Chapter 6: The Gilded Chains and the Lion's Retreat
The journey back to King's Landing from Storm's End was a somber affair, a stark contrast to the triumphant departure from the tourney. The cheers for Lyonel, the 'Golden Lion,' still echoed faintly in their memories, but they were overshadowed by the grim reality of Tywin Lannister's decision. Lord Steffon Baratheon's tragic end had been a storm, but King Aerys's latest move against his Hand felt like the tremor before an earthquake.
Tywin rode in silence, his face a granite mask. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper, etched by years of thankless service and now, a profound, personal betrayal. Aerys had not just slighted him; he had stolen a crucial piece of his legacy, chaining Jaime to a lifetime of celibate service, a pretty boy in a white cloak, forever barred from inheriting Casterly Rock. It was a masterful stroke of political malice, designed to cripple the Lannister line of succession as Tywin envisioned it.
Lyonel, riding beside his father, felt the oppressive weight of the unspoken. He, the eldest, was the heir, yes. But Tywin had always planned for a broader dynasty, with Jaime to secure the main seat and Lyonel, perhaps, to forge new paths, or serve as a uniquely powerful Hand to a future, wiser king. Now, the burden on Lyonel's shoulders intensified. He was not just the heir to Casterly Rock; he was rapidly becoming the central pillar of Tywin's hopes for the enduring glory of House Lannister. The sun, a constant companion on their travels south, blazed down, its energy flowing into Lyonel, a familiar comfort. Yet, even its potent warmth could not entirely dispel the chill that Aerys's actions had cast.
Marco Scarlatti, the calculating mind within, analyzed the situation with cold precision. Aerys was accelerating his own demise. This move against Tywin would not be forgotten or forgiven. The Lannisters, once the staunchest supporters of the Iron Throne, were being pushed away, their immense wealth and power potentially up for grabs by wiser political players. Or, Marco thought, to be wielded by a more decisive Lannister leadership when the inevitable chaos erupted.
Upon their arrival in King's Landing, the air in the Red Keep was thick with anticipation and fear. News of Tywin's impending resignation, coupled with Jaime's imminent elevation to the Kingsguard, had spread like wildfire – an apt metaphor in Aerys's court. Varys's little birds had clearly been busy.
The ceremony for Jaime's investiture was held in the throne room, a grand, hollow spectacle orchestrated by Aerys to maximize Tywin's humiliation. The King, dressed in extravagant black and red, looked more unhinged than ever, his eyes glittering with triumph, his long fingernails tapping restlessly on the arms of the Iron Throne. Queen Rhaella sat beside him, pale and worn, her eyes holding a familiar sadness. Prince Rhaegar was present, his handsome face impassive, though Lyonel detected a hint of discomfort in his indigo eyes as he glanced towards Tywin.
Jaime Lannister, barely fifteen, was a radiant figure in his new, pristine white cloak and armor. He knelt before Aerys, his golden hair gleaming, his face alight with youthful pride and the thrill of achieving his lifelong dream. He looked every inch the hero from the songs, oblivious, it seemed, to the venomous currents swirling around him.
Tywin stood with Lyonel, his expression unreadable, watching his second son swear the sacred vows, renouncing lands, titles, wife, and children. Each word was a hammer blow against Tywin's dynastic ambitions. Lyonel felt a pang of pity for his father, and a strange mix of pride and concern for Jaime. His brother was now bound to a madman, a gilded chain for a young lion.
Later, Lyonel found Jaime in the White Sword Tower, already settling into his new, spartan quarters.
"Congratulations, brother," Lyonel said, his voice carefully neutral. The noon sun, streaming through a high, narrow window, cast a single, bright shaft of light into the room, illuminating Jaime's ecstatic face. Lyonel himself felt the power of that beam, a small but potent connection to his source.
"Lyonel!" Jaime grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. "Can you believe it? Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard! The youngest ever, they say!"
"It is a great honor," Lyonel acknowledged. "You've earned it with your skill. But it is also a great burden. You serve at the King's pleasure. And His Grace… is not always pleased."
Jaime's smile faltered slightly. "The King has always been… eccentric. But Ser Barristan, Ser Gerold… they are men of honor. I will learn from them. I will protect the innocent, defend the King…"
And what if the King is the one from whom the innocent need protecting? Lyonel thought, but did not say. "Serve well, Jaime. With honor. Make our House proud, even in white."
"I will," Jaime said, his confidence returning. "Though Father… he did not look pleased."
"Father had other plans for you," Lyonel said gently. "But this is your path. Walk it with strength." He knew Cersei would be devastated and furious in a different way – Jaime would be far from her, and his Kingsguard vows precluded any future she might have fantasized about with him. That was a storm brewing back at Casterly Rock.
