Chapter 9: The Trident's Tide and the Sun's Decree
The raven that brought news of the Battle of the Trident arrived on a morning so bright it seemed the sun itself was heralding a new age. Lyonel Lannister stood beside his father in the solar of Casterly Rock, the light streaming through the arched windows, setting his golden hair aflame and bathing the room in a warm glow. He felt the familiar, exhilarating surge of his power, a boundless ocean of energy thrumming just beneath his skin. He was twenty-two, a man forged in discipline, intellect, and the secret fire of his unique heritage.
Maester Creylen, his hands trembling slightly, read the dispatch from their informants near the Trident. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the Last Dragon, was dead, slain by Robert Baratheon's warhammer in a duel that had decided the fate of the Seven Kingdoms. The royal army was shattered, its remnants scattered to the winds. Robert Baratheon, though grievously wounded, was victorious. The rebellion had broken the back of the Targaryen dynasty.
A heavy silence filled the solar. Lyonel looked at his father. Tywin Lannister's face was an unreadable mask of stone, but his green eyes, cold and calculating, held a new, sharper glint. This was the moment. The culmination of years of patient waiting, of meticulous preparation.
"Rhaegar is dead," Tywin stated, his voice flat, yet resonant with unspoken implications. "The Targaryen dragon has fallen."
"And the Stag stands triumphant, though wounded," Lyonel added, his own voice calm, betraying none of the complex emotions warring within him. He felt a sliver of something akin to pity for Rhaegar, the fallen prince who had chased prophecy to his doom. But Marco Scarlatti, the pragmatist, knew that sentiment had no place in the calculus of power. The path was clear.
"The realm will need a new king," Tywin continued, turning to the great carved map of Westeros that dominated one wall. His finger, unadorned by rings but laden with invisible authority, hovered over King's Landing. "And a new king will need allies. Strong allies. Allies who can ensure his reign is secure, his coffers full."
"Allies who were conveniently neutral while others bled," Lyonel murmured, a faint, dangerous smile playing on his lips.
Tywin's answering smile was equally predatory. "Precisely. Issue the orders, Lyonel. Mobilize the army. Every man, every banner. We march on King's Landing."
"Our stated purpose?" Lyonel inquired, though he already knew the script.
"We march to restore order," Tywin declared. "To protect the capital from Targaryen loyalists and ensure a peaceful transition. We march to swear fealty to King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name." His eyes met Lyonel's, a silent understanding passing between them. We march to claim our due.
The mobilization of the Westerlands host was a sight to behold. Years of Lyonel's tireless efforts, his innovative training methods, his meticulous logistical planning, now bore fruit. Within days, a gleaming army of over fifteen thousand men – pikemen, archers, heavy horse, and seasoned knights, all clad in Lannister crimson and gold – assembled, their discipline a testament to the Young Lion's command. Their armor shone, their weapons were sharp, their morale high. They knew they were marching to victory, led by the invincible Lord Tywin and his even more legendary son, Lyonel, the Golden Lion, champion of Storm's End, the hero of Duskendale.
Lyonel himself rode at the head of the vanguard, a column of five thousand picked men, the Lion's Pride forming his personal honor guard. Clad in his magnificent crimson and gold plate armor, he was an awe-inspiring figure. The sun seemed to follow him, its rays concentrating on his golden helm, making him shine like a demigod of war. He addressed his commanders, his voice ringing with confidence and authority, promising them glory and riches in the King's name – the unspoken promise of Lannister supremacy clear to all.
As they marched east, leaving the golden lands of the West behind, Lyonel felt a profound sense of destiny. The sun, climbing higher each day, fueled him, body and soul. This was what he had been preparing for, all his life, both this one and the last. Marco Scarlatti's ambition, Escanor's pride, Lyonel Lannister's resolve – all coalesced into an unbreakable will.
It happened three days into their march, as they made camp for the night near a small, unnamed tributary of the Tumblestone. The sun had just set, its last rays painting the sky in hues of blood orange and deep violet. Lyonel had retired to his command tent, ostensibly to review maps and dispatches. In truth, he was meditating, focusing his will, drawing upon the residual solar energy stored within him from the day's bright journey. He thought of the battles to come, of the role he must play, of the power he wielded and the responsibility it entailed. He felt his inherent pride, not the arrogant vanity of lesser men, but Escanor's profound, unshakeable conviction in his own strength and his righteous purpose – to elevate his House, to protect his family, to carve a new order from the chaos of the old.
A sudden, intense golden light filled his tent, so bright it was almost blinding, dwarfing the flickering lanterns. It pulsed with an unimaginable heat, yet it did not burn. Lyonel felt a powerful resonance, a calling from deep within his soul, an echo of the sun itself. The light coalesced, solidified, taking shape before his astonished eyes.
There, hovering in the air, radiating an aura of immense, ancient power, was an axe. An ornate, single-handed battle axe, its haft seemingly crafted from burnished gold, its crescent-shaped blade a sliver of solidified sunlight, etched with intricate, glowing runes he somehow understood. It was beautiful, terrible, and undeniably divine.
Divine Axe Rhitta. Escanor's sacred treasure.
Lyonel rose slowly, his heart pounding, a profound sense of awe washing over him. He reached out a hand, hesitant yet compelled. As his fingers brushed the golden haft, the axe pulsed with warmth, a surge of incredible solar energy flowing into him, replenishing what the sunset had begun to drain. It felt… right. Like a missing part of himself had been restored. The axe settled into his grip as if it had been forged for his hand alone, its weight substantial, yet perfectly balanced for him. For others, he knew, it would be impossibly heavy.
He could feel its power, its connection to the sun, its ability to absorb and unleash his own solar energy. This was not merely a weapon; it was a decree, a divine mandate.
