Chapter 18: The Wolf in Chains, The Lions Confer
The victory at Tumblestone Cascade was more than a battle won; it was an earthquake that reshaped the landscape of the War of the Five Kings. The Young Wolf, Robb Stark, whose daring campaign had threatened to unravel the Lannister grip on the West, was now Lyonel Lannister's captive. The formidable Northern army that had followed him was a shattered remnant, its pride broken, its king in chains. News of this staggering Lannister triumph, carried by exhausted ravens and wide-eyed survivors, spread like wildfire across the Seven Kingdoms, sowing despair among their enemies and a chilling awe in all who heard it.
In the Westerlands, a near-religious fervor gripped the populace. Their lord, Lyonel, was not merely the Golden Lion, a champion of tourneys and a skilled commander; he was the Sun's Own Hand, wielder of a divine axe, a being of mythic power who had single-handedly turned back the tide of Northern aggression. Songs were already being composed, tales spun of how he had shattered the earth, commanded the very light of day, and scattered the fierce Northmen like chaff before a hurricane. This adulation, while strategically useful, also served to isolate Lyonel further, elevating him to a pedestal few dared approach without trepidation.
Lyonel, however, had little time for songs or adulation. The days following the battle were a whirlwind of activity. He oversaw the grim task of clearing the battlefield, tending to his own wounded, and processing the thousands of Northern prisoners. He ordered them treated humanely, a decision that surprised some of his more battle-hardened commanders but aligned with his evolving code – there was no honor in abusing defeated foes. Marco Scarlatti, however, ensured that all captured arms and armor were meticulously cataloged and absorbed into the Lannister arsenal, and that any highborn prisoners of value were identified for ransom or strategic exchange.
Robb Stark himself was confined to a heavily guarded but comfortable tent within Lyonel's own command encampment. The Young Wolf, though physically unharmed beyond bruises and the deep shock of his defeat, was a study in grim defiance. His grey Stark eyes, so like his late father's, held a burning resentment and a dawning, despairing understanding of the unnatural power he had faced.
Lyonel visited him once, a few days after the battle. The sun was high, and Lyonel, clad in simple but rich crimson tunic and breeches, Rhitta sheathed at his hip but its presence an undeniable weight in the tent, seemed to fill the space with a golden aura.
"King Robb," Lyonel greeted, his voice calm, devoid of triumph.
Robb, seated on a simple cot, looked up, his young face set in hard lines. "Lannister. Come to gloat?"
"Gloat? No," Lyonel said, taking a seat opposite him. "War is a grim business, little advanced by crowing over its casualties. I came to offer you a measure of comfort, and perhaps, a path to lessen the suffering of your people."
"My people suffer because of your father's tyranny, because your sister murdered my father!" Robb spat.
"My father acts to preserve the realm under King Joffrey, the rightful heir," Lyonel countered smoothly, though he knew the hollowness of those words. "Your father was executed for treason, a tragedy born of his own… misjudgments. But that is spilt blood. We cannot unspill it. We can, however, prevent more from being shed."
He leaned forward. "The North cannot win this war, Stark. Not now. Your army is broken, your king a captive. Bend the knee. Swear fealty to King Joffrey. Urge your bannermen to lay down their arms. In return, I will speak to my father, to the King, for leniency. For your life, and for the preservation of the North under Stark rule, albeit as Warden, not King."
Robb stared at him, his eyes blazing. "You ask me to betray everything my father died for? To bend my knee to the incest-born spawn of your sister and the Kingslayer?"
Lyonel sighed. The boy was as honor-bound and stubborn as Eddard. "Your pride does you credit, but it will be the death of your people. Consider my offer. For their sake, if not your own." He rose. "You will be treated with the respect due your station while you are my… guest."
Tywin Lannister arrived at Lyonel's camp ten days later, his personal retinue a small but formidable force of Lannister household knights. He had ridden hard from the Riverlands, leaving a portion of his army there under Ser Stafford Lannister to continue the siege of Riverrun and pacify the remaining Tully loyalists. The meeting between father and son took place in Lyonel's command tent, the same one where Lyonel had spoken with Robb. Tyrion, who had arrived a few days prior and was now firmly ensconced as Lyonel's chief advisor and intelligence master, was also present, a silent observer.
Tywin's face, as he entered, was an unreadable mask. He took in the sight of his eldest son, who seemed to radiate an even greater aura of power and confidence than before. He noted Rhitta, leaning against Lyonel's campaign chair, its golden head catching the sunlight that filtered through the tent flaps, seeming to pulse with a life of its own.
"Lyonel," Tywin said, his voice devoid of inflection. He did not offer praise, nor did he immediately address the battle. Instead, his gaze swept the tent. "You have him secure?"
"Robb Stark is well-guarded, Father," Lyonel replied. "He is defiant, but unharmed."
Tywin nodded slowly. "A king in chains. That is a powerful message." He finally looked directly at Lyonel, his green eyes, so like his son's, sharp and assessing. "The reports of your victory… they beggar belief. Tales of you shattering the earth, commanding the sun's fire, of this… axe…" He gestured towards Rhitta. "Explain."
Lyonel met his father's gaze without flinching. "There is little to explain beyond what you already know, Father. My strength comes from the sun. Rhitta amplifies it, channels it. At Tumblestone Cascade, the sun was at its zenith, and I wielded its full fury against our enemies. The Starks were not prepared for such a power."
"Such a power," Tywin repeated, his voice still flat. "A power that makes armies almost irrelevant. A power that could make a man… a god. Or a target for every ambitious fool and fearful priest in the Seven Kingdoms."
