A Multiversal Journey (GOT/ASOIAF)

Author here ~ Due to some personal problems which can become a rant if I talked about it, as well as being confused about how to move forward with the plot, This chapter was delayed, but I will increase the speed of realising the character until the rebellion starts. Besides, This chapter is quite big.

Words ~ 5,672

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We see a dark place where a black and red figure is sitting on a black mass looking at the t.v. which shows the life of our MC Alaric. As we move closer, the being suddenly turns to us and says-

Alaric Noir, THE END, The Demon [R.O.B.]:

"Well, well, well… hello there, all of you. I see quite a few of you have been complaining. Seems like the Creator told me some of you couldn't help but whine about how Alaric—THE BEGINNING—is moving too slowly. Oh, 'he should already be ruling the planet with his power!' 'Why is he wasting time with all this?' Blah, blah, blah…"

The voice chuckles, dark and condescending, as if mocking the complaints it had heard.

"Let me make something very clear to all of you. Alaric Noir is immortal. Immortal. You know what that means, don't you? It means he has all the time in the world—no, all the time in existence. Why would he rush? Why should he sprint toward some grand conquest when eternity itself is at his fingertips? He has the luxury to take his time, to savor every step, every moment, every experience. And, frankly, I don't think he gives a damn about your impatience."

The voice pauses, as though letting its words sink in before continuing, now laced with a playful edge.

"It's not like some eldritch abomination is creeping out of the void, trying to eat him alive, or that his life is hanging by a thread. And even if there was something like that lurking around, let me remind you… I'm still here."

A low, almost chilling laugh follows, echoing in the void.

"You see, Alaric is under my protection, whether he knows it or not. And let me tell you, there isn't a single force in this universe—or any other—that can so much as touch him while I'm watching. So, stop expecting him to rush into some ridiculous conquest. He's not a child playing a game where you have to level up quickly before the clock runs out. He has all the time he needs to grow, to learn, and to decide what kind of ruler—if any—he even wants to be."

The tone shifts, becoming slightly softer, almost as if The Demon is addressing a child throwing a tantrum.

"Besides, if everything happened all at once, what would be left for you to enjoy? What would be the point of the journey? You don't binge a feast in one sitting; you savor every bite. That's what this story is—a feast, one to be enjoyed slowly, not gulped down in one greedy go."

The voice pauses, then adds with a hint of finality:

"So, take a deep breath. Relax. And enjoy the ride. The Creator knows what they're doing. And I, The Demon, know what I'm doing. Trust the process, or don't—frankly, I couldn't care less. Alaric will take his time. You're just along for the ride."

The voice chuckles one last time, fading into the darkness.

"Now, stop whining and enjoy the story. You'll thank us later."

The screen brightens again, signaling the continuation of Alaric's journey, slower and steadier, just as it was meant to be.

Wraithstone, Stony Shore, The North.

The large study in Castle Noir was warm and welcoming, its walls lined with bookshelves and maps of Westeros and Essos. A roaring fire crackled in the hearth, filling the room with a soft glow. Alaric Noir sat behind a heavy oak desk, his chair slightly reclined as he rested his chin on his hand. His piercing gaze was focused on Sereyna, his trusted steward and chief trade advisor, who stood before him with a stack of neatly organized papers in her hands.

Sereyna was a sharp, efficient woman, known for her unwavering loyalty to House Noir and her unmatched skill in managing trade and finances. Her dark hair was tied back into a practical braid, and her eyes sparkled with intelligence. She cleared her throat before speaking.

"My lord, I've compiled the latest reports on the profits from our trade ventures across Westeros and Essos," she began, her voice steady and confident. "Shall I begin?"

Alaric nodded, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Go on, Sereyna. I'm listening."

Sereyna set the papers on the desk, spreading them out methodically. "To start with, the food trade continues to be our biggest source of income. Our grain, fruits, and vegetables are in high demand, especially in Dorne and the Stormlands. These regions depend heavily on our supplies, and we've managed to secure long-term contracts at favorable rates. This year alone, the food trade has brought in over 300,000 gold dragons."

