Chapter XXXI: The Fox's Due, Part V
1 BC
Golden Tooth
The Golden Tooth had not yet fallen, despite repeated assaults by the Targaryen invaders. By this point, the invaders had handily repelled more than a few raids and attacks on their flanks and supply camps, and the defenders were the ones sustaining more casualties than the Targaryen warhost.
The weary defenders were in no mood to cheer, simply taking advantage of whatever reprieve they had to rest and prepare for the next attack.
What they did not know, however, was that the worst was about to come.
The defending commander of the Golden Tooth garrison, Lord Godwyn Lefford, sighed as he took the chance to take off his armour and garments and dump them into one pile once he reached his bedchambers, caked in sweat, blood and grime he dearly wished to rinse off.
His servants swiftly prepared a tub of hot water and towels along with a mixture of herbs and wood ash and soaps from Essos [1], all essentials he could not do without even in times of war. The servants proceeded to quickly douse him with water and rub the herb-ash mixture through his hair and the soap on his body, scrubbing away every trace of filth with meticulous and respectful hands.
Godwyn's nose appreciated the smell of the Essosi soaps, far preferable to the foul-smelling soaps of Westeros that while capable of performing the same function to the same effect, had a terribly unpleasant smell that always left him wondering if he exchanged one type of filth for another.
Once they finished scrubbing him down, they doused him with buckets of water once again, washing his body clean and mopping away all the filthy water on the ground, before parting to allow Godwyn to step into the bath.
Instantly his body melted with relief, his stiff muscles relaxing and his accumulated fatigue being cleansed by the heavenly touch of this rare comfort.
"Ah, if only the Targaryens did not invade this great castle of mine, then I would not have to worry about dirtying myself every single day," Godwyn softly muttered to himself, "If only His Grace had the sense to order an all-out attack against the invaders, this war would be over sooner."
As a young lord, Godwyn Lefford was one of many Westerlander nobles who dreamed of doing his house proud by serving in battle, distinguishing himself as a talented commander of men, after his father died prematurely. The Maester declared him dead from fever, due to a debilitating arrow wound he suffered during a boar hunt, and the culprit a hired assassin whose client had a terrible grudge that was only put to rest once the perpetrator was executed. He was forced into the role of a puppet while his uncle Joffrey ruled in his 'best' capacity as regent. He did not regret giving Joffrey Lefford a taste of his own medicine while he was out boar-hunting.
This war, while devastating for the Westerlands, was the one opportunity he had to earn his glory and cement his name in the annals of history, in the age-old chronicles of House Lefford whose gold wealth [2] helped House Lannister become the richest in all the Seven Kingdoms.
Failure was not an option, not when his house's honour and wealth was at stake.
Feeling suitably relaxed from his hot bath, he quickly stepped out of the bathtub and allowed the servants to dry his body with towels in hand. Once dry, he was dressed in his nightwear and he made to sit down at a table in his bedchambers, snacking on some biscuits and tea as he stared outside the window, basking in the darkness of the new moon that shone down upon his castle.
He indulged in this rare comfort and luxury, snacking and sightseeing for as long as his candle burned. Once it burned out, he sighed and washed down his late night snack with some water, before going to sleep in his bed as his servants tucked him in.
I pray a miracle happens soon…
IIOII
The next day…
"My Lord! My Lord!"
Godwyn was abruptly jolted awake by the shouting from behind the door to his bedchambers, grumbling beneath his breath as he angrily rubbed his eyes and yawned with annoyance.
"What is it?" He half-angrily asked.
"My Lord, Prince Tytos Lannister leads a huge army at our doorstep!" He heard someone report with urgency.
His Highness Prince Tytos, not His Grace King Loren?
"Tell His Highness that I shall meet him in the throne room, and have servants prepare a change of clothes immediately!" Godwyn ordered swiftly in spite of his own misgivings.
"Aye, My Lord!"
Trust his trusted servants to quickly get things done with a few simple orders; within minutes he was cleaned and dressed and ready to meet with the Crown Prince of the Westerlands, his footsteps heavy and hasty as he made his way towards the keep's throne room.
He saw both Tytos Lannister and his brother Arwald awaiting him there.
