CHAPTER XVII
Before the StormThe road to Storm's End wound slow and unhurried through the chalky hills of the Stormlands, and neither was the column in any greater haste. Three slow weeks had passed since the first raven had come shrieking out of the east with tidings from Claw Isle, yet the forty-odd riders ambled along like lords upon a summer progress rather than men riding to war. The track was pale as old bone beneath the horses' hooves, bordered thick with gorse and broom that hissed and whispered whenever the wind stirred. Somewhere off to the right the Narrow Sea lay hidden behind the low, rolling hills, its presence marked only by the sharp salt tang upon the air and the distant, mournful cries of gulls wheeling high against a sky the color of hammered steel.
Scouts ranged ahead and upon the flanks, their tabards showing the familiar red and white of House Celtigar, crabs clawing across the cloth in thread of gold. Baratheon men-at-arms kept a loose but watchful formation beside them, stag antlers stitched upon their breasts in black. No banners flew, no horns blared; there was only the steady clop of hooves upon the chalk, the creak of saddle leather, the low buzz of talk grown stale with repetition. Dust rose in a thin veil behind them, drifting southward like a pale ghost.
Tywin Lannister rode near the middle of the column, astride his golden-caparisoned destrier, the beast picking its own measured pace as though it, too, disdained haste. His eyes...pale green, sharp as Valyrian steel...kept drifting forward to the two lords at the very van. Lord Ormund Baratheon sat like a bull upon his massive black charger, broad shoulders straining the black-and-gold surcoat, his beard bristling in the wind like a hedge of iron. One thick arm waved as he spoke, gesturing with the blunt certainty of a man who had never known doubt. Beside him, upon a dapple-grey palfrey of elegant breeding, rode Lord Caspian Celtigar, silver hair cropped short against the skull, his nose still carrying the slight crook from whatever "sparring" had bloodied it back in the Red Keep months earlier. The unlikely pair...the stag and the crab...had ridden knee to knee since dawn, heads bent close, voices low but steady beneath the wind. An odd sight, yet they had fallen into easy companionship, as though some shared understanding had grown between them like ivy upon old stone. Tywin watched them the way he watched everything: quietly, intently, storing every gesture, every glance, every half-heard word away in the vaults of his mind for future use.
Three weeks of ravens, each one worse than the last. After Claw Isle had come Driftmark, then Duskendale, then Gulltown with its harbor in flames. Even the little port upon Tarth had been smashed to kindling. Ships burned at their moorings, warehouses gutted, stores of pitch and rope and salted beef turned to greasy ash upon the wind. Never inland. Never a village touched, never a sept or smallfolk hovel put to the torch. Only the harbors, the docks, the things that let an army move or a fleet put to sea. Every survivor told the same tale: a black dragon upon a red field, raiders slipping in under cover of darkness and gone again before the bells had ceased their frantic ringing. It made a cold kind of sense, Tywin thought, if one wished to cripple the realm's strength before the true fighting began. Reach galleys and the big cogs out of White Harbor would be the only hulls of any size left upon the waters. Smart. Patient. The sort of war Tywin himself would have waged, had he the command. But Maelys Blackfyre was supposed to be a butcher, a roaring brute who hacked his way across the Stepstones with a sword in either hand. Not a quartermaster, not a man who struck at supply lines and left the smallfolk untouched. Tywin's gut whispered that something felt wrong in it, a shadow behind the cleverness, but guts were not facts, and the facts lined up neat as lances on a tourney field. He let the thought sit there, sour but unproven, turning it over like a coin between his fingers.
An elbow caught him hard in the ribs.
"Oi, lion," Aerys said, grinning sideways. Silver hair clung damp to his forehead in the wind, and his violet eyes sparkled with mischief. "Stop staring holes through the backs of their heads or you'll set the whole column ablaze."
Tywin rubbed the spot, scowling. "Seven hells, Aerys. I was thinking."
"Aye, well, you think too loud. Face all pinched up like you swallowed a whole lemon from the Reach." Aerys jerked his chin toward the front of the column. "Still chewing over those raids, are you?"
"Something like that."
Beside Aerys rode Steffon, hunched in the saddle, big shoulders tight, jaw locked as though he chewed upon iron. A lad of fifteen, already taller than his lord father and broader through the chest, yet today he looked small, like a boy trying on a man's armor for the first time and finding it too heavy. The wedding to Lady Cassana Estermont had been shoved forward with unseemly haste once the ravens began their grim chorus. War upon the horizon, Steffon the only heir the Baratheons possessed, and Princess Rhaelle too frail now to give Lord Ormund any hope of a spare. Lord Estermont and Ormund had clapped hands upon the match and called it prudent. Steffon had been blushing and grinning about it only a week earlier. Now he looked sick.
Aerys leaned across and gave his cousin a shove. "Cheer up, Steff. A few more days and you'll be a married man. Finally get to tumble Cassana proper instead of mooning after her like a lovesick pup. I'll wager she's got those dark curls all loose upon the pillow, waiting for you..."
