Wolves, Lions and Dragons

by Aquain's Princess

Lyanna Stark was not the only daughter of Lord and Lady Stark. The gods old and new, weeping at the destruction wrought on their lands, appealed to the children of the forest for guidance and a life never been was renewed and a life taken was restored. And changes were wrought to the advantage of Westeros.

27. Chapter 26 – Reign of Storms - Thunder

Chapter 26 – Reign of Storms - Thunder

King's Landing, 10th Month 283, Week 3, Day 2 – Red Keep

Robert Baratheon stormed into the Throne Room, his heavy footsteps echoing through the cavernous hall. His wild gaze swept across the room, pausing only for a brief moment on the clusters of servants huddled against the walls beneath the looming skulls of dragons. He scowled. Those skulls would have to go. Every trace of the Targaryens would be erased from this castle. Conveniently, he ignored the Baratheons' own ties to the dragons, both by blood and marriage—those ties no longer suited him.

Behind him walked his Hand of the King, Lord Bryen Caron. His expression was carefully neutral, despite the tension that crackled in the air.

"Lord Caron," Robert barked. "What do we know?"

Bryen steadied himself, his breath a quiet rhythm of control. "No sign of the Targaryens or the Lannister contingents. Two Kingsguard were slain on the field—Ser Jasper Flowers and Prince Lewyn Martell. The rest remain unaccounted for."

Robert grimaced. He had expected loyalty from Jasper and Lewyn, but they had turned against him. Now, they were dead.

"That leaves who?" he demanded.

Bryen listed the names without hesitation. "Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent, Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, Ser Barristan Selmy, and Ser Jonothor Darry. All knights of renown."

"And no one knows where they are?"

"No, Your Grace."

Robert's growl was low, filled with frustration. "Send ravens. Bring my wife and children from Storm's End. Invite all lords to bend the knee. Offer a reward for information on the missing Kingsguard, Targaryens, and Lannisters. Return Lord Stark's remains to the North, and request Eddard come south. And in the letter to Tywin, make it clear—if he doesn't deliver his children here for trial, I'll burn Casterly Rock to the ground."

Bryen masked a wince and nodded before retreating from Robert's side. As he walked, his thoughts churned. The futility of Robert's threats was apparent—Casterly Rock would not burn, and Robert would likely be too distracted with his furious friend from the North to carry out such a vow.

Left alone, Robert turned his attention to the Iron Throne. The twisted mass of swords, the cruel throne of power. His lips curled into a grim smile. "It's done, Father," he murmured to the empty hall. "You are avenged."

A voice cut through the silence, soft and lilting. "Yes, indeed, my lord."

Robert spun around, his eyes narrowing as a slender woman stepped from the shadows. Her dark red hair cascaded down her back, stark against the crimson gown she wore.

Robert inclined his head, his tone brusque. "Was it truly necessary to kill Lord Stark?"

The woman approached him with an almost predatory grace. "Yes. Your friend must be Lord Stark if you are to be king. His bloodline is ancient, descended from the Kings of Winter. His blood gave you victory." Her dark eyes briefly met his, before she turned her attention elsewhere at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Robert's gaze lingered on her as she retreated. Few trusted the Red Woman, save for him. Even his wife, Lyssa, avoided her. Lyssa had gone so far as to bar the woman from her birthing chamber, threatening severe consequences if the Red Woman insisted on "royal blood from the birthing bed." For now, Robert had ordered the Red Woman to stay clear of his family, but her power had been crucial to his rise. He knew the day would come when he would have to choose between her and his queen.

A new figure entered the room, interrupting his thoughts. "Ah, Petyr. What news?"

At fifteen, Petyr Baelish carried himself with a confidence far beyond his years. "Reports from the treasury, Your Grace." He extended a piece of parchment. "It seems the vaults are empty. Only two gold dragons remain, left in the center of the floor with this note."

Robert snatched it from him, his eyes scanning the mocking words:

Robert, you should enjoy a drink on us. For you will not sleep well after this day.
– Winter is Coming, Hear Us Roar – Karlyn Lannister

"Bitch!" Robert growled. "Take this to Varys. I want her found. Her head will hang from King's Landing's walls!"

Petyr inclined his head and retreated quickly. Inwardly, he smiled. This was only the beginning.

Hours later, reports filtered in of two ships departing King's Landing during the siege. One witness claimed to have seen the heir to Casterly Rock and his wife aboard a vessel, likely heading toward Lannisport. Of the Targaryens, there was no trace. Queen Rhaella, it seemed, had fled to Dragonstone weeks earlier.

Robert's orders were swift and brutal. "Send a force to Dragonstone. Kill the queen. Bring me her head."