Instantly, he moved to curtsey with due decorum and deference, falling to a knee.
"Lord Godwyn Lefford pays his respects to His Highnesses Crown Prince Tytos Lannister and Prince Arwald Lannister," He greeted, his head bowed and his eyes fixed towards the floor.
"At ease, Lord Lefford," Tytos reassured.
"Thank you, Your Highness," Godwyn said as he stood up, "I admit, I did not expect for you to lead such a huge army here, but with you reinforcing us, our victory against the invaders is all but assured!"
Tytos gave a proud but sad smile, "Truthfully, we are not here to bolster your defence."
"Your Highness?" Asked Godwyn in confusion.
"We are mounting an all-out assault against the Targaryens," Arwald clarified, a derisive sneer colouring his face as he stared at nothing as unpleasant thoughts surfaced, "We have decided to not turtle up like cowards as our father advocates."
Godwyn could not suppress the ecstatic smile on his face as he heard the news, his body trembling with excitement. Finally, finally, his long-awaited opportunity had come; they would drive back the invaders and irrigate the soil with their blood, and he would cement his name as a worthy successor to the legacy of his house!
He could taste the glory on the tip of his tongue - a glory as sweet as the finest honey.
"Then may I have the honour of joining your army, Your Highnesses?" Asked Godwyn.
"Of course, Lord Lefford," Tytos smiled, "Any who wishes to join are welcome."
"Thank you, Your Highness!" Godwyn bowed again, "My army shall prepare for the march posthaste!"
Arwald shared his brother's smile, and it was far more predatory in nature, his eyes shining with dreamlike delusion.
Little did they know their names would be carved in history in the worst way possible.
IIOII
With the garrison of the Golden Tooth now bolstering the ranks of the Westerlands army, they soon marched towards the invaders, a 20,000 strong army maintaining the siege as the rest of the Targaryen warhost besieged other fortresses on other paths leading into the kingdom's interior. With 20,000 Westerlander troops against the 20,000 invaders near the Golden Tooth, bar any special circumstances, the defenders' victory was assured thanks to their superior equipment and training.
Looking upon the gathered enemy army, Tytos could only smile when noticing its size, the weight and feel of his armour like a comforting blanket.
"Your Highness, we are ready," Lord Godwyn reported.
"The enemy army?" Asked Tytos.
"They seem to not be moving closer, Your Highness, merely holding their position," Reported Godwyn.
"Good, sound the charge!" Tytos smiled, drawing his sword.
Squires blew the horn, and all tensed in preparation, waiting for the king to initiate the charge.
Springing forth on his warhorse, Tytos bellowed a roar that his troops echoed, all chasing him as if he were the Warrior Incarnate. Arwald mimicked his brother's roar, his voice louder than everyone else and thrumming like a volcanic eruption. Thundering hooves and war cries filled the air as dust kicked beneath the hooves of a horde of horses, and for any army it would have terrified them until they were left wetting their breeches and shaking in their boots.
But the invaders remained calm and composed, maintaining their position with confidence. In fact, if one could look closely, they were smiling as if they had already won.
Then an unearthly roar sounded in the distance, and looking up at the sky they saw three gargantuan beasts with massive wings rapidly approaching the Westerlands army.
"Look, it's the dragons!"
"Hurrah, now our victory is assured!"
Some of the defenders were filled with dread, suddenly feeling unsure of their victory, but they could neither stop the charge so quickly nor outrun the dragons, who were already swooping down on them for the kill.
Opening their maws, the dragons unleashed their legendary fire breath, immolating thousands of troops in a single pass at the very front of the formation. Tytos and Arwald were among those burned alive. Trying as they could to avoid it, the remaining cavalry charging behind crashed into the backs of the vanguard, their own momentum throttling them forward and tossing them off their horses. Some were crushed beneath hooves and bodies into mangled messes, others caught fire and soon burned as well, screaming as they struggled futilely to take off their armour.
They also burned the rear echelons of the Westerlands formation, ensuring no escape for every single Westerlander who dared defy their conquest. Infantry and cavalry alike, smallfolk and noble, all were equal in death.
