Chapter 5: Whispers of Madness and a Tourney's Gleam
The aftermath of Duskendale settled over King's Landing not as a blanket of peace, but as a suffocating shroud of fear. Tywin Lannister had proven his merciless efficiency, yet instead of solidifying his position, it seemed only to deepen the chasm between himself and the King. Aerys Targaryen, Second of His Name, descended further into the labyrinth of his own paranoia, each success of his Hand perceived as a personal affront, a diminishing of his own royal radiance.
The Red Keep became a place of hushed whispers and darting eyes. The scent of woodsmoke from the pyres at Duskendale still seemed to cling to the Lannister crimson, a constant reminder of the Hand's grim justice. But now, another scent began to permeate the royal halls – the acrid, chemical tang of wildfire. Aerys had become enamored with the substance, spending hours with his pyromancers, his laughter echoing eerily during their demonstrations. He spoke often of "cleansing by fire," his eyes gleaming with an unnatural fervour that made even hardened courtiers shudder.
Tywin bore the escalating madness with a stoicism that was almost inhuman. He continued to govern, to manage the realm's finances, to dispense justice, but the joy of the task, if there ever had been any, was long gone. His face, always stern, seemed permanently etched in lines of frustration and weary resolve. Lyonel, now seventeen and a constant presence by his father's side, witnessed the daily slights, the King's erratic decrees often countermanding sensible policies, the public humiliations Tywin endured with gritted teeth.
"Your father builds, and the King tears down," Varys, the Master of Whisperers, murmured to Lyonel one evening in a shadowy alcove, his powdered hands clasped before him. The eunuch had a way of materializing when least expected. "A Sisyphean task, for even a lion of Lannister."
Lyonel, whose Escanor-enhanced senses picked up Varys's subtle scent of lavender and something else, something unidentifiable and faintly unsettling, long before he saw him, merely inclined his head. "The King is unwell, Lord Varys. My father serves the Realm, as is his duty." He knew Varys was fishing, perhaps for an indiscretion, a hint of Lannister discontent. Marco Scarlatti had dealt with informants and spies his entire life; he recognized the game.
"Indeed," Varys smiled, a bland, knowing expression. "And how fares the Young Lion in this… complex ecosystem? The sun still shines, I trust, even in the shadows of the Iron Throne?"
The question was pointed. Lyonel knew Varys's little birds were everywhere. While he'd been meticulous in concealing the true nature of his abilities, rumors of his extraordinary strength and prowess, especially after Duskendale, were rife. He often sought the sun, a fact that wouldn't have gone unnoticed by the Spider.
"The sun shines on all of His Grace's loyal subjects, Lord Varys," Lyonel replied smoothly, a hint of Lannister gold in his eyes. "And this lion has always found light, even in the deepest dens." It was a polite dismissal, with an underlying warning. He was not to be easily manipulated.
Varys chuckled, a sound like rustling silk. "Wisely spoken. The light of the West is bright indeed." And then he was gone, melting back into the shadows as silently as he had appeared.
Lyonel's own development continued apace. He trained relentlessly in the yards, his skill with the sword and lance becoming legendary. Men whispered he was Jaime reborn, but with a discipline and intellect his younger brother, for all his prodigious talent, had yet to fully cultivate. Lyonel always held back, never revealing the full extent of his solar-fueled might, but even at a fraction of his potential, he was a match for any knight in the Red Keep, including the vaunted Kingsguard, Ser Barristan Selmy excepted. He and the Lord Commander had sparred on occasion, Ser Barristan's skill and experience pushing Lyonel, forcing him to rely on every ounce of his (seemingly) natural talent.
"You have a true warrior's gift, young lord," Selmy had commented after one particularly intense session, his expression one of genuine respect. "A pity to see such talent confined to court."
Lyonel knew Selmy was also observing him, perhaps on the King's orders, perhaps out of his own sense of duty. The old knight was a man of honor, a rare commodity in this city.
Managing his Sunshine ability in King's Landing remained a constant, subtle battle. He found ways. The rooftop gardens, the higher battlements, even ensuring his chambers in the Tower of the Hand faced east to catch the morning sun and west for the evening. He learned to draw on even faint, diffused sunlight, to store its energy more efficiently, though nothing compared to the direct, empowering blaze of high noon in an open sky. The nights were still his period of greatest vulnerability, a gnawing emptiness where the sun's fire should be. He slept less, his mind, Marco's mind, racing with plans and contingencies.
News from the wider realm painted a grim picture. Aerys's madness was not confined to the capital. His arbitrary taxes, his cruel jests at the expense of noble houses, his growing obsession with Targaryen blood purity, and his neglect of the smallfolk were breeding resentment. Whispers of discontent from the North, the Vale, and the Stormlands reached even Lyonel's ears, carefully filtered through his father or gleaned from Varys's carefully planted rumors. Rhaegar, the crown prince, was increasingly seen as the realm's only hope, yet he too was an enigma, often absent, pursuing his own melancholic obsessions with prophecy and song.
