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Chapter Twenty-Six
The Beginning of the End
The Red Keep: 30th June, 299 AC
Jaime:
"AAAHHH!" Cersei screamed loudly, seconds after they entered the Hand's Office. The first thing they saw was their father, sprawled on the floor and frighteningly still. Jaime immediately began scanning the room for any assailants, clutching at his sword-hilt. That the only sign of any problems was some parchment, scattered as Tywin had fallen, only made him more uneasy. How could he defeat an intangible enemy such as illness, as this seemed to be?
"Father!" Cersei cried. "Maester! Somebody fetch the maester, quickly! Father!" She flung herself down on her knees beside her father, struggling to ascertain if he breathed. Jaime watched with his heart in his throat as she held her fingers against his mouth and nose.
"He breathes, he lives," she declared in relief after a moment. "But he will not stir. Gods, where is that idiot maester? Where is Pycelle?"
"I can go-" Jaime began to offer to fetch the Grand Maester himself, just as the elderly man came inside, puffing heavily for breath. His clothing was dishevelled. Jaime could guess what he had been doing, and it revolted him. What a disgusting man. Why did Cersei trust him so much?
"My queen, forgive me," the man panted. "I was-"
"Never mind that, you fool," Cersei snapped. "My father is unconscious! Are you blind, you idiot? Do something, Maester! Help him!"
Pycelle quickly knelt beside Tywin's limp form, running his hands over the man and muttering under his breath to the assistant who had arrived with him.
Cersei stood and went to Jaime, clutching at his armour with a fearful expression. He wrapped his arms around her in response, struggling to hold her in a brotherly, not lover-like, manner.
"Do not worry, Sister," he urged her, trying to hide his own worry from her. "Father is a strong man, and he has not been ill lately. He will be fine."
"Yes, yes," she nodded, brow crinkled. "I must have Tyrion arrested," she said to herself. He felt his grip on her slacken, leaning back to stare at her.
"What?" he asked in disbelief. How could she possibly be thinking of such things in this moment of all times? Why would she even arrest Tyrion anyway?
She gave him a startled look. "If Father dies, I must act quickly to ensure that Tyrion does not claim the Rock," she explained, as if he were a child.
Jaime stared at her, feeling stricken. He was not oblivious, he knew that his twin was a cruel, selfish woman. He knew that, in contrast to him, she loved her power more than him. He knew that she hated Tyrion fiercely, as if he was to blame for their mother's death, not the Gods. He knew that, distraught over their eldest son's death, she had ordered Tyrion's arrest, and that she still suspected him to be Joffrey's killer.
But their father was unconscious at their feet, possibly dying. And what was Cersei's concern? Making sure that Tyrion did not receive the inheritance that was rightfully his. Why did he love this selfish, hateful woman?
"Cersei, Tyrion is Father's heir," Jaime said, strained. "Casterly Rock is rightfully his. You have no grounds to arrest him."
"I am the Queen Regent," Cersei declared haughtily. "I do not need a reason. I rule the Seven Kingdoms, and all must follow my desires."
Anybody could tell where Joffrey had gotten his attitude from, listening to the late boyking's mother talk.
Jaime was appalled by her words. He began to speak, to try and reason with her, only for Pycelle to interrupt him before he could begin to talk.
"Your Grace, Lord Tywin must be removed to his bedchamber, where I can properly examine him," the Grand Maester informed them.
"What is wrong with him?" Cersei demanded, turning her attention away from Jaime and leaving his arms to glower at the Grand Maester.
The man spread his hands helplessly. "I cannot say without a more in depth examination, my queen," he replied. "I saw the Lord Hand only a few hours ago, and he seemed perfectly well. I must consult my books, to see what has befallen him and decide how best to treat it."
"Could it have been poison?" Jaime demanded sharply, worried. Their father had made many enemies, and few friends or even allies, over the course of his fifty-seven years of life. It was not an unlikely explanation that someone might have decided to deal with the Old Lion at last. Jaime could think of a dozen suspects, right off of the top of his head.
Cersei looked stunned, as if the thought of someone going after their father had never occurred to her before, regardless of the many who loathed him so much.
Pycelle frowned. "I see no recognizable signs of any poison that I am familiar with, Lord Commander," he answered. "However, it is a possibility. As I said, I need to have Lord Lannister moved to his bed, where I can properly examine him. If you and Ser Trant would be so good?"
