ARC II: THE AGE OF EXPANSION AND THE ANNIHILATION OF THE GREYJOYS
Chapter 22: The Maturation of the Lineages
POV: Lord Tywin Lannister (296 A.C.)
The rocking of the boat was almost imperceptible as the ship glided with a smoothness that defied the violence of nature. The river that emptied into Blazewater Bay had been visibly widened and deepened by means that challenged the conventional engineering of the maesters of the Citadel; the runic magic of the Winter Throne had shaped the stone bed to allow the waterway to function as a true, high-capacity aquatic highway.
That colossal project, in its genesis, was the result of a proposal of my own. A few years ago, I presented to the northern crown the suggestion to extend this widening and connect it all the way to the vicinity of White Harbor, creating a great transcontinental canal. For any other kingdom, excavating the heart of Westeros would be an impossible fantasy, but the North now possessed a labor force and a mystical energy that made the absurd tangible. The young king, however, had rejected the entirety of the original plan with a frigid pragmatism. At the time, Arawyn Stark told me openly that such an endeavor would bring no real benefit to his people, claiming that it mattered little to him if the merchant ships of the South had to circumnavigate the continent or cross the Neck, for whoever truly desired northern raw materials and runic steel would end up sailing to them anyway. He was entirely correct in his arrogance, but it was an undeniable economic fact that the route would immensely benefit the West and the Reach, allowing for continuous circular traffic and saving months of travel without the need to sail down to the Sea of Dorne. Fortunately, the court's counselors—men with more traditional commercial visions—they managed to persuade the monarch to build the canal. In the end, I understood that the boy's refusal was not based on technical incapacity, but rather on a pure disinclination to work for the profit of others.
The ship finally docked at the fortified port village that protected the river's mouth. The canal did not yet cut directly through the ancient defenses of Moat Cailin, but from there onward the overland journey would be short and paved. After inspecting the sobriety of my garments and ensuring that the golden lion on my chest was perfectly aligned, I left the comfort of the cabin. As soon as I stepped onto the graying wooden wharf, I immediately identified the figure awaiting me; the presence of the heir to the Moat was announced by the massive silhouette of a gray direwolf that stood static by his side. Upon the youth's brown hair rested an iron crown of simple, rustic design—the resurrected symbol of the ancient Kings of Winter.
"Welcome to the North, Grandfather. I hope your journey through the western waters was profitable," Robb greeted me, displaying the easy smile and self-confidence undoubtedly inherited from the Lannister lineage on his mother's side.
"The sea remained calm, and I admit that the runic vessels you have built possess a formidable speed," I replied, maintaining the measured tone that befits a Lord of Casterly Rock.
He gestured for a lackey to bring the reins of a robust stallion and informed me that we should proceed immediately to the fortress. I mounted with the dignity that my years demanded and took advantage of the ride to clinically analyze the lad. Robb, now thirteen, was beginning to leave his boyish features behind. Although his face still retained a fraction of youth, his physical structure was already developing abnormally, a direct byproduct of the magic that saturated the northern soil. The so-called wolf blood, from what my studies indicated, manifested as a magical heritage of the First Men focused predominantly on physical fitness, vigor, and regeneration, rather than abstract mystical gifts. It was a tangible, militarily useful force, and considerably easier to comprehend than the arcane mysteries of the Winter Throne. From the detailed information I filtered from Cersei's frequent correspondence, the gifts of her children were firmly defined. Although some displayed aptitudes considered ordinary by the strict standards of the Starks, such abilities still placed them on a tier of overwhelming superiority compared to any southern noble. As we rode, the beast accompanying my grandson kept its intelligent eyes fixed on my movements, evaluating me with a frightening, calculating coldness. The creature's size, already approaching that of a draft pony, guaranteed that any man foolish enough to threaten its master would meet a violent and mangling death.
The fortress of Moat Cailin rose with the same austerity of black granite that reminded me of my last stay, when I was part of the royal retinue from King's Landing. The real transformation, however, did not reside in the stones, but in the nature of its inhabitants. I was received with the strict formalities of guest right and honored with a private family feast.