Then came the announcement: Lord Steffon Baratheon, Hand before Tywin and father to Robert, Stannis, and Renly, had been dispatched on a mission to Volantis to find a suitable bride of old Valyrian blood for Prince Rhaegar. His ship, the Windproud, was lost in a storm within sight of Shipbreaker Bay on its return. Robert Baratheon, now Lord of Storm's End, and his foster brother Ned Stark, had watched the ship go down. The tragedy sent shockwaves through the Seven Kingdoms, another dark omen in an increasingly troubled reign.
Aerys, in a fit of pique at the mission's failure and perhaps to slight his increasingly estranged Hand, announced a grand tourney to be held at Storm's End, ostensibly to celebrate Prince Viserys's tenth nameday, but many suspected it was the King's way of trying to reassert his dwindling prestige and gauge the loyalty of his great lords.
Tywin was, predictably, furious. "A tourney? Now?" he'd raged in the privacy of his solar, a rare display of emotion before Lyonel. "The treasury bleeds, the smallfolk starve in places, and he wants games? Folly! Madness!"
"Perhaps it is an opportunity, Father," Lyonel suggested, his mind already calculating. The sun, slanting through the high windows, cast golden bars across the room, and he felt its power, a steadying influence. "To see and be seen. To gauge the true mood of the great houses outside the confines of this city. And for me…"
Tywin looked at him sharply. "For you?"
"To compete," Lyonel stated. "To win. To remind them that the Lions of the West are not merely administrators and bankers, but warriors of unmatched prowess. To show them strength, not just in ledgers, but in arms."
Tywin considered this. Lyonel was almost eighteen. He was a man grown, his martial skills undeniable. A victory at a major tourney, especially one attended by all the great lords, would indeed enhance Lannister prestige, something his father valued above almost all else.
"You believe you can win?" Tywin asked, his voice flat.
Lyonel met his father's gaze, a flicker of Escanor's pride in his eyes. It was mid-afternoon, his power still near its peak. "I know I can, Father."
And so, against Tywin's better judgment regarding the expense and the King's motives, a Lannister retinue prepared for Storm's End. Aerys himself, at the last moment, declared he would not attend, citing ill health and the "pressures of state," though most suspected fear or another bout of paranoia. Prince Rhaegar, however, would be there.
The journey to the Stormlands was a welcome respite from the oppressive atmosphere of King's Landing. Under the open sky, with the sun on his face, Lyonel felt his strength surge, his spirits lift. He was not merely the Hand's son here, but a young lord in his own right, a warrior eager for contest.
Storm's End was a marvel of ancient engineering, a massive round drum tower that had defied storms for centuries. The tourney grounds were a riot of color and sound, pavilions of every noble house fluttering their banners in the brisk sea breeze. Here, Lyonel finally met the men who would shape the future of Westeros.
Robert Baratheon, the young Lord of Storm's End, was a giant of a youth, broad-shouldered, black of hair, with a booming laugh and an insatiable appetite for wine, women, and fighting. He greeted Lyonel with a friendly, if boisterous, clap on the shoulder that would have staggered a lesser man. Lyonel, anchored by the sun's strength, merely smiled.
"Lyonel Lannister! Heard tales of you, cub! They say you're as strong as your father's vaults are deep!" Robert bellowed, already half-drunk though it was barely mid-morning.
"Lord Robert," Lyonel replied, his voice calm but firm. "I trust my deeds will speak louder than any tavern tales."
Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell, was Robert's opposite – quiet, reserved, with a solemn grey gaze that seemed to hold the chill of the North. He was courteous, his honor palpable, but there was a watchfulness about him. He observed Lyonel with a thoughtful intensity.
Jon Arryn, their foster father, Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East, was older, a man of wisdom and gravitas, his concern for his former wards evident. He greeted Tywin with a respect that few others dared show the Hand publicly anymore.
Prince Rhaegar was the undeniable star, his silver hair and indigo eyes drawing adoration wherever he went. He carried his Targaryen beauty with a melancholic grace, excelling in the lists, his skill with the lance peerless. He even unhorsed Ser Barristan Selmy in a tilt that had the crowds roaring.
Lyonel competed in the joust and the melee. In the joust, he rode with a power and precision that surprised many. The sun blazed down on the tourney field, and he felt it course through him, each impact of lance on shield delivered with devastating force. He unhorsed knight after knight, his crimson and gold armor a blur, the golden lion on his shield seeming to roar with each victory. He made it to the final tilts, facing none other than Rhaegar Targaryen.
The crowd held its breath. The golden prince versus the young lion. Rhaegar was the favorite, his record flawless. But Lyonel, feeling the noon sun at its absolute zenith, felt a power surge within him that was almost divine. He didn't seek to injure, only to win. Their first pass was a draw, lances shattering on shields. The second, the same. On the third pass, Lyonel aimed with preternatural accuracy, his lance striking Rhaegar's shield dead center with a force that, while not full Escanor might, was far beyond normal human capacity. The Targaryen prince was lifted clean from his saddle, landing hard in the dirt.
