[The Evening before the Assault of Pyke, 7th moon, 289AC]
The clamor of the feast had died, and with it, the songs of the minstrels and the drunken bellows of lords too long at sea. The great hall of the Greyjoys, now conquered in all but name, reeked of spilt ale, roast pork fat, and the salty tang of the sea that seeped through the stone walls. Tywin Lannister had endured the revelry only long enough to observe who drank too much, who boasted too loudly, and who watched the boy-lord of Winterfell with cautious eyes.
Now, in the temporary chambers, a great tent erected in the middle of the Westerland's tents, Tywin sat beside the hearth, its fire low and crackling. A jug of wine, Lannisport red, brought from their own stores, sat on the table, untouched. He had no taste for drink tonight. Not when strategy demanded sobriety.
Kevan entered first, dutiful as ever. Tygett followed, leaning casually against the wooden table once the flap to the tent was shut behind them.
"You saw him at the feast," Tywin said without preamble. "The boy."
"Alaric Stark," Kevan supplied. "Not so much a boy as a shadow. Quiet. Observing."
"A tall shadow, for his age anyway," Tygett added. "He must have been only a head shorter then Eddard Stark already. Ten, is he?"
"Ten, yes," Tywin answered, folding his hands beneath his chin. "Yet he carries himself like a man of thirty."
"He's not like his uncle, the quiet wolf," Kevan said thoughtfully. "There is restraint, but not meekness. And his men revere him. Even Hoster Tully speaks of him with a kind of wary respect."
"And Robert adores him," Tywin said coldly. "The king sees in him a northern version of himself, young, commanding, fearless. A convenient lie to comfort Robert's decline."
"You think him dangerous," Tygett said, almost amused.
"I think him a variable."
They were silent for a moment, the waves crashing in the distance. Tywin stood, the light from the hearth catching the gold in his hair. He paced slowly.
"We have always managed the great houses through balance. Stark and Tully. Baratheon and Arryn. The Tyrells, soft and pliable. The Martells, isolated and bitter. But now?"
Kevan nodded. "The North is consolidating. You've seen the reports. Trade routes through Moat Cailin, even the old fortress itself, are being restored. Canals dug. Timber and stone being moved. The North grows stronger under this boy's rule."
"And worse," Tywin said, "he is loved. By his bannermen, his uncle, the smallfolk. Even the Riverlords speak of his discipline."
"And he took Pyke," Tygett said. "Or near enough. Robert may get the glory tomorrow, but it was Stark who cracked the shell."
"Which is precisely why we must act."
Kevan looked up. "You mean to kill him?"
Tywin turned, the firelight casting harsh shadows on his face. "No. That would only make a martyr. The North would rise, and Robert would mourn. No, we must do what lions have always done best: tame him."
Tygett's brow rose. "You propose marriage."
"Or the idea of it."
"To whom?" Kevan asked. "He is of age. We've no eligible daughters in Casterly Rock."
"No," Tywin said. "But Robert will have daughters."
Tygett whistled low. "You'd bind the North to the Iron Throne."
"We cannot undo the respect he has earned, but we can redirect it. Make him a servant of the realm, not a power unto himself."
Kevan shifted uncomfortably. "Cersei will never allow it. She'll see it as an insult. Her daughter sent to the cold, harsh North."
"Cersei sees insult in any arrangement not centered on her. But I've not asked her opinion."
At that, Tywin turned to the door. "Fetch Jaime."
Kevan moved to comply without question. Within minutes, the Kingslayer entered, still dressed in his white plate armor, white cloak bellowing behind, now unfastened and hanging loose at the shoulders. He looked weary from the feast and the weight of empty celebration.
"You summoned me, Father."
"Sit. We've a matter to discuss."
Jaime sat on a cushioned bench, glancing from Tygett to Kevan, then back to Tywin.
"Alaric Stark," Tywin began.
Jaime's lips curled. "The North's golden wolf. Or rather, silver. He acts more like a lion than a direwolf."
"Would you call him a friend?"
"I'd call him dangerous, like you would. He has eyes like daggers and a soldier's silence. Ser Barristan says he fights like a man twice his age."
"And Robert?"
"Loves him," Jaime said with disdain. "Says he reminds him of himself before the wine. Except this one listens."
"And if we proposed a betrothal?"
Jaime blinked. "Between him and…?"
"A daughter of Robert and Cersei."
The Kingslayer laughed. "You truly wish to see Cersei's wrath unleashed? She'd sooner burn Winterfell than send her daughter to its snow."
"Would she refuse her king's will?"
Jaime's smirk faded. "If she thought it betrayed her, yes."
"Yet this boy grows in power. Would you rather he remain unchecked?"
Jaime leaned forward. "He's not like other northern lords. He's learned something we never expected: how to make the North matter. He speaks little, but when he does, even Robert listens. He's seen as noble, wise, and dangerous."
"And if left to continue, he may become too strong," Kevan said.
Tywin looked back to the flames. "Then we must shape him. If not through marriage, then through debt. Favor. Influence. We offer the Rock's support subtly. Invite him to court. Make him dependent."
"But never trust him," Tygett added.
"No," Tywin said. "Never that."
There was silence again, the sort of silence that comes before the collapse of something grand, or the rise of something greater.
"He reminds me of someone," Jaime said at last.
"Who?" Tywin asked.
"You. Before the crown. Before Aerys. When you walked the halls of Casterly Rock like a god."
Tywin's eyes narrowed.
"Then it is good that I am still here to prevent another me."
The flames flickered.
Tomorrow, Pyke would fall. But tonight, in the Lion's Den, a different kind of war was being planned, the war for legacy, for influence, for the shaping of the next generation.
And Tywin Lannister would not yield the realm to wolves.