The next day, Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and for nearly two decades the Hand of the King, strode into the throne room. Lyonel walked beside him, a silent sentinel. There was no grand pronouncement, no angry outburst. Tywin simply approached the Iron Throne, unpinned the golden badge of office from his crimson doublet, and laid it on the steps before Aerys.
"Your Grace," Tywin said, his voice devoid of all emotion. "I have served to the best of my ability. I now request your leave to return to my own lands and attend to the affairs of House Lannister. I hereby resign my office as Hand of the King."
Aerys stared at the badge, then at Tywin, a slow, cruel smile spreading across his thin lips. "Resign, Lord Tywin? After all I have done for you? After I have honored your House by taking your son into my personal guard?" His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Very well. If the burdens of office are too heavy for your old shoulders, then go. Run back to your Rock, Lord Lannister. Count your gold. The Realm will not miss your… services." He gestured dismissively. "Leave us."
The insult was blatant, the dismissal contemptuous. Courtiers exchanged nervous glances. This was an unprecedented moment. Tywin Lannister, the proudest lord in Westeros, publicly humiliated.
Tywin merely inclined his head. "Your Grace." Without another word, he turned and walked from the throne room, Lyonel at his side. The silence that followed their departure was deafening.
The withdrawal from King's Landing was swift and efficient, a testament to Lannister organization. Within days, wagons laden with their possessions, strongboxes filled with personal wealth (the Lannister coffers at Casterly Rock were, of course, untouched and untouchable by the Crown), and a formidable retinue of guards and servants were ready. Lyonel oversaw much of the logistics, his Marco Scarlatti mind ensuring nothing was overlooked, no vulnerability exposed. He moved through the Red Keep with a quiet confidence, the ambient sunlight of early autumn fueling his senses, making him preternaturally aware of the spies who watched their every move, the whispers that followed them.
He had a brief, formal farewell with Ser Barristan Selmy. "Serve your King well, Ser Barristan," Lyonel said. "Someone must."
The old knight looked at him, his eyes troubled. "And you, young lord? Where will your path lead?"
"To my home, Ser. To my duties." Lyonel offered his hand. "May we meet again in better times."
Varys materialized one last time as Lyonel was supervising the loading of his father's personal armor. "Leaving so soon, Lord Lyonel? Just when King's Landing was becoming… accustomed to your brilliance."
"Even the brightest stars must set, Master Varys," Lyonel replied, "if only to rise again elsewhere. The West has been without its Lord Paramount for too long."
"Indeed," Varys said, his eyes unreadable. "The political climate is so… volatile. One might say a storm is brewing. And storms have a way of changing landscapes, wouldn't you agree?"
"Storms also reveal the strongest trees, and wash away the rot, Master Varys," Lyonel countered, holding the eunuch's gaze. "Farewell."
The journey west was a release. With every league they put between themselves and King's Landing, Lyonel felt the oppressive atmosphere of the Red Keep lift. The open road, the vast sky, the sun on his face – it was invigorating. Tywin, freed from the daily torment of Aerys's madness, seemed to shed years. He spoke more freely with Lyonel, discussing the state of the Westerlands, the strength of their bannermen, the economic engines of Lannisport and the gold mines.
"Aerys has overplayed his hand," Tywin stated one evening as they camped by the Blackwater Rush, its waters flowing west towards the sea. "He sought to diminish us, but he has only unleashed us. While I was Hand, I served the Realm. Now, I serve only House Lannister."
"And what is our strategy, Father?" Lyonel asked, the dying sun painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, his own power gently ebbing with the light.
"We consolidate. We build. We watch," Tywin said, his eyes like chips of green ice in the firelight. "Aerys will not last. His madness will consume him, or the realm will consume him. When that time comes, House Lannister will be ready. We will owe no man our loyalty, save ourselves. We will choose our own path, dictate our own terms."
"And if Rhaegar succeeds him?" Lyonel probed.
Tywin snorted. "The poet prince? He has the love of the smallfolk and the songs of the minstrels. But does he have the steel to rule? To make the hard choices? I doubt it. He is his mother's son, not his father's in the ways that matter for a king."
Lyonel listened, absorbing his father's cold pragmatism, comparing it with Marco's street-smart ruthlessness and Escanor's proud declarations. He was a blend of all three, something new, something formidable. He would need all of it in the years to come. He knew Robert's Rebellion was not far off. The pieces were falling into place: Aerys's tyranny, Rhaegar's abduction of Lyanna Stark (an event yet to occur, but one he anticipated with dread certainty), the fury of Robert Baratheon and the honor of Ned Stark. The Lannisters, by withdrawing now, were positioning themselves perfectly to be the kingmakers, or at least the power brokers, in the coming conflict.
