The Sorcerer’s War

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The War Arrives at the Borders

The northern border of the Stormlands burned under the glow of the setting sun. Smoke curled into the sky where villages had been razed, their remains left as grim warnings.

On the ridge overlooking the battlefield, Ser Davos Seaworth tightened his grip on his sword, his weathered face grim as he observed the advancing banners in the distance.

Thousands of men marched beneath blackened, twisted sigils—a sign of the dark forces stirring in the east.

The armies of the Shadow Wyrm had arrived.

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The Raven from the Enemy

In King's Landing, the Iron Throne loomed over the Red Keep's war council chamber, casting long shadows across the floor. The city's rulers had gathered, their faces tense with the weight of impending war.

Jon Snow, Daenerys Targaryen, Tyrion Lannister, and Sansa Stark stood together, staring at the sealed letter that had just arrived by raven.

The enemy had sent a proposal.

Daenerys narrowed her violet eyes as she read it aloud:

"To the so-called rulers of Westeros,

You stand on the precipice of destruction. The war you fight is not against men, but against powers beyond your comprehension. We offer you a choice—surrender and be spared, or resist and perish.

The Wyrm watches. The Wyrm waits. Choose wisely."

The room fell silent.

Finally, Tyrion scoffed. "Well, that's dramatic."

Jon ignored him, looking at Daenerys. "What do we do?"

Daenerys exhaled. "They wouldn't send this unless they thought we were weak."

Sansa stepped forward. "Or unless they wanted to buy time."

Tyrion nodded. "A delaying tactic. They know we're preparing for war. Perhaps they aren't as ready as they seem."

Jon shook his head. "Or they're trying to lure us into a false sense of security."

Daenerys's voice was firm. "Then we answer them with strength."

Jon crossed his arms. "How?"

Daenerys turned to Varys, who stood quietly at the edge of the chamber. "Send our own message."

Varys raised an eyebrow. "And what shall it say?"

Daenerys's expression was cold.

"Tell them Westeros does not kneel."

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Preparing for War

As the council dispersed, the preparations for war began in earnest.

In the North, Jon ordered more troops to Winterfell, preparing a fallback point should the war push them back. He sent riders to Dorne and the Riverlands, calling for aid.

In the Stormlands, Ser Davos began fortifying the borders, preparing traps and ambush points along the Kingsroad.

At Dragonstone, Daenerys and Tyrion planned their next move. They had to determine whether to strike first or wait for the enemy to make a mistake.

Arya Stark disappeared into the night—no one knew where she had gone.

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The Enemy's Hidden Hand

Far from Westeros, in the ruined depths of Valyria, a figure clad in obsidian armor stood before a colossal stone throne.

The Shadow Wyrm did not sit upon it—it had no need for thrones. But its presence filled the chamber, its massive form coiled in the darkness, eyes like burning coals.

A voice, deep and ancient, rumbled through the chamber.

"They have rejected our offer."

The figure knelt. "Shall we attack?"

Silence stretched, then the Wyrm's voice came again, like a whisper carried on the wind.

"No. Let them believe they are winning. Let them gather their armies."

The figure bowed. "And then?"

The Wyrm's laughter was a low, guttural growl.

"Then we show them what true war looks like."