Shattered Kingdoms
Chapter 7 - Lions and Flowers
Rain drummed softly against the canvas of the command tent. The storm had rolled in with nightfall, turning the ground around the Lannister camp near the Green Fork into a thick mire of mud and boot prints. The banners outside hung heavy with water, their gold and crimson muted in the dark.
Inside, beneath the dim glow of a lantern, Tywin Lannister stood before a long table strewn with maps, sealed letters, and a goblet of untouched wine. Across from him, Kevan waited in silence, watching as his brother read the parchment in his hand a second time.
"The king demands my return to King's Landing," Tywin said at last. His voice carried no emotion, only quiet contempt. "He wishes to question my actions."
Kevan frowned. "What are we going to do?"
Tywin set the parchment down upon the table and folded his hands behind his back. "We will go. My actions have certainly alienated me, but it changes nothing. We remain the richest house in Westeros. Coin can mend what words and honour cannot. I may have acted rashly, yes, and damaged relations with several houses, but gold is a patient ally. Time and silver can turn outrage into silence."
He moved around the table slowly, eyes fixed on the map. "Robert Baratheon will need that gold more than anyone. His crown rests on chaos. The rebellion is finished, but the realm bleeds. His allies are weary, his enemies unbroken. Goodwill and shared words will not hold his throne together. Jon Arryn can whisper peace and unity all he likes, but without coin to pay for order, his counsel is worth nothing."
Kevan nodded grimly. "So we march south."
Tywin inclined his head. "We do. The king demands I answer for what has been done, and I will. On my terms."
Kevan hesitated before speaking again. "And the North?"
Tywin's eyes drifted to the northern edge of the map. "They are shattered. Their armies scattered. Benjen Stark holds at Moat Cailin, but he commands only a fraction of what his brother did. They're digging in, preparing for a siege. I am loath to leave them there; it gives them time to recover, but I won't risk my strength against them now. Not while the rest of the realm waits to see which way the wind turns."
Kevan frowned. "You think Robert might move against us?"
Tywin's gaze sharpened. "He's a Baratheon. He's ruled by his temper. If Jon Arryn's tongue fails to soothe him, he'll convince himself that vengeance is justice. He'll forget what keeps his coffers full."
He reached for a clean parchment and set it before him. "Without the full might of the Westerlands behind me, I won't risk being caught between the North and the South. Over a third of the men in our ranks are not even our own; they're Riverlanders, Valesmen, Stormlanders. Men who fought beside us when confusion reigned in the capital. Their loyalties are uncertain. If Robert calls for war, I won't have half my army deciding they've changed sides."
Kevan's brow furrowed. "Then what do we do?"
Tywin dipped his quill in ink. "We prepare."
He began to write swiftly, the steady scratch of the quill cutting through the quiet. "I'll dispatch ravens to the Westerlands. Every house from Crakehall to Kayce will begin mustering. If Robert makes good on his threats, I want an army ready before his anger cools."
He pressed his seal into the wax and handed the letter to Kevan. "We leave within three days. The king demands answers; he'll have them."
Outside, thunder rolled across the sky, shaking the tent. Tywin's eyes remained fixed on the map, his fingers resting lightly upon King's Landing.
"The realm is chaos," he said quietly. "But chaos can be bought, Kevan. And House Lannister has never been poor."
He turned away from the table and extinguished the lantern. Only the sound of rain and the faint hiss of the wind remained.
-X-
The council chamber smelled of smoke and iron. Braziers burned low, and rain beat softly against the shuttered windows. The war had left the Red Keep quiet, too quiet.
Robert Baratheon sat slouched on the seat at the head of the chamber, one hand braced against his temple, the other clutching the haft of a half-empty goblet. His eyes were red-rimmed, though from grief or sleeplessness it was hard to tell.
Jon Arryn stood before him, scrolls in hand, the flickering light of the brazier glinting off the silver in his beard. For a long while, neither man spoke. The silence stretched until Robert let out a heavy breath that sounded almost like a groan.
"I want this war ended, Jon," Robert said. "Gods help me, I've had enough killing. I can still see him, the look on his face when he fell."
Jon bowed his head slightly. "Eddard Stark was your brother in all but blood."
