Chapter 50: The Fall of the Lion

Spring, 301 AC

The Red Keep stood battered and bloodied, its once-imposing walls marred by the fury of war. The streets of King's Landing still smoked from the destruction wrought by dragonfire. The banners of House Lannister, once a symbol of dominance and control, now lay tattered, trampled beneath the boots of Aemon's forces. The Lion of Lannister had been declawed.

Within the Great Hall, the Iron Throne loomed in eerie silence, its sharp edges catching the flickering light of the torches. And at the foot of that throne, Tywin Lannister stood, his golden armor gleaming despite the sweat on his brow. His face, ever composed, betrayed nothing—but even he could not ignore the reality before him.

The War of Fire and Blood was over.

The Capture of the Lannisters

The battle had raged through the Red Keep, corridors soaked in blood, bodies of Lannister guards littering the ground. Aemon led the final push, cutting down the last of the resistance. Grey Worm, his Unsullied precise as ever, took control of the remaining strongholds. The Dornish spearmen, Oberyn Martell at their helm, ensured that no loyalist forces remained.

In the throne room, Jaime Lannister, still clad in his dented golden armor, knelt with his hands bound in chains. Though he had fought with the skill of a legend, even the Kingslayer could not defeat the tide of history.

Beside him, Cersei Lannister seethed, her emerald eyes burning with hatred. Tommen, the young king, clung to his mother's hand, his expression one of confusion and fear.

Tywin remained standing, regal even in defeat. Tyrion Lannister, still locked in his dungeon cell, had not even witnessed his father's downfall.

Aemon stepped forward, his gaze locked onto Tywin's. The room was silent, save for the crackling of distant fires.

The Last Stand of Tywin Lannister

Tywin exhaled slowly, clasping his hands behind his back. "So," he said at last, voice even, measured. "You've won."

Aemon studied the man who had ruled Westeros in all but name for decades. "Your city is lost. Your armies defeated. Bend the knee, or share the fate of your grandson."

The mention of Joffrey's death did not faze Tywin. His lips curled into something resembling amusement. "You speak of bending the knee as if that alone ensures survival."

Aemon's eyes darkened. "You don't have a choice."

Tywin Lannister, the man who had crushed House Reyne, who had orchestrated the Red Wedding, who had ruled from the shadows, finally sighed. He turned, ever so slightly, glancing at Cersei. She was trembling with rage, but she knew, just as he did, that this was the end.

The golden lion had roared for the last time.

Tywin dropped to one knee. The hall gasped, even those loyal to Aemon. To see Tywin Lannister—Tywin the Unbowed—submit was a sight no one had ever imagined.

Behind him, Jaime hesitated, then followed suit. His pride burned, but his loyalty to his family left him no choice.

Cersei did not move. "I will not kneel to a Targaryen."

Aemon tilted his head. "Then you will die on your feet."

A beat of silence. The hall tensed.

Cersei's fists clenched. For a brief moment, it seemed she would fight. But then, Tommen, still gripping her hand, tugged lightly.

"Mother," he whispered, voice barely audible. "Please."

She closed her eyes. And then, against every instinct, she fell to her knees.

The Fate of the Captured

With House Lannister subdued, Aemon turned his attention to what came next. Tommen Baratheon, the boy king, was little more than a pawn. The child had no real claim to the throne, not with Aemon's lineage made clear to all of Westeros. But what to do with him?

He looked at Sansa. His wife. The Queen of the North.

Her expression was unreadable, but she met his gaze steadily. "He's just a boy."

Aemon exhaled, then turned to Grey Worm. "Imprison them. All of them."

Tywin's eyes flickered with something unreadable. Tyrion, still below in his cell, would soon find out his father had fallen just as he had once fallen into chains.

Aemon turned to his men. "The war is over. The Iron Throne is ours."

Aftermath

The banners of House Lannister were torn down. In their place, the three-headed dragon of Targaryen was raised once more. The smallfolk, still reeling from the devastation, watched in a mixture of fear and relief.

Not everyone welcomed the new rule with open arms, but the power of dragons could not be denied.

As Aemon stood in the throne room, surveying his victory, the weight of his ancestors settled upon him.

He had won. He had reclaimed the Iron Throne.

And yet, as he looked at the blood-streaked floor, the shattered remnants of what had once been the mightiest house in Westeros, he felt no joy.

Only the cold reality of conquest.

The war had ended.

But at what cost?