Jaime gave a curt nod. Trant looked mutinous at being relegated to carrying an elderly man instead of a more dignified task, but he yielded to Jaime's warning look and helped to carry Lord Tywin to the Hand's bedchamber. They laid him carefully on the bed, where the Grand Maester again bent over him, listing off various potions for his waiting assistant to fetch for him.
Jaime had a sick feeling in his gut as he sat with Cersei, awaiting news. This was the start of something, he knew it deep within him. The start of something terrible for his family. He just did not know what.
The Water Gardens: 28th July, 299 AC
Doran:
Doran read the letter from Manfrey aloud to his family, a rare smirk playing on his lips. His family looked equally cheerful at the words he read, and no wonder. The news Manfrey had sent was even better than they had dared to hope for.
1st July, 299 AC
The Red Keep, King's Landing
To Your Highness, my lord and cousin Prince Doran, Ruling Prince of Dorne, greetings.
I send this letter with a heavy heart, my liege. Tragedy has again struck the Red Keep. It is almost as if the noble House of Lannister has recently been placed beneath some deadly curse.
Forgive me my rambling, my lord cousin. I will explain my words. Lord Tywin, Head of House Lannister, Hand of the King and Lord Protector of the Realm, has fallen deathly ill. He was found unconscious in the Office of the Hand late yesterday evening. Despite the best efforts of Grand Maester Pycelle and his assistants, nothing has yet managed to rouse him. He does not appear to be dying, but he will not stir, no matter what they do. The maesters all say that they have never seen such a thing before. They are at a loss as to what to do, and have sent ravens to the Citadel and even the University asking for information.
As I am sure you are wondering, as many of the court did upon learning of Lord Tywin's sudden illness, I wish to reassure you. Maester Pycelle has examined the Lord Hand, and found no indication of any known poison that he knows of. He informed the Small Council that he suspects that the stress of the war against Lord Stannis, ruling the realm and the recent loss of his beloved eldest grandson, our much lamented King Joffrey, has had an effect on His Lordship's heart, causing him to collapse from the stress. Nobody knows when he shall wake. If he will.
In the meantime, the Queen Regent has named her uncle's goodfather, Ser Harys Swyft, as the new Hand of the King until such time as her own lord father is awake and capable of retaking the position. She has also informed me that I am to instruct you to take Lord Tyrion of House Lannister into custody on the orders of the Queen Regent.
The entire Red Keep is in chaos. I will continue to keep you abreast of all that is going on.
Yours sincerely,
Ser Manfrey of House Martell, Master of Coin for His Grace King Tommen of House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Rhoynar, the Andals and the First Men, Defender of the Faith and Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.
Oberyn laughed gleefully when Doran finished the letter, whilst Larra's lips curled into a smug smile as she rubbed her stomach. At about five moons' gone with child, she was clearly carrying more than one babe. She glowed with her pregnancy, and seemed to have been vitalized since re-discovering the letter entrusted to her by her late lord father. It seemed as if the last remains of her fear had disappeared, replaced by a desire for blood and justice. Ever since, she had been taking full and intense part of organizing the war, showing that she had most definitely been raised as the heiress to a kingdom that stood ever-ready for war.
Of course, it was not all well. She had declared her intention to go with Oberyn, Robb, Laena and the rest of their family who would be participating in the coming siege of King's Landing. Oberyn and Ellaria had been arguing with her about it ever since, but she was insistent. She agreed that she ought not to be taking part in the battles themselves, but she was bound and determined to be there when the lions were defeated at last. It was an on-going argument that had driven Oberyn to Doran's solar to complain about stubborn and headstrong women multiple times. But despite his frustration, Doran knew that Oberyn was pleased to see the wolf in his wife shake off the last of its' fear-formed chains. Doran was pleased to see it also.
"This is wonderful," Laena said, smiling widely. "And you are absolutely certain, Tyene, that he shall not wake until you give him the antidote?"
"Aye," Tyene confirmed, nodding her golden head, blue eyes sparkling smugly. "I put a great deal of work into that poison, and I tested it several times, on animals and on prisoners. I am sure."
"That's my girl," Oberyn grinned broadly, his eyes shining with pride for his child. "And things will only go downhill for the lions now. Without Tywin or the Imp, they have not half a brain between the lot of them."
"That is for certain," Larra agreed, exchanging a wide smile with her husband. "Cersei is a fool. She thinks herself Tywin with teats, but she knows nought of ruling, and little and less of war. Their people have no genuine loyalty for them, only fear of Tywin. Without fear of his wrath, and exhausted of their resources from fighting Stannis, they will not put their lives and holdings at risk for Cersei. Harys Swyft is a weak, old man, indebted to her family. He will be nothing more than her mouthpiece, I am sure. Not to mention the fact that are the Tyrells working so hard to gain control of Tommen, forming splits in their camp and leading to chaos. The Red Keep will be helpless by the time that our army reaches them."
