Game of Thrones: The blind warrior

 **King's Landing - Small Council's Perspective**

The Small Council chamber was thick with tension, a storm of whispers and uneasy glances circulating through the room. Lord Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the long table, his presence commanding as ever, his cold eyes locked onto Lord Varys, who stood at the far end. The other council members—Petyr Baelish, Grand Maester Pycelle, and Ser Kevan Lannister—shifted in their seats, each one waiting for Varys to speak.

Tyrion Lannister, the Hand of the King, sat comfortably near his father, a goblet of wine in hand and a smirk playing on his lips. He had already grown tired of the endless council meetings, but today, Varys's expression told him that something particularly juicy was about to be revealed.

Varys cleared his throat delicately, folding his hands in front of him. "My lords, I bring important news from Essos. Daenerys Targaryen has taken the city of Astapor."

The room fell silent. The subtle flicker of the candles in the chamber seemed louder than the silence that followed. Tywin's expression didn't change, but the weight of the news was clear in his cold, calculating eyes. Petyr Baelish arched an eyebrow, intrigued, while Pycelle shifted uncomfortably in his chair, muttering under his breath.

Tyrion, however, was the first to break the silence. "Ah, the silver-haired girl with dragons. So, she's done more than wander the deserts after all."

Varys gave a small, knowing smile. "Indeed, Lord Hand. She has taken control of the city of Astapor, burned the slavers, and now commands an army of Unsullied. Over 100,000 of them."

Tyrion's smirk widened as he swirled the wine in his goblet. "One hundred thousand Unsullied? And here I thought you were about to tell us she had taken up knitting."

Pycelle harrumphed, his beard quivering with indignation. "A Targaryen with such a force is no laughing matter. These Unsullied—"

"Are perfect soldiers, yes, yes," Tyrion interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. "We all know the stories, Grand Maester. They don't flinch, they don't run, they don't break. But let's not forget, they are across the Narrow Sea."

Tywin's voice, cold and sharp, cut through Tyrion's sarcasm. "She is across the sea now. But she won't stay there forever."

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, glancing at his father. "I don't doubt she'll make a move eventually, but the Narrow Sea isn't exactly a pond she can skip across with her dragons."

Petyr Baelish leaned forward, his ever-calculating eyes gleaming with interest. "Dragons, armies of Unsullied… her legend grows. And if that legend continues to spread, it could cause quite the stir among the lords of Westeros. A queen with dragons and a slave army at her back? It makes for a compelling tale."

"Compelling, yes. Dangerous, certainly," Tyrion replied, tapping his fingers on the table. "But she's still far from our shores. I doubt she's building boats just yet."

Tywin's gaze remained fixed on Varys. "What else?"

Varys hesitated for only a moment before continuing. "The people of Essos are already whispering of her—the *Mother of Dragons*, the *Breaker of Chains*. The Unsullied now follow her freely, not as slaves but as liberated warriors. The freed slaves of Astapor flock to her banner. She grows stronger with each passing day."

There was a pause, and Tyrion's sardonic smile faded slightly as the gravity of the situation settled in. He leaned back in his chair, staring into his wine. "So, the girl's smarter than we thought. She's not just playing the game—she's changing it."

Tywin's fingers drummed lightly on the table, his expression thoughtful. "A queen with dragons is dangerous enough. A queen who knows how to inspire loyalty in her people is something far worse."

Pycelle cleared his throat, his voice a shaky rasp. "Surely we can stop her before she—"

"We will stop her," Tywin interrupted, his voice as cold and certain as iron. "But we need to know when she plans to strike."

Tyrion took a long sip of his wine before setting the goblet down with a soft clink. "If I may be so bold, Father, we should also consider the possibility of allying with her."

A collective gasp filled the chamber. Pycelle spluttered, nearly choking on his breath. Baelish's eyes gleamed with amusement, though he said nothing. Even Varys looked mildly surprised.

Tywin's gaze hardened, locking onto his son. "You suggest we ally with a Targaryen?"

Tyrion shrugged, feigning indifference. "I'm simply saying it's an option. Better to have her on our side than against us. Besides, she's the last of her line. A potential marriage could settle this entire issue peacefully."

Tywin's expression didn't change, but his eyes flashed with a mix of calculation and disapproval. "We will discuss that… later."

Tyrion smirked, but didn't press the point further. He knew his father well enough to understand that the idea would not be entirely dismissed, even if Tywin would never admit it aloud.

"The question remains," Tywin said, turning back to Varys, "how long before she turns her eyes toward Westeros?"

Varys offered a small bow of his head. "It is difficult to say, my lord. But with each passing day, she grows bolder, and her followers more loyal."

Silence hung heavy over the council as each man contemplated the future. The game was changing, and they all knew it. Daenerys Targaryen was no longer a distant threat. She was real, and she was coming.

---

#### **Robb Stark's Perspective**

Far to the north, in the Riverlands, Robb Stark stood over a map of Westeros, his face etched with the deep lines of a man who had seen too much war. His camp bustled outside his tent, the weary men of the North and Riverlands preparing for yet another battle. The fires of his rebellion still burned hot, but every victory came with a cost.

