AN - I struggled with this chapter. I debated with keeping Elia and the children alive but finally decided not to. I cant say I am happy with this chapter but still show must go on.
The Shield Islands baked under a hot midday sun, their low-lying shores dotted with sparse settlements and ringed by meager fortifications. Typically, these four islands served to protect the Mander estuary from pirates and raiders. That day, however, they faced an attack far more cunning and powerful than any mere coastal marauder. Harrold Gryffindor, commanding a hidden army of Unsullied and legionnaires, launched a surprise infiltration that would shock the entire Reach to its core.
Long before the invasion, Harrold's agents and clones had been quietly purchasing Unsullied on the Slaver's Bay markets, adding to an already formidable host. Over years of discreet acquisitions, he amassed 5,000 Unsullied in total, most hidden away at Orsus to preserve the illusion that he commanded only a modest force. A thousand were assigned to his manors, warehouses, and ships across Essos, another 1,500 stationed in Westeros, while 2,500 remained out of sight in Orsus's training grounds.
When the rebel cause demanded a decisive move against the Reach—whose 100,000 strong army laid siege to Storm's End or roamed Shipbreaker Bay—Harrold summoned 2,000 Unsullied from Orsus, 500 from the Northern host and another 500 from his ships at sea.
Thus, 3,000 well-trained and disciplined warriors swelled his assault force, backed by illusions, cunning, and Harrold's personal clones. Their target: the Shield Islands at the mouth of the Mander, a strategic launching pad from which the rebels could strike at Highgarden itself.
Harrold's armada—composed of Orsus's runic ships, gunboats, and the catamaran Neptune—arrived off the Shield Islands under Notice-Me-Not wards. Though some local sentries might have glimpsed unfamiliar sails, illusions soon clouded their minds, prompting them to dismiss the sightings as tricks of the light.
Under the cover of night, small landing parties stormed each of the four islands:
Greyshield: Harrold deployed illusions to slip past the watchtowers, neutralizing the local garrison in swift battles.
Oakenshield: A more populous isle, but Harrold's Unsullied overcame the defenders without raising an alarm.
Blackcrown: A minor keep overshadowed by illusions that disoriented the knights until they surrendered.
Southshield: The final island fell just as easily, the local lord captured after a short skirmish.
By dawn, each island had been subdued, its lords and knights taken prisoner. Harrold designated Greyshield as a fallback position and a makeshift prison for captured Reach nobles. Over the next day, his men fortified these islands with wards and scorpion emplacements, ensuring they could withstand a retaliatory strike if discovered.
Amid the newly conquered keep on Greyshield, Harrold convened his senior officers:
Harrold, pointing at a rough map of the Mander's estuary:
"Our foothold is secure. The Tyrell forces are still engrossed at Storm's End or in Shipbreaker Bay. We have perhaps a short window before they realize we're here. Once we push upriver, we head straight for Highgarden. If we seize their seat of power, the rest of the Reach may collapse."
Clone Thalen, crossing his arms:
"We'll face some local bannermen, but their best troops are away. Our illusions and direct assault can overwhelm whatever skeleton force remains at Highgarden."
Commander Kade, the Unsullied captain, eyes gleaming with discipline:
"We stand ready, my lord. Fifty companies for each approach, your illusions to shield the main push. Minimal resistance expected."
Harrold nodded, his gaze fierce.
"We must strike swiftly. Capture Highgarden's ruling family, whomever remains. Then we fortify. The moment the Tyrell army hears of this, they'll be forced to withdraw from Storm's End or risk losing their entire homeland."
With the Shield Islands swiftly repurposed as their supply depot and prison camp, Harrold's fleet moved upriver. Using illusions, they masked their approach along the wide Mander—the great lifeblood of the Reach. Word of such a brazen invasion could not be kept secret indefinitely, but the Tyrell forces were far to the south or east, focusing on the siege at Storm's End or blockading Shipbreaker Bay.
Trudging through orchard-laden riverbanks, Harrold's battalions marched day and night with minimal delay. Villages along the banks offered token resistance or none at all. Some peasants fled, others cowered as shimmering illusions swept by. Only small local forces tried to mount a defense, quickly subdued by Unsullied discipline and runic weaponry. By the time they reached the outskirts of Highgarden, Mace Tyrell and much of his might were absent, giving Harrold a golden opportunity.
