Chapter 251: The Great Announcement

Westeros. Oldtown.

The Citadel, in the Scribe's Hearth.

The Scribe's Hearth is where the Citadel's assistant Maesters offer letter-writing services to the residents of Oldtown. Here, commoners seek help with reading their correspondence, drafting wills, and other clerical tasks. It's also a place where books and maps are bought, contributing to the scholarly and serene atmosphere that usually pervades the area. Even doves often fly peacefully about the square in front of the Scribe's Hearth.

Today, however, the Scribe's Hearth has abruptly ceased all services to the public. Every Maester has been summoned to address a pressing matter—an urgent and significant "order" from Across the Narrow Sea.

This "order" was delivered by the "Flowers" bastard brothers from House Tyrell. Per Viserys's request, they bypassed Highgarden entirely and came straight to Oldtown. Their prestigious lineage lent gravity to the message, prompting even Archmaester Norren, the head of the Citadel, to take immediate notice.

Upon reading the letter, Archmaester Norren wasted no time in summoning nearly all the Archmaesters he could locate. Among them were Archmaester Theobald, whom he viewed as his successor, Archmaester Ebrose, the historian Archmaester Perestan, and the astronomer Archmaester Vaellyn. In total, nearly thirty Archmaesters—arguably the wisest minds in all of Westeros—gathered in the Great Hall.

Long tables were arranged to accommodate nearly all the Archmaesters and Maesters, creating an atmosphere charged with anticipation. Archmaester Norren, the Seneschal of the Citadel, passed around a piece of parchment that had traveled from across the Narrow Sea.

The moment the Archmaesters saw the letter, their thoughts immediately turned to the proclamation Aegon the Conqueror had sent to all the Lords of Westeros nearly three hundred years ago. The original decree, still preserved at the Citadel, had declared in no uncertain terms: anyone who claimed the title of king must lower themselves and pledge allegiance to Aegon or face the loss of their lands. Those who defied him were warned to prepare for the wrath of dragonfire.

Viserys's letter carried a similar tone, but with a more menacing edge. He began by introducing himself, asserting his identity as the rightful ruler. Then he issued a stark demand: the heads of King Robert and Lord Tywin.

"He's demanding the heads of King Robert and Lord Tywin," one of the Archmaesters murmured, the gravity of the situation sinking in. "It's practically a declaration of war!"

Historian Archmaester Perestan passed the letter to Archmaester Zarabelo, who was seated beside him. "He now commands seven dragons," Perestan noted, "albeit young ones, but combined with the power he holds over the entire Disputed Lands, it's more than enough to start a war."

Archmaester Theobald chimed in, "The return of the dragons to the world is hard to believe, yet the confirmation from the Flowers brothers and the rumors circulating among merchants leave no doubt. Viserys's defeat of Drogo's 50,000-strong army with fewer than 10,000 men should make it clear to all—storm clouds are gathering."

"Are we on the brink of war in Westeros again? It's only been a little over a decade since Robert's Rebellion—" remarked an Archmaester with a gold ring, his voice tinged with concern.

The Archmaesters present were mostly over 50, with an average age around 60. Many had served under King Aerys for far longer than they had under Robert. Some of the older Archmaesters still referred to Aerys as the "late king." The senile Archmaester Walgrave, an expert in ravenology, sometimes even mistook the present day for the past, asking whether Rhaegar was still the current king.

For these elderly scholars, a slip of the tongue was not uncommon or unforgivable.

"Archmaesters," the elderly Norren began as he stood, "we are the first in all the Seven Kingdoms to learn of this news. Should we send this message to the Lords by black raven or white?"

Norren's question, while seemingly mundane, carried weight. The Citadel traditionally used white ravens to deliver critical messages to the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms, such as the changing of the seasons, plagues, droughts, or invasions by foreign enemies. Recently, white ravens had been dispatched to announce the changing of the seasons.

But now, Viserys's message from Lys was clearly a declaration of war against the Seven Kingdoms—at the very least, a declaration of war against the Iron Throne. The complication lay in the fact that, while Viserys's forces were composed of "foreigners," he himself was of Westerosi blood, a local heir to the throne. This made the Maesters' choice of messenger raven a bit more complex.

"Use black," suggested Perestan. "Since Viserys's return is essentially a continuation of the War of the Usurper, it's appropriate. If he succeeds, it could even be seen as a new conflict—the War of the Restorer."

"Should we consult Lord Leyton?" proposed Archmaester Ebrose, the Healer. The Citadel, after all, was funded by the wealthy House Hightower, and sending a black raven might be perceived as taking sides. Consulting their benefactor seemed a prudent step.

In the end, Norren made a compromise. "Send white ravens to the North, and black ravens to the South."

