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GOT Chapter 68: Threads of Conspiracy
🕑 Added 2025-08-12 00:44:51 +0000 UTCThe cold wind blowing down from the North swept southward, covering all of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.
Yet with each change of latitude it passed, that chill gradually turned dry and hot.
In Dorne, Prince Oberyn Martell — the hot-blooded and fiery younger brother of Prince Doran — burst into the Water Gardens with such force that even his captain of guards, Areo Hotah, had no time to stop him.
Not that the captain had any real intention of stopping the prince’s brother. If he truly wished to, he need only let the long-handled battle-axe he had “married” drop from his hands.
The reason he did not bar the path of the man known as the “Red Viper” was simple: two letters had just been delivered into Prince Doran’s hands not long ago.
And Oberyn Martell, who had swept into this tranquil garden like a storm, wore on his face a bloodthirsty fervor, a long-repressed excitement now on the brink of release.
It twisted his expression into something almost strained.
He strode in great steps through the Water Gardens until he saw his brother, seated in a wheeled chair among the flowers beside a gently flowing fountain.
Prince Doran had his head lowered, holding two sheets of parchment, reading who knew what.
The moment Oberyn saw him, he charged forward, shouting loudly as he came.
“Doran, this will be our only chance!”
“You were right — our patience has paid off! The alliance between the lion and the stag has cracked. They’ve erupted into infighting all on their own!”
Oberyn’s words were brief and to the point, laying out his purpose in just a few sentences.
Hearing his younger brother’s shouting, the usually solemn, cautious, and composed Prince Doran, for once, did not stop him.
Instead, at those words, he lifted his gaze from the letters with a rare smile.
His hair was streaked with white, combed neatly without a strand out of place. The wrinkles on his face were deep yet sparse, like marks etched by years of wind and frost.
By contrast, his younger brother looked far younger.
Oberyn’s black hair hung to his shoulders, gleaming, with only a few strands of silver mixed in.
His face, too, bore the marks of the years, but beneath his thin brows lay eyes as black as a viper’s in the endless night.
A sharp nose and high brow lent him a cold, predatory air, as if he might strike at any moment — all the more so now, when he seemed to have spotted prey ripe for the kill.
Ignoring his brother’s captain of guards, Areo Hotah, Oberyn came right up to Doran’s side and instantly spotted the letters in his hands.
Panting heavily, he looked at the smile on Doran’s face and began to smile himself.
And as Doran listened to his brother’s words, his gaze settled on Oberyn.
In that moment, his eyes were as sharp as blades, without a trace of the weakness that usually came from his gout.
“Yes, you’re not wrong, my brother—”
“But there’s no need to rush. After waiting all these years, we can afford to be patient a little longer.”
“As soon as we strike, we must be like a viper—even if the enemy flees, they will not escape death!”
“Hah!”
“So what should we do?!”
Hearing his brother’s words, the cold smile on Oberyn’s face faded somewhat.
“What we need, of course—”
The two letters, their origin unknown, slowly crumpled in Doran’s hand.
The veins on his forearm stood out, taut beneath the skin.
“—is to make the preparations we must.”
“It’s time Robert Baratheon and the Lannisters paid the price for what they’ve done,” Oberyn said coldly.
...
In Highgarden, Lady Olenna Redwyne — called the “Queen of Thorns,” widow of the late Lord of Highgarden, Luthor Tyrell, and mother of Lord Mace Tyrell — made her way slowly toward a garden, leaning on her cane.
It was a castle built of white marble, said to be the most beautiful in all of Westeros.
Flowers bloomed everywhere here; gardens, pools, and man-made waterfalls adorned the grounds.
The castle was filled with stone carvings, fountains, and marble colonnades, with vines of grapes and roses climbing the walls and statues, and ancient structures draped in green.
From the towers of Highgarden, one could gaze out for several leagues in every direction, over every manor and field, where wildflowers and golden roses grew in abundance.
Most of the buildings here had been constructed during the reign of King Mern Gardener VI; only the tallest towers at the center were truly ancient, some perhaps dating back to the Age of Heroes.
This was Highgarden — a place sung of by countless bards.
“Grandmother.”
Before Lady Olenna had even walked the length of the colonnade, a tall, broad-shouldered, bearded man of striking good looks stood waiting at the far end.
