Chapter Text
Lions’ Second Chance
Chapter Eight
The Battle Before Tarbeck Hall
The Westerlands, 261 AC
Rain came before the Reynes.
It fell in thin grey sheets over the fields surrounding Tarbeck Hall, turning roads to mud and ditches to brown water. Men cursed softly as they tightened straps, covered bowstrings, checked spearheads, and fed fires that refused to burn cleanly.
Tywin Lannister did not curse.
He stood beneath a canvas awning with the map weighted down before him by stones, listening as captains reported what they had seen.
Tarbeck Hall remained shut.
Its gates barred.
Its walls manned.
Its lord defiant.
Its lady louder still.
The final summons had been read at the gate before witnesses. Lord Walderan Tarbeck had answered with laughter. Lady Ellyn had answered with a speech about ancient grievances, wounded honor, and lions grown fat upon borrowed pride.
Tywin had let her finish.
Then he had ordered his men to dig.
That, more than threats, had unsettled Tarbeck Hall.
Threats gave rebels something to answer.
Ditches did not.
By the third day, the siege lines held.
No village had been burned.
No orchard cut.
No smallfolk beaten for grain.
Every loaf taken from nearby farms was marked by tally and seal. Every cart was guarded. Every soldier caught stealing would lose the hand he had used to take what was not his.
Some men grumbled.
Quietly.
Most did not grumble twice.
Ser Harys Swyft had called such restraint strange.
Lord Sumner Crakehall had called it unnecessary.
Lord Marbrand had watched Tywin for a long moment and said nothing at all.
Tywin had heard them.
He had ignored them.
Victory could be wasted.
The words returned at inconvenient moments.
Not as command.
Not even as conscience.
As calculation.
Burned fields fed no army.
Terrified smallfolk carried poor news and worse memory.
Men who surrendered today could be taxed tomorrow.
Fear was useful.
Fear without order was fire in dry grass.
Kevan would have understood.
His father would have hated all of it and approved none of it until peace followed.
Genna would have said something sharp enough to make him angrier than he wished to be.
Gerion would have joked.
Tygett would have asked to storm the wall.
Lady Edyth would have asked what the storming was meant to purchase.
Tywin looked down at the map.
There were days when he found the Stark girl irritating despite her absence.
Perhaps especially because of it.
A scout entered, soaked through and breathing hard.
“Ser.”
Tywin looked up.
“Speak.”
“Riders from the south. Red lion. Thirty seen ahead, more behind. They make no attempt to hide their banners.”
The tent stilled.
Lord Reyne, then.
Or men sent in his name.
Tywin looked back at the map.
The southern road curved between two low ridges before descending toward the fields below Tarbeck Hall. In dry weather, cavalry could sweep through quickly.
In rain, the ground near the eastern ditch became treacherous.
Men who did not know it would learn while dying.
“How many behind the first thirty?”
“At least two hundred horse, ser. More foot following.”
“Lord Roger?”
“Could not confirm.”
Tywin’s fingers rested lightly upon the red marker near Castamere.
At last.
The polite treason had tired of pretending.
“Send word to Ser Marbrand,” he said. “He is to hold behind the western ridge until my banner drops.”
The scout bowed.
“Ser.”
“Lord Crakehall takes the center.”
Another captain nodded.
“Lefford archers to the ditch line. Spears behind the first rise. No man pursues beyond the yellow flags unless ordered.”
“Yes, ser.”
“And send the final warning again to the gate.”
The captains exchanged glances.
One of them, Ser Addam Yarwyck, frowned.
“Again, ser?”
“Yes.”
“They have refused.”
“Then they may refuse before the Reynes arrive.”
Tywin’s voice cut off further objection.
“I want no singer claiming House Tarbeck was denied one last chance.”
No one argued after that.
The herald rode beneath a white banner.
Rain streamed from his helm.
Atop Tarbeck Hall, men leaned over the walls to jeer before he even began speaking.
“In the name of Lord Tytos Lannister of Casterly Rock, Lord of the Westerlands and liege lord of House Tarbeck, you are commanded to open your gates, surrender your arms, and submit yourselves to lawful judgment.”
A pause.
Rain fell.
The herald continued.
“Men within these walls who lay down their weapons before battle is joined shall be spared judgment for rebellion, save those already named guilty by counsel and command.”
That changed the sound upon the walls.
Some jeering stopped.