Alaric's smile widened slightly. "Good. Food is something no one can do without. What about lumber?"

"The lumber trade is thriving as well," Sereyna continued, tapping one of the papers. "Our timber is known for its quality, and it's being used to build ships in the Iron Islands and the Arbor. In Essos, the Free Cities like Pentos and Braavos are purchasing large quantities for construction projects. The lumber trade has added another 200,000 gold dragons to our coffers this year."

Alaric leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Excellent. And the more… indulgent goods? How are they performing?"

Sereyna's lips curled into a small smile. "Ah, the luxury products. The vodka and beer we produce are becoming household names across Westeros. The lords and merchants of King's Landing and Lannisport can't seem to get enough of them. In Essos, they're seen as exotic delicacies, especially in places like Volantis and Lys. The profits from alcohol sales have reached 150,000 gold dragons."

Alaric chuckled. "It seems even the highborn can't resist a good drink. What about other luxuries?"

"Our silk and spices are doing exceptionally well in Essos," Sereyna said, flipping to another page. "The silk is especially popular among the nobility in Myr and Qohor, while the spices are in demand everywhere—from the Free Cities to the Slaver's Bay. We've also introduced perfumes made with ingredients from the North, which are gaining popularity among the ladies of Westeros. Altogether, these luxury items have brought in 100,000 gold dragons."

Alaric nodded thoughtfully. "It's good to see our trade reaching every corner of the world. What's the total profit this year?"

Sereyna paused for a moment, ensuring her calculations were correct. "Including all the trades—food, lumber, alcohol, silk, spices, and perfumes—our total profit stands at just over 750,000 gold dragons."

Alaric whistled softly, clearly impressed. "Seven hundred and fifty thousand gold dragons. Aren't we swimming in wealth, Sereyna."

Sereyna dipped her head respectfully. " It was your vision and strategy that set all of this in motion. I'm merely executing your plans."

Alaric waved a hand dismissively. " Now, tell me, are there any areas where we can improve? Any weaknesses we should address?"

Sereyna hesitated for a moment before answering. "There is one concern, my lord. While our trade routes are secure for now, there have been whispers of piracy increasing in the Narrow Sea and the Summer Sea. If left unchecked, it could disrupt our operations."

Alaric's expression darkened slightly. "Pirates, huh? I suppose it was only a matter of time. I'll deal with them personally if they become too bold. For now, increase security on our ships. Hire more experienced crews and arm them well."

"Of course, my lord. I'll see to it immediately," Sereyna said.

Alaric leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Anything else?"

"There's also the matter of competition," Sereyna added. "Some lords in the Reach and the Westerlands are trying to replicate our success by producing their own luxury goods. While their products are inferior, they're selling them at lower prices to attract buyers."

Alaric smirked. "Let them try. Quality will always win in the end. But keep an eye on them. If they become too much of a nuisance, we'll deal with them in our own way."

Sereyna nodded, clearly satisfied with his response. "Very well, my lord. That concludes my report."

Alaric stood, walking around the desk to stand before her. He placed a hand on her shoulder, his gaze firm and reassuring. "You've done well, Sereyna. House Noir owes much of its success to your hard work. Keep it up, and we'll continue to grow stronger."

Sereyna smiled, a rare warmth in her usually composed demeanor. "Thank you, my lord. I won't let you down."

As he stared into the fire, his mind raced with plans and strategies. House Noir was already the richest house in Westeros, but he wasn't content to stop there. He had bigger ambitions.Alaric looked over maps of Westeros and Essos spread out before him. The fire in the hearth crackled, filling the room with warmth. Sereyna stood by the desk, waiting for him to speak.

"I'm planning a tour of the realm," Alaric said, looking up from the map. His voice was casual, but there was a glint in his eyes. "I think it's time I see more of Westeros. A tour of the great houses, the cities, and the trade routes. It'll give me a better understanding of the land and people."

Sereyna nodded, already anticipating his need to assess the situation across the realm. "That sounds like a wise decision, my lord. It will give us the chance to strengthen our relationships with the other houses as well."

