High atop the central tower of Clegane Keep, a massive brass bell began to toll.
It was a bell forged for warning, designed to alert the surrounding farmers to the approach of mountain clansmen or bandit raids. Since the day Gregor Clegane had claimed this fortress as his seat, that bell had remained silent. Who would dare provoke the Mountain? Even the most desperate outlaws gave the Clegane lands a wide berth, fearing a fate worse than a simple hanging.
But today, the brass throat of the keep roared once more.
Dong. Dong. Dong.
The sound was solemn, heavy with the weight of a dying dynasty. It was a funeral dirge that echoed across the jagged hills of the Westerlands. Tommen I, a boy who had worn the crown for less than half a year, had succumbed to a fever in the heart of winter's first true bite.
The young King lay within the castle's small sept. It was a dilapidated place; the Mountain had no use for gods, and the walls were mottled with damp and age. Faded sketches of the Seven peered down from the stone, their faces worn into haunting masks.
It was dusk. The setting sun bled through the high, narrow windows, casting a dark red glow over Tommen's small form. He was dressed in a magnificent robe of crimson silk, the golden crown of the Stag and Lion resting on his brow. His eyes were closed, his face peaceful, looking more like a sleeping child than a fallen monarch. Thick incense smoke coiled in the air, descending like a grey shroud onto the cold marble floor.
Cersei Lannister gripped the edge of the gilded coffin, her knuckles white. Her tears had long since dried, leaving her eyes red-rimmed and lifeless. Her hair was a matted golden mess, and her expression was a mask of numb ferocity. She looked like a gargoyle cast from iron.
Internally, her mind was a hornet's nest of panic. If Tommen is dead, what am I? The title of Queen Regent was a ghost. Without a son on the throne, she was just a Lannister daughter—a widow in a world that had no more use for her. She saw the way her father looked at her: a cold, bone-chilling disgust that was sharper than any blade. She felt as if she were drowning, reaching for a lifeline that had just snapped.
CRACK.
The sound of a whip tore through the silence of the courtyard outside.
The Maester of Clegane Keep let out a high-pitched shriek. "My Lord! My Lord, have mercy!"
The man had been stripped and bound to a tree. The wind was a razor, and his skin was a map of rising welts. "The King was only nine! He was frail! The journey from Goldengrove... the cold... the lack of sleep... he was exhausted! I did my best! I bled him! I gave him the powders! No one could have saved him in this hole!"
Cersei erupted from the sept like a wounded lioness. She pointed a trembling finger at the Maester, her voice a shriek of pure madness. "You incompetent cur! Are you accusing me? Are you saying a mother killed her own son?! Sandor! Whip him! Whip the life out of him!"
The Hound looked back at Tywin Lannister. The Hand offered a single, imperceptible nod.
Sandor's arm moved with a mechanical, brutal rhythm. The Maester's pleas faded into wet, gurgling whimpers.
Tywin watched the scene with eyes of cold emerald. He felt nothing for the Maester and even less for his daughter's hysterics. He was calculating the wreckage. Tommen was the anchor of his legitimacy. Without him, the lion was no longer a player at the table; they were targets.
Margaery Tyrell sat on a stone bench, her face buried in a silk handkerchief. Her sobs were genuine, but they were the tears of a woman mourning her own future. She had been a Queen three times, and three times her grooms had perished before they could secure her position. The Tyrell alliance had been built on Tommen's breath. Now that it was gone, Highgarden had no reason to stay.
"My Lord!"
Addam Marbrand rode into the courtyard, dragging two bound men behind his horse. They were Osfryd and Osney Kettleblack. Their elder brother, Ser Osmund of the Kingsguard, was already a silhouette on the gallows near the gatehouse, his white cloak fluttering like a shroud.
"We found them lurking in the woods, My Lord," Marbrand reported, forcing the brothers to their knees.
Tywin's gaze shifted to the Kettleblacks, then to Cersei. The Queen Regent's face went ashen. She knew these men held her secrets—the fire at Goldengrove, the nights in her bed.
The Kettleblack brothers looked at their swinging brother and began to struggle, muffled whimpers coming through their gags. They realized the Queen's protection had evaporated the moment the King's heart stopped.
Tywin understood perfectly. To burn a vassal's seat and flee into the night... only mercenaries could be so crude. He closed his eyes for a heartbeat, the sheer stupidity of his daughter's move weighing on him.
He opened them, his pupils shimmering with a golden light. He stepped forward, drawing his longsword.
Marbrand's men held the Kettleblacks still. Tywin didn't look at the prisoners as he drove the steel through Osfryd's ribs, piercing the heart. He watched Cersei the entire time. His gaze was a promise of a different kind of execution.
Osney watched his brother die, his eyes bulging, his trousers soaking through with terror. Tywin didn't make him wait. The blood-stained blade followed, and the silence returned to the courtyard.
Tywin handed the sword to Marbrand and walked toward Cersei.
"Fa... Father..." she stammered, her lips trembling.
Tywin ignored her. He turned to Sandor Clegane. "Sandor. From this day forward, Clegane Keep is yours. Truly yours."
He pointed to the high tower where the bell still groaned. "The Queen Mother will reside there. No one is to speak to her. She is to have no servants, no silk, and no fine wine. Two meals of bread and thin gruel. If she tries to leave, put her in irons."
Sandor's eyes widened. "My Lord... my vows. The Kingsguard..."
"There is no King for you to guard," Tywin said flatly. "Stannis holds the capital. If you go back, you'll be lucky to get a black cloak before they hang you. Take the keep, Sandor. It is the price of your silence."
The Hound looked at the blood on the stones, then at the white cloak he had discarded. He nodded. "I understand, My Lord."
Margaery Tyrell and the Highgarden retinue were already packing. They moved with a silent, frantic speed, eager to put leagues between themselves and the Lannisters. Tywin didn't stop them. He couldn't. Without Tommen, he had no leash on the Rose.
"What are you doing?!" Cersei shrieked as two burly kitchen maids grabbed her arms. She fought with a desperate, wild strength, slapping and kicking until one of the maids delivered a sharp blow to her abdomen.
"This is your fault!" Cersei retched, looking at Tywin. "You drove us out of the city! You let the Karstark boy win! You—!"
"I told you to stay quiet," Tywin said, his voice a low, terrifying growl. "I told you to wait while I cleaned up the mess. Tommen was our lifeblood, and you dragged him through a blizzard to settle a grudge with a Tyrell girl. You have brought down House Lannister, Cersei. Now, you will live with the consequences."
He turned away as the maids dragged the retching Queen toward the dark wooden door of the tower.
The Lion was alone in the West, and the winter was only getting colder.
[System Notification: Major Narrative Event: Collapse of the Lannister-Tyrell Alliance.]
[Status: Cersei Lannister (Imprisoned/Disgraced).]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
For Advance/Early Chapters:
patreon.com/Shadownarch_