Chapter 2: Forged in Grief, Tempered by the Sun
The months following the Lannisport incident were a strange blend of meticulous secrecy and intensified tutelage. Tywin Lannister, ever the pragmatist, had seen the undeniable. His son was not just gifted; he was… other. But in that otherness, Tywin saw not a threat to be quashed, but a weapon to be uniquely honed, an ace hidden up the crimson and gold sleeve of House Lannister.
Lyonel, for his part, leaned into his father's newfound, albeit wary, interest. He continued his accelerated studies with Maester Vorian, devouring texts on history, warfare, economics, and languages with an appetite that both astounded and slightly unnerved the old scholar. But his true education happened in private with Tywin. These were not formal lessons, but rather conversations, observations, and carefully orchestrated "tests."
Tywin would take him to the deepest levels of the Rock, ostensibly to inspect the gold mines. There, amidst the grime and the echoing clang of pickaxes, Tywin would point to a massive, newly excavated boulder. "Ser Clegane and three of his strongest men struggled to shift that this morning, Lyonel. They say it blocks a promising new vein." Gregor Clegane, a monstrously large and brutish knight newly sworn to Casterly Rock, was already a legend for his terrifying strength.
The implication was clear. Lyonel, basking in the ambient, if diffused, sunlight that filtered through strategically placed shafts (or sometimes, by the powerful glow of specially crafted large oil lanterns that seemed to mimic sunlight, a curious innovation Tywin had commissioned at great expense, though their effect was a pale imitation of the true sun), would assess the rock. He'd learned that even indirect sunlight, or strong, pure light that felt conceptually like sunlight, fed his power, albeit less dramatically than the direct celestial source.
Then, ensuring no prying eyes were present save his father's, he would approach the stone. He wouldn't transform into the mountainous demigod Escanor became at high noon; he was still a child, and his power, while immense for his age and far beyond mortal men, was still scaling. But his small frame would become imbued with a solidity, a density that defied its size. With a grunt that was surprisingly deep for his young vocal cords, he would push, or lift, or otherwise manipulate the obstacle in a way that would leave seasoned miners gaping, had they been there to witness it.
Tywin would watch, his face an impassive mask, occasionally jotting notes in a small, leather-bound ledger he kept hidden. "More leverage next time," he might say. Or, "Your stamina under prolonged exertion needs work. The gift is potent, but raw. It needs refinement."
The "gift," as Tywin insisted on calling it, was Lyonel's constant companion, a warm hum beneath his skin during daylight hours. He learned its rhythms intimately. The gentle awakening with the dawn, the steady crescendo towards the zenith of noon, where for a brief, glorious period, he felt nigh invincible, his senses razor-sharp, his mind brilliantly clear, his body brimming with an almost unbearable energy. Then, the slow, reluctant descent as the sun arced towards the horizon, leaving him in the evenings and at night feeling… diminished. Not weak in the conventional sense – his base intellect and developing physique were still formidable for a boy his age – but acutely aware of the absence of that solar fire. This nightly vulnerability was a stark reminder that he was not invincible, a lesson Marco Scarlatti had learned too late in his previous life.
His control was becoming exquisite. He could summon precise degrees of strength, enough to best any training master in the yard with a wooden sword without revealing the true, overwhelming force he could bring to bear. He learned to subtly influence his physical appearance when drawing on moderate power – a slight increase in muscle definition, a brighter glint in his eyes, an almost imperceptible aura of warmth and confidence that made people instinctively defer to him, even at his young age.
During this period, Joanna's pregnancy with Tyrion advanced. It was, as Lyonel knew from his future-knowledge, a difficult one. Joanna grew paler, more tired. Tywin, despite his cold exterior, spent more time with her, his usual brusque efficiency softened by a quiet concern that he rarely showed. Lyonel, witnessing this, felt a growing dread. He loved Joanna. Her kindness was a genuine light in the often-grim reality of Casterly Rock and his own calculating mind. She was, perhaps, the only person he allowed himself to be emotionally vulnerable with, in his own childlike way.
Marco Scarlatti, the ruthless pragmatist, warred with Lyonel, the son who adored his mother. Marco knew the historical outcome: Joanna dies, Tywin becomes colder, Tyrion is blamed. This was a fixed point, a catalyst for so much of the future conflict. To change it… the ripples would be immense. But the thought of losing Joanna, of seeing Tywin consumed by that grief and hatred, was a future Lyonel desperately wanted to avert.