As he traced his fingers over the map, trying to find the next move in his war against the Lannisters, the flap of his tent opened, and Roose Bolton stepped inside. Robb straightened, his eyes narrowing at the grim expression on Bolton's face.

"What news?" Robb asked, his voice edged with the weight of command.

Bolton stepped forward, handing him a sealed parchment. "From Essos."

Robb frowned as he took the note, his brow furrowing as he read the contents. His breath caught slightly, and his eyes flicked up to meet Bolton's.

"Daenerys Targaryen has taken Astapor?" Robb muttered in disbelief. "And commands an army of Unsullied?"

Bolton nodded, his face impassive. "Yes, my lord. She now controls over 100,000 of them."

Robb felt a chill creep down his spine. He had heard tales of the Unsullied—soulless warriors trained to kill without hesitation, without emotion. To hear that Daenerys had taken command of such an army was unsettling, to say the least.

"She has dragons too," Bolton added. "Three of them, from the reports."

Robb's grip on the parchment tightened. "Dragons. And an army of soldiers who never break."

Bolton remained silent, his calculating eyes watching Robb closely. "It's only a matter of time before she looks toward Westeros."

Robb stared down at the map before him, his mind racing. His war with the Lannisters was all-consuming, and the Starks had already lost so much. But now, there was another player in the game, one he had never accounted for—a Targaryen with an army of Unsullied and dragons at her command.

"How much time do we have?" Robb asked, his voice low.

"There's no way to know for certain," Bolton replied, "but I wouldn't expect her to stay across the sea forever."

Robb nodded, his expression hardening. He couldn't afford to be distracted by a threat that was still far from his shores. The Lannisters were his immediate concern, and he needed to focus on the war at hand.

"We deal with the Lannisters first," Robb said firmly. "Daenerys will come, but not yet. When she does, we'll face her."

But even as he said the words, Robb couldn't shake the feeling of dread building in the pit of his stomach. The game was changing, and the North was not prepared for the fire that would one day come.

---

#### **Stannis Baratheon's Perspective**

The cold winds howled across the cliffs of Dragonstone, the sea crashing violently against the rocks below. Stannis Baratheon stood at the edge of the stronghold, his eyes fixed on the horizon, his face as hard and unyielding as the stone beneath his feet. The news from Essos weighed heavily on him, though his expression betrayed none of it.

#### **Stannis Baratheon's Perspective (Continued)**

Behind Stannis, the Red Priestess, Melisandre, stood quietly, watching him with her usual intensity. Her eyes, glowing with the reflection of the fires she so often looked into, were fixated on his rigid form. She had already told him what she had seen in the flames—dragons, a Targaryen queen, and a looming war that would shake the very foundations of Westeros.

"The dragons have returned," she had whispered earlier, her voice filled with conviction. "Daenerys Targaryen has taken Astapor. She commands the Unsullied and will seek the Iron Throne."

Stannis had been silent, his face a mask of cold resolve. Though the news of dragons would have made any other man falter, he remained steadfast. His claim to the Iron Throne was a divine right—ordained by the Lord of Light. He would not be shaken by a girl with a few dragons.

"I am the rightful king of Westeros," Stannis said finally, his voice low but firm, as if reminding both himself and Melisandre of the truth he clung to. "The Iron Throne is mine by law and by blood."

Melisandre stepped forward, her eyes filled with fervor as she looked at him. "And it will be yours, my lord. The dragons are but a test of your faith. The flames have shown me the way—Daenerys Targaryen may have dragons, but she does not have the true power of R'hllor. She will fall before you."

Stannis turned to face her, his expression unreadable, though the weight of the news hung heavy in the air. He was no fool. Dragons were creatures of immense power, and if the girl truly commanded such forces, she would be a threat to anyone who sought the throne.

"And what do the flames say of her?" Stannis asked, his voice sharp as he sought the truth in Melisandre's vision.

"She is a shadow, a pretender to the throne. Her dragons may burn cities, but they will not burn you, my lord," Melisandre replied, her voice filled with a dangerous certainty. "You are the one who was promised. You are Azor Ahai, reborn to save the world from darkness."

Stannis's eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze shifting back toward the horizon. His war against the Lannisters had been a bitter one, marked by losses and betrayal. But now, another player had entered the game—Daenerys Targaryen, with her dragons and her army of Unsullied.

"She may have dragons," Stannis muttered, his jaw clenched, "but she is still across the sea. And I will not be cowed by shadows."

Melisandre nodded, stepping closer to him. "The Lord of Light will guide us, my king. Your path is clear—claim the Iron Throne, and the realm will bow to you. The Targaryen girl's rise is but a flicker in the flames. You are the fire that will cleanse Westeros."

Stannis remained silent, though the tension in his stance spoke volumes. He knew what needed to be done, but the road ahead was no longer as clear as it once was. Dragons had returned to the world, and though he had Melisandre's assurances, the threat they posed was undeniable.

"Let her come," Stannis said finally, his voice a cold whisper carried by the wind. "When she does, I will be ready."

The waves crashed against the rocks below, the sound like the roar of distant war drums, but Stannis stood firm. His gaze was locked on the horizon, where the coming storm brewed—dragons or no, he would claim his throne.