[The Next day, hours before the assault of Pyke]
The morning was thick with mist and salt, a pale gray fog clinging to the earth like a corpse's shroud. Tywin Lannister rose before the sun, as he always did, and dressed without ceremony in a padded crimson gambeson stitched with gold thread. His armor would follow, but first, he had men to inspect. Plans to see made flesh.
Outside his command tent, the Westerlands camp was stirring to life. Campfires crackled low, steel sang against whetstone, and the clatter of hooves mixed with the barked orders of knights and captains. The lion banners fluttered above his host, red and gold, catching what little light pierced the haze. Tywin's boots crunched over damp gravel as he walked the rows. Kevan was already ahead, checking the trebuchets and ballistae hauled from the ships. They had been a pain to transport, but they would make short work of the Ironborn's remaining walls.
Lord Crakehall was seeing to the western flank, ever eager, though too loud. Ser Addam Marbrand oversaw the cavalry, their palfreys stamping in the mist. Ser Forley Prester, as usual, had his nose deep in logistics, making sure the carts of pitch and oil arrived where needed. Tywin noted it all without comment. He did not praise men for doing what they were expected to do.
He paused atop a low ridge of broken rock, overlooking the muddy plain between the camps and Pyke's outer curtain. The Ironborn had abandoned most of the land-facing defenses, retreating behind their final walls and bridges. They would fall. Tywin had calculated that already.
But what drew his eye now, across the field and beyond the Riverlander and Crownlander camps, was a shadow in the mist, tall and sure-footed, striding down the lines of armored men with a poise rare for any age. Lord Alaric Stark.
The boy, if one could still call him that, was clad in black mail and a dark gray surcoat with the white direwolf of Stark upon it. He walked slowly, stopping at intervals to speak with captains, to inspect formation lines, to offer a word here, a nod there. Stark soldiers, many grizzled and twice his age, straightened when he passed. Some touched fists to hearts. He offered no flourishes, no speeches, no songs. But still, Tywin could feel it even from a distance, this young wolf had them in the palm of his gauntleted hand.
Then, to Tywin's surprise, Alaric turned and walked to the head of the column, toward the vanguard being assembled, led by the Northmen and the Blackwoods of Raventree. He mounted a tall gray destrier with a Northern-made saddle, and when he pointed toward the breach in the crumbling outer wall, his men moved. Slowly at first, in silence. Then with renewed purpose. The boy was not waiting for the crown's horn. He would be first.
"So that's your plan, wolf pup," Tywin murmured, watching. "Lead from the front. Inspire them with courage… or die and become a hero."
He did not admire it.
No, admiration was for fools. But he understood it.
"Foolhardy," said a voice behind him. Kevan, armored now, helm under one arm.
"Calculated," Tywin replied. "He knows what a victory like this buys. Loyalty. Legend. Legitimacy."
Kevan exhaled. "He's already a Stark. What more does he need?"
Tywin turned his gaze back toward the young lord riding ahead of his men, into the fog and danger without hesitation. "A Stark, yes. But not just any Stark. Not just the Lord of Winterfell. Not just the son of a dead Umber. He wants to be the Stark. The one history remembers."
Tywin narrowed his eyes. "And that should concern us all, after all, an ambitious wolf is far more unpredictable than one who is content sitting up north, the realm saw that almost unfold with the boy's Grandsire and his Southron Ambitions."
They watched in silence as the Northern host began to take their place, poised to charge into the ruined section of Pyke's defenses when the time called for it. Siege ladders were readied. Rams were rolled forward. A slow, grim drumbeat began among the Riverlanders, a soundless war cry pounding through the hearts of men.
Behind them, the King's host began to rouse. Robert Baratheon emerged from his pavilion in half-plate, laughing loudly with Thoros of Myr. The red priest waved a flaming sword overhead and began shouting prayers in his bastard Valyrian. The smell of sulfur and horse sweat filled the air.
"Does he know the boy's already taken the front?" Kevan asked.
"He'll see it soon enough," Tywin replied.
Sure enough, Robert's gaze fell across the field and found the direwolf banner already advancing.
"Seven hells," the King growled, though there was no anger in it, only a kind of rough joy. "The boy's stealing the glory!"
Tywin could see it; Robert would follow. He had to follow. What king allowed a boy to take the lead? Already, the Crownlanders began to rally around their liege lord, the air thick with anticipation.
Tywin did not rush. He moved through the rest of his forces, ensuring every detail was in place. He spoke to the shield bearers, confirmed the oil casks were ready to be lit and catapulted. He reminded Lord Lydden to keep his archers from firing too early. He checked and double-checked the gold lion standards set to rise when the final assault began.
And always, in the corner of his mind, Alaric Stark's face remained. Serene. Cold. Unshaken.
Tywin could see it now, within his mind's eye, later, when the horns blew and the screams rose, and the smoke and fire of battle painted Pyke red, Tywin Lannister would walk through broken stone and pools of blood without flinching. He would pass dead Ironborn and mangled Northmen and see the wolf banner planted atop the central tower, not the stag, nor the lion.
And when Robert Baratheon would shout and bellow and proclaim his victory, Tywin would remember whose men had gone in first. Who had stood unafraid in the breach.
As they gathered atop the ruined battlements that evening, wind tearing at cloaks and banners, Robert clapped the Northern lordling on the back and roared with laughter.
"Next time I crown a hero," the King bellowed, "I'll be naming a bloody child!"
Alaric only bowed his head, polite as ever. But his eyes met Tywin's across the wall. Neither blinked. Neither smiled.
The wolf had tasted blood. And the lion knew the hunger would only grow.
The game had changed. And Tywin Lannister would not yield.
Not now. Not ever.