Alaric tapped his fingers on the edge of the desk, lost in thought for a moment. "Yes, but there's one place I'm particularly interested in. Dorne."

Sereyna raised an eyebrow, but kept her expression neutral. "Dorne? Why Dorne, my lord?"

Alaric leaned back in his chair, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Dorne's always intrigued me. It's the most distant and mysterious of the Seven Kingdoms. The people there have a different way of life, different customs. I want to see it for myself."

Sereyna's eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn't press further. "I see. It could be beneficial, especially with our trade ties. Dorne relies on our food supplies, and you know how important those relationships are."

Alaric nodded, though his thoughts weren't solely on business. "Exactly. I want to understand Dorne better, how they think, how they live. It'll give us an edge in securing more favorable trade agreements." He said.

Sereyna looked at him curiously but said nothing, sensing that there was more to his statement than he was letting on. She had worked with Alaric long enough to know when he was holding something back.

"I'll prepare the necessary arrangements, my lord," she said, her voice steady. "When do you plan to leave?"

Alaric smiled, his eyes gleaming with purpose. "Soon. I'll visit the major cities first, then make my way to Sunspear. I want to see the heart of Dorne with my own eyes."

Sereyna nodded once more, acknowledging his decision. "I'll ensure the necessary resources are ready for your journey."

Alaric gave her a grateful look. "You've always been reliable, Sereyna. I'll count on you to hold things together here while I'm gone."

"Of course, my lord. You can always trust me."

As she left the study, Alaric's thoughts returned to Dorne, to the warmth of the sun, and the beauty of the place he would soon visit. Though he hadn't told Sereyna, his real reason for visiting Dorne was far more personal than business. There was someone there he wanted to see.

But that, he decided, was a secret he would keep to himself—for now.

Dorne, 272 AC.

The blazing Dornish sun hung high over Sunspear as the banners of House Martell fluttered in the salty sea breeze. The wide courtyard of the Water Gardens was alive with murmurs of courtiers and servants, but the center of attention was the arrival of a peculiar boy from the North.

Alaric Noir, only ten years old, though he didn't look the part, those who don't know would consider him 14, carried himself with the confidence of someone twice his age. Dressed in a sleek black tunic embroidered with silver threads, his attire bore the sigil of his house—a raven expanding his wings. His striking appearance, with jet-black hair and piercing green eyes, set him apart from the golden-skinned Dornish nobility. He was flanked by two men from his merchant crew, their wore armour , a stark contrast to the boy's regal poise.

The Princess of Dorne, Obara Martell ,a graceful woman with sun-kissed skin and sharp brown eyes, regarded him from her seat under the shade of a lemon tree. At her side sat her children—Doran Martell, the eldest and composed heir of House Martell; Elia, thirteen, poised yet curious; and Oberyn, twelve, already brimming with restless energy.

[Pics]

"Welcome to Sunspear, Lord Alaric," the Princess said, her voice carrying the warmth of hospitality but tempered with caution. "It is not often we receive guests from the North, much less one so young."

Alaric stepped forward, his green eyes meeting hers without hesitation. "Thank you for your welcome, Princess. Though I am no lord yet, merely the heir to House Noir. My regent thought it wise I tour the realm and learn the ways of its people." His voice was calm, but there was a sharpness to his words, a wit honed far beyond his years.

Doran, ever watchful, leaned forward slightly. "A wise decision. Trade between our houses has been fruitful, and it's good to put a face to the name that has become so influential in Dorne."

Alaric inclined his head respectfully. "Your house honors mine with its partnership. Without your spices and wines, our northern feasts would be far duller. And I am glad to see the famed beauty of Sunspear for myself." His gaze flicked momentarily to Elia, whose cheeks flushed lightly under his scrutiny. She quickly looked away, feigning interest in the lemon tree.

"Do they teach all Northern boys to flatter so effortlessly?" Oberyn quipped, a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

Alaric smirked. "Only the clever ones."