Highgarden, seat of House Tyrell, boasted rich gardens, shining spires, and a gentle labyrinth of walls. Yet it was built for display and comfort as much as defense. With the main Tyrell host away, the castle was manned by a reduced garrison and a few loyal knights. Harrold's illusions gained them entry by night, bypassing the gates unchallenged.
Small pockets of guards tried to resist once they realized an invasion was underway. But the Unsullied closed in from the courtyard, while Harrold's clones launched illusions that led defenders astray, herding them into confined corridors where their surrender became inevitable. The lord's tower fell with minimal bloodshed.
Inside the grand solar, Harrold found the Tyrell family—Lady Olenna Tyrell among them, flanked by younger relatives. Mace was absent, presumably with the army. It was Lady Olenna who confronted Harrold, her piercing eyes filled with calm defiance.
Olenna: "You brash fools. Stealing into Highgarden as if it's your birthright. Aren't you the sorcerer-lord they whisper of?"
Harrold, inclining his head: "Harrold Gryffindor, my lady. I regret the intrusion, but you're now our prisoners. Highgarden is ours until your lords recall their forces from Storm's End."
Olenna gave a dry laugh. "Well, you've more finesse than the Targaryens, I'll grant you that. What do you hope to gain, hmm? A few days' lull in the siege?"
Harrold smoothed his cloak. "We aim to cripple the Tyrell war effort, Lady Olenna. This castle, your family, and your farmland are now in rebel hands. Surrender and no further harm will come to you."
Olenna sniffed. "I wonder if your illusions and wards can hold once the main host returns. Still, I prefer imprisonment to the Crown's madness."
Harrold's lips thinned. "Yes, the madness at King's Landing is precisely why we do this. You and your family must come with us. We'll keep you safe, so long as the Tyrell armies turn back."
Olenna gave him a sharp look. "A partial truth, I suspect. Fine. Lead on, my dear sorcerer. We'll see whose wit truly prevails."
With that, the Tyrell family—whatever portion remained in Highgarden—were escorted onto Harrold's ships. He promptly dispatched them to the Shield Islands for confinement. Many local knights and lesser lords, too, found themselves heading downriver in chains.
With Highgarden secured, Harrold reorganized his men and women. They needed to maintain the illusions of a vast occupying army while also spreading out to capture key strongholds:
Group One: Marched north to subjugate Goldengrove, Red Lake, and Old Oak.
Group Two: Pushed east toward Cider Hall, Ashford, Longtable, Bitterbridge, and Tumbleton—the major supply routes to King's Landing.
Group Three: Harrold himself led a party of men south, targeting Horn Hill, Uplands, the Three Towers, Oldtown, Blackcrown, Honeyholt, and Brightwater Keep.
Each group repeated the infiltration tactics: illusions masked their approach, Unsullied discipline overwhelmed defenders, and scorpions or runic staff blasts shattered gates. Any local lords resisting were swiftly captured and shipped back to the Shield Islands, which became the makeshift prison for noble hostages. Meanwhile, the rebels confiscated valuables—gold, horses, weapon caches—shipping them likewise for safe keeping.
In a matter of days, an impressive swath of the Reach fell under Harrold's ephemeral rule, demoralizing small garrisons left behind by the Tyrells. Farms, storehouses, and granaries were pillaged for the rebel war effort, draining the Tyrells' ability to feed their monstrous army.
News traveled fast: The seat of House Tyrell sacked, their home-lords captive. Panicked runners reached the 100,000-strong Tyrell force camped around Storm's End. The blockade of Shipbreaker Bay, led by the Redwyne fleet, also received frantic summons to recall home. If they didn't, their entire domain might be destroyed.
Thus, half the Tyrell army abruptly peeled away, marching in haste back toward the Mander. Morale plummeted among those who remained at Storm's End. Meanwhile, the Redwyne fleet weighed anchors from Shipbreaker Bay, intending to retake the Shield Islands or at least rescue Highgarden.
Harrold's plan demanded only a slight skirmish with the returning Tyrell army. Once they engaged, his scattered detachments fell back towards the Shield Islands, illusions covering their retreats. The Tyrell troops recaptured smoldering castles but found them stripped of wealth, the local lords missing, their families rumored captive. Fury mixed with humiliation in every footsore soldier trudging behind their vanquished standard.