"Mother, you should rest more," he'd say, climbing onto her chaise lounge, his small hand on her swollen belly. He'd subtly channel a tiny fraction of his solar energy, not in a burst of power, but as a gentle, warming thrum, hoping to soothe, to heal, if only in some small way. He didn't know if it had any real effect beyond a placebo, but Joanna would smile, her weariness momentarily lifting.
"My little lion, always so serious," she'd murmur, stroking his golden hair. "Don't you worry about me. Your brother or sister is just eager to join our pride."
He tried to influence Tywin. "Father, Maester Vorian seems capable, but perhaps a specialist from Oldtown? For Mother's confinement?" He knew of Maester Pycelle's reputation in King's Landing, but also of his sycophantic nature. He needed someone competent and loyal to House Lannister, not the Crown.
Tywin had looked at him sharply. "Maester Vorian has overseen all your births. He is competent." But Lyonel saw a flicker of doubt. Tywin was not a man to ignore potential risks to his lineage or his beloved wife, especially when voiced by his already unnervingly astute heir. Perhaps he did send for another maester, or perhaps Vorian redoubled his efforts, but the cloud over Joanna did not lift.
The day Tyrion was born was the darkest Lyonel had experienced in this new life, both literally and metaphorically. A fierce storm had raged for days, obscuring the sun, leaving Lyonel feeling drained, his powers at their lowest ebb. Casterly Rock, usually a beacon of gold and light, felt like a tomb, echoing with the crashes of thunder and the anxious whispers of servants.
Joanna's screams, muffled by stone walls, were a torment. Tywin paced his solar like a caged lion, his usual composure shattered, his face a mask of raw anguish Lyonel had never witnessed. He'd dismissed Lyonel earlier, but the boy, unable to bear the suspense, had crept back, hiding in the shadows of a tapestry near his father's study.
Hours passed. Then, a different kind of cry – the thin wail of a newborn. Followed by a chilling silence.
Maester Vorian finally emerged, his face ashen, his robes stained. He approached Tywin, his head bowed. "My Lord… a son. But…"
Tywin seized him by the robes. "Joanna?" His voice was a ragged whisper.
Vorian couldn't meet his eyes. "Lady Joanna… the gods have taken her, my Lord. The bleeding… I could not stop it. She was… too weak."
Lyonel felt something inside him shatter. A cold, hollow emptiness spread through his chest, a sensation far worse than the draining of his solar power. It was grief, raw and unfiltered, something Marco Scarlatti had buried deep long ago, but which Lyonel, the child, felt with devastating intensity. His vision blurred. He wanted to roar, to unleash the sun's fire, but there was no sun, only storm and sorrow, and a profound, aching helplessness.
He saw his father crumple. Not physically, but his spirit. The light in Tywin Lannister's eyes died that day, replaced by an icy bleakness that would never truly leave. He didn't rage, didn't weep. He simply stood there, his face like chiseled granite, before turning and striding towards Joanna's chambers.
Lyonel didn't follow. He knew what his father would find, what he himself would see if he went. He also knew what else lay in that room: Tyrion. The dwarf, the monster, the kinslayer-to-be, the cause, in Tywin's soon-to-be-twisted grief, of Joanna's death.
The days that followed were bleak. Casterly Rock was draped in mourning. Tywin secluded himself, emerging only to issue necessary orders, his voice flat, his eyes hard as emerald ice. He never visited the nursery where the squalling, misshapen infant lay. He barely looked at Cersei and Jaime, who were too young to understand the full extent of the tragedy but felt the oppressive sorrow that had enveloped their home.
Lyonel, however, did visit Tyrion. He had to see him. In a secluded nursery, attended by a wet nurse who looked perpetually terrified, lay the infant. He was, as the stories said, small and oddly proportioned, with the mismatched eyes that would become his trademark. Yet, looking at this tiny, helpless creature, Lyonel felt no revulsion. Only a profound sense of pity and a strange sort of kinship. Both of them were anomalies, freaks in their own way, though Lyonel's 'freakishness' was a source of immense power, while Tyrion's was, for now, a mark of shame in their father's eyes.
This is not your fault, Lyonel thought, his child's hand surprisingly gentle as he touched Tyrion's misshapen head. You did not ask for this. And neither did Mother. He knew the bitterness Tywin would harbor, the cruelty Tyrion would endure. He couldn't change Tywin's immediate grief-fueled reaction, but perhaps, in the long run, he could mitigate it. Tyrion, for all his flaws, possessed a keen intellect, a survivor's wit. An asset, if cultivated. Not a monster to be discarded.