The Princess chuckled softly, though her eyes remained sharp as they studied the boy. "You are young to bear such responsibilities, Alaric. Tell me, what does a boy from the North think of Dorne?"

"I think Dorne is a land of contrasts—fierce and beautiful, harsh yet full of life," Alaric replied. "Not unlike your house, Princess. Strength tempered by grace."

Oberyn let out a laugh. "If you're this smooth at ten, I can't imagine what kind of man you'll grow into."

Elia glanced at Alaric, her curiosity getting the better of her. "Do you enjoy trading, or is it a burden your house has placed upon you?" Her tone was soft but carried an undertone of genuine interest.

Alaric turned to her, his expression thoughtful. "I see it as an opportunity, not a burden. Trade builds bridges where swords might not. And in a world as divided as ours, bridges are far more valuable than walls."

Elia's lips curved into a faint smile. "Spoken like someone far older than ten."

"I've had to grow up quickly," Alaric admitted. "But I suspect you understand that better than most."

Their mother observed the interaction, her interest piqued by the boy's composure. "You speak like a diplomat, young Alaric. You have been quite ambitions , even beyond beyond the North"

Alaric hesitated briefly, then met her gaze. "My ambition is to ensure my house thrives. If that means looking beyond the North, then so be it. But for now, I am content to learn."

One day later.

The sun hung high over Sunspear's training grounds, casting long shadows over the sandy arena. Oberyn Martell twirled his spear with practiced ease, the sharp tip catching the light as he smirked at his opponent. Across from him stood Alaric Noir, his dual swords, Heaven's Sorrow, gleaming in the sunlight. The northern heir's dark hair clung to his forehead, and his sharp green eyes gleamed with excitement. His black tunic was discarded, leaving him in a simple sleeveless shirt that revealed his toned arms and defined abdomen, muscles rippling with every subtle movement.

Seated under the shade of an awning nearby, Elia Martell watched intently. She had insisted on seeing this sparring match after Oberyn had challenged Alaric, curious to see how the boy from the North fared against her brother, who was already skilled with the spear. But what had started as mere curiosity now felt… different. Her eyes lingered a little too long on Alaric's arms as he adjusted his grip on the swords, and she found herself holding her breath each time he moved.

Oberyn spun his spear and grinned. "You're quick with your tongue, Alaric. Let's see if your swords are as sharp."

Alaric tilted his head, smirking. "Are you sure you don't want to reconsider, Oberyn? I wouldn't want to bruise your ego."

Elia couldn't help but smile at the way Alaric teased her brother. Few people dared to match Oberyn's wit, but Alaric seemed to do it effortlessly.

Oberyn scoffed and lunged, the spear slicing through the air toward Alaric's shoulder. But the younger boy sidestepped with ease, his movements so fluid it looked like he was dancing.

"Too slow," Alaric said, his tone light and playful. He raised one of his swords, deflecting the next strike with a loud clang that echoed through the courtyard.

Oberyn pressed forward, his strikes growing faster and more aggressive, but Alaric didn't seem fazed. He moved with precision, his swords a blur as he blocked and parried each attack. At one point, he even spun around Oberyn, tapping the older boy's back with the flat of his blade.

"You call that an attack?" Alaric teased, stepping back with a grin.

Elia's eyes widened. Her brother was no novice; he had trained with the best warriors in Dorne. Yet here was Alaric, two years younger and half a head shorter, makingOberyn look like an overexcited child.

"Focus, Oberyn," she called out, though her heart wasn't entirely in it. She wasn't sure who she was rooting for anymore.

Oberyn growled and attacked again, this time feinting left before thrusting his spear low. But Alaric saw through the move and caught the spear between his crossed swords, twisting it out of Oberyn's hands in one swift motion. The spear clattered to the ground, and before Oberyn could react, Alaric stepped forward, one sword at his throat and the other at his side.

"Yield," Alaric said, his voice calm but firm.

Oberyn froze, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. After a moment, he laughed and raised his hands. "Fine. I yield. But only because I let you win."

Alaric lowered his swords and stepped back, offering Oberyn a hand. "Of course. You let me win," he said with a smirk.