The entire battle lasted no longer than a few minutes, and by the end the martial might of the Westerlands was spent for two generations, 20,000 Westerlanders reported dead with countless nobles counted among them. In exchange, the Targaryens lost only 4,000 soldiers - a negligible loss.
And with no more heirs to succeed them, House Lannister now faced extinction.
IIOII
"Fire… so much fire…"
Aimelia watched with a growing sense of dread and horror at the one-sided carnage the Targaryens inflicted upon the Westerlanders. The sight of a large army decimated in just a few seconds, their screams of agony permanently etched in her mind…
This proved a clear validation of why her son chose to ally with the Targaryens rather than make them his enemy.
"My Lady…" Questioned Ilyard, one of Aimelia's closest confidants and trusted guards, his voice soft and firm, "Dare I ask if your son plans to exploit our alliance with the Targaryens for greater gain?"
"In what regard, Ilyard?" Asked Aimelia.
"Well, would he choose closer ties with the Targaryens through a marriage alliance, for one?" Ilyard clarified, "Perhaps I assume too much, but with all that His Lordship Arin has sacrificed to unite Dorne and contribute to this alliance, I believe the surviving Valyrians would be willing to entertain a marriage match for one of his sons or daughters."
"...In all honesty, I do not know," Aimelia answered truthfully, full of doubt, "I think that could be possible, but we Dornish are not looked upon in a bright light elsewhere, and the Valyrians are known to maintain an attitude of racial superiority towards others; they could choose to delay it indefinitely or reject such an offer instead."
"That does make sense," Ilyard nodded in agreement, "And if I may ask: How does your son plan to deal with the Free Cities? Myr and Tyrosh are making a lot of noise and obstruct trade through countless tariffs levied on our merchants, and the Rogare Bank [3] through Lys complains about the stiff competition faced by the Bank of Dorne."
"He does, though nothing concrete," Aimelia answered evasively, "I can only say he plans to deal with them in due time."
Ilyard chose to say nothing, simply nodding in understanding.
"If I know His Lordship, he will never take a threat lying down," He answered, more to himself than anyone else, his voice filled with confidence, "And dragons or no dragons, he will make sure to burn down all opposition if need be."
The flapping of wings registered in their ears, as did a gust of wind that sent hair and robes flying as they turned around to the source of the disturbance.
"Lady Aimelia," Aegon greeted, "I see you are transfixed on the burning fields."
"Seeing the power of a dragon firsthand is… enlightening," Aimelia bowed with deference.
"It is, is it not?" Aegon smiled with blinding pride, "My sister-wives will take care of the other armies on other fronts, and once that is done, the Westerlands as a warrior kingdom shall never again muster strength for rebellion for at least two generations. I also hear that Princes Tytos and Arwald Lannister have perished in this battle as well."
"Then House Lannister is finished," Aimelia concluded, "Who do you have in mind as potential candidates for the Lord Paramountcy of the Westerlands?"
"Patience, Lady Aimelia. All will be revealed in due time," Aegon reassured.
Aimelia pursed her lips; due to their focus on Dorne, Arin did not have the time or resources to expand his spy network outside their home country, and so they were left blind on matters elsewhere in Westeros. House Rada could only trust that Aegon's choice of candidate would not come back to haunt them.
"As you say, Lord Aegon," Aimelia curtseyed.
This battle would come to be known as the Field of Fire [4]. Historians who studied the history of the Westerlands before Aegon's Conquest would unanimously conclude it was the day the Westerlands was humbled and humiliated beyond salvation, and the last significant battle ever fought.
IIOII
Casterly Rock
40,000 Westerlander troops perished in total, incinerated by dragonfire.
Widows, sons, daughters, smallfolk and noble, all grieved for their lost sons whose remains were beyond recovery. None could be venerated by a Sevenist burial, the gravest tragedy in the eyes of the Seven-who-are-One. Worse, there was no one left to stop the invaders from turning the proud, gold-rich kingdom into a mining outpost for Aegon's kingdom.
In the throne room of Casterly Rock, a grim-faced, despondent Loren Lannister sat hunched over on his throne, his eyes red and puffy and the light of life absent from his features. Beside him was an equally lifeless Queen Janna, robbed of the purpose of living.