The following day, taking advantage of Ned Stark's temporary absence, I dedicated my hours to the true purpose of my long journey to the North: analyzing my grandchildren. The future of House Lannister demanded pragmatism. It seemed a bitter irony of the gods that my blood had not transmitted my strategic intelligence to my male sons, but rather my purest stubbornness. Jaime, my firstborn and the one to whom I dedicated decades of instruction, had proven to be a fool without parallel; first, he allowed himself to be shackled to the Mad King's King's Guard to deprive me of a legitimate heir, and now that he had been dismissed from that decaying dynastic order, he adamantly refused to contract matrimony or generate offspring for some obscure reason he refused to reveal. Faced with the imminence of seeing Casterly Rock without a direct and solid succession, I was forced to seek an alternative among my daughter's lineage in the North. And the scenario I found did not prove altogether unfavorable.
During the morning, right after breakfast, I joined Cersei, her marriage companion Ashara Stark, and the youths in the fortress's inner gardens. It was the ideal environment for a meticulous observation. Robb Stark had already proven himself a young man of remarkable tactical intellect—someone I would not hesitate to name as my universal heir if the laws of Westeros permitted—but the lad was irrevocably destined to assume the duties of his own father as the Protector of the Neck, a position for which Ned was already subjecting him to rigorous training. The true surprise, therefore, lay in my eldest granddaughters. Sansa and Myrcella, both twelve years old, could not express more distinct natures. Myrcella exhibited a shy, demure, and observant personality, hiding a frightening mystical potency: her talent for skinchanging and greensight had reached level three, a direct equivalence to the king's own personal assistant, making her the second living woman in the realm to manifest such a magnitude of power. Sansa, on the other hand, walked through the gardens with a pride and loftiness that was almost aristocratic, which many would call arrogance. I, however, could not blame her. The young girl possessed the extremely rare ability to conjure elemental magic, a feat that until then seemed restricted to the monarch himself, which had led her to be accepted as a direct apprentice to Arawyn Stark. This distinction was visibly reflected in her skin, which boasted a density of golden, geometric runes considerably greater than that of her siblings.
The youth who most captured my attention, however, was Arya. At ten years old, she did not share the softer features of her siblings; her traits were angular and her eyes boasted the stormy gray characteristic of the ancient Starks. It was not just her coloration, but the very structure of her body and her wild personality, endowed with a sassy tongue that knew no submission. What truly surprised me about her was her startling physical resemblance to Lyanna Stark—a fact that became incontestable given that Lyanna herself resided in the fortress alongside her son. That resemblance opened doors for profound political maneuvers, especially when considering a king in the South to whom his she-wolf had been denied in the past; the heir to the Baratheon crown might very well desire to achieve through the daughter what his father could not with the aunt. Beyond dynastic value, Arya's magic was of extreme interest: she manifested all the latent capabilities of the First Men in a balanced manner, being the only one among her siblings to concentrate the entirety of the Stark heritage.
The nine-year-old twins, Brandon and Tommen, represented another anomaly that defied the logic of the Citadel. Brandon was the second best in the realm in greensight, while Tommen held the second position on the skinchanging scale, both placing below only the king himself, who personally instructed them in the control of their minds. Observing little Tommen manipulate the movement of entire colonies of insects with a mere mental command was a disturbing sight, evoking terrible military possibilities; however, the boy's excessively gentle and compassionate nature would be an insurmountable obstacle to the raw demands of a Lord Paramount of the West. The youngest, Rickon, at only seven years old, was still forming his character and physique. Cersei, however, assured me that the wolf blood in him was the most potent of the entire litter—an assertion I verified upon witnessing him contest a piece of raw wood with his own direwolf in a demonstration of fury and strength impressive for his age.
By late afternoon, Eddard Stark returned to the fortress accompanied by his guard. The Protector of the Neck had been inspecting the northern borders, reporting that the wildlings from beyond the Wall were causing frequent disturbances in the lands near the Gift. Naturally, with the proliferation of combat runes, even the common folk of the North were capable of subduing a starving invader using little more than an enchanted piece of wood, but the crown maintained a regular army precisely to contain such incursions and use the confrontations as a practical training ground for the troops. From Ned's serious countenance, the activity beyond the Wall indicated something deeper and more coordinated than mere seasonal raids, suggesting that a new King-Beyond-the-Wall might be rising among the free folk tribes.
