Chapter 26: Lions Vs Wolves
The stench of smoke and blood hung heavy over King's Landing as the Northern armies moved through the city's winding streets. Bodies littered the cobblestones—some wearing the crimson of House Lannister, others bearing no colors at all, just the simple clothes of merchants, bakers, and mothers who had been in the wrong place when the lions came calling.
Eddard Stark rode at the head of his column, his grey eyes hard as winter steel as he surveyed the carnage. Beside him, his brother Artos sat his destrier with barely contained fury, one hand resting on his longsword pommel. The blade seemed to thirst for blood after the disappointment of finding King's Landing's gates already thrown open.
"Hold the line!" shouted GreatJon Umber from somewhere ahead, his booming voice carrying over the clash of steel. "No quarter for rapists! Cut down any man caught with his cock out!"
The Northern soldiers had initially hoped to find resistance at the city walls—something to sate their bloodlust after the victory at the Trident. Instead, they'd found Lannister banners flying from the battlements and gates flung wide in supposed welcome. But the welcome had been a lie. What they'd discovered within was a city being torn apart by men wearing the golden lion, soldiers more interested in filling their purses and forcing themselves on terrified women than maintaining order.
The Northmen had tried to parley at first. They'd approached the Lannister men with words of peace first, reminding them they fought for the same cause now that Prince Rhaegar lay dead. But arrogance ran in Lannister blood like a sickness, and
That had been their mistake.
Now the streets rang with the sound of Northern steel finding Lannister flesh. Not a massacre—Eddard had been clear about that—but a culling. Every man caught in the act of rape died where he stood. Every soldier loading stolen goods into carts found himself facing a direwolf's fury. It wasn't war, not truly, but it was something, and after weeks of marching and waiting, the men were truly blood thirsty.
A Lannister knight stumbled into the throne room of the Red Keep, his once-pristine armor now dented and bloodied. Tywin Lannister stood before a massive war table, studying a map of the city with the same cold calculation he brought to everything else.
"My lord," the knight gasped, dropping to one knee. "The Starks have arrived in King's Landing. They've brought their full host within the walls. They... they've expressed displeasure with our methods of securing the city."
Tywin's green eyes never left the map. "Have they now? Bring me Lord Stark. We'll discuss these methods of mine."
The knight swallowed hard. "My lord, they refused our invitation. They've begun taking control of the city themselves. They're attacking our men."
Now Tywin looked up, his expression as dangerous as a blade's edge. "Attacking? Did you not tell them we took this city for the rebel cause?"
"I did, my lord, but they care nothing for causes. They're killing anyone caught raping or looting. They've already put dozens of our men to the sword."
The muscles in Tywin's jaw tightened. Someone dared attack his men. Someone dared challenge his authority. In all his years, few had been so bold—or so foolish.
"Take me to them," he commanded, his voice soft as silk and twice as deadly.
The Northern host had formed a rough perimeter around one of the city's main squares, their banners snapping in the autumn wind. The direwolf of Stark flew highest, but Eddard could see the standards of Karstark, Umber, Mormont, and a dozen other Northern houses beneath it. His men had done well—the square was clear of bodies now, though dark stains on the cobblestones told their own story.
Artos stood near the center of their formation, cleaning his blade with a piece of torn silk . His face was grim with satisfaction. "Brother," he called as Eddard approached. "The lions are learning to keep their claws sheathed."
"At what cost?" Eddard asked, though he knew the answer. He could see it in the smoke rising from nearby streets, hear it in the distant screams that still echoed through the city.
"Less than if we'd done nothing," Artos replied simply. "Though the damage was already done before we arrived."
A commotion at the square's edge announced the arrival of Tywin Lannister. The Lord of Casterly Rock rode a magnificent destrier as golden as his hair had once been, surrounded by a dozen knights in crimson cloaks. His presence seemed to draw the very light from the air, and Eddard felt his men tense behind him.
Tywin's voice carried clearly across the square, cold and controlled despite the circumstances. "What in the seven hells do you think you're doing? You're butchering my men like cattle. End this madness immediately."
Eddard urged his horse forward, meeting Tywin's glare with northern steel. "We tried to maintain order, Lord Tywin. Your men wouldn't listen to reason."
Artos moved to stand beside his brother, his hand resting casually on his sword hilt. "Oh, they listened well enough. Right up until they told us they were 'men of Tywin Lannister' and wouldn't take orders from some—"
"Some what?" Tywin's voice had dropped to barely above a whisper.
Artos shrugged. "My man took his head before he could finish the insult. Shame, really. I was curious what he planned to call us."
Tywin's knuckles whitened where they gripped his reins. "Boy, you should learn to speak with proper respect."
The words hung in the air like a challenge. Artos stepped forward, his hand shifting to his sword's grip. "Why don't you try teaching me, old man?"