Under pressure, the Redwyne fleet sailed back to the Sunset Sea, determined to reclaim the Shield Islands and free the noble captives. Thousands of oars churned, banners snapping in the wind. But Harrold had prepared. The Orsus warships—notice-me-not wards or not—stood in the channels around the islands, scorpions and runic cannons bristling.
Their confrontation played out in a swirling sea battle among the isles. Once illusions dropped, the unsuspecting Redwyne galleys found themselves outmaneuvered by Orsus's advanced designs, runic artillery, and disciplined Unsullied marines. The result was catastrophic for the Reach:
Scorpions from the catamaran Neptune and smaller gunboats shredded the Redwyne hulls, setting them aflame or riddling them with bolts. Rune-powered cannons launched explosive rounds that dwarfed the typical siege weapon capabilities. Under Harrold's illusions, squads of Unsullied boarded the Redwyne's flagship, capturing or killing the admirals in short, brutal fights.
The Redwyne fleet broke. A fraction limped away, the rest destroyed or taken. Meanwhile, a contingent of Orsus ships peeled off to Attack the remaining blockade in Shipbreaker Bay, relieving Storm's End at last with precious supplies. Robert's besieged fortress thus found hope anew.
In the hazy dawn, Harrold and his legionnaires gathered the last spoils from the Shield Islands. The Tyrell lords taken captive fumed in improvised dungeons, gleaning from each overheard snippet that war was shifting in the rebels' favor. With every glint of the sun off Harrold's illusions, with every foot of land the Tyrells had lost, the realm felt an unstoppable wave of rebellion sweeping forth.
Harrold stared across the calm sea. The Neptune rocked gently at anchor, sails half-furled. Far off, the watery horizon shimmered, an apt metaphor for an uncertain future. Despite their successes, the Crown Prince now marched with a royalist host, the Lannisters stirred near King's Landing, and Dorne's ten thousand men had yet to be tested. War had many heads left to rear.
Still, Harrold permitted himself a rare hint of a smile. This campaign accomplished its design: the Tyrell behemoth was scattered, their navy hobbled, their heartlands sacked. Storm's End breathed. The Allies—North, Riverlands, Vale, and Stormlands—held new momentum. Now, the war would hinge on battles yet to be fought, but at least the rebels had seized the initiative.
He turned to the nearest clone, voice low but determined. "Set course for the next front. The Crown's days are numbered. We'll see how they fare once Rhaegar finds none of his southwestern allies free to come at his call."
With that, the wind caught the catamaran's sails, and the Orsus vessels glided away, leaving the shield islands bristling with rebel banners. The Tyrells reeled from the blow, forced to focus inward while Robert Baratheon, Rickard Stark, and the rebel lords prepared for the culminating struggles—a realm in flux, with illusions, cunning, and unwavering ambition forging a new destiny for Westeros.
The stormy skies over the Shivering Sea had darkened into a brooding canopy as Harrold Gryffindor steered the Neptune toward the distant silhouette of King's Landing. The vessel's triple propellers churned the restless waves as if eager to deliver its precious—and perilous—cargo. Harrold's mind was heavy with the latest news: word had reached him that at the Ruby Fork, Robert Baratheon had decisively defeated the Crown Prince in battle. Victory for the rebels was within grasp, yet the path ahead was stained with betrayal and blood.
As the Neptune drew near the capital, a coded message lit up on Harrold's bracelet—a brief note from his agent in King's Landing—informing him that the Lannister forces, with their iron grip on the city, had sacked it mere hours before his expected arrival. The message was curt and grim, and Harrold's jaw tightened as he read it:
"King's Landing is being sacked by Lannister loyalists. The city burns."
Harrold met Rickard inside the city They surveyed the mayhem. Rickard's face, usually so stern and resolute, was drawn tight with grief and fury.
"They have turned the city into a slaughterhouse," Rickard spat bitterly, his eyes burning with an inner fire. "innocent people—are being trampled by Lannister arrogance."
Harrold's jaw set. "We cannot let this continue. We'll take the fight directly to them."
Harrold led his legionnaires onto the streets of King's Landing. Illusions shrouded their movements—ghostly figures that vanished into shadows—and the rebel forces, already enraged by the brutality and the loss of the city's dignity, surged forward with disciplined fury.
"Advance!" Harrold commanded, his voice echoing across the rubble-strewn lanes. "Take the streets—stop the sacking with every measure at our disposal!"