He wore a long robe of green silk, the left breast embroidered in gold thread with two golden roses —
the emblem marking him as the second son of his house.
“Garlan, what are you doing here?!”
Though she often claimed to be nearly deaf, Lady Olenna instinctively lifted her head at the call.
Garlan answered her with his usual courtesy.
“Willas sent me to meet you. He says you have the sharpest eyes in the world, and he asked me to tell you that his legs make it difficult for him to come himself—”
“I knew it, he’s not the most witless of our lot,”
the Queen of Thorns said, her tongue as sharp as ever. She teased her grandson, then let her gaze sweep the surroundings before asking, “Where’s Margaery?”
“Willas has already sent for her. Father is waiting for you as well, so I think we should hurry.”
Seeing that his grandmother’s first words upon meeting him were to ask after her granddaughter — and to take a jab at him in the same breath — Garlan merely shrugged.
“If I were ten years younger, I’d be on horseback and charging into battle!”
“Maybe I could even conquer Dorne. What do you think?”
Garlan wisely kept his mouth shut, bowing his head as he stepped forward to offer his arm to the silver-haired, small-statured, but relentlessly sharp-tongued old lady.
...
In the Vale, Lysa Tully set down little Robin, who had just finished nursing. Holding a small sheet of parchment in her hand, she frowned deeply, her gaze distant as if lost in thought.
“What’s that, Mother?”
Robin Arryn looked on with slight disappointment as his mother adjusted her clothing. He licked away a trace of milk from the corner of his mouth, then his attention fixed on the paper she held.
Before she could answer, he suddenly reached out without warning, trying to snatch the note from her hand.
But Lady Arryn seemed to have expected it. The instant after he spoke, she lifted her arm out of reach, denying “Sweetrobin” his prize.
His interruption, however, snapped her out of her thoughts.
She brought the parchment to a candle flame, watching until it was reduced to ash. Only then did she turn to her son with a smile.
“A letter of no importance. Don’t mind it, Sweetrobin. What do you want to play next? Mother will join you.”
As Jon Arryn’s only child, Robin had been frail since birth, leaving him small for his age, with pale skin.
Hearing his mother mention play, his large eyes widened, and his brown hair bounced with his sudden movements.
“I want to see the kites! Kites!”
Something seemed to spark in him, making him suddenly wild with excitement as he shouted.
His shrill voice could pierce the ear, yet Lysa paid it no mind, as though she were long accustomed to it.
“All right, Sweetrobin. I’ll take you right now.”
But just as she was about to lead her son to see the “kites,” a maid approached cautiously and knocked softly at the door.
“My lady, Ser Yohn Royce and other knights of the house wish to see you.”
...
Night held no meaning for Casterly Rock. No matter the hour, no corner of this fortress of stone was ever permitted to fall into darkness.
Candlelight, like the surrounding rock itself, never ceased. Even when a flame was about to burn out, a hand would swiftly replace it, lighting a fresh stick of perfumed wax.
From the sea, one might see Casterly Rock perched atop its massive cliffside, shining like a beacon that would never fade.
It was deep into the night. The moon hung high in a dark blue sky, and the surging waves below rose and fell, carrying with them a low, constant rumble—
—like a whisper at one’s ear, or perhaps… a knock.
[Knock, knock, knock.]
The sound was brief and crisp, as if afraid to disturb the one within.
“Tywin~?” came a cautious voice from the other side of the door, tinged with an inexplicable wariness.
With that knock, the suffocating silence in the room did not last much longer.
“Come in… brother.”
Hearing the voice from within, Kevan Lannister—who had been standing outside with a trace of tension—let out a breath without thinking.
He took another deep breath, reached out, and pushed gently against the great crimson-and-gold door until it opened just enough for him to slip through.
Stepping inside the vast chamber, the first thing to meet his eyes was row upon row of ornate, regal suits of armor.
Without needing to count, Kevan could see at a glance that there were easily over a hundred suits standing silently in place.
This was the Hall of Heroes, where the Lannisters displayed the treasured armor of knights, lords, and even kings from their line who had long since passed.
Kevan did not advance farther into the room. He stood near the doorway, his gaze drawn to a man who stood silently at one of the windows, head tilted upward toward the moon.
Looking at that man, Kevan spoke softly.
“Tywin.”
The man he addressed was none other than the current Warden of the West, Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, and head of House Lannister—Tywin Lannister.
