After King Robert's death across the Narrow Sea, the wolves and lions dropped all pretense. Both sides raised their banners, and the sudden standoff yanked the smallfolk of the Seven Kingdoms straight back into the nightmare of open war.
Cersei, now Queen Regent, and her arrogant son the king immediately declared every northern lord a rebel.
Not House Stark—just the northern lords.
The foolish, proud mother and son clearly didn't believe young Robb Stark could actually command the northern army, so they offered a little "help."
Stannis, the last living Baratheon brother, raised his banners on Dragonstone and proclaimed Joffrey the product of incest, no true Baratheon heir at all.
Stannis declared himself the rightful king of the Iron Throne and named Cersei and her son traitors.
Joffrey screamed for Stannis's head and every northern lord's head on pikes so the world could witness his "glorious might."
Ser Barristan did his duty. He urged the king to make peace with the North—the Crownlands were already shaky and might not survive a fight against battle-hardened Stannis.
Cersei's answer was dripping with confidence: "Stannis? Hah! How many men answered his call? Twenty thousand at most—probably less. Yes, he has a fleet, but does he plan to land sailors and march on King's Landing? My father will handle everything."
King Joffrey added his own insult: "You're old. What can you protect? Go home!"
His former brothers-in-arms roared with laughter. The courtiers watched in cold silence. The new Hand and his lickspittles were nothing but empty-headed flatterers. Ser Barristan, disgusted, unfastened his white cloak and armor, drew his sword, and let it clatter to the floor.
The move put every Kingsguard and the Hound on instant alert.
Barristan gave a thin, contemptuous smile. "Even at my age I could take all of you with one hand." He turned and walked away.
"Chop off his—" Joffrey leaped from the Iron Throne, but Cersei shoved him back down before he could finish the order.
While Westeros boiled, the Lorath Archipelago in northern Essos stayed locked in its own civil war.
On the Dothraki Sea the horselords had gone too long without the "peace gifts" the old Pentoshi governors used to send. The proud khalasars were growing restless.
Those governors had always paid every khal who "rode through" Pentos. But those days were finished. Everyone knew Pentos no longer had governors—only a king. King Viserys III Targaryen.
His domain ran from Braavos in the north to Pentos in the south, swallowing Andalos, the Velvet Hills, and the Rhoynar lands. He commanded tens of thousands of elite troops, an invincible fleet on one hand, and the bottomless gold of the Iron Bank on the other.
King Viserys's army was at its peak. Why would he hand tribute to a pack of filthy savages?
Because they smelled bad? Because they were backward?
The Dothraki didn't see it that way. With their horse-archery and unstoppable arakhs, the men of the grass still believed they were the greatest warriors alive.
This Targaryen king? Just another coward in iron clothes hiding behind stone walls.
The battle-hardened Dothraki would take every enemy's head.
The largest khalasar on the Dothraki Sea belonged to Khal Drogo—forty thousand warriors. People called him the Unbeatable.
When Bevos, commander of the Pentos Legion, returned to Pentos and sent a fast rider to Braavos reporting that Dothraki raiding parties had appeared on the plains and were looting villages, King Viserys only sneered.
"Unbeatable? I've been unbeatable since the day I started my restoration! Sound the horns. Assemble the army. We march for Pentos!"
Khal Drogo had brought his forty thousand starving warriors to Pentos to beg for food. King Viserys was rich, but he had no intention of feeding filthy beggars. He would feed them his fist instead.
"Stout" Bevos rallied his men:
"These Dothraki think they're something special? Our boys aren't the old Pentoshi garrison. We're the iron-hard veterans who followed King Viserys through fire and blood! If they've got nine lives each, let them come!"
The soldiers roared.
The great horn sounded across the land.
Banners snapped in the wind as the loyal Targaryen host gathered.
Three thousand five hundred veteran players stood in loose formation, bright armor and cloaks gleaming like old-time knights. No one doubted they could fight.
Behind them waited more than a thousand player levies in padded jacks and wooden shields, swords and spears ready—sworn to the king and their lords.
Another two thousand six hundred newer and half-veteran players in mismatched gear watched the spectacle with hungry eyes.
In front of the host: a dozen massive war elephants, wyverns wheeling overhead, thirty slumbering fire wyrms on their heavy carts, and thirty bronze cannons that made the native soldiers both terrified and thrilled.
Four thousand Braavos Legionaries, two thousand Windblown, six hundred vanguard cavalry—all drawn up to the side.
Seventeen thousand strong in total. Every loyal lord, tribe, and village along the march would swell the ranks even more.
Viserys rode his white horse, white cloak streaming, dragon-wing helm shining. Behind him marched a thousand White Cloaks ready for war and six hundred blue-robed enforcers to keep order.
He rode to the front and drew his sword.
"Who does Pentos belong to?"
"Us!"
"Who does Essos belong to?"
"Us!"
"Who does the world belong to?"
"Us!"
The roar nearly deafened him, but Viserys grinned and raised his blade higher.
"What are we here to conquer?"
"The world!"
"What are we here to conquer?"
"Everything!"
The army answered with pure, savage joy.
Of course they were fired up. The players couldn't wait to open the new campaign, and every native soldier had just been paid two extra months' wages.
Pay the men in full and the gods themselves can go hang!