Chapter 4: The Lion's First Blood
The decision to march on Duskendale sent a ripple through the Red Keep. King Aerys II, predictably, vacillated between furious declarations that he alone would crush the insolent Darklyns and paranoid accusations that Tywin was seeking to garner more glory for himself. It took all of Tywin Lannister's steely resolve and carefully worded assurances that he acted only to preserve the King's dignity and treasury to finally secure a grudging, suspicious consent. The Hand, it was clear, was walking a tightrope over a chasm of royal madness.
For Lyonel, the preparations were a whirlwind of focused activity. He was now sixteen, a young man grown, possessing a physical maturity that belied his years, a subtle gift from the sun's constant nurturing. Tywin outfitted him with a suit of finely articulated steel plate, crimson-enameled with golden lion motifs – a slightly less ornate version of his own. The sword at his hip was a masterpiece of Lannister smithing, perfectly balanced, its pommel a roaring lion's head with emerald eyes. Marco Scarlatti, who'd known the cold companionship of a hidden .38 Special, found a grim satisfaction in the heft of good steel.
Internally, Lyonel was a tumult of anticipation and calculation. This wasn't a training yard spar or a verbal duel in court. This was real. Lives were on the line. He wouldn't be able to unleash the full, terrifying might of Escanor at high noon – transforming into a seven-foot demigod of burning pride would cause more problems than it solved. Secrecy was still paramount. His power had to be a scalpel, not a bludgeon; an unseen force tipping the scales, not a blatant miracle. He would rely on the ambient strength the sun gave him, the heightened senses, the superior speed and reflexes that could be passed off as exceptional skill and Lannister breeding.
The force Tywin assembled was not large – a few hundred Lannister household guards, their crimson cloaks and polished armor a stark contrast to the more varied, often ill-equipped retainers of some Crownlands lords reluctantly accompanying them, and a contingent of Gold Cloaks whose loyalty Tywin had carefully cultivated. It was designed for swiftness and efficiency, not a prolonged siege.
The march itself was an education in command. Lyonel rode beside his father, observing Tywin's meticulous attention to detail: the scouting parties, the picket lines at night, the discipline of the camp, the foraging for supplies. Tywin missed nothing. He spoke little, but when he did, his words were precise, instructive.
"An army marches on its stomach, Lyonel," Tywin said one evening, as they surveyed the campfires. "But it fights on its discipline. A well-fed rabble is still a rabble. A disciplined force, even hungry, can achieve miracles."
Lyonel, feeling the day's accumulated solar energy still humming within him, providing a tireless vitality, absorbed it all. He made a point of speaking with the men, from grizzled sergeants to nervous young recruits. He listened to their concerns, offered quiet encouragement, and occasionally, using Marco's old knack for reading people, identified potential troublemakers or particularly capable individuals, reporting his observations to his father. He was not just the Hand's son; he was learning to be a leader in his own right. The soldiers, initially wary of the young lord, began to respect his keen eye, his quiet confidence, and the surprising strength he displayed when, for instance, helping to free a wagon mired in mud with an ease that made several stout men blink. He'd simply attribute it to "good leverage" and the "urgency of the Hand's business."
As they neared Duskendale, the mood grew more somber. The lands of House Darklyn were fertile, the town itself a significant port. Lord Denys Darklyn was known for his pride, a trait Lyonel, of all people, could understand, if not condone in this instance. His defiance was a direct challenge to the Iron Throne and, by extension, to Tywin's authority as Hand.
Duskendale's Dun Fort stood stark against the grey sea, its walls old but sturdy. Banners bearing the black and yellow lozengy of House Darklyn, with their seven-pointed star, fluttered defiantly.
Tywin, true to form, attempted parley first. He, Lyonel, Ser Addam Marbrand, and a small retinue rode under a banner of peace towards the main gates. Lord Denys Darklyn himself, a man with more arrogance than sense, appeared on the battlements, flanked by his principal knight, Ser Symon Hollard, and his wife, Lady Serala of Myr, whose exotic beauty was said to be a significant influence on her husband's ambitions.
"Lord Tywin Lannister!" Lord Denys called down, his voice laced with false bravado. "Come to sample Duskendale's famous hospitality? Or does the King's tax collector require an army to carry our silver?"
"Lord Darklyn," Tywin's voice was cold iron, carrying effortlessly. "You hold an officer of the King hostage. You refuse the King's lawful taxes. This is treason. Release Maester Merros, remit what is owed, and throw yourself upon the King's mercy. Do this, and I will speak for leniency."
Lady Serala whispered something in her husband's ear. Lord Denys straightened. "Leniency? From Aerys? The only mercy we seek is from the gods, Lord Hand. Duskendale has suffered long enough under the Crown's heavy hand. We seek to renegotiate our terms."