"Aye, and Admiral Starstark is due to arrive at Lannisport soon enough," Robb (now legitimized as Robb Stark even if the knowledge was limited to a select few trusted people) added from his place beside Laena. They would wed the coming week. Hopefully, Laena would be carrying an heir when they took the capital. It would strengthen their cause. "Casterly Rock has only the bare minimum of defenders to protect it. With the information the servants gave on those secret passageways, they will fall with ease."
Doran nodded. They were blessed by the Gods, Old and New, with their efforts. The Lannisters, and even the rest of the Great Houses, had failed to learn what the Starks and Martells had done many centuries past. There was a reason that they were the longest-reigning Houses in Westeros, the world even.
The Martells and the Starks knew that loyalty was needed to keep their positions, and there was more to loyalty than making your people fear you. In fact, being feared would work against you in the long run. To paraphrase the words that Princess Marina Martell had once said, tyrants always fell. If you were a cruel and harsh ruler, caring only for your own power and not for the people you were sworn to protect, then you would not last long. Oh, you would keep your vassals in check for a while. But eventually they would get fed up of being mistreated and taken advantage of. You did need to crack down harshly on disloyalty, but you needed your people to love you more than anything else if you wanted to rule. Be caring to your people, protect them and suffer their hurts alongside them, and they would love you, die for you.
His House had learned that long ago, and the Starks had learned it even further back. And by following the rule of being loving with a hint of ruthlessness when needed, they had maintained their power longer than any other. And all of them had seen their enemies fall eventually, by staying patient and convincing their enemies to put down their guards.
As his goodsister's ancestor, Cregan Stark, had once said: revenge was a dish best served cold.
"Well, it seems we have orders to obey," Doran stated, sure that his own eyes were glinting as he reached out to clasp his wife's hand loosely in his own. The others gave him questioning looks. "The Queen Regent ordered us to take Lord Tyrion into custody, did she not?" he reminded them mildly. "We are loyal servants of the Crown, and must obey."
Oberyn let out a bark of a laugh and stood. "You speak correctly, Brother," he smirked. "Of course, we could not think of refusing to obey Her Grace's will. Arya," he turned to his viciously-grinning young goodsister. She raised an eyebrow at him. She had softened to them over the past moons, but she remained harsh. Doran doubted, after all she had been through, that she would ever lose that angry edge. It was yet another sin for the Lannisters to pay for, a child of one-and-ten having the air of a war-hardened veteran decades' her senior.
"What?" she asked.
"Care to join myself and the guards as we arrest the Imp and his household?" Oberyn suggested mildly, his mouth curled into a half-smirk.
Arya's grey eyes lit up in angry pleasure and she bounded to her feet. "Gladly," she agreed cheerfully, resting a hand on her sword, Needle.
"Be careful," Larra ordered, concern flashing in her expression as her eyes changed from violet to stormy-grey.
"Always, my love," Oberyn assured her. He leaned down to kiss first his wife and then Ellaria, before leading Arya out to take the Imp into custody.
Coast of Lannisport: 30th July, 299 AC
Admiral Starstark:
Admiral Sybelle Starkstark stood at the prow of her personal ship, the flagship of Winterlands' Eastern Fleet, the Sea-Wolf. Her ship had was her pride, and she loved it almost as much as she loved her children and husband. Before it was hers, it had been her late mother's, and Sybelle had lovingly maintained it, ensuring it stayed in pristine condition and adding any necessary (and unnecessary but desired) changes as they were produced, ever since she had taken over its' command.
Sybelle was a good seafarer, a veteran of Robert's Rebellion, the Greyjoy Rebellion, and a thousand battles with the IronBorn. She'd grown up, as all Starstarks did, on the sea, climbing from cabin girl to admiral between the ages of five and fifteen.
But in between that she had grown up in Winterfell, a member of the Pack. She'd been raised with loyalty and obedience to the Starks being pounded into her head, right alongside her letters and the various knots needed for handling a ship. Her elder sister, the former House heiress, had gone with and died defending Brandon Stark when he had learned of Lyanna's abduction and her mother had given her life for Rickard Stark only a few moons' later. By the time that Lord Eddard had called the banners, Sybelle had already begun mobilizing her fleet, despite been younger than Lyanna. She had gone so far as to put aside her House's feud with House Seastark and work with Admiral Seastark. She had been unprepared for her new responsibilities, and unwilling to allow old grudges to get in the way of victory. Seastark'd had far more experience than her, and she'd known it.