Joanna's death changed Tywin's interactions with Lyonel. The subtle warmth that had sometimes touched their private discussions about Lyonel's "gift" vanished, replaced by an even more intense, almost brutal pragmatism. Lyonel was no longer just a promising heir; he was now Tywin's sole focus for the future glory of House Lannister, a future Joanna would not see. The responsibility Tywin placed on his young shoulders trebled.
"Your mother is gone," Tywin stated, not asked, a few weeks after the funeral. They were in the training yard. The sun was out, a weak winter sun, but enough for Lyonel to feel a measure of his strength. He was seven. "Grief is a weakness. We indulge it, we honor her memory, then we move on. House Lannister endures. You will ensure it."
His training became even more rigorous. Tywin procured masters-at-arms who were not merely skilled, but brutal. Men who would not coddle the Lord's heir. Lyonel, drawing on just enough of his solar strength to appear exceptionally gifted but not overtly supernatural, bested them all, one by one. His speed, his reflexes, his uncanny ability to anticipate moves were attributed to genius and relentless practice. Only Tywin knew a fraction of the truth.
He was also assigned to spend time with Ser Gregor Clegane, much to the Mountain's own confusion. "Observe him, Lyonel," Tywin had commanded. "Observe his savagery, his brute force. Understand how such a weapon can be used, and how it can be countered. But never emulate his mindlessness. Strength without intellect is a cudgel. Strength with intellect is a Valyrian steel blade."
Lyonel found Clegane repulsive, a barely sentient beast. But he obeyed. He watched the Mountain train, maiming sparring partners, his rages legendary. He saw the fear Clegane inspired and how Tywin used that fear. He also saw the vulnerabilities: Clegane was slow-witted, predictable in his fury. A useful hound, Lyonel cataloged, but one that needs a short leash and a strong hand.
His intellectual tutelage also sharpened. Tywin brought him into council meetings with his advisors, expecting him to listen, to absorb. Occasionally, Tywin would ask his opinion, and Lyonel, choosing his words with Marco Scarlatti's shrewdness, would offer insights that belied his years.
"The Reynes and Tarbecks grew too proud, too defiant," Tywin said one evening, recounting the fall of their rival Westerland houses, a story Lyonel knew by heart. "They forgot who the true lions of the West were. So, we made an example of them. An example that echoes to this day."
"An effective strategy, Father," Lyonel agreed, his gaze steady. It was nearing dusk, his power fading. "Fear is a powerful motivator. But does it not also breed resentment? A serpent, even one cowed, might still bite if it sees an opportunity."
Tywin's eyes narrowed. "And what would you suggest, wise son? That we shower our lessers with love and affection so they might adore us into obedience?"
"No, Father," Lyonel said calmly. "Fear has its place. But loyalty, true loyalty, bought not just with fear of retribution but with the promise of shared prosperity and justice, can be a stronger foundation. A shield, as well as a sword. The Reynes had wealth, but perhaps not the love of their own people. Did their smallfolk fight to the last for them, or did they welcome the lions who promised stability?"
Tywin was silent for a moment. "You have your mother's softness in you, sometimes." It wasn't necessarily a compliment.
"Perhaps," Lyonel conceded. "But even the hardest steel must be tempered, lest it become brittle. Mother understood that. She was the velvet glove to your iron fist." The words were out before he could stop them, a rare slip of sentiment.
A flicker of something – pain? Regret? – crossed Tywin's face, gone as quickly as it appeared. "Your mother… was unique. Do not mistake her kindness for weakness. She knew the value of a smile, yes, but also the necessity of a sharp claw." He paused. "Your point about loyalty is not without merit. But it is a luxury. Fear is a currency always accepted."
Despite this harsh outlook, Tywin began to give Lyonel small responsibilities. Reviewing trade manifests from Lannisport. Assessing petitions from minor lords. He was being groomed, not just as an heir, but as a future Hand, perhaps even more. Tywin was pouring all his frustrated ambition, all his hopes for the Lannister legacy, into this one exceptional son.
Lyonel, meanwhile, was playing a long game. He knew of Aerys Targaryen's growing paranoia, his obsession with fire, the whispers of madness. He knew of Rhaegar's charisma and martial prowess. He knew of the storm gathering on the horizon that would become Robert's Rebellion. His primary goal was to make House Lannister so powerful, so indispensable, that it could weather any storm, perhaps even direct its course.