"Shut your bloody mouth, Aerys."
The words came out sharp as a slap across the face. Aerys blinked, startled for once. For half a heartbeat the prince looked almost hurt; then his violet eyes narrowed in that way Tywin knew too well.
Steffon did not wait for more. He shook his head once, hard, as though shaking water from his ears, and dug his heels into his big gelding. The horse surged forward up the column. Ormund glanced over one massive shoulder, saw his son coming, gave a grunt that might have been greeting or might have been nothing at all, and turned straight back to whatever he was saying to Lord Caspian. The crab lord merely shifted his palfrey a little to make room. The three of them rode on, Steffon wedged in like an afterthought. Ormund never turned his head again.
Tywin and Aerys rode in silence a moment, wind snapping at their cloaks like a banner in battle.
Aerys rubbed the back of his neck, looking almost sheepish. "What in the seven hells crawled up his arse? He should be grinning ear to ear. Cassana's pretty enough, she likes him well, her lord father's rich as-"
Tywin exhaled through his nose, watching Steffon's broad back recede. "He's scared, my prince."
Aerys snorted. "Scared? Of bedding a pretty girl? Steff's been half in love with her since we were children. Now he acts as though I told him he's for the block."
"Not only that." Tywin kept his voice low, for the wind carried words farther than men liked. "The wedding's been pushed forward fast because of the Blackfyre raids. He's the only heir Lord Ormund has, and with your aunt too frail for more children… suddenly he must stand up in a sept and swear to protect a wife for the rest of his days while the realm rides toward war. Most lads our age are still dreaming of tourneys and glory. He's being handed a lordship's weight before he's even grown into his own armor."
"But it is so unlike him!" Aerys whined, the word stretching like a boy's complaint. "I liked him better when he would just tackle me and brawl in the yard."
"And Ser Barristan would be left wondering whether to intervene to save your royal arse or risk bruises between friends fighting?"
"Cousins, Tywin. And don't you act so high and mighty now, as if you were not a mother hen yourself, all scared and fussing."
Tywin blinked.
"Mother hen?"
His prince laughed, a bright, sharp sound. "I wish I had a mirror so you could see your face."
"Har har. Such a funny jape, my prince."
"Don't you 'my prince' me, Tywin." Aerys narrowed his eyes. "I don't want another dornish princess for a friend."
"Speaking of Dornish princesses, though…" Aerys went on, voice dropping into sly conspiracy. "Steff is lucky Myriah was not there when the news had broken. Her japes would cut deeper than mine. If he's sniping at me now, gods know he would have burst into flames after Myriah was done with him."
"Aye, but why has she left the Red Keep in such a hurry? You think..."
"You should know better than to believe those foul rumors about Lord Caspian and Myriah," Aerys cut in, smooth as oil. "Jealous lessers have always sought to sully the names of their betters. Besides, is she not married to the Yronwood fellow?"
"Lord Edgar's son… a far better fate than a second son deserves."
"Bah. It is not as if he or his children would ever have claim to Sunspear's seat. Doran has grown up to be a fine young lad indeed."
"Fine young man? He is only a shy few years younger than you..."
"Don't change the matter now, Tywin." Aerys's tone sharpened. "And even if the rumors were true, why would she marry someone else in such a hurry?"
Tywin could think of a dozen reasons...ambition, fear, the quiet dance of Dornish politics...but thought it wiser to keep mum.
"Anyways," Aerys continued, "I don't like this."
"My prince?"
He sighed, gaze drifting once more to Steffon riding sullen and deep in thought beside his father and the crab lord. "It is just that...when Steffon came back from Storm's End last time, I thought… I mean, have you ever felt that things are changing too fast?"
"Time waits for no one, friend."
"I know that. It is just… ever since Steffon returned, he has been spending less and less time with us...as if I care. But all he seems to do now is follow Lord Ormund or train in the yard or moon about his Cassana. I just…"
"I understand, my prince."
"Stop with this 'my prince' shite, Tywin!" He all but shouted it, then caught himself, voice dropping. "He snaps at me and you..."
"Aerys, it is just…" Tywin chose his words with care. "He feels that once it is done, he stops being merely Lord Ormund's son and becomes Lord Steffon, with a wife and responsibilities that would turn any man grey before he had the chance to be a boy. That is enough to make anyone snap."
Aerys was quiet a beat. "…Fuck. I didn't think of it that way."
Tywin shrugged one shoulder, the movement small beneath his cloak. "Fear does strange things. Even to big stags like him."
"But it is not as though he would start ruling the Stormlands just yet. Knowing how stubborn Ormund is, he would outlive all of us out of pure spite, especially Uncle Dunk. I don't get it… he should be happy, getting married to the girl he loves. No one's making him shag his own sister."
"So the betrothal between you and Princess Rhaella..."
"Gods, no… but is it not likely? If my grandsire was to marry her off to Lord Caspian, would he not have done so already?"