At that moment, the tent flap was thrust aside. Tywin Lannister stood framed in the opening, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly as he took in the scene: his son, bathed in the axe's ethereal golden glow, wielding a weapon that was clearly not of this world. For the first time in Lyonel's memory, Tywin Lannister looked… stunned.
"Lyonel?" Tywin's voice was a low rasp, his usual composure fractured. "By the Seven Hells… what is that?"
Lyonel turned, Rhitta held loosely in his hand, its light slowly dimming to a soft, internal luminescence, though its power still thrummed against his palm. "It is called Rhitta, Father," he said, his voice calm, yet imbued with a new, deeper resonance. "A gift. Or perhaps… a birthright."
Tywin stepped into the tent, his gaze fixed on the axe, then on Lyonel. He was a man who believed in tangible power – gold, armies, fear. Magic, gods, divine intervention – these were things of myth, of songs. Yet, the evidence before him was undeniable. This axe… it radiated an energy that was palpable, ancient, terrifying. His son, who he knew possessed extraordinary abilities, had just transcended into something else entirely.
"A birthright?" Tywin repeated slowly, the gears of his formidable mind working furiously, trying to categorize, to understand, to see how this new, incredible variable could be controlled, utilized. Fear, ambition, and a dawning, reluctant awe warred on his face. "From whom?"
Lyonel smiled, a genuine, almost beatific smile that held the serene confidence of Escanor at his peak. "From the Sun itself, I believe, Father. It seems it has chosen its champion."
Tywin was silent for a long moment, his eyes never leaving Rhitta. "Can you… wield it effectively?"
Lyonel hefted the axe, its weight feeling like a feather to him, yet he knew it possessed the inertia of a falling star. "It feels… like an extension of my own soul." He focused, channeling a fraction of his power into Rhitta. The axe head blazed with a sudden, intense golden light, and a wave of heat washed through the tent. He then quelled it just as quickly.
Tywin's jaw tightened. "This changes things," he said finally. "This changes… everything." The implications were staggering. A son with not just freakish strength, but now a divinely bestowed weapon of unimaginable power. What could they not achieve? What throne could they not claim?
"It only confirms what we already knew, Father," Lyonel said. "House Lannister is destined for greatness. This merely ensures it." He would not speak of Escanor, of reincarnation. Let Tywin believe it was a blessing upon their House, a sign of their inherent superiority. It served his purpose.
The march resumed the next day, but something had shifted. Tywin was more reserved, his gaze often lingering on Lyonel, and on the magnificent axe now sheathed at his son's hip – an axe that seemed to hum with contained power, its golden head catching the sunlight in a way that drew all eyes. Lyonel himself felt different. With Rhitta in his possession, his connection to his solar power felt more profound, more complete. His confidence, already immense, soared to new heights. He was not just Lyonel Lannister, the Golden Lion; he was the chosen wielder of Rhitta, a champion of the sun.
As they neared King's Landing, news of their approach preceded them. The city was in turmoil. Aerys, barricaded in the Red Keep, had descended into his final madness, obsessed with plots of wildfire. Grand Maester Pycelle, ever the pragmatist and long a creature of Tywin Lannister, sent secret messages urging the King to open the gates to his 'loyal' Lord Tywin, who had come to save him from the rebels.
Lyonel thought of the impending sack, the brutal price of their ambition. He knew what his father intended: to unleash their army upon the city, to loot and pillage, to ensure King's Landing fell decisively and bloodily, leaving Robert Baratheon in no doubt as to who had won him his crown. It was a grim necessity, Marco Scarlatti acknowledged. A way to cripple any remaining Targaryen support and to bind Robert to them through debt and fear.
He also thought of Jaime, trapped in the Red Keep with Aerys. His brother's defining moment, the act that would brand him 'Kingslayer' for life, was fast approaching. Lyonel could not intervene. Jaime had to make his own choices, walk his own path, however tragic.
On a bright, clear morning, the Lannister army, fifteen thousand strong, arrived before the gates of King's Landing. Their crimson and gold banners stretched as far as the eye could see, a river of steel and ambition. Tywin Lannister, flanked by his commanders, rode to the King's Gate. Lyonel was beside him, Rhitta gleaming at his side, a palpable aura of power radiating from him, so potent that even the hardened soldiers around him felt a prickle of awe.
After a tense wait, during which Lyonel could almost smell the fear emanating from within the city walls, Grand Maester Pycelle himself appeared on the battlements. He announced that King Aerys, in his wisdom, had agreed to open the gates to his loyal Hand, Lord Tywin, and his valiant army.
The great iron portcullis groaned upwards. The massive gates of King's Landing swung open.
Tywin Lannister looked at his son. "The city is ours, Lyonel. Take your vanguard. Secure the Red Keep. Eliminate any resistance. And let the realm know that when a Lannister pays his debts, he does so in full." His eyes were like chips of frozen emerald.
Lyonel nodded, his hand resting on the haft of Rhitta. He felt the sun blazing overhead, almost at its noon zenith. His power surged, a roaring inferno within him. He drew the Divine Axe, its blade catching the light, unleashing a blinding golden flash that made men cry out and shield their eyes.
"For House Lannister!" he roared, his voice amplified by his power, carrying over the assembled host like the crack of doom. "For the Golden Lion!"
He spurred his charger forward, the Lion's Pride at his heels, a tide of crimson and gold surging towards the open gates. The Sack of King's Landing had begun. And at its head rode Lyonel Lannister, wielder of the Sun, his Divine Axe Rhitta eager to taste its first blood in this new world, ready to carve out a new destiny from the heart of a dying city.