Lyonel studied them. Lord Denys was a peacock, puffed up with his own importance. Ser Symon Hollard looked more resolute, more dangerous. Lady Serala… her eyes were shrewd, calculating. Marco's instincts told him she was the true architect of this folly.
"There will be no negotiation, Lord Darklyn," Tywin stated, his patience wearing thin. "Only your surrender, or your destruction. You have until dawn. Choose wisely."
They withdrew. That night, the Lannister camp was a hive of quiet preparation. Tywin laid out his plans. A direct assault on the Dun Fort would be costly. He intended a show of force, a tightening noose. "They believe their walls will protect them," Tywin said to Lyonel, tracing lines on a rough map of the town. "They forget that a port town has a vulnerable belly: the sea. And its people need to eat."
The next morning, Lord Darklyn's answer was a volley of arrows from the walls, falling short. The defiance was clear.
Tywin's response was methodical. He blockaded the port with a few hired Braavosi galleys that had been conveniently in King's Landing, cutting off escape or reinforcement by sea. His troops established a tight cordon around the landward side, cutting off food supplies. Days turned into a week. The mood within Duskendale, initially defiant, began to sour, or so their spies reported.
Lyonel was frustrated. This waiting game chafed at his Escanor-fueled desire for decisive action, especially as the sun blazed day after day, filling him with restless energy. He patrolled the lines, his senses preternaturally sharp. He could hear snippets of conversations from within the walls, smell the dwindling food supplies, see the growing desperation in the eyes of the sentries.
One afternoon, during a routine sweep of the perimeter with Ser Addam Marbrand and a handful of men, they stumbled upon a sally port, half-hidden by overgrown ivy near the old sea cliffs, that their initial reconnaissance had missed. It was narrow, clearly not a main point of egress, but potentially a way for spies or supplies to trickle in or out.
As Lyonel, his eyes sharper than any hawk's under the bright sun, examined the faint tracks near the opening, an arrow hissed from the darkness within the sally port, aimed straight at Ser Addam's throat.
Time seemed to slow for Lyonel. The power of the near-noon sun surged through him. Without conscious thought, he moved. He was a crimson blur. He didn't have time to draw his sword. He simply thrust out his gauntleted hand, not to catch the arrow, but to strike it.
His steel-clad fist connected with the arrow shaft mid-flight. There was a sharp crack. The arrow, instead of impaling Ser Addam, deflected wildly, shattering against a nearby rock. Ser Addam gasped, stumbling back, his hand flying to his neck where death had missed him by a hair's breadth.
Before anyone could react to the impossible deflection, Lyonel was already diving towards the sally port, sword now drawn. "Archers inside! To me!" he roared, his voice carrying an unexpected force.
Two Darklyn men-at-arms, surprised by the sudden, furious assault, scrambled back from the opening. Lyonel was on them in an instant. His movements were a whirlwind of crimson and gold, his sword a silver flash. He didn't aim to kill, not immediately. Marco's pragmatism dictated prisoners were more valuable for information. One parry, a pommel strike to the temple. The first man went down. The second lunged, his spear seeking Lyonel's chest. Lyonel sidestepped with blinding speed, the spearhead scraping harmlessly off his reinforced pauldron. He brought his sword down in a flat arc, the heavy blade impacting the man's helmet with a clang that sent him sprawling, stunned.
It was over in seconds. Ser Addam and his men, rushing in, found Lyonel standing over the two incapacitated Darklyn soldiers, his chest heaving slightly, his green eyes blazing with a fierce light.
"Are you… are you alright, my lord?" Ser Addam stammered, staring at Lyonel with a new, profound awe. He'd seen the arrow. He'd seen Lyonel punch it out of the air.
Lyonel took a steadying breath, forcing the adrenaline down, banking the solar fire. "Fortunate deflection," he said, his voice a little rougher than usual. "Check the sally port. Secure it. These two might have friends." He made it sound like a lucky break, a desperate lunge. He couldn't let them dwell on the physics of a man punching an arrow.
The discovery of the sally port and the capture of the two guards provided Tywin with fresh intelligence. They learned of dwindling morale, internal disagreements within the Dun Fort, and the growing fear of Lady Serala, who was reportedly urging her husband to seek terms with sellswords for a breakout.
But Lord Darklyn remained stubbornly defiant, perhaps fearing Aerys's madness more than Tywin's siege. He also still held Maester Merros, the royal tax collector, threatening his life if any assault was made.
Tywin's patience finally snapped. "He has had his chance," the Hand declared, his voice like the grinding of glaciers. "He forces my hand."
The assault, when it came, was brutal and efficient. Tywin did not aim for a prolonged, wall-scaling battle. Using the intelligence about the sally port and another revealed weakness – a section of the old wall known to be crumbling – he orchestrated simultaneous diversions while elite Lannister men, led by Ser Addam (who now looked at Lyonel with something akin to religious fervor) and personally overseen by Lyonel himself, exploited these weak points.