Robert's knuckles whitened around the goblet. "Aye. And I killed him."
"You struck him down in anger," Jon said softly. "But remorse is not weakness, Robert. You feel the weight of what you've done. That is more than I can say for most kings."
Robert's laugh was bitter. "A king? I don't feel like one. The crown's heavier than my hammer ever was."
He rose, pacing before the throne, the sound of his boots echoing in the emptiness. "Lyanna's still out there somewhere, south of here. Every day I waste on councils and letters feels like a betrayal. But I can't just leave, can I?"
Jon's expression was grave. "You cannot. Not now. The realm hangs by threads. The Vale, the Riverlands, the Stormlands, they've all sworn fealty, yes, but their loyalties are uneasy. Our rebellion was born because we stood united behind you and Eddard. You were symbols of strength and honour. And now one of those symbols is gone."
Robert turned toward him, eyes burning. "You think I don't know that?"
"I think you do," Jon said evenly, "but I don't think you understand what it means. You killed one symbol that united the rebellion, and in doing so, tarnished and destroyed the symbol you represented. You still stand as a symbol, but not the kind that unites. You're a reminder of what's been lost. The lords follow you, but they look to one another for trust."
Robert said nothing for a time. Then he sank back into the throne, the firelight throwing deep shadows across his face. "Then what in the seven hells am I meant to do?"
Jon hesitated. "I wish I had an answer." He placed a scroll on the table beside him. "Storm's End still holds, but barely. Mace Tyrell's banners choke the roads. If the castle falls, the Reach will claim your homeland, and the loyalty of your lords will shatter completely."
Robert leaned forward. "Then I'll ride south and break them myself. The Tyrells have grown fat off others' wars."
Jon's voice was careful. "If Tywin Lannister marches south as you ordered, he may yet turn the balance. But if he refuses, if he chooses defiance… you'll have to decide which threat to face first. North or South. You can't divide your strength. Not now. Your army is tired, half of it still bleeding from the madness at King's Landing. If you split your forces, you'll lose both wars."
Robert's jaw clenched. "And if I wait? What then?"
"Then Tywin grows bolder," Jon replied. "He'll think your crown weaker than it is. And if you strike too soon, you'll lose what little loyalty you have left."
Robert slammed the goblet down. "Then what would you have me do, Jon?"
For once, the older man had no ready counsel. His shoulders sagged. "I don't know," he admitted. "The realm is too raw. There are too many fires to put out all at once."
Robert stared into the brazier's coals, his voice low. "You said Storm's End is starving."
"Yes."
"Then I'll march south," Robert said. "If Tywin's banners move that way, I'll meet him there. We'll drive out the Reach together. If he refuses—" His tone hardened. "Then I'll do it myself and crown Mace Tyrell with his own damned castle stones. Before I march and crush the Old Lion under my hammer."
Jon hesitated, then inclined his head. "That would be wise. If you secure the Stormlands, you'll quiet the lords of your homeland and show the realm your strength. Storm's End must hold. If it falls, the crown may as well fall with it."
Robert nodded slowly, the firelight catching in his dark hair. "And what of the rest? Dragonstone, Dorne, the Iron Islands, the North?"
Jon's answer was quiet. "We can't fight every battle at once. The Targaryen remnants still hold Dragonstone. Dorne mourns and simmers in silence. The Ironborn smell weakness, and what they will do remains uncertain. The North will sit behind its walls until it freezes. There are too many fires, Robert, and too few buckets to douse them."
Robert rubbed a hand over his face. "Gods, I miss Eddard. He'd have known what to do."
Jon's expression softened. "Then do what Eddard would have done, put duty before pride. Secure your home, win back your people, and the rest will follow."
For a long while, neither man spoke. The rain outside grew heavier, drumming like war drums against the stone. Robert looked to the crown on the table beside his seat, heavy, cold, and unpolished.
"It doesn't feel like victory," he said quietly.
Jon met his gaze. "It never does."
-X-
The feast outside Storm's End was a grand one, though the men who ate beneath the banners of House Tyrell had long grown weary of grandeur. The air smelled of rain, smoke, and salt. Beyond the tents, the sea crashed against the cliffs, and in the distance, the dark bulk of Storm's End loomed, its black stone walls defiant against the horizon.
