Game of Thrones Iron Stark

Casterly Rock gleamed under the western sun like a lion's hoard. Tywin Lannister stood in his solar, turning a new sword in his hands. The blade caught the light, mirror-bright, its hilt carved with a snarling golden lion. It was the first of five, forged from the strange black stone pulled from the bear's belly during the royal hunt.

He slid the sword into its golden sheath and sat in the crimson chair. "Kevan. What else came from King's Landing besides Tyrion being named Deputy Hand?"

Kevan Lannister stood nearby, hands clasped behind his back. "Robert caught a white stag alive and brought it back to the city. He's calling the greatest tourney the realm has ever seen to prove the gods still favor House Baratheon."

Tywin exhaled through his nose. "Robert spends gold like it grows on trees. The crown already owes us three million dragons. And now Jaime has spent five hundred thousand on five suits of armor from Tony Stark. Five. Suits."

He tapped the arm of the chair. "Watch that boy. Tony Stark. I have a feeling he will move the pieces on the board before long."

Kevan nodded. "Should we send men to the tourney, or go ourselves?"

"We go," Tywin said. "It has been too long since the Lannisters reminded the realm who holds the real power in the West."

---

The Eyrie felt colder than usual, even with the sun on the mountain. Lysa Arryn sat with her son in her lap, stroking the boy's thin hair. Little Robert—Robin to those who loved him—still suckled at ten years old, pale and frail.

A maester cleared his throat. "My lady, the king caught a white stag. There will be a grand tourney. Should the Vale send lords to King's Landing?"

Lysa's mouth tightened. "Robert has no divine blessing. Jon Arryn paved that road for him. Without my husband, Robert would still be swinging a hammer in the mud."

She looked down at her son. "But a white stag is a rare omen. If Robin stands near it, perhaps some of that luck will rub off. Maybe he will finally grow strong."

She lifted her chin. "Call the lords of the Vale. We will decide together whether we ride south."

---

Highgarden smelled of roses and fresh bread. In the solar, three generations of Tyrells gathered. Mace sat lower than his mother. Olenna Tyrell—sharp-eyed, silver-haired, and smaller than most men—watched them all like a hawk over a rose garden.

Mace shifted in his seat. "Mother, should we go to King's Landing? Robert caught a white stag and kept it alive. Why would he do that?"

Olenna's voice was dry as old thorns. "Because Robert's claim has always been thin. He spilled blood to take the throne. Now he wants everyone to believe the gods handed him a crown. The High Septon is probably already in the Red Keep kissing his ring."

Margaery leaned forward, eyes bright. "What does the white stag really mean, Grandmother?"

"It means Robert wants the realm to see him as chosen," Olenna said. "Divine right. A pretty story for fools."

Willas, quiet in his wheeled chair, spoke up. "I would like to meet Tony Stark while we are there. His book on caring for mares after foaling is the best I have read. I have questions about my hounds and horses."

Loras shook his head. "Tony Stark is not in King's Landing. He sailed for Dragonstone."

Mace frowned. "Dragonstone? What business does he have with Stannis?"

Loras shrugged. "No one knows."

Garlan stood, broad shoulders squared. "If we go, I will enter the lists. Let the realm see what Highgarden's strength looks like."

Margaery smiled, already dreaming. "I want to see the white stag. They say it is beautiful."

Olenna's mouth curved, just slightly. "Then we go. Roses bloom best when the whole garden is watching."

---

Winterfell's great hall felt smaller without Ned and Catelyn. Robb Stark read his mother's letter by the fire while Bran and Rickon tugged at his sleeves.

"Robb, please," Bran begged. "Father and Mother are in King's Landing. We want to see them. We want to see the white stag!"

Rickon nodded hard. "Please!"

Robb folded the letter. "No. Winterfell needs its lord. I stay. You two are too young, and the road is long and cold. Bran, you only just healed. The direwolves saved your life once. I will not risk it again."

The boys ran off disappointed. Theon Greyjoy lingered by the hearth, arms crossed.

"Half of Winterfell is already talking about riding south for the tourney," Theon said. "Ros is going. You really do not want to go?"

Robb met his eyes. "If you want to chase glory, go. Serve my father in King's Landing. He is still your foster father."

Theon blinked. "You are serious?"

"You belong at his side," Robb said quietly. "Not mine."

Theon was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was steady. "Winter has come. You are acting Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. You need every sword and every set of eyes you can trust. I am staying."

Robb smiled for the first time that day. "I knew you would not let me down, Theon."

Outside, the wind howled against the walls. Inside, the Stark in Winterfell sat straighter, already carrying the weight of the North on shoulders that were still too young.