"Well, Princess Rhaella is still quite young…"
"As if that ever stopped them before..."
Aerys's mood was souring further and further, and for the first time Tywin did not quite know what to do. He did not know what the king or the crown prince were truly planning...for the time being he could not afford his other friend to sink into sullenness.
Aerys seemed to shake the thought away and looked back toward his cousin riding beside his father and the crab lord, still ignored...and something in the prince's face went soft. "I'm such an idiot sometimes, feeling sorry for my own arse," he muttered. "Even though he's a head taller and can wrestle me into the dirt, I forget he's still my little brother."
Tywin glanced sideways. "Blood of the dragon indeed runs thick."
Aerys gave a short laugh that did not sound quite like laughter. "Aye. Always wished for brothers. Didn't matter whether younger or older. Thought maybe Uncle Dunk's whelp would be one I could spoil rotten, drag round the yard, teach stupid shit. But…" He shrugged, eyes on the road ahead. "I've got Steff. And I've got you." He reached across and clapped Tywin on the shoulder, the touch quick and warm, as though assuring himself the world had not yet slipped away. "I've got both of you."
Tywin felt something loosen behind his ribs, a small, unfamiliar warmth. He was not a man for soft words, yet this was different. "I am honored… brother."
Aerys's grin came back crooked. "Brother? Finally. Thought I'd have to beat it out of you the way Steff beats sense into me." He tossed his head, mock-haughty. "Don't get used to it, though. I might change my mind if you keep brooding like an old septon."
They rode like that for a time, easy in the silence, the road rising and falling beneath them. Storm's End still lay a few days off at this lazy pace. Lord Ormund had said there was no point killing the horses when the realm was not yet burning. Tywin approved. Smart men did not run at shadows.
After a while Aerys spoke again, quieter. "Tell me true, Tywin."
"Aye?"
"This war with the pretenders… will it ever actually end?"
Tywin watched the hills where the scouts had vanished into the gorse. "Hopefully this is the last, my friend."
Aerys nodded, but his face stayed tight. "But remember what I said about blood, Tywin."
Tywin did not answer. He knew what Aerys meant...the same red-and-black blood that ran in the veins of the Blackfyres ran also in Steffon's through his mother, and in Aerys's own. The kind of blood that did not forget old grudges. The kind that could turn cousin against cousin without blinking. He kept his mouth shut.
Aerys shook his head as though shaking the thought away, then spurred his horse forward. Tywin watched the silver head bob up the column. The prince slowed beside his cousin. Steffon, still riding solemn next to his father...who had not turned his head once...glanced sideways. Aerys leaned in, whispering something Tywin could not hear. Even from twenty yards back he saw Steffon's shoulders drop a fraction. The big lad's face eased, the scowl melting into a half-smile. He said something back...short, almost a laugh...and Aerys clapped him on the arm. The three men at the front made a little more room without comment, and the column kept moving, four deep at the van now.
Tywin let the smallest smirk touch his mouth. The lion in him noted the careful dance of pride and family. The boy in him...the one hardly anyone ever saw...felt the warmth linger.
The wind shifted, carrying the sharper scent of salt and the faint cry of gulls. Somewhere ahead lay Storm's End, a wedding, and maybe the first real mustering against the black dragon. Tywin touched the hilt of his sword and let the destrier find its own pace. Whatever game the Blackfyres were truly playing, whatever shadow hid behind the burned ports and the too-clever raids, he would be ready when the time came. For now the road stretched on, and two boys...silver and black...rode together at the front of a column that still believed, for a little while longer, that the realm might yet be held together.
Yet even as the thought formed, Tywin felt the old familiar chill settle behind his eyes. Brothers could love one another, true enough. But blood had a longer memory than love, and the dragons had never been gentle with their own. The road rose gently before them, chalk dust swirling, and the sea wind carried the promise of salt and smoke and things yet unborn. Tywin Lannister rode on, watching, always watching, while the gorse whispered its secrets to the empty hills.
P.S-Writing young Aerys is a pain in the arse.
He's not the Mad King yet, just a spoiled prince who laughs too loud, dreams too big, and overthinks everything. One second he's certain he's the blood of the dragon; the next he's terrified everyone can see the cracks. Powerless, insecure, and clinging hard to the only people who still see him as Aerys instead of the future king. I rewrote his scenes three times because it's way too easy to push him straight into monster territory. This is the Aerys who could still be saved.
Same knife-edge for all three of them. Steffon's suddenly staring down a wife and a war. Tywin's already filing every shift away like the lion he is. And Aerys feels the ground moving under their feet and doesn't know whether to laugh, snap, or hold on tighter and maybe that's why Tywin stayed Hand near twenty years, me thinks. Not just self-interest. Once, on that chalk road, a silver-haired prince called him brother and meant it. Tywin never forgot.
My schedule's been brutal lately, but the story wouldn't wait. War's coming whether Maelys likes it or not.