And... beyond."

Garlan's head snapped up at that last word, his warrior's instincts catching the weight in his grandmother's tone. "Beyond?" he asked, alarm clear in his voice. "Grandmother, are you saying this isn't just happening in the Reach?"

Olenna nodded grimly, taking a slow sip of her wine before responding. "Reports have been trickling in from our friends in other kingdoms. The pattern is the same everywhere. Quiet departures in the night, empty villages, abandoned workshops. The North calls, and its scattered children answer."

Olenna rifled through the stack of letters, each bearing different seals and hands, but all telling variations of the same tale. Her weathered fingers traced the lines of text as she read aloud.

"From the Vale - three mining villages near the Gates of the Moon, completely abandoned. The miners simply walked away from their posts, leaving their tools behind." She selected another letter. "The Westerlands report similar occurrences. Lannisport's craftsmen quarter has lost a third of its skilled workers over the past 2 years alone."

She shuffled through more correspondence. "The Riverlands are experiencing the same exodus, particularly among their boat builders and fishermen. Even the Stormlands..." She paused, allowing herself a small, bitter laugh. "Well, it seems some of their most skilled smiths have suddenly remembered their First Men ancestry."

"Most surprising," she continued, holding up a letter bearing the sun-and-spear seal of House Martell, "even Dorne has not been spared. Small communities of First Men descendants, who've lived there since before the Rhoynar arrival, are quietly making their way north."

Garlan leaned forward; his brow furrowed in disbelief. "Surely this is impossible, Grandmother. The minor lords and bannermen of these kingdoms must have noticed their taxes dipping as their smallfolk departed. How could such a mass exodus go unreported?"

Olenna fixed her grandson with a knowing look. "They don't notice until it's too late, dear boy. The clever ones leave gradually, a family here, a craftsman there. Over three years, the decline appears natural enough - a death here, a marriage relocation there. By the time the pattern becomes clear..." She spread her hands. "What can they do? Force them to stay? That would make them slavers, and even Robert Baratheon, drunk and incompetent as he is, wouldn't stand for that."

Mace shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Surely not all lords have been blind to this, Mother. Some must have taken action."

"Oh, some have noticed," Olenna replied, her voice sharp with disdain. "And those who have? Well, they've provided us with perfect examples of what not to do." She selected another letter from her pile. "Lord Bracken attempted to prevent three families of smiths from leaving. The result? A riot that spread to three villages. He had to put it down by force, then explain away the deaths as the work of bandits."

She tapped the letter against the table for emphasis. "And what did that accomplish? He killed the very people he wanted to keep. The surviving families fled in the night, and now he has neither skilled workers nor an explanation for why his tax contributions have suddenly dropped."

"The fools," she continued, "think they can solve this with force, as if beating or killing smallfolk will somehow convince others to stay. Each time they do, they only hasten the exodus. Word spreads, and suddenly more families remember their Northern roots."

Mace stammered and was about to speak. "Mother if they all leave….."

Olenna waved her hand dismissively at Mace's concerns about the departing smallfolk. "Oh, do stop fretting about a few missing craftsmen. The Reach has always attracted ambitious souls from the Crownlands seeking better opportunities. Whatever gaps these northerners leave, others will eagerly fill."

She took another sip of her wine, her shrewd eyes scanning the faces around the table. "No, the true concern isn't who's making our tools or mending our clothes. It's what these migrations tell us about the North's changing fortunes - and more importantly, our own."

Margaery leaned forward, her perfectly arranged tresses catching the morning light. "What do you mean, Grandmother?"

"When was the last time you yourself looked at our trading ledgers, dear?" Olenna asked, pulling another document from her stack. "The North has completely ceased purchasing grain from us. No wheat, no vegetables, no fruit - nothing. Their usual orders over 4 years have simply... vanished."

Mace's face reddened. "But that's impossible! The North can't feed itself; everyone knows that. They've always depended on our harvests-"

"Half," Olenna interrupted sharply. "Half our profits came from feeding the North during their winters and lean times. Add that to the declining tax revenue from our departing craftsmen, and we're looking at a significant drop in House Tyrell's income."