Standing before them, the Targaryen siblings and commanders dominated the throne room like giants against ants, as if the lions were cursed to lose their authority and grandeur.
"King Loren Lannister," Aegon greeted, displaying none of the arrogance of the victory, "I come to you with but one request: You surrender."
It was no request, not to the defeated who sneered and glared at the invaders with hatred, vitriol and fear.
"Surrender what?" Loren questioned, his voice hollow and emotionless, "My kingdom, my crown, my people?"
"All," Aegon answered, "There has already been enough bloodshed."
Loren huffed and took off his crown and angrily threw it to the side as if it were a cursed item - a source of endless misfortune.
"Have the Westerlands then, Lord Aegon," Loren replied scathingly, "You have already taken everything from us."
Janna would follow suit, casting aside her crown. Together, both she and Loren walked out of the throne room with no one moving to stop them. The Targaryen troops did move, but with a wave of the hand from Aegon, they remained where they stood.
"No need," Aegon said, "They are no threat to us. Now, Reynard Reyne?"
The Snake eagerly curtseyed before Aegon like a simpering, lily-livered boot-licker, his enthusiastic smile causing countless beholders to cringe at the sight.
"My Lord?" Asked Reynard.
"You betrayed your liege lord and delivered the Westerlander armies and the Lannister Princes to us," Aegon stated, shocking countless Westerlander nobles in attendance, "Therefore, I have but one judgement to give."
Judgement, not reward?
"Men, take him away and execute him," Aegon ordered, showing no emotion towards Reynard.
The Snake instantly felt the ground crumble beneath him as the reality of his fate dawned on him, his face twisting in horror. Before he knew it, he was seized by the arms of two strong elite guardsmen who dragged him away. The poor man struggled hard, but he knew only a life of luxury surrounded by servants, not a life of suffering on the battlefield surrounded by murderers and wild beasts.
"My Lord, please spare me! Have mercy!" Reynard cried, "I was only your loyal servant!"
Aegon simply shook his head at Reynard's simpering, which grew more and more distant until he was removed to the execution grounds.
A soldier came in soon afterwards, and reported, "Reynard Reyne has been executed, My Lord."
The Targaryes simply nodded at this, while the Westerlanders - still angry and miserable towards the conquerors - did give nods of approval and resigned gratitude for the killing of this most foul traitor.
"The cries and pleas of a dead man who thought to profit from others' misery," Visenya remarked, "None of us will miss him."
"Who is next-in-line to succeed Reynard?" Asked Aegon.
"That would be Castan, his eldest son," Rhaenys answered, "His only son, I might add; his four other children are all daughters he married off to secure marriage alliances."
"And Castan's character?" Asked Aegon, "Will he be a problem?"
"Quite the opposite, brother," Orys replied, "Castan does not have his father's snake-like tendencies or his aptitude for intrigue. In fact, he seems to be widely considered an incompetent successor to his father's legacy, a person who neither angers nor offends others and is not considered worth the time of plotters."
"Why should he succeed the Snake, for that matter?" Aegon remarked rhetorically, "It'd be better for both himself and everyone else that he does not. In fact, I'd say he's the perfect candidate."
That came as a huge relief to the Westerlanders despite the infamy of Castan's father; at least there would not be a Second Snake sinking his fangs into the throne of Casterly Rock, even if he is little more than a powerless puppet.
"Issue a summons, have Castan ride to Casterly Rock immediately," Aegon ordered, "With House Lannister effectively extinct with no living heirs, he is to be instated as Lord Paramount of the Westerlands with immediate effect, and agree to our terms for peace."
"At once, Aegon," His sister-wives and half-brother curtseyed.
Later on, both Loren and Janna Lannister were found dead in their bedchambers, having imbibed the Tears of Lys mixed with a cup of wine. As a sign of respect, they would be buried in the Lannister Family Crypts.
IIOII
Casten Reyne, a thin, lithe specimen of a man who had an exceedingly small presence in the courtroom dominated by greater personalities, a little boy squirming uncomfortably beneath the gazes of veteran soldiers and politicians. Unremarkable, untested and unknown, hardly anyone paid him much attention if not for his new role as Lord Paramount of the Westerlands.