Not all.
Enough.
Lord Walderan Tarbeck appeared above the gatehouse, armored badly and smiling worse.
“Tell your young lion to come take what he thinks is his.”
The herald did not answer.
He turned his horse and rode back.
A moment later, the Tarbeck men on the wall began laughing again.
Tywin watched from the ridge.
He had what he needed.
The Reynes arrived before noon.
Their banners appeared first through the rain.
Red lion on silver.
Not hidden.
Not cautious.
Proud.
Lord Roger Reyne rode at the head, broad in the shoulders, red hair darkened by rain, his armor bright despite the weather. Men had called him the Red Lion for years, and not without reason. He carried himself like a lord who believed songs already belonged to him.
Beside Tywin, Lord Crakehall spat into the mud.
“He wants us to see him.”
“Yes,” Tywin said.
“Arrogant.”
“Yes.”
Crakehall glanced at him.
“You sound pleased.”
“Arrogant men prefer open doors.”
Tywin looked toward the southern road.
“I have given him one.”
Tarbeck Hall saw the banners.
A shout rose from the walls.
Then the gates opened.
Not fully.
Just enough.
A wedge of Tarbeck riders burst out, Lord Walderan among them, rushing toward the western line where Tywin had made weakness visible enough to tempt a fool and plausible enough to tempt a cleverer one.
At the same time, Lord Roger’s horsemen charged from the south.
Two lions moving to crush one.
The ground shook beneath hooves.
Rain blurred banners.
Men shouted names, houses, gods, mothers.
Tywin raised one hand.
The Lannister line held.
For a heartbeat, it looked wrong.
Too thin.
Too still.
Too close to breaking.
Lord Crakehall’s men braced shields against mud.
Lefford archers waited, bowstrings protected beneath waxed covers until the last possible breath.
The Reyne charge entered the low ground.
Tywin dropped his hand.
The first volley struck horses.
Not men.
Horses.
A warhorse falling at speed did more to break a charge than three dead riders.
The front rank collapsed into mud, steel, screams, and red ruin.
The second rank tried to wheel.
The ditches took them.
Then the Lannister spears rose from behind the ridge.
Tywin did not shout.
His captains did that.
He gave orders.
Short.
Exact.
Carried by horn, flag, and rider.
Spears forward.
Archers left.
Crakehall hold.
Lefford loose.
Marbrand wait.
Wait.
Wait.
The Tarbeck sortie struck the weakened western line and found it bending.
For one bright moment, Lord Walderan seemed to believe he had broken through.
Then Lord Marbrand came down from the ridge with fresh cavalry and struck him from the flank.
The sortie folded inward.
Not broken yet.
Trapped.
Tywin watched the lines close.
“Now.”
The Lannister banner dropped.
Marbrand horse thundered from concealment.
The Reyne line, already tangled in mud and bodies, took the charge hard along its exposed side. Men who had ridden proudly beneath red lion banners found themselves crushed between spears and horse, unable to advance, unable to turn, unable to die beautifully.
That, Tywin thought coldly, was the trouble with songs.
They rarely mentioned terrain.
Lord Roger Reyne fought well.
Even Tywin would grant him that.
The Red Lion rallied his men twice, cut down one Lannister rider, and nearly reached the ridge before a Crakehall spear took his horse in the chest. The beast collapsed screaming. Roger rolled clear with the skill of a man who had fallen from horses before and survived worse.
Three men rushed to shield him.
Two died.
The third dragged him back through the rain.
Tywin saw blood on Roger’s side.
Not enough.
“Take him if you can,” he ordered.
A rider sped away.
But the Reyne guard fought with the desperation of men saving more than a lord. They got him to a fresh horse. The Red Lion slumped in the saddle, but he remained conscious enough to look back once.
Across mud, rain, dead men, and broken pride, his eyes found Tywin’s.
There was hatred there.
Good.
Hatred made men honest.
Then Roger Reyne rode toward Castamere.
Tarbeck Hall did not last long after that.
Without Reyne horse to break the siege, without Walderan’s sortie to rally the garrison, without hope dressed as rescue, its courage began to rot from within.
The western gate shut too slowly.
Lannister men reached it before the bars fell.
The fighting there was close and ugly.
Mud.
Blood.
Teeth.
Men slipping beneath shields.
Hands clawing at gaps in armor.
