Game of Thrones: Lord of the Flames

As night fell, the streets of King's Landing were deserted.

Since news of the Wall's collapse had reached the city, fear and unrest had begun to spread.

After discussions, the Small Council issued a curfew order: anyone found on the streets after the evening bells would face execution.

This measure eased some of the chaos in the city but left a heavy, oppressive gloom hanging over the populace.

Previously, rumors about the Wall's collapse were uncertain and speculative. However, the Small Council's harsh response was tantamount to an official confirmation.

Fortunately, King's Landing had already endured one wight siege and, under King Caesar's leadership, had successfully buried those undead monstrosities again. As a result, while the people were anxious about the approaching White Walkers, they were not consumed by fear.

Contrary to expectations, there was no mass exodus from the city. Instead, residents from surrounding villages and towns continued to pour into King's Landing, believing the city, protected by dragons, to be a safer haven.

Walking through the silent streets, Tyrion Lannister returned to his residence.

"My lord, you're back," Shae greeted him with a smile—the kind of smile that could melt away the fatigue of an entire day.

Tyrion nodded wearily but couldn't muster much cheer.

Shae approached him thoughtfully, helping him remove his outer garments as she asked, "Any news of His Majesty?"

Tyrion nodded. "The King is on his way back. We've also received orders to establish a new defensive line at the Neck."

"The Neck?" Shae exclaimed in surprise, her mouth slightly agape. "Does that mean the entire North is being abandoned?"

"The King has already ordered the Northerners to migrate south," Tyrion explained, though his expression remained grim.

Such a massive migration was bound to bring devastating consequences and casualties. Yet the King had issued the order without hesitation, which spoke volumes about how dire the situation truly was.

However, Tyrion's thoughts were not entirely focused on the Northerners braving the harsh snow to migrate south. Instead, he was preoccupied with his brother Jaime—and even his sister Cersei, who had long been his adversary.

One was stationed as a guard at the Wall, while the other worked as a... camp follower in Mole's Town.

With the White Walkers invading, they were undoubtedly the first in harm's way.

He couldn't help but wonder if they were still alive.

"Can't His Majesty hold the White Walkers at the Wall?" Shae lit an incense candle and knelt to help him remove his shoes.

"His Majesty is not a god," Tyrion said, closing his eyes as he enjoyed the soothing massage of her soft hands on his feet.

"To the people of King's Landing, His Majesty might as well be a god," Shae said.

Tyrion shook his head, smiling wryly, unwilling to comment on such naive beliefs.

As someone in the heart of the Seven Kingdoms' power center, Tyrion—despite being marginalized—had a better grasp of the situation than most.

He understood that Caesar's unparalleled prestige and authority over the Seven Kingdoms' nobility were built on his fearsome reputation as an invincible leader.

The White Walker invasion was the greatest challenge Caesar had ever faced.

If Caesar could once again lead the people to victory, his name would eclipse all other Kings in Westeros' history.

But if he failed, the backlash would be catastrophic.

The decision to abandon the North and retreat to the Neck had been approved by the Small Council, and no nobles—neither those from the North nor those in King's Landing—dared to oppose it.

But approval didn't mean everyone agreed with the King's judgment.

The people of the Seven Kingdoms had placed immense hope in their King. Caesar's divine blessing and legendary exploits had made him the most commanding King in Westeros' history.

But when Caesar ordered the abandonment of the North and a retreat to the Neck, his aura of invincibility began to fade in people's hearts.

If the defensive line at the Neck also failed...

For a moment, Tyrion felt a stirring ambition rise within him. But the surge of excitement was quickly squashed by an overwhelming sense of guilt.

At that moment, a knock came at the door.

"Come in," he called.

The door opened, and the steward announced, "My lord, Ser Stevron Frey requests an audience."

Tyrion's eyes narrowed as he seemed to understand something.

"Let him in."

Shae helped him put his boots back on and asked, "Ser Stevron Frey is the eldest son of Walder Frey, isn't he?"

"Yes," Tyrion replied.

"What could he want with you at this hour?"

"What do weasels ever want?" Tyrion snorted, jumping off his chair and heading for the door.

Shae took his arm, following him. "I'll come with you to meet the guest."

Tyrion glanced at her but didn't refuse.

He understood Shae's intentions. She was unwilling to remain just a lover and was always looking for ways to integrate into noble society.

Tyrion didn't object to this. Out of guilt for Shae—knowing that, as Duke of Casterly Rock, he could never marry someone of her status—he sought to compensate her in other ways.

In the drawing room, they met their guest.

Like many of his kin, Ser Stevron Frey resembled a weasel.

After some pleasantries, Tyrion asked directly, "Ser, what brings you here at such a late hour?"

Ser Stevron accepted the tea Shae offered, thanked her, and then said, "My lord, if I'm not mistaken, you are still unmarried?"

Tyrion smirked and replied, "My father did arrange for me to marry Sansa Stark, but alas, she turned out to be a fraud. And, of course, the Starks had no interest in recognizing such a marriage. Understandable—after all, I'm just a dwarf."

Ser Stevron laughed heartily. "Their loss! Your brilliance outshines all; what is a slight physical flaw in comparison?"

"If only the world were full of such discerning people as you," Tyrion quipped. "But you didn't come here just to compliment me, did you?"

Ser Stevron chuckled and said, "Indeed not. My lord, since you are still unmarried, I have a proposal for you."

Tyrion's smile widened. "Who do you have in mind?"