Rickard, beside him, roared, "No more bloodshed for the innocent! We will restore order here!"
In a matter of minutes, the rebel forces clashed with the Lannister loyalists. Swords rang against shields, crossbow bolts whistled through the smoky air, and magical wards glowed intermittently as spells were cast to subdue or disorient the enemy. Amid the chaos, the rebel soldiers carved a path through the tumult, their objective clear: to reach the throne room of the Red Keep, where the heart of the kingdom lay.
After a grueling street battle that stretched through narrow alleys and up precarious stairways, Harrold and Rickard, along with their contingent of hardened legionnaires, finally burst into the throne room. The great hall was dimly lit by torches that flickered against bloodstained banners and shattered relics of a once-majestic realm. At the center of the room, surprisingly calm amidst the turmoil, sat Jaime Lannister upon the Iron Throne, his golden hair disheveled, his eyes reflecting a mixture of arrogance and grim resignation.
The rebel forces paused in a tense standoff. Rickard's voice, heavy with wrath, boomed, "Jaime Lannister—your treachery has ended!"
Jaime's hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sword as he regarded the intruders. "I have done what I must for the realm," he replied coolly, his tone measured but edged with bitterness. "The King was mad—beyond reason. I had no choice."
Harrold stepped forward, his gaze unwavering. "Then explain to us, ser Jaime" Using subtle magic, he gently probe ser Jaime's mind and encouraged his to speak the full truth.
"Speak truth, or be forced to reveal it by other means."
The tension in King's Landing had reached a fever pitch after Jaime Lannister's confession—an admission that he had killed the mad king to save the city from the disastrous wildfire. Yet amid that grim revelation, far darker news had reached Harrold Gryffindor. It was whispered in trembling voices by his agents and confirmed in a bloodstained note: two Lannister knights, possibly under orders from lord Lannister, had brutally murdered Elia Martell and her children. That vile act was the final spark for Harrold's fury.
In a dim corridor of the Red Keep, the echoes of Jaime's trembling confession still resonated. Harrold had listened with a mixture of disdain and reluctant understanding as the would-be savior of the city laid bare the twisted rationale behind the king's death. Yet his mind was darkened further by the revelation of Elia Martell's massacre—a slaughter that had not only snuffed out innocent lives but had torn at the very fabric of honor and decency in the realm.
Without hesitation, Harrold gathered a select band of his fiercest warriors and set off through the labyrinthine back alleys of King's Landing. Cloaked by his powerful Notice-Me-Not wards and led by his unyielding determination, he hunted down the two knights responsible for the atrocity. Their names, now branded in his memory as instruments of unforgivable cruelty, echoed in his mind.
He found them in a deserted quarter, their armor still stained with fresh blood and their faces slack with the aftershocks of a recent skirmish. Before they could fully grasp that they were surrounded, Harrold lunged forward with his rune-enforced battle staff—a weapon pulsing with ancient power, capable of delivering blows that shattered shields and souls alike.
"By the old gods and the new," Harrold roared, his voice echoing off the narrow stone walls, "you dare spill innocent blood? Your crimes demand retribution!"
The knights barely had time to react. Harrold's staff arced in a series of brutal, calculated strikes. One blow, heavy and unyielding, crashed into the first knight's helm, splintering the metal and sending him reeling back into a heap of agony. The second knight attempted to parry, but was met with a swift combination of runic blasts and brutal physical strikes. Their defenses crumbled as Harrold unleashed his fury, each swing a manifestation of the righteous anger burning within him.
"Fight for your lives, you cowards!" Harrold bellowed, his eyes ablaze with a grim intensity. When the knights finally collapsed—blood pooling beneath them and their breaths shallow—Harrold spat on the cold stone floor, his disgust palpable.
"Take them away," he ordered sharply. "I want them removed from the city and guarded until I decide their fate."
His warriors swiftly bound the broken knights and loaded them onto a waiting dray. Harrold stood over their prone forms for a long, hard moment, his heart pounding with vengeance. He knew that their punishment was only the beginning of a much larger reckoning that the realm would soon face.
The war had scarred Westeros for too long, and Harrold Gryffindor, weary of endless bloodshed and the unyielding tide of betrayal, finally reached a decision. In the dim light of an early morning, aboard the Neptune as it lay anchored in a secluded cove near King's Landing, Harrold gathered his most trusted clones and officers. Their faces, lined with the fatigue of constant strife, reflected both loyalty and sorrow.