He would, of course, be disappointed.

Winterfell, 10th Month 283, Week 3, Day 4

The hall was thick with tension as Maester Luwin's voice carried the weight of the raven scroll.

"Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, who hath won the crown through conquest, demands all lords to travel to King's Landing to bend the knee and swear loyalty."

The Maester's words hung in the air—a declaration of triumph, a command that demanded submission. But Eddard Stark, seated at the head of the hall, felt no inclination to bow. His hands tightened around the arms of his chair, the knuckles whitening. The word "demand" grated on his ears, a blade drawn too close.

His gaze moved to the second scroll on the table, bearing the hasty and ominous handwriting of his sister, Karlyn:

Ned, Father has been slain by Robert. Rhaegar too. Their heads spiked as he marches on King's Landing! He is demanding the deaths of the royal family and Lyanna be sent to the Silent Sisters. He has won. We are fleeing King's Landing with Lyanna, Jaehaerys, the Queen, and Prince Viserys. We will let you know where we are in secret.

The words seared through his mind. The betrayal. The blood spilled. His father's commanding voice silenced forever. His elder brother, Brandon, once his guiding star, now taken by Robert's sword. And now Robert dared to demand that he kneel?

"No," Ned rose slowly, his voice cold and sharp as the winds outside. "No!" His second denial thundered from him, raw and fierce. "I will not bend the knee to the man who slaughtered my father and whose men slaughtered Brandon!" His roar echoed through the hall, defiant like a wolf's howl against the coming storm.

Servants scattered, some fleeing before his orders even left his lips.

"Double the guard!" Ned barked. "Secure the walls! No one enters the North without my leave!"

Catelyn Stark sat frozen, her newborn son Robb cradled to her chest. Her face was pale, her lips parted in shock. The news of her good sister's escape, the deaths of her husband's kin, and Eddard's fiery response had shaken her. Her instincts surged to protect Robb from the dangers swirling outside.

Maester Luwin stepped forward, composed but concerned. "My lord," he spoke softly, "if you refuse, he will see it as rebellion."

"Then let him try!" Benjen growled from his place at the table. His dark eyes were fierce, fists clenched atop the carved wood. "The North is not the South. He'll find no fields to burn, no lords to sway with promises of coin. He'll face wolves and winter."

Ned nodded, his resolve hardening. "He won't get past the Neck. Benjen." He turned to his brother, his expression resolute. "Take a force to Moat Cailin. Hold it, no matter the cost. I am calling the banners."

Benjen rose immediately, purpose clear in his movements. "He'll not set foot in the North," he swore, already planning supplies and men.

Ned seized a quill, his message sharp and unwavering as he handed it to Maester Luwin.

"Send this to Robert, and prepare ravens for the bannermen. Let them know why I call them. They'll want to take revenge on those who killed their liege lord."

The missive was brief, but clear:

Robert, Usurper, defiler of Lord Rickard Stark. Come North at your peril. The North stands independent of the Seven Kingdoms until the True King, Jaehaerys, Third of His Name, takes back his throne. Come North if you wish, but remember—no army has ever taken the North—not even Aegon's dragons. This time, we will not bend to the South. Winter is Coming, and it is coming for the Usurper.

Maester Luwin bowed his head gravely, the weight of the letter in his hands seeming to press upon his soul. As he hurried from the hall to dispatch the ravens, a foreboding thought crossed his mind. Robert may have won one war, but this one? The North would not kneel easily, and should others follow their lead, the new king would find himself fighting a war on more fronts than he could manage.

Ned Stark returned to his seat, his expression grim. He knew the stakes were high. The North had always been a land apart, proud and fiercely independent. Now it was time to remind the South of its strength.

Winter was indeed coming.

Casterly Rock, 10th Month 283, Week 3, Day 5

Tywin Lannister sat in his solar, the golden sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows doing little to warm the icy anger in his chest. A raven lay unfurled on his desk, its words etched into his mind like a brand:

"Father, Karlyn's Father has been slain by Robert. Rhaegar too. Their heads spiked as he marches on King's Landing! He is demanding the deaths of the Royal family and Lyanna to be sent to the Silent Sisters. He has won. We are fleeing King's Landing with Lyanna, Jaehaerys, the Queen, and Prince Viserys. We will let you know where we are in secret. —Jaime, your son."

All the careful alliances, the sacrifices—his daughter's life among them—all undone by Robert Baratheon's brute conquest. His son, heir, and good daughter now fled with their children, hunted by the so-called king who dared to defile their legacy.

Tywin's fists clenched as he glared at the letter. "All the work Rickard and I did to secure Rhaegar's throne… wasted," he growled under his breath. "My daughter died for that throne. For nothing."