Oberyn took his hand and pulled himself up. "You're annoying, you know that?"

"I've been told," Alaric replied, sheathing his swords with a smooth motion.

As the two boys walked toward the shaded awning, Elia tried to compose herself. Her heart was still racing from watching the fight, but she couldn't let it show. She smoothed her dress and gave them a warm smile as they approached.

"That was… impressive," she said, her gaze flickering to Alaric. "You make it look so easy."

"It's not as easy as it looks," Alaric replied, sitting on the bench and wiping the sweat from his brow. "But Oberyn's a good fighter. He kept me on my toes."

Oberyn snorted and grabbed a cup of water. "You're far too modest for someone who just embarrassed me in front of my sister."

Elia laughed softly, though her eyes remained on Alaric. "You didn't embarrass him. My brother is one of the best with a spear. That says a lot about your skill."

Alaric shrugged, a hint of a smile on his lips. "I've had good teachers. And in the North, you learn quickly, or you don't survive."

Her smile faltered slightly at the mention of the North. She couldn't imagine living in such a harsh and cold place. "It must be so different there," she said. "Do you ever miss it?"

"Sometimes," Alaric admitted, leaning back against the bench. "But there's beauty in every part of the realm, if you know where to look. Even here, in Dorne, I see things I'll never forget."

Oberyn raised an eyebrow. "Like what? The endless sand?"

Alaric chuckled. "The warmth. The colors. The way the sun sets over the horizon." He glanced at Elia, his green eyes meeting hers for a brief moment. "And the people."

Elia felt her cheeks flush and quickly looked away, pretending to adjust her bracelet. Her heart fluttered in a way that felt entirely unfamiliar and yet… not unwelcome.

Oberyn, oblivious to the exchange, clapped Alaric on the back. "You're strange for a northerner, but I like you. Maybe I'll visit your cold, gloomy land one day."

"You're welcome anytime," Alaric replied with a grin. "Just don't complain when the snow reaches your knees."

Elia smiled, watching the two boys banter. But her thoughts kept drifting back to the sparring match—the way Alaric had moved with such grace and control, the strength in his arms as he wielded his swords, the quiet confidence in his every action. She found herself wondering what he would look like in a few years, when he was no longer a boy but a man.

"Do you always fight like that?" she asked, unable to hide her curiosity.

Alaric turned to her, his expression thoughtful. "Not always. Sometimes, you have to fight harder. Sometimes, smarter. But today…" He smiled faintly. "Today, I wanted to have fun."

Oberyn groaned. "Fun for you. Humiliation for me."

"It wasn't humiliation," Elia said quickly, glancing at her brother. "You did well, Oberyn."

"Don't coddle me, Elia," he replied, though his tone was teasing. "Save your praise for our northern guest. He's the one who deserves it."

Alaric shook his head. "You both exaggerate. It was just a spar."

"Maybe," Elia said softly, her eyes lingering on him once more. "But it was… remarkable."

For a brief moment, their gazes met again, and Alaric gave her a small, almost shy smile. Elia's heart skipped a beat, and she quickly looked away, hoping neither boy noticed.

As the day went on, the three of them continued to talk and laugh, the sparring match already becoming a fond memory. But for Elia, it was more than just a memory—it was the beginning of something new, a feeling she couldn't quite name but knew she wouldn't soon forget.

A month later.

The warm Dornish sun was setting over Sunspear, casting its golden light across the palace grounds. Alaric Noir stood at the gates, his traveling cloak draped over his shoulders and a small group of guards and merchants from his House Noir ready to accompany him back to the North. It had been a month since he arrived in Dorne, and now it was time to leave.

The royal family of Dorne had gathered to see him off. Princess Obara Martell, regal and composed as always, stood with her eldest son, Doran Martell, and her younger children, Oberyn and Elia. The atmosphere was bittersweet; the Martells had grown fond of Alaric during his stay, and his departure left a noticeable void.

Obara stepped forward first, her voice warm and graceful. "It has been a pleasure having you here, Alaric. Your presence has brought life and energy to our halls. I hope you will think of Sunspear as a second home."