The North Remembered, and when it came to outsiders, all in-kingdom grudges were put away to band together as the pack that they were.
She had been one of those in favour of attacking the southrons when the Conclave had gathered to debate their next move after Ned's execution. Unfortunately, the greenseers had spoken, and they declared that staying their hands and waiting was necessary. It had not sat well with anybody, especially not leaving Larra in the lions' den, but they had done so.
That hadn't stopped Sybelle from working with the Seastarks and Sistermen to organize 'pirate' raids on the Westerlands and their trade lines, though. And the satisfaction she'd felt whenever they had engaged and defeated an Ironborn ship and crew had filled her with bitter satisfaction.
"Admiral, Lannisport is in sight!" Cregard Longthorpe, from a minor House in the Sisters and one of her veteran sailors, who'd sailed with her since she was a child, came to her and saluted sharply.
She gave a brisk nod, unfolding her hands from where they were clasped behind her back and holding one out to accept the eyeglass that he offered her. One of the University's most useful inventions, in Sybelle's opinion. First, they would attack the city and obliterate the garrison. Then they would sail to Casterly Rock, making use of the information given to them by mistreated servants to enter and destroy the Lannisters' centre of power.
It would be a beautiful sight, she had no doubt of that.
She raised the telescope to her eye and scanned the port, a smirk forming on her wind-weathered face at what she saw. "Look alive, boys!" she yelled to her crew. "Target in sight! Looks like they've no idea that we're comin', but be ready for any tricks! You know these southron fucks, can't live without a dozen plots bein' on the go!"
"Aye!" they yelled back, rushing around to prepare for their attack and several wargs using their bird companions to communicate with their other ships.
"Everybody better remember that we're actin' like pirates, we're not real ones, understand?" she bellowed as she returned the telescope and grabbed a bow and arrow. "I hear that anybody's disgracin' my fleet by actin' like the barbarians the burners think we are, I'll give ye to the weirwoods myself!"
"Aye, Admiral!" they called back.
Of course, Sybelle hardly needed to say such. She knew all of her crew, trusted them completely. Good, honest people, loyal to their liege lords, as it ought to be. She didn't understand how those southrons lived with themselves, constantly plotting to usurp the positions of those the Gods had chosen to lead and shield them. Then again, the southrons never seemed to do their duty to their underlings, so perhaps they felt that they had no obligation to remain true to oaths when the ones they'd given them to did not keep to their own terms.
Still, she was not in such a position. The Starks were her kin in a dozen different ways, and she had given them her allegiance, and they had repaid her devotion a thousand times over.
"Admiral, ready to attack at your command!" Ensign Crowl came hurrying to her side. His blue eyes glinted with excitement. The newest member of her crew, he was a young lad from Skagos, too young to fully understand that the south's claims of war being glorious was all nonsense. The tutors for the Wolf Pack always did their best to make their pupils realize the truth of war, but only real life could properly teach it to a person. Their 'fights' with the various traders and merchants they'd intercepted heading for the West and Crownlands had not blooded him yet. Sybelle regretted that he would have lost his innocence by the end of the day.
They would not be harming any civilians, but the guards of Lannisport and Casterly Rock itself were fair game.
"Get into position, Ensign," she ordered him briskly. He scampered to obey her, and she sighed heavily. She scanned the deck, double-checking and unsurprised to see that her crew was in position. Even the excited Ensign Torrell was focused and ready, pouring oil over the cloths covering the heavy crossbow bolts mounted on the bulwarks.
"Ready arms!" she called at the top of her lungs, keeping her gaze fixed on the port. Apparently, the garrison had at last realized that something was wrong about the group of warships sailing for them, because they were scrambling to close the port off. But she could tell that they had acted too late, and they were moving too slowly to do anything to stop their attack.
"On my mark!" Sybelle ordered, preparing to fire the signal for the rest of the fleet. "One! Two! Three! Fire! For the Starks!" She launched the arrow, ordering the attack for her other ships.
"Stark! Stark!" the crew screamed, and also fired.
The flaming bolts fired right into the harbour, setting a dozen ships ablaze.
"Forward!" Sybelle cried. "Again! Fire!"
The bolts flew forward again, and Sybelle smiled in satisfaction. Her cousin had been a guard, slain defending the Starks when the redcloaks had attacked them. Now, she was getting vengeance.
"For Arsa," she whispered. "For the wolves!"