During the days that followed, I dedicated myself to studying the military routine of the Moat, even witnessing a training duel in the courtyard that caused me profound perplexity. My grandson Robb faced Rhaegar Targaryen's son, the young Aegon, who was fourteen. Robb moved with the ferocity of a predator, delivering blows with a massive force and a speed that tested the limits of my old eyes. Before him, the young Targaryen kept his guard high; his fighting style followed the classic precepts of southern chivalry, but the strength and speed of his responses were perfectly equivalent to those of my grandson. The fact intrigued me greatly, as I was entirely certain that the lad did not possess the blood of the First Men essential to channel such physical attributes through the runes of the North, leaving only the heritage of ancient Valyria as an explanation.
I felt measured footsteps approach my position on the upper wall of the courtyard and saw an olive-skinned arm rest upon the stone.
"Princess Elia, how have you fared since the events of the rebellion?" I inquired, keeping my eyes on the combat below.
"Very well, Lord Tywin. I have found a peace in this North that the South would never be capable of providing me," she replied serenely, turning her gaze to the youths. "It is a fascinating sight, do you not think?"
"Indeed. Young Aegon demonstrates a remarkable dexterity. However, I wonder from where he extracts such physical potency, given that his veins do not carry the blood of the Winter Kings to resonate with the runic inscriptions of the fortress."
"Your knowledge is correct, my lord," Elia smiled faintly, without averting her eyes from her son. "However, King Arawyn solved this limitation of our lineage. He modified the ancient matrices to create specific runes that resonate with the magical heritage of the Rhoynish and Valyrian peoples. What you see there is the manifestation of that intellect."
The revelation confirmed the discreet rumors circulating in the great halls of the South, especially after the reports regarding Princess Rhaenys's mystical demonstrations during her time in Sunspear.
"If Aegon's skill intrigues you," the princess continued, her voice adopting an almost reverent tone, "you should witness young Aemon. His ability to perfectly reconcile the heritages of both magical lineages makes him a truly terrifying opponent for any warrior on this continent."
At the end of that afternoon, the King of the North finally entered the halls of Moat Cailin. He no longer bore any resemblance to the child prodigy of years past or to the young general of the rebellion; before me stood a fully formed man, whose mere physical presence exerted a gravity that silenced the room. Utilizing the solar of the lord of the Moat—who was present only to yield his rightful seat to the monarch—Arawyn fixed his eyes upon me.
"What brings the old lion of the West to lands so distant from his Rock?" the king inquired, his voice resonating with a calm authority.
"My daughter finds herself fully occupied with dynastic obligations in the North, which prevents her from visiting me in the Westerlands. I traveled here with the sole purpose of seeing Cersei and evaluating the growth of my grandchildren," I replied, keeping my spine rigid.
The king let out a short laugh—a humorless sound that demonstrated his total disbelief in my formal justifications.
"I see. And I presume you have appreciated the development of our blood."
I swallowed the bitterness and frustration of realizing that my thoughts were read with such ease by the man before me, whose analytical capabilities transcended the ordinary methods of espionage.
"Yes. My grandchildren demonstrate that they are growing under exceptional conditions of vigor and intellect."
"Excellent," Arawyn leaned slightly forward, resting his immense arms upon the oak table. "And have you by any chance envisioned a solution for the vacancy of your heir in the West? A well-informed little bird confided in me that your firstborn remains irredentist in his refusal of matrimony."
Realizing that the king held absolute control over the nuances of my political intentions within the fortress, I decided to abandon the diplomatic roundabouts that wasted precious time.
"Regrettably, the only one of my male children who inherited a fraction of my analytical capacity is precisely the one I most despise. As for the other, Jaime has proven to be a well of irrational stubbornness."
The monarch smiled, leaning back in his high-backed chair.