Alaric inclined his head respectfully. "Thank you, Princess Obara. Your kindness and hospitality have made my time here unforgettable. I'll carry the warmth of Dorne with me to the cold North."

Doran, ever calm and collected, nodded. "The North and Dorne may be far apart, but I hope our houses will remain close, Alaric. You have proven yourself not just a friend but an ally."

"I couldn't agree more," Alaric replied. "And as long as House Noir prospers, Dorne will always have our support. If you ever need anything, just send word."

Doran smiled faintly, appreciating the sincerity in Alaric's tone.

Oberyn, standing slightly to the side, smirked as he crossed his arms. "What about me, Alaric? Don't I get a proper farewell after all the time I spent teaching you how to fight?"

Alaric raised an eyebrow, his lips curving into a teasing smile. "Teaching me how to fight? Oberyn, if anything, I spent the month teaching you how not to get disarmed every five minutes."

Oberyn laughed, shaking his head. "You're impossible, you know that? I'm almost glad you're leaving. I'll finally get some peace."

"You'll miss me," Alaric shot back with a grin. "Admit it."

"Maybe a little," Oberyn said, trying to sound indifferent but failing. "But don't think this is the end. Next time you visit, I'll be ready. And this time, I'll win."

Alaric chuckled, clapping Oberyn on the shoulder. "We'll see about that. Until then, try not to get into too much trouble."

"No promises," Oberyn said with a wink.

As the two boys exchanged playful banter, Elia stood quietly beside her mother, her hands clasped in front of her. She had been unusually quiet that day, a far cry from her usual warm and lively self. Her dark eyes lingered on Alaric, taking in every detail—his strong posture, his confident smile, and the way his green eyes seemed to sparkle with mischief when he teased Oberyn.

Finally, Alaric turned to her. "And you, Elia," he said, his tone softening as he looked at her. "You've been the kindest of hosts. Thank you for everything."

Elia's cheeks flushed, and she quickly looked down, feeling her heart race. "It was nothing," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I hope you… I hope you'll come back soon."

Alaric's gaze lingered on her for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he smiled. "I'll make sure of it."

He then looked back at the family as a whole, his voice steady and sincere. "I promise to visit often. Dorne has left an impression on me, and I'd like to return whenever I can."

"Good," Obara said with a nod. "You will always be welcome here, Alaric."

As Alaric adjusted his cloak and prepared to leave, he glanced back at Elia one last time, a small smile playing on his lips. "Specifically," he said, his voice playful but with a hint of something deeper, "for the sweet people I met here."

Elia's breath caught in her throat. Her face burned, and she quickly looked away, pretending to fiddle with her necklace. She felt Oberyn's amused glance on her, but she ignored it.

Oberyn, of course, couldn't resist the opportunity to tease her. "Sweet people, huh?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "I wonder who that could be."

Alaric just laughed, turning toward his waiting horse. "Take care of yourselves, all of you," he said, his tone cheerful yet sincere. "Until next time."

With that, he mounted his horse, the reins in hand, and gave them a final nod. The group watched as he rode off, the sands of Dorne stretching out before him. The setting sun bathed the horizon in hues of orange and red, a fitting farewell to the boy who had brought so much light into their lives in such a short time.

Elia stood there long after the others had turned to leave, her gaze fixed on the figure growing smaller and smaller in the distance. She placed a hand over her chest, her heart still racing. She couldn't quite explain what she was feeling, but she knew one thing for certain—she would be counting the days until Alaric Noir returned to Dorne.

Towe of Hand, Kings Landing.

Twyn Lannister sat in the dimly lit room of his private chambers, staring at the stack of reports in front of him. His fingers drummed impatiently on the wooden table, his mind racing with frustration. The wealth and power of House Noir had been growing at an alarming rate, and it was all he could think about lately. He had never expected them to surpass the Lannisters, the richest family in all of Westeros, but here they were—outpacing them, outmaneuvering them, and making deals with nearly every house and kingdom in the land.