"It is a power that serves House Lannister," Lyonel stated, his voice firm, Escanor's pride ringing clear. "And I will not shy from using it to secure our dominance, our future."
Tyrion, watching from the corner, sipped his wine, his eyes darting between father and son. The tension was palpable. This was not just a Lord and his heir; this was a confrontation of two immense, yet different, forms of power.
Tywin was silent for a long moment. Then, a rare, almost imperceptible flicker of something – pride? fear? acceptance? – crossed his features. "Very well. You have won a victory that may well decide this war. But victory is not an end, Lyonel, it is a new beginning, with new challenges."
He turned to the campaign map spread on the table. "Robb Stark's capture neutralizes the North, for now. Catelyn Stark will likely seek to ransom him. We will make her bleed for it, in gold and concessions. But the greater threats remain. Stannis and Renly. Their armies are fresh, their claims to the throne plausible enough to gather support."
"Renly has the numbers, the Tyrell alliance, and the love of the smallfolk," Tyrion interjected, emboldened by Lyonel's presence. "Stannis has the better claim, a grim resolve, and, if rumor serves, a red priestess who whispers dark sorceries in his ear."
Lyonel nodded. "Melisandre of Asshai. My agents in the East have reported on her growing influence over Stannis. She speaks of a 'Prince That Was Promised,' of a war between light and darkness. She is dangerous." This was another piece of the prophecy puzzle, another contender for the "Son of Fire," perhaps, or a herald of the "Night's despair."
"Sorcery," Tywin scoffed, though his eyes flickered towards Rhitta, a silent acknowledgment that the world was perhaps stranger than his pragmatic mind preferred. "We will deal with Stannis and his red witch in due course. Renly is the more immediate threat. His host is vast. If he marches on King's Landing, Joffrey's crown will not sit easy."
"So, we march east?" Lyonel asked. "To confront Renly? Or do we focus on King's Landing, secure Joffrey's position, and force the Baratheon brothers to come to us?"
"We do both," Tywin declared. "I will take the bulk of our forces, join with my army in the Riverlands, and prepare to meet whichever Baratheon blunders into my path first. You, Lyonel, will take a strong contingent, including your Lion's Pride and any men personally loyal to you and your… methods. You will march to King's Landing."
Lyonel raised an eyebrow. "To King's Landing? To play nursemaid to Joffrey and Cersei?"
"To be the Lion at the gates," Tywin corrected, his eyes glinting. "Your presence there, the legend of your power, the fear Rhitta inspires – it will be a greater defense for Joffrey than any wall or army. It will give Stannis and Renly pause. It will remind all who is the true power behind the Iron Throne. And," he added, his voice dropping slightly, "it will allow you to ensure Cersei and that vicious little fool Joffrey do not entirely undo our gains with their incompetence."
It was a shrewd move. Lyonel, in King's Landing, would be a symbol of Lannister might, a deterrent to their enemies, and a check on Joffrey's excesses. He would also be at the heart of the political game, where his Marco Scarlatti intellect could be put to greater use.
"And Robb Stark?" Lyonel asked.
"He comes with you to King's Landing," Tywin decided. "A king in a cage, paraded through the capital. It will break the spirit of his remaining loyalists. And it will serve as a constant reminder to our enemies of the price of defiance."
Lyonel considered this. Parading Robb Stark was a humiliation, a move designed to provoke. But it was also undeniably effective from a psychological warfare perspective. His Escanor-like pride felt a twinge of distaste at such a display against a defeated foe, but Marco Scarlatti acknowledged its brutal utility.
"As you command, Father," Lyonel said. "I will ensure King's Landing remains firmly within the Lion's grasp." He would also use his time in the capital to further his own, longer-term agendas, particularly his investigation into the "Night's despair." The Red Keep's library, and Varys's networks, might hold clues.
The new Lannister strategy was set. Tywin would command the main field army, ready to crush either Stannis or Renly. Lyonel, with an elite force and his captive king, would march to King's Landing to secure the capital and project Lannister power. Tyrion would accompany Lyonel, his official role undefined, but his unofficial one as Lyonel's advisor, spymaster, and confidante now firmly established.
As Tywin prepared to depart for the Riverlands, he had one final, private word with Lyonel, away from even Tyrion's ears.
"This axe of yours, Lyonel," Tywin said, his voice low, his gaze intense. "This power you wield. It is… beyond my understanding. But I understand strength. And you are now, perhaps, the strongest single entity in the Seven Kingdoms." He paused. "Use it wisely. Use it for House Lannister. Do not let it consume you. Do not let this… 'pride' you speak of lead you into reckless folly. We are Lannisters. We are lions. We do not bow, not even to gods or destiny, unless it serves our purpose."
"My pride is the source of my strength, Father," Lyonel replied, his hand resting on Rhitta's haft. "And my strength will always serve our House. But I will serve it in my own way. The Lion of the Sun walks its own path."
Tywin held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded curtly. "See that it does."
The tides of war had shifted dramatically. The Young Wolf was in chains. The Lions, father and son, were ascendant, their plans bold, their power undeniable. Lyonel Lannister, wielder of Rhitta, champion of the Sun, prepared to march on the capital, not just as a conqueror, but as a harbinger of a new order, an order he intended to shape, an order that would ultimately, he hoped, prepare Westeros for the true darkness that lay beyond its petty squabbles for a throne of swords. The game was far from over, but the Golden Lion had just made its most devastating move yet.