Night had never truly fallen over Casterly Rock.
Whether dawn's pale glow or midnight's deepest shade, no corner of the great stone fortress was ever allowed to remain in darkness. The Lannisters—lords of gold, lions of the West—did not tolerate shadows. Servants moved in quiet, constant rhythm through every corridor, replacing candles the moment their flames began to flicker. New scented candles were lit with practiced ease, filling the halls with a faint aroma of myrrh and citrus.
Seen from the sea far below, the towering castle carved into the cliff looked like a massive beacon burning against the night sky—an eternal lighthouse crowned with gold.
The sky outside was a deep, clear blue, the moon hanging high like a silver coin. Waves crashed relentlessly against the cliffside, their foamy roar traveling upward through the stone.
A soft thump—thump—thump broke the quiet.
It was not loud, nor forceful, but gentle… almost timid. As though the visitor feared disturbing the one inside.
"Tywin…?" a voice called in a hushed tone, laced with unusual restraint.
The knocking halted, and for a moment the silence returned—heavy, suspenseful.
Then came the reply from within, cold and steady as forged steel.
"Come in, brother."
Kevan Lannister released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. With a small nod to himself, he pushed open the gilded vermilion door just enough to slip inside.
The vast chamber swallowed him whole.
Rows upon rows of gleaming armor stood lined along the walls and across towering platforms. Knightly armor, lordly armor, ceremonial armor—each set crafted with meticulous artistry, adorned with gemstones, gold filigree, or roaring lions sculpted in bronze. Under the warm candlelight, they shimmered like an army of silent guardians.
This was the Hall of Heroes.
The resting place of honored Lannisters: knights who fell in battle, lords who ruled with pride, and kings whose gold once shaped Westeros. Here, the grandeur of past glory lingered like a ghostly echo.
It was a graveyard built of memory and pride.
A deep, rhythmic rumble vibrated through the stone beneath Kevan's feet—sea waves pounding into cavern chambers hidden under the castle. To some, the sound resembled lamentation, like the cries of old heroes mourning from below.
But Kevan did not hear sorrow.
He heard a silence sharpened with unease.
He stepped no further than the doorway, aware of the weight of the place. His eyes slowly lifted toward the solitary figure standing by the window, bathed in moonlight.
"Tywin," he called quietly.
The man did not turn at first.
Tywin Lannister—the Warden of the West, Lord of Casterly Rock, and Shield of Lannisport—stood tall and rigid, looking out over the moonlit expanse of ocean. Dressed in a deep crimson velvet jacket embroidered with golden lions so vividly detailed they seemed alive, he resembled a statue carved from cold authority itself.
His bald head gleamed faintly under the candles, framed only by thick golden sideburns and a short, well-kept beard. His pale green eyes reflected the moon's brilliance and the vast darkness of the sea.
"Are the preparations complete?" Tywin asked at last, his voice calm, unhurried, and utterly emotionless.
"All families sworn to House Lannister have arrived," Kevan answered with a respectful bow, his armor clinking softly. "They have declared their readiness to face anything."
Another wave crashed below, its muffled growl filling the chamber.
Yet Tywin did not react. He did not blink, barely seemed to breathe—still focused on the distant horizon as though seeking answers within the moonlight.
The Hall of Heroes fell into an oppressive stillness.
Kevan's unease grew heavier with each heartbeat. His armor felt tighter, his throat drier. This silence—this waiting—felt far more suffocating than any battlefield.
Time stretched. Minutes? Hours? He couldn't tell.
Finally, Tywin spoke.
"Brother… our family motto is 'Hear Me Roar.'"
He paused. "Yet the words most spoken outside these walls are… 'A Lannister always pays his debts.'"
He let the phrase hang in the air.
"So tell me, Kevan. How should we answer this crisis? I want to hear your thoughts."
Kevan blinked in surprise. Tywin Lannister rarely asked for opinions—least of all at such a moment.
Gathering himself, Kevan stepped forward, armored boots ringing sharply across the stone floor. He walked to Tywin's side, helmet tucked beneath his arm, sword strapped at his waist. Each step echoed like a grim drumbeat.
"I do not yet know what course we should take," Kevan admitted honestly. "But I know one thing—we are ready. We have always been ready, since the days of the Targaryen kings."
Tywin finally turned his gaze from the window.
And Kevan froze.
In Tywin's right hand—resting as though casually held—was a drawn longsword, its blade reflecting the flickering candlelight with a cold gleam. Kevan hadn't noticed it in the dimness; Tywin had been using it like a cane.
Realizing his oversight, Kevan bowed deeper and dropped to one knee before his brother.
Tywin watched him silently, his pale green eyes unreadable. For a brief moment, something flickered in their depths—an emotion Kevan could not identify.
Then Tywin shook his head.
"No," he said firmly. "You are mistaken, Kevan. We have never been ready."
Kevan looked up, startled.
"It was that way when Robert seized the Iron Throne," Tywin continued. "And it remains that way now."
Kevan opened his mouth—but Tywin cut him off with a sharp gesture.
"You know as well as I do, brother," Tywin said, his voice low and cold, "we cannot stand against so many enemies."
"The jackals have smelt blood. They circle, waiting for us to stumble. They wish to see House Lannister trampled into the dirt—forgotten, annihilated, reduced to a footnote in some dusty chronicle."
His voice hardened.
"They have always been there. They were simply waiting for the right moment."
Kevan clenched his fists. "But—"
Tywin stopped him again.
Then he did something Kevan did not expect—he offered him a hand and helped him rise from the ground.
Sword still in hand, Tywin walked toward the door of the Hall of Heroes.
"We must be more cautious now than ever before," he said as he walked, his footsteps echoing through the vast chamber. "The Lannister bloodline traces back to the Age of Heroes. We cannot allow it to be extinguished."
He reached the heavy doors, pulled them open, and a sharp gust of night wind swept into the chamber, rippling the candle flames.
"Jaime and Cersei were executed by Robert," Tywin said without turning. The words were smooth, calm—too calm. "But the fall of two lions does not mean the end of the pride."
Kevan swallowed hard at the mention of his niece and nephew.
"Our purpose is not merely to survive," Tywin continued. "Our purpose is to endure. To preserve our name, our legacy, our dominion."
He stepped forward, turning his head just enough for Kevan to see the fire burning in his pale green eyes.
"Defeat is not an option."
His voice rose—not in anger, but in absolute certainty.
"We must continue our line. We must guard our legacy. We must seize whatever we must seize, take whatever must be taken, and if necessary—reshape this kingdom."
He pointed his sword downward, the blade gleaming with deadly promise.
"We will not bow our heads and become prey."
Tywin turned fully now, facing his brother as the wind surged behind him. The candle flames danced wildly, casting lion-shaped shadows across the armor behind them.
"Remember who we are, Kevan."
"We are lions."
His voice rose like a roar shaking the hall of the dead.
"And the world will hear us."
Then, with iron conviction, he declared—
"A Lannister always pays his debts!"
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