"How can this be happening?" Twyn muttered to himself, his voice dripping with anger. The Lannisters had always been in control of the gold, the trades, and the influence, but now it seemed like House Noir had surpassed them all.

He ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts swirling. Every spy he had sent to the lands of House Noir had gone silent. Not a single piece of information had come back. It was like the family was untouchable, as if they were hiding something in plain sight. The reports from Essos and all over Westeros seemed to suggest that House Noir's wealth came from trade in food, lumber, luxury products, and even alcohol—things the Lannisters should have had a grip on.

But it wasn't just their wealth that bothered him. It was the fact that their influence was growing too. They were building alliances with powerful families, and even the Targaryens, led by King Aerys, seemed to be turning a blind eye to their progress. Aerys wasn't doing anything to stop them, and that made Twyn even more furious.

"Where is the king in all this?" Twyn gritted his teeth, barely able to contain his rage. "Why isn't he stopping them? Why is he letting them get stronger?" He had expected Aerys Targaryen to act as a safeguard, to put a halt to House Noir's growing influence, but instead, the king was doing nothing. In fact, it seemed as though Aerys was preventing anyone from interfering with them.

Twyn leaned back in his chair, his face a mask of frustration and disbelief. It didn't make sense. House Noir, a family from the North, had no right to rise so quickly. How had they managed to pull this off? And why was no one questioning it?

The more Twyn thought about it, the more it angered him. He had sent spies to House Noir's lands in the North, hoping to uncover something—anything—that could be used against them. But every spy he sent went silent. Not one message, not one piece of useful information. It was as if they had vanished without a trace. The reports had stopped coming, and no one had an explanation.

"The Spider," Twyn muttered darkly. "If anyone knows what's going on, it's him." Varys, the Master of Whisperers, was a man of secrets and rumors. He had eyes and ears everywhere in Westeros. If anyone could uncover the mystery of House Noir, it was him. But even Varys seemed to be in the same predicament. Twyn couldn't understand it. Varys was never in the dark, yet this time, it felt like the Spider himself had been caught in a web of silence.

"Why is everything going so wrong?" Twyn growled, his frustration boiling over. He was used to being in control, used to knowing everything before anyone else. But House Noir had somehow slipped through his fingers. He couldn't get a single spy close to their lands without losing contact. Every avenue he tried to explore only seemed to lead to dead ends.

Twyn paced the room, his mind racing for a solution. He knew that if he didn't find a way to stop House Noir soon, they would become too powerful to challenge. Their growing influence was already beginning to affect trade routes, even the gold flow from the mines, and the future of the Lannisters' wealth.

"I can't let this go on," Twyn said, clenching his fists. "I'll find a way to crush them. No one gets richer than the Lannisters. No one!"

His mind began to race again, thinking of any other options he had to sabotage House Noir's success. But the more he thought about it, the more it seemed impossible. No matter what he tried, the family was always one step ahead.

Twyn's thoughts drifted to the king once again. Aerys Targaryen, for all her power, had never seemed as interested in stopping House Noir as Twyn would have liked. If anything, it felt like he was subtly encouraging them. The king had his own interests, of course, but why he allowed House Noir to rise unchecked was a mystery to him.

"What's in it for him?" Twyn wondered aloud. "What's he getting out of this?"

He stopped pacing and stood still, staring out the window into the night. The shadows stretched long, and the cool breeze from the mountains carried a scent of salt and sea air. It was quiet, too quiet. He was no longer just frustrated; he was beginning to feel a sense of danger. House Noir had gotten this far, and no one had been able to stop them. What did they know that the Lannisters didn't?

"I'll have to take matters into my own hands," Twyn murmured. "If the king won't act, and if the Spider's too afraid to speak, then it's up to me to take them down."

With a sharp nod, he turned away from the window and went to his desk. He picked up the quill and began scribbling down plans, desperate to find a way to regain control. He would do whatever it took. House Noir's rise had to be stopped, or else everything he'd worked for would come crashing down.

"House Noir," Twyn muttered under his breath. "I will not let you get away with this."