Lyonel, under the full blaze of the midday sun, felt like a god of war. He moved with blinding speed and devastating strength, always careful to make it look like exceptional skill rather than outright superhuman power. A gate that should have taken a battering ram minutes to breach, he helped shoulder open with a dozen men, his "timely" surge of strength attributed to perfect coordination. He cut down opponents with a precision and force that was breathtaking, his sword seeming to be everywhere at once, each blow landing with the impact of a warhammer. Men fell before him, not necessarily dead, but incapacitated, their weapons shattered, their armor dented, their limbs broken. He was a whirlwind of controlled destruction, ensuring his actions, while extraordinary, could still be rationalized by onlookers as the peak of human martial prowess, albeit a terrifying peak.
He saw Ser Symon Hollard fighting like a cornered wolf, rallying the Darklyn men. He saw Lord Denys Darklyn, his face a mask of terror, trying to flee towards the docks. He saw Lady Serala, her beautiful face contorted with fury and fear, screaming orders that no one obeyed.
The Dun Fort fell within hours. Lord Denys Darklyn was captured, cowering in a wine cellar. Ser Symon Hollard died fighting, a dozen wounds on his body. Lady Serala was taken, spitting curses in Myrish. Maester Merros was found alive, though traumatized, in a dungeon.
The "Lion's First Blood" was not just in the fighting. It was in the aftermath. Tywin Lannister was true to his word: he had offered mercy, it had been refused. Now, he would make an example that Westeros would not soon forget.
Lord Denys Darklyn and his entire family, down to distant cousins found within the walls, were executed. Their heads were displayed on spikes above the gates of Duskendale. House Darklyn was extinguished from the annals of Westeros. Lady Serala of Myr, as the primary instigator and a foreigner who had sown such discord, was given to the King's pyromancers, as Aerys had specifically demanded via raven mid-siege, a fate that made even some hardened Lannister soldiers pale. Ser Symon Hollard's family, House Hollard, who were kin to the Darklyns and had supported their defiance, were also stripped of their lands and titles, though their lives were spared at the intervention of Ser Barristan Selmy, who had apparently arrived with a small Kingsguard contingent as the siege concluded, carrying further edicts from an agitated Aerys. Selmy, Lyonel noted, looked upon Tywin's work with a grim disapproval but did not interfere beyond pleading for the Hollards.
Lyonel witnessed it all, standing beside his father, his face composed, his green eyes missing nothing. The Marco Scarlatti in him understood the brutal necessity. This was how power was maintained. Show weakness, and a dozen more Darklyns would rise. This was a message written in blood and fire, a lesson for any other ambitious lordlings.
Yet, a part of him, the part that remembered Joanna's kindness, the part that Escanor's prideful chivalry (if it could be called that) resonated with, felt a cold knot in his stomach at the sheer totality of the destruction, especially of those who were merely kin, not direct conspirators. He said nothing. This was his father's decision, the King's will. He was here to learn, to support, to be the strong heir.
"You see, Lyonel?" Tywin said quietly, as they watched the last of the Darklyn banners being torn down, replaced by the Targaryen dragon and the Lannister lion. The sun was setting, casting long, bloody shadows. Lyonel felt his immense power waning, leaving behind a weary ache. "This is the price of defiance. This is the cost of ambition untempered by wisdom. Let it be a lesson to you, and to all who would challenge the King's peace, or the strength of House Lannister."
Lyonel nodded, his throat tight. "A harsh lesson, Father. But one that will not be forgotten."
The return to King's Landing was swift. Tywin's reputation for ruthless efficiency was now cemented in blood. Lyonel, too, was spoken of in hushed, awed tones by the soldiers who had witnessed his prowess. Tales of his speed, his strength, his uncanny ability to be at the right place at the right time, deflecting arrows and breaking enemy lines, were already spreading, embellished with each retelling. He was no longer just the Hand's clever son; he was Lyonel the Lionheart, the Young Lion, a warrior of apparently prodigious talent.
King Aerys's reaction was predictably perverse. He lauded Tywin publicly for crushing the defiance, yet in private, his jealousy and fear grew. He had wanted to be the one to humble Duskendale, but Tywin had, once again, stolen his thunder. The King's favor, always fickle, began to curdle further.
Lyonel felt the change. The air in the Red Keep grew heavier, the King's moods more erratic. He had tasted battle, had shed blood (albeit indirectly, through his command and actions), and had been party to the grim necessities of power as Tywin wielded it. He was harder now, more seasoned. The idealism of youth, if any had truly remained in Marco Scarlatti's soul, was extinguished, replaced by a cold, clear understanding of the game he was playing.
He was indeed the Lion's cub, and he had drawn his first blood. The taste was bitter, metallic, but also invigorating. It was the taste of power, of survival, of the brutal reality of Westeros. And as the sun rose each morning, he felt his own power rise with it, ready for the challenges to come. The Defiance of Duskendale was but a prelude. The real storms were still gathering.