A Tarbeck knight struck down Ser Kennos of Kayce before Donnel, the spearman whose roof Edyth had ordered mended, drove a spear through the knight’s thigh and pulled him down alive.
Alive mattered.
Tywin had said so that morning.
Some men had listened.
Others remembered when he hanged the first soldier who tried to cut a prisoner’s throat after surrender.
Orders, once paid for in blood, became easier to obey.
By late afternoon, the Tarbeck banners came down.
Not in surrender.
By force.
Lord Walderan was found in the inner yard, bleeding from the scalp, sword still in hand and three dead men around him. He was dragged before Tywin laughing through red teeth.
“You think this ends it?” Walderan spat.
Tywin looked at him.
“No.”
That answer unsettled him more than any boast would have.
Lady Ellyn Tarbeck was taken in the solar with two daughters, a son not yet old enough for a real sword, and three household knights who had not dared leave her.
She did not weep.
She did not plead.
She looked at Tywin as though the fall of her hall were an insult personally delivered to her pride.
“You are your father’s shame made flesh,” she said.
Several Lannister men moved angrily.
Tywin raised one hand.
They stopped.
“Separate the children,” he said.
Lady Ellyn’s face changed for the first time.
“To where?”
“Safety.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No.”
Tywin turned to Ser Addam.
“The children are not to be harmed. Any man who touches them loses the hand. Any man who frightens them for sport loses more.”
Lady Ellyn stared at him.
Perhaps she had expected butchery.
Perhaps she had prepared herself to hate him for it.
Instead he had given her something less convenient.
Judgment.
The hall was secured before sunset.
Tarbeck prisoners were disarmed and gathered beneath guard. The wounded were sorted by maesters and septons. Lannister dead were placed beneath canvas. Rebel dead received the same, once weapons were removed.
Lord Crakehall questioned the courtesy.
Tywin answered without turning from the casualty list.
“Dead men do not rebel.”
“No, but they can still insult.”
“Not effectively.”
Crakehall considered that.
Then laughed once and went to see to his horsemen.
Only when the rain eased did Tywin allow himself to enter the captured hall.
It was smaller than Casterly Rock, yet proud in its own fashion. Tapestries lined the walls. Fine silver sat upon the high table. The hearth was large, the floors polished, the windows narrow and costly.
Debts unpaid had bought beauty.
Tywin stood in the center of it and felt no triumph.
Only confirmation.
Kevan would need to see the accounts.
His father would need to sign judgments.
The children would need placement.
The lands would need stewards.
The surviving soldiers would need sorting.
The Reynes would need answering.
Victory, he was discovering, did not end work.
It multiplied it.
That night, Tywin wrote three letters.
The first went to Lord Tytos.
Father,
Tarbeck Hall is taken. Lord Walderan lives and is held under guard. Lady Ellyn lives. Their children live. The garrison has surrendered.
House Reyne rode openly to their aid. Lord Roger was wounded and fled toward Castamere. Witnesses can confirm.
Our losses are not light, but they are fewer than they might have been had the assault been rushed. Prisoners are being treated according to order. No looting has been permitted.
Your decree was refused before witnesses. The law is clear.
Tywin
The second letter went to Kevan.
It contained lists.
Prisoners.
Casualties.
Supplies.
Names of knights deserving reward.
Names of soldiers requiring discipline.
Names of villages owed payment.
The third letter took longest.
Not because it was sentimental.
Because Tywin disliked writing anything that did not know what it meant to be.
At last, he began.
Lady Edyth,
The list is enclosed.
He paused.
Rain tapped softly against the broken window.
In the yard below, men groaned, prayed, slept, and died.
He continued.
Donnel of Kayce lives. Wounded in the left arm. He held formation when the western gate opened and took a knight alive. His household should be told he served well.
No fields were burned. No children were harmed. Two soldiers were punished for theft. One for murder attempted after surrender.
The Reynes have chosen openly.
Your warning regarding wasted victory has proven inconvenient.
He considered striking out the final line.
Did not.
Tywin sealed the letter.
At Casterly Rock, the ravens arrived near dawn.
Edyth was already awake.
So was Kevan.
So, somehow, was Old Bessa, who claimed age made sleep optional and fools made it impossible.
Lord Tytos received the first letter in the small council chamber, with Genna, Kevan, Edyth, Maester Creylen, and two captains present.
His hands shook once as he broke the seal.
He read slowly.