Seated at a table were the Targaryen siblings and Orys Baratheon, and Aimelia Rada as mother of the Black Fox.
"Now that we are all gathered here, we shall discuss the terms of this peace treaty," Aegon began, "Is everyone ready to proceed?"
Everyone gave their affirmations, and at this Aegon smiled as he said, "Good, now for the non-negotiable conditions; the Westerlands is to be annexed under my kingdom, and swear itself to its new suzerains with the usual obligations between ruler and vassal; taxes, tithes, levies and so on."
With only Casten present, no other noble of the Westerlands was allowed the opportunity to contest the treaty's terms or delay it in any way possible. It was also a clear statement of power and authority of House Targaryen over their latest conquered province.
"I find no problem with them, Lord Aegon," Casten squeaked.
"Very good," Aegon nodded, "Now, there is another condition to be negotiated by Lady Aimelia here. Lady Aimelia, if you would?"
"Of course, Lord Aegon," Aimelia nodded, "We have three Valyrian Steel weapons we wish to sell to the Westerlands."
"Three Valyrian Steel swords?" Casten gasped in surprise, "A-Are you certain you wish to part with such valuable weapons, and so many?"
"For House Rada, gold is the greater concern," Aimelia stated.
"I see," Casten nodded, "How much do you wish us to pay?"
"Ten million Gold Lions for each," Aimelia stated bluntly.
Casten choked on his words, struggling to comprehend what Aimelia wished for when asking such a huge amount.
"Can you pay it?" Asked Aimelia.
"Y-Yes, we can," Casten hastily answered, "How do you wish for us to pay you the gold?"
"In monthly payments, and in caravans escorted by large military forces," Aimelia answered, "We cannot accept any delays, and any and all who try to obstruct such payments must be dealt due justice under Targaryen law."
"Very well, if that is the price for peace," Casten answered reluctantly.
With the terms agreed on, the Lion-Dragon Concordat [5] was signed, and the Westerlands annexed under the Targaryen realm. Now, with no further distractions, the Targaryens would turn their eyes north, towards the (admittedly) least desired prize in all Westeros.
House Stark would face a challenge to its power by outside forces for the first time since the end of the Andal Crusades.
[1] The traditional soaps of Westeros tended to leave a rather foul smell on the body after use, so soaps from Essos were much preferred among the nobility due to their gentle and fragrant aroma.
Furthermore, soaps were generally too expensive for the poor Smallfolk to afford them, and at the time the people of Westeros did not have a good understanding of the importance of maintaining proper hygiene.
[2] The Golden Tooth's vaults were looted clean by the time Aegon Targaryen cemented the submission of the Westerlands, and this humiliation was considered far worse than the total loss of their military might or the sacking of countless towns and villages for the Westerlands.
[3] The Rogare Bank - A bank run by the Rogare Family of Lys, a banking family of Valyrian descent whose lineage can be traced back to ancient Valyria. They own a Valyrian Steel heirloom sword named Truth and a familial crypt - a privilege reserved only for the most elite among elites.
Though nowhere nearly as powerful and influential as the Iron Bank of Braavos, they are nevertheless powerful and wealthy, facilitating many trade routes between the Free Cities and earning tidy profits through banking and mercantile ventures, including the slave trade.
As of late, they have run into stiff competition with the Bank of Dorne, not only due to the efficiency and trustworthiness of their services but also their revolutionary methods that enhance service quality, resulting in a loss of business as more customers choose the Bank of Dorne over the Rogare Bank.
[4] Field of Fire - The name of the catastrophic battle that ended in absolute slaughter for the Westerlands, neutering their strength for an entire two generations. While some would point out that Arin Rada's liberal use of fire was a primary factor in his victory over the Reachmen, ultimately it was considered less impactful than the use of dragonfire despite being an event of equally high significance.
[5] Lion-Dragon Concordat - The treaty signed between the defunct Kingdom of the Westerlands and the Targaryens, which by all accounts was highly unfair towards the Westerlanders. This forced the Westerlanders to forfeit rights to their wealth to the dragonlords, who put it to use for the expansion of their domain.