The door to the solar creaked open. Joanna Lannister entered, her graceful demeanour belying the storm of worry in her heart. She had seen Tywin like this before—cold, calculated, and dangerous. "Tywin," she said softly. "What has happened?"

Tywin handed her the raven. She read it quickly, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the parchment. "Jaime... Karlyn... the children. They're running for their lives?"

He nodded, his face a mask of composure. "They are. And I will see to it that Robert Baratheon regrets every step he takes toward King's Landing."

Before Joanna could respond, Tyrion burst into the room, the energy of youth at odds with the grim mood. "Father," he began, "why are you brooding in the dark? I heard the Maesters whispering—has Robert Baratheon finally shown his true colors?"

"Tyrion, this is no time for your games," Tywin snapped.

Joanna placed a hand on Tywin's shoulder. "Let him speak. Tyrion often sees what others do not."

Tyrion grinned, though his expression was tempered by curiosity. "I assume Robert's demands have reached us. He wants everyone to bend the knee and swear loyalty. How predictable."

Tywin's glare could have frozen fire. "He does. But he will find no loyalty in the West."

Joanna sighed, setting the letter down. "Tywin, you know what this means. Refusing to bend the knee will not go unanswered. Robert will march."

"Let him," Tywin said coldly. He turned to the door and bellowed, "Crewel!"

The maester entered moments later, bowing low. "My lord?"

"Take this down," Tywin ordered, his voice sharp as a blade.

Crewel hurried to his desk, quill at the ready.

"To Robert Baratheon, traitor, usurper: Come west if you dare. The Lions will roar, and the stag shall be devoured. We will not bend the knee to you. The West stands independent of the Seven Kingdoms until the True King, Jaehaerys, Third of His Name, takes back his throne."

Crewel glanced nervously at Tywin, then at Joanna, before nodding and writing quickly.

Tywin's voice cut through the air. "Send this to my bannermen and to King's Landing. Let it be known that the West does not recognize this false king."

Joanna moved closer to her husband; her voice low but firm. "You are playing a dangerous game, Tywin. Robert is no fool, and his forces are vast."

"Perhaps," Tywin replied, his tone colder than ever. "But the Rock has never fallen, and it will not fall now. Robert Baratheon may be king, but he will learn the price of challenging House Lannister."

Tyrion, leaning against the doorframe, smirked. "A bold move, Father. But I wonder—how many lions will it take to bring down a stag?"

Tywin glared at his youngest son, but before he could reply, Joanna intervened. "Enough, Tyrion. This is no time for jest."

Tyrion shrugged. "It's not jest, Mother. It's strategy. The North is already raising banners, and if the Riverlands or the Vale join them, Robert will have more wars than he can manage. But you'll need allies, Father. Even lions don't hunt alone."

Tywin turned his gaze to Joanna, his expression softening slightly. "He's right. I'll write to Dorne and the Reach. The Seven Kingdoms will remember why the lion is feared."

As Crewel scurried out of the room to deliver the letters, Joanna watched her husband. There was no doubt in her mind that Tywin would fight for their family, but the stakes had never been higher.

Tyrion lingered in the doorway, his mind already racing with possibilities. He knew his father better than most—knew the lengths Tywin would go to preserve the power of their house. And though Tyrion often felt like an outsider, he was still a Lannister.

"Father," Tyrion said as he turned to leave, "let me know if you need a different kind of weapon in your arsenal."

Tywin didn't respond, but Joanna saw the flicker of thought in his eyes. In this war, every piece on the board had its value.

Highgarden, 10th Month 283, Week 3, Day 7

Mace Tyrell paced the length of his solar, his silk robes swishing with every anxious turn. His face was flushed, his brow damp, and his hands clenched and unclenched nervously. Across the room, Lady Olenna Tyrell sat composed, sipping Arbor Gold from a gilded goblet. She watched her son with a mixture of irritation and amusement.

"Robert hates us, Mother," Mace blustered. "You know that as well as I. It was our men who blockaded Storm's End on the king's orders. And that wedding gift for Rhaegar and Lyanna… lavish though it was, Robert would have seen it as a slight!"

Olenna clicked her tongue, setting her glass down decisively. "Enough of this prattling, Mace. The stag holds the throne, whether we like it or not. If you think we can withstand his fury on principle alone, you are a greater fool than I feared. We must bend the knee."