His powers continued to grow. By age ten, at high noon, he could lift a small carriage with one hand. He could outrun a galloping horse for short distances. His eyesight was like a hawk's, his hearing capable of picking up whispers from across a crowded hall. He could feel the very texture of the sun's rays on his skin, drawing power from them like a plant. He also practiced drawing on the heat and light of large bonfires, discovering that intense mundane fire, while a vastly inferior substitute to the sun, could grant him a small, temporary boost, especially if he focused his will. It was nothing like Sunshine, but it was something for the night.
He kept this aspect secret even from Tywin. His father knew of the sun dependency; he did not need to know Lyonel was exploring ways to mitigate the night's weakening effect, however minor. Some advantages were best kept utterly to oneself.
His relationship with his younger siblings was… complex. Cersei, even at a young age, was vain, wilful, and possessed of a cunning cruelty. She adored Lyonel, seeing in him the powerful, handsome older brother who could give her anything she wanted. He, in turn, treated her with a careful affection, subtly trying to instill some measure of discipline or foresight into her, usually with little success. He knew her obsession with Jaime, already evident in their constant closeness, their secret language, their exclusion of others.
Jaime was different. He was charming, reckless, and already a prodigy with a sword, even without supernatural enhancement. He looked up to Lyonel with a hero-worship that was both endearing and a responsibility. Lyonel, in turn, saw in Jaime a kindred spirit in terms of martial aptitude, but also a worrying lack of ambition beyond the glory of combat and Cersei's approval.
"You should focus on your studies as much as your swordplay, Jaime," Lyonel would say, easily disarming his younger brother during one of their sun-drenched sparring sessions – sessions where Lyonel used only skill and a tiny fraction of his true speed and strength.
"Why? You're the smart one, Lyonel," Jaime would laugh, breathless. "And I'm going to be a knight of the Kingsguard! The greatest swordsman in Westeros!"
Lyonel would sigh internally. The Kingsguard. A gilded cage for a lion of your talents, little brother. And all for Cersei, and for a king who will misuse you. He knew he couldn't forbid it, not directly. But perhaps he could steer Jaime towards a path where his talents served House Lannister more directly.
One evening, as the sun bled crimson across the Sunset Sea, Lyonel, now twelve, stood on the highest balcony of Casterly Rock. He felt his power receding with the light, a familiar melancholy settling in. Below, the lights of Lannisport glittered like fallen stars. Ravens had brought news from King's Landing: King Aerys had named Tywin his Hand. His father would be leaving for the capital soon.
This was it. The next stage. Tywin in King's Landing, at the heart of the viper's nest. And Lyonel, soon to be the acting Lord of Casterly Rock in all but name, though his father would undoubtedly leave trusted castellans.
He remembered Marco Scarlatti, the power player, the kingpin. Marco had reveled in such games of intrigue and danger. Lyonel Lannister felt a similar thrill, but it was tempered now. He had more to protect, more to build than just a criminal empire. He was building a dynasty, a fortress against the coming storm.
He thought of Escanor, the Lion's Sin of Pride. "Pride" was often seen as a vice. But for Escanor, it was the source of his indomitable will, his refusal to yield, his power to protect those he cared for. Lyonel understood that now. His pride was not mere arrogance; it was a burning conviction in his own abilities, in the destiny of his House, and in his duty to shield it, to elevate it.
He would go with Tywin to King's Landing, of course. His father would want him there, to learn, to observe, to be another pair of Lannister eyes and ears. He would walk amongst the wolves, the snakes, and the fading dragons. He would meet Aerys, Rhaegar, Robert, Ned. He would see the seeds of rebellion being sown.
And he, Lyonel Lannister, the hidden sun of the West, would be ready. When noon came, his true noon, he would not be found wanting.
He flexed his hand, feeling the last vestiges of the day's power. Tomorrow, the sun would rise again, and so would he, stronger than before. The game was afoot, and he held cards no one else even knew existed. A slow, confident smile – Marco's shrewdness, Escanor's pride, Lyonel's resolve – spread across his face.
King's Landing awaited. And he, for one, couldn't wait to see what surprises it held, and what surprises he could bring to it. The Lion of Lannister was coming, and with him, the dawn of a new era, whether Westeros was ready for it or not.