"Enough!" Harrold's voice thundered across the hushed deck, breaking the tentative calm. "We have waged war, exacted retribution, and dealt death to those who dared spill innocent blood. But this endless conflict brings only ruin upon us all."
A heavy silence followed, punctuated by the quiet shuffling of boots and the low murmur of agreement. Clone Myric, his eyes somber, stepped forward. "My lord, are you saying that you wish to disband the forces? After all these battles, you would have us return to our old stations?"
Harrold's gaze hardened, his features etched with a mixture of resolve and grief. "I have done what I can. The rebellion has claimed its due price. I cannot justify further bloodshed when the realm is already awash in sorrow. Our objectives have been met, and now, we must shift our focus to rebuilding, to protecting what remains of our honor."
He paused, letting his words sink in. "I hereby order the disbandment of our field forces. Each man and woman is to return to their respective stations—those in the North, report to Moat Cailin; those on the ships, anchor in their assigned harbors in Portsmouth or Orsus. Our war is over, and we must consolidate our strength and preserve what we have gained."
"First," he began, his tone measured and resolute, "I want the bodies of Elia Martell and her children to be treated with the respect they deserve. Cyric, take them to Dorne. They are to be delivered to the Martell family, with a sealed message declaring our intent: that justice for these innocents shall not be forgotten."
Cyric, standing at attention, bowed his head. "It shall be done, my lord. I will ensure that their remains are carried with the dignity of our fallen, and that Dorne receives them as a sign of our commitment to retribution."
Harrold continued, "Next, the two knights who executed these heinous acts—Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Amory Lorch—must be removed from our midst. They will be sent, under strict guard, to Dorne as well. Let the Martells or any Dornish authority decide their fate. Their treatment will serve as a message to all who dare defy justice in our presence."
A murmur of approval passed among the officers. One of the clones, his voice quiet but steady, said, "By sending them away, we remove their stain from our hands, and perhaps Dorne will enact the punishment they deem fit."
Harrold's eyes were steely as he issued the final command. "Once these orders are executed, I am leaving for Orsus. I must check on Lyanna—her safety is paramount, and I cannot let the Crown's treachery further disrupt our future. Let no man or woman doubt that my focus now shifts from war to ensuring that the seeds of peace and recovery take root. We have enough power here to reshape our destiny, but I must personally see to it that Lyanna is secure."
The officers nodded, and the disbandment orders were quickly communicated through the chain of command. The Neptune's crew, though battle-worn and grim, began preparing to send the specified vessels and detachments on their respective tasks.
The once tumultuous winds of rebellion had finally quieted. In the dim light of early dawn, as the embers of recent battles still smoldered on the streets of King's Landing, Harrold Gryffindor stood apart from his weary troops. The capture of Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Amory Lorch had marked a turning point—a brutal punctuation in a war that had drained too many lives and shattered countless hopes. Now, with the rebellion essentially won and the aftermath entrusted to Lord Rickard Stark, Lord Arryn, and the newly crowned King Robert Baratheon, Harrold felt that he had borne his share of the bloodshed.
In a secluded chamberr within a commandeered wing of King's Landing, Harrold arranged a private meeting with Lord Stark. The air was cool, and heavy silence reigned, punctuated only by the occasional distant clamor of battle repairs and the shuffling of soldiers preparing to depart.
Lord Stark, still bearing the solemn weight of his responsibilities as the North's guardian, greeted Harrold with a curt nod. His eyes—sharp and knowing—reflected both the grief of recent losses and the hardened resolve of a man who had seen too many winters.
"Harrold," Rickard began, his voice low and rough, "I've heard the news. Tell me, what is it you now propose?"
Harrold fixed Rickard with a steady, unyielding gaze. "My lord, I have had enough of this war. The rebellion has been won, and its brutal toll has been exacted. I leave the aftermath—the restructuring, the negotiations, and the retribution—to you, to Lord Arryn, and to King Robert. The task now is to see that all lords and lord paramounts officially bend the knee to our new king, establishing a true and lasting peace."
Rickard's face, lined with both exhaustion and wary hope, nodded slowly. "You speak of peace, yet the fires of dissent still burn, and the scars run deep."