Mace Tyrell sat beneath a canopy of green and gold, his plate piled high with roasted boar and bread. Musicians played softly nearby, though their tunes were half-drowned by the wind. The siege had dragged on for months now, but Mace made certain his camp never lacked for wine, food, or display. It was important, he often said, that a lord's men believe they were on the winning side.
But as he lifted his goblet, his smile faltered.
The reports from the wider realm had grown darker with each passing day. First, word had come that Rhaegar Targaryen had been slain on the Trident by Robert Baratheon himself. Then, before the ink on that missive had dried, came another; King's Landing had fallen. Tywin Lannister had sacked the city and delivered the bodies of Elia Martell and her children to the new "king" as tokens of loyalty.
At first, Mace had thought that would be the end of it. Robert Baratheon would claim the Iron Throne, the Targaryens would flee or burn, and the Reach would return to peace. He had even begun to consider his next move, how to secure his family's place in the new order.
Then came the news that shattered every plan he'd made.
Robert Baratheon had killed Eddard Stark.
The rebel host, once united under two banners, had turned upon itself at the gates of the capital. The North had broken away in fury, Tywin Lannister had crushed Benjen Stark's remaining army on the Kingsroad, and the Vale, Riverlands, and Stormlands had splintered into chaos. Every day since, new rumours have arrived. Whole alliances undone. Lords shifting sides. Battles breaking out across the countryside like wildfire.
It had been just over a week since Eddard's death, and yet it felt as if the entire realm were collapsing faster than Mace could follow.
He chewed slowly, eyes narrowing as he gazed out toward the fortress on the cliffs.
Storm's End still held.
Inside, Stannis Baratheon's garrison refused to surrender despite months of siege and starvation. Mace's patience had thinned long ago. But with so much unrest spreading beyond the Reach, he dared not move.
He turned to the map beside him, where small wooden markers showed the known state of the realm.
Dorne had declared independence. The Iron Islands too. The North would surely follow soon, if it hadn't already. The Riverlands and Vale had bent the knee to Robert, or so the ravens claimed, but even that allegiance was fragile. Only the Stormlands and the Westerlands still stood beneath the Iron Throne's banner, and even the Westerlands seemed to be on fragile footing.
For now.
Mace ran a hand through his thick curls, frowning. "The whole bloody realm's coming apart," he muttered.
But even in ruin, there was opportunity.
With chaos in every direction, there was no stronger army in Westeros than the one under his command. One hundred thousand men if he were to call on every levy. The largest host in the Seven Kingdoms. The lords of the Reach could move wherever he willed.
The Lannisters had gold, but their numbers were scattered. The Baratheons had a crown, but no unity. And the Targaryens, what remained of them, still clung to Dragonstone like barnacles on a dying ship.
There were choices to be made, and Mace Tyrell knew it.
He leaned back, fingers tapping against the arm of his chair. "If only Garlan or Willas were older," he said under his breath. "And gods curse me for not having a daughter. If I did, I'd have made her queen by now."
His wife, Lady Alerie, was pregnant again, and he prayed the gods would give him a girl this time. A queen would raise House Tyrell higher than it had ever been before.
But for now, that dream was only that, a dream.
The question remained: which side would offer him the most power when this chaos settled?
Robert Baratheon, the usurper king, had a throne that could collapse beneath him at any moment. The young Prince Viserys, last of the dragonspawn, might yet become a rallying point for loyalists. And if neither proved strong enough, well, the Reach could always stand alone.
The thought lingered in his mind like the taste of fine wine. King Mace the First. It had a pleasant sound.
But for now, no decision could be made. Not until he knew which way the wind was blowing, and Olenna would certainly have ideas of her own.
He turned back toward Storm's End, where the distant torches flickered along the battlements. The fortress still stood, stubborn as ever.
Mace raised his goblet, a faint smile returning to his lips. "Let them all tear each other apart," he murmured. "The roses bloom brightest when the weeds have been burned away."
He drank deep, the firelight dancing in his cup as the sea wind howled beyond the tents.
For now, House Tyrell would wait. Watch. And choose its moment.