The tension crackled between them like lightning before a storm. Lannister hands went to Lannister swords, while Northern steel began to sing from its sheaths. For a heartbeat, the square teetered on the edge of battle.
Eddard's voice cut through the moment like a blade through silk. "Lord Tywin. Call off your men." His tone carried the authority "We sought peace, but your soldiers chose violence. Call them off now, and we can end this. When Robert arrives, he'll need a city to rule, not a charnel house filled with weeping mothers and orphaned children."
Tywin studied Eddard for a long moment, weighing options with the calculating mind that had made him the richest man in Westeros. Finally, he nodded once, sharp and decisive.
"Stand down," he commanded his men. "Order the retreat."
But orders, like apologies, came too late to undo what had already been done. The city had bled, women had been violated, children had watched their fathers die. Even as the Lannister forces began to pull back, the damage lingered like a wound that would never quite heal. Hundreds of Lannister soldiers lay dead in the streets, the price of their lord's methods.
The Northern forces began their own withdrawal, but Artos caught the GreatJon's attention before the giant could mount his horse.
"Take the other lords and secure the rest of the city," Artos commanded. "Hang some of the worst offenders from the walls—let them serve as an example. Make certain no more innocents suffer for Lannister pride."
The GreatJon's massive hand closed into a fist as he struck his chest. "As you command."
Artos turned to Stig whose face spoke of countless battles. "Gather your best fighters. You're coming with Lord Stark and me."
Stig nodded grimly. "Where to, my lord?"
"The Red Keep," Eddard answered. "It's time we paid our respects to the Mad King."
With Jeor Mormount joining in the fun .That travel to the Red keep.
The Iron Throne squatted in the center of the throne room like some great metal beast, its thousand blades catching the light from tall windows. But it was not King Aerys who sat upon the seat of Aegon the Conqueror.
Ser Jaime Lannister, still wearing his white cloak and golden armor, lounged against the throne's twisted metal arms with all the casual arrogance of youth. At his feet lay the corpse of Aerys Targaryen, the Mad King's throat opened like a second mouth, purple with dried blood.
"I was keeping it warm for Robert," Jaime said with that easy smile that had charmed half the ladies of King's Landing. But there was something brittle in his green eyes, something that hadn't been there before.
Eddard felt rage build in his chest like a forge fire. This should have been his moment, his justice for Brandon and his father. Instead, he found only a boy knight with blood on his hands and that insufferable Lannister smirk.
Artos moved like a striking snake. One moment he stood beside Eddard, the next he was racing up the throne's steps, taking them three at a time. Jaime's hand went to his sword, but Artos was already there, a slim dagger pressed against the young knight's throat hard enough to draw a thin line of blood.
"Give me one good reason," Artos snarled, his face inches from Jaime's, "why you had to kill him. One reason why you couldn't wait for justice to take its course. And don't you dare feed me some noble lie about honor."
Jaime tried to draw his blade, but Artos shifted his weight, pressing the dagger deeper. A few drops of blood ran down the white wool of the Kingsguard cloak.
"You can't do this to me," Jaime said, though his voice had lost its earlier confidence. "I'm a Lannister, you northern fool."
Artos grabbed Jaime by his golden hair and slammed his head back against the throne's metal arms. The impact rang like a bell, and several of the ancient blades drew fresh blood from the young knight's scalp.
"Give. Me. A. Reason," Artos repeated, each word a separate threat.
The easy confidence was gone from Jaime's face now, replaced by something raw and desperate. The events of the day had already stretched him to his breaking point—the king's final madness, the weight of kingslaying, the guilt that gnawed at him despite knowing he'd saved the city. This new threat was more than his fractured composure could bear.
"He ordered me to bring him my father's head," Jaime gasped, the words tumbling out in a rush. "And he told his pyromancer to burn the city. All of it. Every man, woman, and child. He had wildfire caches hidden throughout King's Landing. He was going to turn the whole city into a funeral pyre rather than let Robert take it."
The words hit Artos like a physical blow. The dagger trembled in his hand as the implications sank in. "Fuck," he whispered, then louder, "FUCK!" The word echoed through the throne room as he stepped back, his rage deflating like a punctured wineskin.
Eddard moved to his brother's side, placing a gentle hand on Artos's shoulder. "Easy, brother. He's dead now. That's what matters."
But Artos pulled away, his face twisted with frustration and bitter disappointment. "I came all this way to kill him myself, Ned. I wanted to look into his mad eyes when I sent him to whatever hell awaits ." He turned to stare at Aerys's corpse, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Brandon died screaming because of him. Father burned alive. And I don't even get the satisfaction of justice."
The throne room fell silent save for the whisper of wind through the tall windows. Jaime remained slumped against the Iron Throne, blood trickling from his scalp, while the body of the Mad King lay cooling in a pool of its own gore. The game was over, the war all but won, but somehow it felt like everyone had lost something in the playing.
"The Mad King," Artos said finally, his voice hollow. "At least history will remember him by his right name."
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