Harrold sighed, a low sound carrying centuries of weariness. "Peace, as you call it, must be built on the foundation of order. We cannot be expected to continue fighting battles that have already been decided. My duty is shifting now. I have fought, bled, and exacted vengeance. I shall now take a different path."
Harrold paused, his eyes drifting to the corridor's narrow window where the first blush of dawn painted the sky. "I am going to leave King's Landing and return to Orsus. There, I will—" He hesitated, choosing his words carefully, "—attend to certain personal matters. Publicly, I shall say I am seeking out any remaining traces of Lyanna. That guise will allow me the freedom to depart without drawing undue attention or inviting further conflict."
Rickard's gaze narrowed, but behind the stern set of his features there was understanding. "You already know, Harrold, that I have been assured Lyanna is safe and hidden away. The girl is protected, though her fate weighs on us all. So your departure need not be seen as abandonment."
Harrold nodded gravely. "Precisely. My leaving is not an evasion of responsibility—it is a necessary step to consolidate our forces. With the rebellion won, I trust you, Lord Stark, will see to it that our allies—the Vale, the Stormlands, and the Riverlands—are bound to the new king through clear and unyielding oaths. They must bend the knee, not out of fear alone, but through a recognition of rightful order."
Rickard's eyes glistened with a mixture of regret and resolve. "I understand. The Northern people, and I, long for a time when the burden of war is lifted. Yet, if you leave now, know that your absence might cast a long shadow over our cause. The Iron Throne's misdeeds are many, and if we do not make a show of unity, the enemies will press us from all sides."
Harrold's tone grew firm. "I have done my part, Rickard. The battles are won, and now, the future depends on diplomacy and the forging of alliances. I cannot remain here to oversee every step. My task is to secure Lyanna's safety—by all means necessary—and then to lend my experience to the rebuilding of our realm. Until that day, I leave the burden of the Crown's aftermath to you and our new king."
Rickard sighed deeply, his expression reflecting the heaviness of leadership. "Very well, Harrold. I will ensure that our allies understand the necessity of this new order. We will negotiate with the Vale, call on our kin in the Stormlands, and press the Riverlands to yield the trade concessions required. Your departure, though painful, may indeed be the turning point that solidifies our cause."
Harrold extended a hand, which Rickard clasped with rough determination. "We stand together, even when separated. I promise you, my lord, that I will return once I have ensured that Lyanna is secure. In my absence, let our combined strength and the unity of our allies forge a future where the North and its loyal houses are finally free from the tyranny of the Crown."
Rickard's voice was heavy with unspoken sorrow and hope. "Then may the old gods and the new protect you, Harrold. Go, secure what must be secured. The North will hold, and together, we shall build a future brighter than any we have known."
Harrold offered a curt nod. "Remember, the time is ripe for change. Let the lords and lord paramounts bend the knee in honor of King Robert, and let no one question the authority of our new order. I leave now to see to Lyanna—using the guise of her search to cloak my true intentions. Do not interfere, for the moment, with the public narrative."
Rickard's eyes darkened with the weight of his own responsibilities, but he understood all too well. "I will do as you say, Harrold. The rebellion has borne fruit. Now, let us harvest that victory by ensuring that every noble house acknowledges our rightful king."
With the final council concluded and the air heavy with the promise of a new era, Harrold and his small retinue prepared to depart. The Neptune, its runic wards humming quietly, was already docked at the secluded port near King's Landing—a haven from the chaos of the city. Officers and soldiers gathered in disciplined silence waiting for Harrold's orders.
"Farewell, my friend," Rickard said quietly, his voice low enough for only Harrold to hear. "May the gods guide you, and may you return with Lyanna safe."
Harrold's reply was a solemn murmur. "I will, Rickard. And know this—I carry the North's honor with me, always. Until we meet again, let our new king rule with justice, and let our enemies know that our alliance is unbreakable."
With that, the vessel slipped silently from the harbor, carrying Harrold away toward the promise of Orsus, where he would search for Lyanna under the guise of an unending quest. The rebellion was won; now, the real work of securing peace—and exacting lasting justice—began.
AN – If you recognize anything, they don't belong to me. Please note that I am using AI to help me write the story. If the words, dialogue feel little off, that's the reason. I simply do not have the time, energy or the talent to write without AI. If I did, I would publish my own book. I am writing because it makes me happy and hope you will find it interesting. If not, there are plenty of other talented writers and many amazing stories to read.