"But, Mother!" Mace stopped pacing, his face aghast. "We owe everything to the Targaryens. They raised our family—"

"Spare me your loyalty speeches," Olenna interrupted sharply. She stood, gripping her cane, her gaze piercing. "Do you think the Starks or Lannister's will sit idle while Robert calls for the heads of Targaryen's, including a newborn babe? War is inevitable. Eddard Stark will not abide this, and Tywin Lannister will not allow a Baratheon to disrupt his ambitions. We must position ourselves wisely."

Mace blinked, struggling to keep up. "You mean... to play both sides?"

Olenna's smile was sly. "I mean to survive, Mace. Gather the family. We will all go to King's Landing—not to the Red Keep, but to our manse. Let us see this stag who dares to call himself king. Make the arrangements."

Mace opened his mouth to protest further, but Olenna was already sweeping from the room. His protests would not deter the Queen of Thorns, and he knew it.

Sunspear, 10th Month 283, Week 4, Day 2

In the cool shadows of the Water Gardens, Prince Doran Martell sat in silence. His siblings, Elia and Oberyn, flanked him. Their expressions mirrored the turmoil in his heart.

"Rhaegar is dead," Doran said softly. "And now Robert demands we bend the knee."

"It was war," Elia murmured, her voice heavy with sorrow. "Men die in war."

"Slaughter by a usurper," Oberyn spat, his tone cold.

Doran studied his brother. "Perhaps. But war is also an opportunity. Rhaegar once offered us a place in his new council—Master of Trade, if I recall."

Oberyn's lip curled. "You think Robert Baratheon would extend the same offer? He's a brute, not a visionary."

Doran leaned forward, his hands steepled. "Brute though he may be, he is king. Go to King's Landing, Oberyn. Bend the knee. Show them the strength of Dorne. If the stag is wise, he will see the value of alliance with us."

"And if the dragon's heir returns?" Oberyn challenged.

Doran's eyes glimmered. "Then we will support him. A king needs allies... and a bride. My daughter is young, but when the time comes, she will be perfect for the role."

Oberyn stood, his gaze sharp. "And if the Tyrell girl or the Baratheon girl takes that role instead?"

Doran smiled faintly. "We shall see, brother. For now, go."

The Eyrie, 10th Month 283, Week 3, Day 5

Jon Arryn sat alone in his chamber, the missive from King's Landing spread before him. Robert's words burned in his mind. His old friend was many things—brave, passionate, loyal—but his temper and impulsiveness were troubling.

He sighed, rubbing his temples. "Robert, what are you doing?" he muttered. "Calling for the deaths of innocents? Even a babe?"

He knew the Seven Kingdoms would not take this lightly. The North would rise in fury, and Tywin Lannister's reaction was always calculated but dangerous. Jon felt the weight of his role as Robert's foster father pressing down on him.

He summoned his steward. "Prepare my retinue. We leave for King's Landing at once. Perhaps I can talk sense into him before it is too late."

Riverrun, 10th Month 283, Week 3, Day 6

Brynden Tully, the Blackfish, stood at the window of the lord's solar, staring out over the tumbling waters of the Red Fork. The raven's message lay on the table behind him.

Catelyn's father-in-law, Rickard Stark, was dead. Her husband, Eddard, was now the Lord of Winterfell. And his youngest niece, Lysa, was Queen—though for how long remained uncertain.

He turned back to the scroll, re-reading the demands from Robert Baratheon. Brynden knew the Riverlands would always be caught in the tide of larger conflicts.

He dipped his quill into ink and wrote:

*"Catelyn, Eddard,
My most sincere condolences for the loss of Lord Rickard. His wisdom often guided me in governing the Riverlands in Edmure's absence. I know Robert's demand will have reached you. You will not bend the knee, and rightly so.

However, I must go to King's Landing with Edmure. Family, Duty, Honor binds us all. Trade will continue, and the Riverlands will fight to ensure no harm comes to you.
Your Uncle,
Brynden."*

Once dry, he handed the message to the maester. Brynden then turned to prepare for the journey, his mind heavy with the weight of his choices.

Pyke, 10th Month 283, Week 3, Day 7

The lords of the Iron Islands filled the hall with their shouting, their voices like crashing waves in a storm. Balon Greyjoy sat on the Seastone Chair, his expression impassive.

"We will not kneel to a Greenlander," one lord roared.

"Let them come," another snarled. "We'll drown their armies!"

Balon let the debate rage until his patience frayed. Finally, he stood. The hall fell silent.

"To Robert Baratheon, King of the Seven Kingdoms," he said, his voice carrying through the hall, "you want us to kneel? Come and make us."

He gestured to his maester. "Send the raven."

The Ironborn roared their approval as Balon returned to his seat. Already, ships were being prepared, and raiders were setting out. The seas belonged to the Ironborn, and no stag could change that.

TBC…