The sight of Casterly Rock, rising sheer and golden from the Sunset Sea, was a balm to Lyonel's soul. After the claustrophobic confines and treacherous intrigues of King's Landing, the raw power and ancient majesty of his ancestral home felt like a true homecoming. The air was clean, salty, and invigorating. The sun, reflecting off the sea and the golden stone, seemed to embrace him, infusing him with a strength and clarity he hadn't felt in years.
Their arrival was met with pomp and circumstance by the lords of the West, eager to welcome their Lord Paramount home. But the true reunion was within the Rock's private chambers.
Cersei, now a stunning young woman of sixteen, her beauty as radiant as her ambition was fierce, greeted them with a mixture of joy at their return and simmering fury. "Jaime?" was her first question, her green eyes flashing. "He's truly taken the white? He's abandoned us? Abandoned me?"
"Jaime has chosen his own path, daughter," Tywin said, his voice firm. "He serves in the Kingsguard. It is done."
Cersei's face crumpled, then hardened into a mask of cold anger. She turned to Lyonel. "And you, brother? Champion of Storm's End? Did you not try to stop this? You could have spoken to him, to Father!"
"Jaime made his choice, Cersei," Lyonel said gently, though he knew his words would do little to soothe her possessive rage. "And Father made his. We are home now. That is what matters."
And then there was Tyrion.
His youngest brother was now a boy of eight, almost nine. He was, as foretold, a dwarf, his legs stunted, his head overly large, his mismatched green and black eyes holding an intelligence and a deep, weary cynicism that was far too old for his years. He stood apart, observing them with a quiet intensity.
When Lyonel approached him, Tyrion looked up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. Most of the family, especially Tywin and Cersei, largely ignored him or treated him with contempt.
"Brother," Lyonel greeted, offering a rare, genuine smile. He knelt, bringing himself closer to Tyrion's eye level. The midday sun streamed through a high window in the solar, bathing them both in its light. Lyonel felt his power peak, a comfortable, familiar warmth. "You've grown."
Tyrion blinked, then a wry, crooked smile touched his lips. "As much as I'm able, brother. Welcome home. King's Landing did not devour you, I see. Or perhaps it spat you back out, finding Lannisters too indigestible."
Lyonel chuckled. "Something like that. It is good to be home, Tyrion. I trust your studies progress well?"
"Maester Creylen says I read too many unsuitable books," Tyrion said, a glint of mischief in his mismatched eyes. "But then, what is suitable for a monster, I wonder?"
The casual bitterness in his tone struck Lyonel. "You are not a monster, Tyrion," he said, his voice firm, meeting his younger brother's gaze. "You are a Lannister. My brother. Do not ever forget that."
For a moment, Tyrion's cynicism wavered, replaced by a raw vulnerability. Then it was gone, the mask back in place. "Your words are kinder than most, brother. I shall endeavor to remember them."
With their return to Casterly Rock, a new chapter began. Tywin Lannister, freed from the shackles of the Handship, turned his formidable energies to the governance of the Westerlands, his rule more absolute, more focused than ever. And Lyonel stepped into his role as heir apparent, not just in name, but in deed.
Tywin entrusted him with increasing responsibilities. He oversaw the operations of the gold mines, using Marco Scarlatti's business acumen to streamline production and increase yields. He sat in on his father's councils, his strategic insights proving invaluable. He rode circuit through the Westerlands, dispensing justice, inspecting defenses, and cultivating relationships with their bannermen, his martial reputation from Storm's End preceding him, his quiet authority earning their respect.
He trained constantly, pushing the boundaries of his Escanor-given powers in the secluded training grounds of the Rock, or during hunts in the vast Lannister lands. At noon, under the bright Westerlands sun, his strength was truly colossal, his speed blinding. He could spar with a dozen hardened knights simultaneously and emerge untouched. He learned to channel his solar energy into his strikes, making his blows with sword or fist devastatingly potent, even when holding back the full, transformative might of "The One." He was forging himself into the ultimate weapon, a hidden power that House Lannister could unleash when the time was right.
The years in King's Landing had taught him much. He had seen the decay at the heart of the realm, witnessed the madness of kings, and understood the brutal calculus of power. Marco Scarlatti, the street-smart survivor, knew that a storm was coming. Lyonel Lannister, the Golden Lion of the Rock, with the secret fire of the sun burning within him, was preparing to meet it. He would protect his House, his family – even Tyrion, the despised, and Cersei, the ambitious, and Jaime, the gilded prisoner. They were his pride, in the truest sense of the word. And for his pride, the Lion would do anything.
The Lion had retreated to his den, but he was not sleeping. He was sharpening his claws, gathering his strength, watching, and waiting. And when the moment came, all of Westeros would hear his roar.