A stunned silence, then an explosion of sound. Lyonel Lannister, the Hand's son, had defeated Rhaegar Targaryen.
Rhaegar, ever gracious, rose and acknowledged Lyonel's victory, though a flicker of surprise, perhaps even annoyance, crossed his handsome features. Lyonel, as victor, had the right to crown the Queen of Love and Beauty. All eyes were on him. Many expected him to choose a Lannister cousin, or some politically advantageous lady.
Instead, acutely aware of the undercurrents, of Rhaegar's known interest in Lyanna Stark (who was present, a wild, beautiful slip of a girl with laughing grey eyes, watching with her brothers), and knowing the catastrophic consequences of Rhaegar crowning her, Lyonel made a calculated choice. He rode his destrier to where Princess Elia Martell of Dorne, Rhaegar's wife, sat. She was beautiful, but frail, her dark eyes holding a quiet sadness.
"My Princess," Lyonel said, his voice clear and resonant, offering her the laurel wreath. "Your beauty outshines even the noon sun. Permit me the honor."
It was a politically astute move, and a subtle rebuke to Rhaegar's rumored infatuation. It honored the Prince's wife, showed loyalty to the Crown, and avoided any controversy. Elia smiled, a genuine, grateful smile, and accepted the wreath. Tywin, watching from the stands, gave a rare, almost imperceptible nod of approval. Rhaegar's expression was unreadable. Lyanna Stark looked… disappointed? Relieved? Lyonel couldn't tell.
The melee was a brutal affair. Lyonel, fighting on foot, was a force of nature. Again, the sun was his ally. He moved with a speed and strength that was terrifying, his sword a whirlwind. He fought alongside Robert Baratheon for a time, the two of them a devastating combination – Robert's ferocious, hammer-like blows and Lyonel's precise, overwhelmingly powerful strikes. They were among the last champions standing. Robert, laughing, finally yielded to Lyonel after a prolonged, exhausting duel, acknowledging his superior stamina and skill.
Lyonel Lannister was the undisputed champion of the tourney. The name 'Golden Lion' was on everyone's lips. He had achieved what he set out to do: remind Westeros of Lannister might.
But the tourney was not all glory. During a feast, Lyonel overheard a drunken Aerys ranting to a group of sycophantic minor lords. "Tywin thinks he rules me… His whelp wins my son's tourney… Lannister gold buys favor, but Targaryen fire purifies… They grow too proud, these lions… Pride comes before a fall…" The King's words were slurred, but his malice was clear.
Later, Tywin sought him out. "You fought well, Lyonel. You brought honor to our House." His voice was low. "But this victory… it has only further inflamed the King's jealousy. His Grace spoke to me tonight. He… he intends to name Jaime to his Kingsguard."
Lyonel felt a chill despite the lingering warmth of the day's sun. Jaime was only fifteen. To be named to the Kingsguard so young was a great honor, yes, but it also meant renouncing all claims to Casterly Rock, all rights to marry and father heirs. For Tywin, who had pinned all his hopes for the main Lannister line on Jaime after Cersei's gender and Tyrion's deformities, this was a calculated, devastating blow. Aerys was trying to rob him of his chosen heir for Casterly Rock, as Lyonel, the eldest, was already his heir apparent to the position of Hand, or so Aerys might perceive it. It was Aerys's way of spiting Tywin, using his own son against him.
"He does this to wound you, Father," Lyonel said quietly. "To show his power over you, to take from you what you value."
Tywin's face was like stone. "Jaime has always dreamed of it. The boy is a fool for glory. He will accept. And Aerys knows it." His voice was flat, devoid of emotion, but Lyonel could feel the burning rage beneath the surface. "I will not serve a king who uses my own children as weapons against me. Who seeks to beggar my house and steal its future."
The breaking point had been reached.
"What will you do, Father?" Lyonel asked, though he already suspected the answer.
Tywin looked out at the dark sea, the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs of Storm's End a mournful dirge. "I will return to King's Landing. I will tender my resignation. And then, we will go home. To Casterly Rock."
Lyonel nodded. It was the only logical course. The Lannisters would withdraw, consolidate their strength, and wait. The political landscape was shifting rapidly. Aerys's madness was accelerating. Rhaegar was popular but distracted. The lords of the realm were growing restless.
"And when the storm breaks, Father?" Lyonel asked.
Tywin turned, his green eyes, so like Lyonel's own, glinting in the moonlight. "Then, Lyonel, the Lion will choose its moment. And when it strikes, it will strike with all its fury. And it will not miss."
The gleam of the tourney had faded, replaced by the cold reality of the King's escalating madness and the inevitability of conflict. Lyonel had won glory, but it was a hollow victory in the face of the realm's decay. As they prepared to leave Storm's End, he felt the weight of the future pressing down on him. He was the Golden Lion, the champion, the heir to the mightiest house in Westeros. And he was also Marco Scarlatti, the survivor, the strategist, who knew that in the games of power, winter was indeed coming. And he, with the fire of the sun itself hidden within him, would be ready to meet it.