The letter from Viserys was brief, and the Maesters at the Citadel quickly made copies. Soon, black and white messenger ravens were flying in all directions—from the far north at the 'Deepwood Motte' to the southern Arbor Islands, from the driest desert to the lush Rainwood, from bustling King's Landing to abandoned hills.

Within days, the Lords of the Seven Kingdoms came to a stark realization: across the Narrow Sea, the Targaryens had risen once more.

...

"What? The dragons have returned? Seven of them? You must be joking."

In a tavern near the harbor, sailors gathered during their rare free time, enjoying drinks and conversation.

The scent of grilled fish mingled with the aroma of beer, and the salty smell of the sea clung to the sailors' clothes. "Why would I lie to you?" said a sailor who had just returned from Tyrosh. "His Grace Viserys is auctioning off the naming rights to a dragon at the port—nearly two million gold dragons raised! He's using the money to build the Smallfolk's Welfare Granary."

"Smallfolk's Welfare Granary? What's that?" another sailor asked, leaning in closer.

"Basically, when there's a grain shortage, ordinary people can buy low-priced grain from these granaries. I heard Prince Viserys even issued an edict that any merchant caught hoarding grain to drive up prices will be executed—no exceptions!" The sailor's words drew the attention of the entire tavern.

"That's…that's incredible. If King Robert had set up something like that, my sister might not have starved to death," murmured a skinny sailor, his voice thick with emotion. His words brought up painful memories for many. In times of famine, everyone had lost someone—a frail child, or a parent who starved so their children could eat. The specter of hunger was etched deep in their minds, a haunting memory that lingered even at death's door.

"What are you talking about?" another sailor scoffed. "King Robert owes Lord Tywin a mountain of debt. He can't even afford to build his own granary!"

"But I heard the King is hosting a tournament for the Hand of the King. That must cost a fortune," said a young man, barely out of boyhood, who was working as a wine waiter. He still held a tray in his hands.

"Kid, let me tell you something," said an older sailor with graying hair but sharp eyes. "No noble cares about the lives of commoners."

"But isn't Prince Viserys looking out for the smallfolk? He's a Targaryen, after all. Shouldn't he be the one in charge—"

Pop—the tavern owner cut him off with a slap to the back of the head. "Enough of that! Get back to work!"

Viserys wasn't content with merely telling the Lords of Westeros that he intended to reclaim the Iron Throne. He hired thousands of singers to spread his praises, not just in the ports of Tyrosh, Pentos, Lys, and Myr, but far beyond. Captains and sailors who traded in these cities became his best messengers.

It might not be obvious for a month or two. But give it three months, five, or perhaps a year or two, and all of Westeros would come to know Viserys as a wise ruler. They would long for the return of the Targaryens and secretly curse the usurper.

The Westerosi nobles had no idea of the power of the common people.

...

King's Landing.

Chataya's brothel.

Chataya's brothel was the largest and most luxurious in all of King's Landing, famed for its noble clientele. Even now, as a grand tournament was being prepared to celebrate Ned Stark's appointment as Hand of the King, Robert Baratheon could be found enjoying himself daily at Chataya's, reveling in the indulgences it offered.

But Robert's good spirits evaporated the moment he received a letter from the Citadel, delivered by his young and eager squire, Ser Lancel. His jovial demeanor shifted instantly to one of shock.

"Where did this come from?" Robert demanded, his voice cracking.

"Your Grace, this was brought by the Hand of the King," Lancel replied. "He's waiting for you in the next room."

Moving with a speed unusual for a man of his size, Robert hastily dressed and joined Ned Stark in a private chamber. The King's face, flushed from both exertion and alarm, reflected the disbelief in his heart.

"This is real? Is this really happening?" Robert asked, his voice tinged with both fear and incredulity. His heavy breathing, a result of his obesity, made it seem as though he was trapped in a nightmare.

"Yes, Your Grace," Ned replied, his expression as cold and unyielding as ice. Not a single emotion flickered across his face; even the fine lines at the corners of his eyes remained still.

Robert, clutching the letter, stared at it for what seemed an eternity before suddenly bursting into laughter. "Hahahaha, good boy, you want my head! My dear brother, it looks like we'll be fighting side by side again!" His booming laughter was so loud it seemed to shake the very rafters.

"But Your Grace," Ned began with a slight sigh, "our financial situation is dire."

Robert dismissed Ned's concern with a wave of his hand. "What are you worried about? Just ask Littlefinger," he said.

About six months before Jon Arryn's death, Robert had appointed Littlefinger as Master of Coin, and since then, Littlefinger had managed to get everything 'in order.' Military expenses? A mere trifle. Robert was confident Littlefinger could find the funds.

Besides, it wasn't Robert's style to stay on the defensive. He was already thinking about going on the offensive—perhaps even marching to Tyrosh.