She drummed her fingers against the table, her rings clicking against the polished wood. "If the North no longer needs our food, then the rumors must be true."

"What rumors, Grandmother?" Margaery asked, her voice carrying just the right note of innocent curiosity, though Olenna could see the sharp intelligence behind her granddaughter's eyes.

Olenna's weathered fingers traced the rim of her wine glass as she recalled her conversation with Jon Arryn during his last visit to Highgarden. The old falcon had aged considerably since she'd last seen him, but his mind remained sharp.

"Jon Arryn himself brought these matters to the Small Council," she said, her voice carrying across the morning-lit chamber. "Lord Baelish noticed the North's tax payments had not just met their usual obligations but exceeded them threefold as i said before, allowing them to pay off the Lannister debt. Naturally, this sparked interest."

She pulled out a detailed map of the North, spreading it across the breakfast table. "Roads have appeared across the North - appearing literally overnight, according to reports. Not dirt tracks or gravel paths, mind you, but proper roads made of some strange material harder than stone. Smooth as glass, yet providing perfect grip even in ice and snow."

Mace leaned forward; wine forgotten. "Overnight? That's impossible, Mother."

"Impossible?" Olenna's eyebrow arched. "Then explain the traders' reports of metal men patrolling these roads. Not men in armor, but beings of pure bronze and gold, moving with purpose and precision. Some describe them as tall as men, others speak of massive spiders of metal, clicking across the landscape." She paused, letting the image sink in. "And those are just the small ones."

Loras and Garlan exchanged skeptical glances, but Olenna continued, "Multiple reliable sources have reported seeing giants of metal in the distance - towering constructs that move like men but stand taller than the walls of Winterfell itself. They carry weapons of impossible size and breathe fire like the dragons of old apparently."

"The greenhouses are perhaps the most concerning development," she said, selecting another report. "Not the glass gardens we know - these are vast structures of crystal and metal, stretching for acres. They grow summer fruits in the depths of winter, producing harvests in weeks rather than months. Oranges and grapes in the North, can you imagine?"

Olenna tapped a specific location on the map - Sea Dragon Point. "And here's the crown jewel of their achievements. A castle rose here in the span of two weeks. Not a simple keep, but a fortress that rivals the greatest castles of Westeros. Traders speak of walls that gleam like polished bronze, towers that reach impossible heights, and defenses that make Storm's End look like a child's sandcastle."

She set down her wine glass with deliberate care. "But perhaps most telling are the ships. The North never had a proper fleet before, yet now their waters are patrolled by vessels unlike any seen in Westeros. Ships of metal and wood combined, moving faster than the fastest swan ships of the Summer Isles, carrying impossible loads. They've established direct trade routes with every Free City, bypassing the usual southern ports entirely."

"Jon Arryn's reports paint a picture of a North transformed," Olenna concluded, her keen eyes studying her family's reactions. "A North that no longer needs the South. A North that possesses knowledge and capabilities we can barely comprehend, let alone match."

"But Grandmother, surely these stories can't all be true?" Loras's handsome face bore the skepticism of youth. "Metal men building roads overnight? Giant metal constructs breathing fire? It sounds more like the tales used to tell children when speaking of the age of heroes."

Olenna allowed herself a small smile, pleased that at least one of her grandchildren had maintained a healthy sense of doubt. "You give me hope for our family's future, dear boy. Yes, we must consider these tales with a grain of salt." She reached for her wine glass, taking a thoughtful sip. "I suspect many of these accounts have grown in the telling, as stories often do when people witness things beyond their understanding."

She shuffled through her papers, selecting a particular report. "When a simple farmer sees a metal construct moving across the landscape at night, his mind might embellish the details. Perhaps it breathed steam, which in the cold northern air could appear as fire. Perhaps its height seemed greater in the darkness. Fear and wonder have a way of expanding tales with each retelling."

"The same goes for these supposedly overnight roads," she continued. "I doubt they truly appeared in a single night - more likely, the construction was so swift and efficient that it merely seemed that way to those who traveled through the area infrequently."