No one interrupted.
When he reached the line about the children living, his shoulders dropped as though breath had finally entered him again.
Genna closed her eyes.
Kevan looked toward Edyth.
She said nothing.
Tytos finished the letter.
Then he read it again.
Only after the second reading did he speak.
“Lord Roger rode under his banners?”
Kevan nodded.
“Open rebellion.”
“Yes.”
Tytos looked older than he had the day before.
But not smaller.
“Then Castamere must answer.”
The words sounded as though they hurt.
They still came.
Kevan bowed.
“I will prepare the ravens.”
Edyth opened her own letter later, alone in the chamber where the soldiers’ families were recorded.
Myranda stood nearby with fresh parchment.
Lyra guarded the door.
Skadi lay beneath the table.
Donnel of Kayce lives.
Edyth let herself breathe.
Then she read the rest.
No fields burned.
No children harmed.
Punishments given.
Reynes openly committed.
Your warning regarding wasted victory has proven inconvenient.
Edyth stared at that line for a long moment.
Then, despite the dead listed in the enclosed parchment, despite the grief waiting beyond the door, despite Castamere looming like a storm not yet broken—
She smiled.
Only a little.
“Inconvenient,” she murmured.
Myranda looked up.
“My lady?”
“Nothing.”
She folded the letter carefully.
“Send for Mara of Kayce.”
Mara came with her son.
She entered pale, expecting widowhood.
Edyth hated that moment.
There were many cruelties in war, but the silence before news seemed among the worst.
“Your husband lives,” Edyth said at once.
Mara staggered.
Her son caught her hand.
“He is wounded in the arm, but Ser Tywin writes that he served well.”
The boy looked up sharply.
“Father fought?”
“He held the line.”
The child’s face changed.
Not into happiness.
Not exactly.
Into pride trying to stand beside fear.
Edyth recognized it.
She had seen the same expression on Brandon’s face when he tried to look like a lord.
“Can I write to him?” the boy asked.
“Yes,” Edyth said. “You can.”
Mara began to cry.
Old Bessa appeared with a stool, water, and the expression of a woman prepared to bully grief into sitting down properly.
By midday, the list had become work.
Work was useful.
The dead were named.
The wounded recorded.
Families notified.
Payments marked.
Ravens sent.
The Rock learned before sunset that Tywin Lannister had won.
But in the smaller rooms, where wives, sons, mothers, and brothers waited, they learned something else.
Casterly Rock had remembered names.
That mattered more than songs.
That evening, Tytos summoned Edyth to the balcony overlooking the sea.
The sun had begun to sink, staining the water red-gold.
For a while, they stood without speaking.
Then Tytos said,
“He won.”
“Yes.”
“I should be proud.”
“You are.”
“I am frightened too.”
“You should be.”
He looked at her.
She did not soften it.
“Fear is not always weakness, my lord. Sometimes it is the part of us that understands cost before pride counts gain.”
Tytos looked back toward the sea.
“My father would have called that cowardice.”
“My father would have called it useful, if it did not rule you.”
A faint smile touched his mouth.
“Rickard again.”
“Always.”
“Tywin wrote that the children live.”
“Yes.”
“That was your doing.”
“No.”
Edyth shook her head.
“I did not command his army.”
“No,” Tytos said. “But perhaps you helped command the shape of his victory.”
That thought unsettled her more than praise.
Below, the sea broke against the Rock.
Again.
Again.
Again.
At last she said,
“He still chose.”
“Yes.”
Tytos’s voice grew quiet.
“He did.”
Far from the Rock, beneath the captured banners of Tarbeck Hall, Tywin Lannister stood before the road to Castamere.
The rain had stopped.
The ground remained red where men had fallen.
A rider waited beside him, carrying a sealed letter addressed to Lord Roger Reyne and all those holding Castamere in his name.
The words were simple.
Submit.
Open the gates.
Surrender arms.
Send hostages.
Accept judgment.
Live.
Refuse, and House Lannister would come.
Tywin handed the letter to the rider.
“Go.”
The man rode into the deepening dusk.
Behind Tywin, Tarbeck Hall smoldered only where battle had touched it.
Its fields still stood.
Its children still lived.
Its guilty would face judgment.
Victory had not been wasted.
Not yet.
Ahead, in the westering dark, Castamere waited beneath the earth.
And with it, the last pride of the Red Lion.