"My granddaughter, Walda Frey. She's sixteen and quite a beauty." He glanced at Shae. "Every bit as lovely as your companion here. If you agree, the Freys would be honored to join their house with House Lannister."

"We're already kin," Tyrion remarked, grinning. "My aunt Genna married your uncle. Remember?"

"Of course I remember," Stevron said. "But this would make us even closer."

Tyrion could feel Shae's gaze burning into him. However, he had no intention of marrying into the Freys—not even to appease a jealous lover.

"Ser Stevron, I appreciate your kind offer, but with the White Walkers marching south, this hardly seems like the time for weddings."

"Then perhaps we could settle for an engagement," Ser Stevron suggested.

"I'll think about it," Tyrion replied, employing a time-honored method of deflection.

Satisfied for the moment, Ser Stevron made some small talk before taking his leave.

As soon as he left, Shae remarked acidly, "Walda Frey would suit your status perfectly—beautiful and noble. Why refuse her?"

Tyrion grinned. "What use do I have for a weasel's granddaughter when I have you?"

He reached to embrace her, but Shae dodged lightly, retorting, "You're good at sweet-talking. But honestly, it's a decent match. The Freys may rank lower than the Lannisters, but with your house in decline, it'd be hard to find a duke's daughter willing to marry you."

Tyrion's smile faded, and his tone turned serious. "Do you know why I turned him down?"

"Why?"

"Because the Freys have ulterior motives."

"Ulterior motives?" Shae frowned. "What do you mean?"

Tyrion chuckled. "You know the Lannisters are struggling. Despite my seat on the Small Council, I'm someone most people avoid. For the Freys to offer me their granddaughter now... they must have a hidden agenda.

Don't forget, Walder Frey has a daughter married to Roose Bolton. And recently, Anya Waynwood of the Vale has been visiting the Freys with her foster son.

Can you guess what they're planning?"

Shae, sharp as ever after years with Tyrion, quickly realized. "Walder Frey wants to recreate the old Tully alliance—the one with the fish, wolf, stag, and falcon?"

Tyrion whistled and said mockingly, "Walder Frey may have plenty of daughters and granddaughters, but he doesn't have Hoster Tully's cunning. And Caesar isn't Aerys the Mad King. If the Freys try this, they'll dig their own graves."

Shae nodded thoughtfully but then whispered, "Even so, you weren't tempted at all?"

Tyrion rolled his eyes. "I'd like to live a little longer, thank you."

Shae blinked her eyes and said,

"But now that the White Walkers are heading south, this may be an opportunity."

The sarcasm on Tyrion's face became more intense:

"If Walder Frey really thought this way, he might not even live to see the day when the White Walkers came."

Shae giggled and grabbed his hand. "All right, then. Since you've lost a bride, I'll make it up to you."

Tyrion's spirits lifted immediately. But just as he buried his head in her chest, a knock sounded at the door.

"Who is it now?" he groaned. "Don't tell me it's another marriage proposal."

The steward's voice came from outside. "My lord, His Majesty has just returned to King's Landing and has summoned a Small Council meeting immediately."

Tyrion exhaled heavily. "Fine. Prepare the carriage."

Shae kissed his forehead playfully. "I'll wait for you to come back."

"Sure," Tyrion said, giving her a playful pinch before leaving.

The Red Keep's council chamber was already brightly lit when Tyrion arrived, with the other ministers in their seats.

After exchanging greetings, he climbed into his chair. He had barely settled when King Samwell entered, accompanied by Ser Barristan Selmy.

"No need to rise," the king said, waving them down as he strode to his seat. "Time is short, so let's get straight to it. The Wall has collapsed, and the White Walkers are advancing south. There is no stopping them now. The reasons behind this are complex and irrelevant to our current situation. What matters is establishing a new defensive line."

He scanned the room, his gaze heavy.

"After consulting with Lord Commander Eddard Stark of the Night's Watch, I have decided to establish this line at the Neck. The exact location, fortifications, and troop deployments will depend on the terrain.

What are your thoughts?"

Tyrion understood the King's meaning: the decision to fortify the Neck was final. The council was merely being asked for suggestions on how to implement it.

This kind of decisive leadership was what the moment required. Debating such matters with the nobles would only lead to endless bickering and wasted time.

Lord Randyll Tarly was the first to speak. "We currently have 200,000 troops in King's Landing. Deploying them to the Neck should be sufficient. The only concern is whether we can complete the fortifications before the White Walkers arrive."

"That shouldn't be a problem," Grand Maester Qyburn said. "The wights fear fire. I've prepared plenty of weapons to deal with them."

"Are they the same ones you used against Dorne at Eagle's Nest?" Randyll asked thoughtfully.

"Yes, with some modifications."

"How effective are they?"

"They're about 70-80% as powerful as wildfire but much cheaper to produce."

"Excellent," Samwell said, nodding in approval. "Send the cannons to the front line as well."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Wights may fear fire, but White Walkers do not," Samwell continued. "How is the dragonglass stockpile?"

"We have enough to arm 70,000 soldiers," Qyburn replied.

"It will have to do for now," Samwell said. "What about provisions?"

Tyrion spoke up. "If we defend the Neck, our logistical pressure will be much reduced. Preliminary estimates suggest we have enough food to sustain the army for six months."

"That's sufficient for now," Samwell said. "Send envoys across the Narrow Sea to the Free Cities. Tell them the White Walkers are a threat to all humanity. If Westeros falls, Essos will be next. Demand their support in providing food, weapons, and manpower."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Good. The army marches tomorrow," Samwell declared. "I will personally lead the troops!"

(End of Chapter)