Willas nodded thoughtfully. "That would make more sense. But what of the ships, Grandmother? Surely those reports can't be exaggerated?"

"Ah, now there we have something more solid," Olenna replied, her voice taking on a sharper edge. "Our friends at Casterly Rock have provided most interesting accounts of conversations between Lord Tywin and his brother Kevan. The Lannisters are quite concerned about these new Northern vessels."

She produced another letter, this one bearing the broken seal of House Lannister. "According to our source, these ships have indeed been confirmed. They're making regular trips to Braavos, Pentos, and even as far as Volantis. The Lannisters' own accountants have verified that the North's trade profits have increased near hundredfold in the past year alone."

"The ships themselves are described as being partially metal-hulled, with some new form of propulsion that doesn't rely solely on wind. They're faster than anything in the Lannister fleet, and they can carry ten times the cargo of a traditional trading vessel." Olenna's mouth curved into a slight smile. "That part, at least, isn't exaggerated. The Lannisters are apparently quite irritated that these Northern ships are cutting into their own trading profits in Essos. Or just that the starks are making so much gold that irks them."

Willas, ever the thoughtful one, stroked his chin before voicing what they were all thinking.

"What do we do now, Grandmother? The North rises while we remain static. Their power grows daily, and soon they may outmatch all the southern kingdoms combined if they haven't already."

A thin smile crossed Olenna's face. "We do exactly what our words command us to do - we grow strong. If that means growing alongside the North rather than in opposition to it, then so be it. The Tyrells have always known when to plant new seeds in fertile soil."

She turned to Mace, who was still frowning at the reports scattered across the marble breakfast table. "You will draft a letter to Eddard Stark. Something friendly, diplomatic - nothing too obvious. Perhaps mention the coming winter and how we might strengthen our traditional trade relationships and make new ones now they don't need our food. Sound him out about a potential visit to Winterfell."

Mace opened his mouth to protest, but Olenna silenced him with a sharp look. "And do try to write it yourself, dear. Lord Stark is not a man impressed by flowery words from a maester's pen."

Her attention shifted to Margaery, who sat perfectly poised, already calculating the possibilities. "You, my dear, will begin studying. I want you to learn everything about Northern customs, their etiquette, their history. The Old Gods, the First Men, their traditions - everything. If we're to visit the North, you must be prepared to charm them on their own terms."

"Yes, Grandmother," Margaery replied, her mind clearly already working through the implications.

Olenna's gaze fell on Willas. "I need you to redirect our network of friends. Every spy, every informant, every merchant who owes us favors - I want their eyes turned North. We need to know everything: who visits Winterfell, who leaves it, what they're building, what they're trading."

She fixed her penetrating stare on Loras. "And you, my dear boy, will make yourself useful in King's Landing. That... friendship of yours with Renly Baratheon might finally prove worth something. Find out what the Crown knows, what they plan to do about this Northern situation. Robert Baratheon may trust Ned Stark, but others at court will not be so complacent."

Olenna's sharp gaze finally settled on Garlan, who had remained quiet throughout the task giving. "As for you, dear grandson, I have a particularly important task."

Garlan straightened in his seat; his attention focused entirely on his grandmother.

"You will represent our interests here in the Reach. I want you to personally visit every holding, every village, especially those abandoned by our departing smallfolk. Take five hundred of our best knights and men-at-arms with you." Olenna's voice carried the weight of command. "We cannot afford to have bandits or other... opportunistic elements taking advantage of these empty spaces."

Garlan nodded firmly. "I understand, Grandmother. I'll ensure our lands remain secure and prosperous."

"Good." Olenna's fingers drummed against the table as she surveyed her family. "Make no mistake, my dears. The North has had four years - four years to grow and develop while the rest of Westeros remained blind to their advancement. Four years of uninterrupted progress while we all dismissed them as the same frozen wasteland they've always been."

She took another sip of wine, her eyes sharp over the rim of her glass. "House Tyrell cannot afford to be left behind in this changing world. If that means we must personally travel to Winterfell to see these supposed wonders for myself, then so be it. We must understand what we're dealing with, and we must do it quickly." Like Quote