"You are a man of great vision, Lord Tywin. But if you had paid proper attention to the warnings and complaints your late wife confided to you in the past, you would have already understood the exact reasons that lead your knight to reject any traditional nuptial bed."
I narrowed my eyes immediately. Arawyn Stark's words acted like a snap of lucidity in my mind, evoking distant memories of whispered conversations with Joanna—occasions when she had expressed horror and concern after catching the twins in an intimacy that defied the laws of nature and men. In that instant, I understood with surgical clarity the reason for Jaime's obstinate celibacy. The king sustained my gaze, visibly amusing himself with the fact that I had finally deciphered the enigma, while Ned Stark remained silent beside him, not understanding the nature of the family revelation and preferring not to intervene.
"Leaving aside Jaime's idiosyncrasies," I proceeded, recomposing my inflexible posture, "the reality is that I remain without a direct heir for the Rock."
Ned Stark frowned, catching the direction of that negotiation.
"Do you expect, then, that one of the children of my union with Cersei be named the Lord of Casterly Rock after Jaime's liege lordship?" the Protector of the Neck questioned with severity.
"And what would be your specific suggestion, Lord Tywin?" asked the king.
"Being the second male child of this lineage, I believe young Brandon would be the ideal choice to govern the West in my name," I declared directly.
"No," the monarch cut me off promptly, his definitive tone admitting no contestation.
"Brandon's destiny has already been traced by the forces that govern this world. He will perform a function for human existence considerably more crucial than administering the gold mines and vassals of your house."
The firm refusal aroused in me a mixture of scientific curiosity and dynastic offense; what could be more relevant to the destiny of a second son than inheriting the leadership and riches of House Lannister? I reflected quickly on the alternatives. Tommen was ruled out due to his mildness of character. I was left with only the final option available.
"Let it be, then, little Rickon."
Ned Stark intervened instantly, his voice heavy with a legitimate paternal displeasure.
"And what of Tommen? Why skip the natural succession line of my sons for the West?"
Realizing that part of my daughter Cersei's pride had taken root in his northern husband's temperament, I knew that neglecting the elder lad without a plausible justification was an affront I must mitigate with diplomacy.
"Young Tommen manifests an excessively peaceful nature, molded by the customs of the North. That essence, while virtuous here, would be unsuitable for the raw intrigues and political demands of the South. I prefer to keep him under the guard of his current reality rather than attempt to corrupt his identity to force him into a mold that does not belong to him," I explained with due politeness.
The justification seemed to cool the displeasure of the northern general, whose direwolf, lying a few steps away, looked ready to lunge at my throat should the answer prove unsatisfactory. Negotiating with the lords of winter was a task that demanded the utmost precision from me.
The king silenced for a few moments. His eyes gleamed subtly with an invisible runic intensity while he seemed to ponder the temporal ramifications of that decision in his projections.
"If my uncle manifests no formal objection to this arrangement..." Arawyn looked at Ned, who nodded with a sober tilt of his head.
"Then we shall seal this preliminary agreement. However, since Rickon will only assume the position of definitive heir should Jaime pass without legitimate offspring, there is no cause for haste. Who knows if the future holds for your firstborn an encounter with someone who changes his convictions?"
"I doubt such a scenario will materialize. I have already proposed marriages with the most traditional houses of the West, including the Westerlings of the Crag, and Jaime rejected every offer," I countered.
The king displayed an enigmatic smile before concluding the audience.
"Perhaps you simply have not sought an alliance with someone who possesses traits... blonde enough for his taste."
The remaining days of my stay transpired within the expected normality. I continued supervising the training of my grandchildren, while Ned Stark expended his efforts to placate the fury and displeasure of my daughter, who did not take kindly to the prospect of seeing her youngest child betrothed to the South in the future, even while aware that such a successional transition would occur only in a very distant temporal horizon. Following the formal farewells of the monarch, who returned to the seat of the Winter Throne in Winterfell, I began my journey back to the Westerlands. There were urgent matters to attend to at the Rock. A definitive conversation awaited my stubborn heir—a task that shaped up to be considerably more complex than coordinate an invasion of the Rock.