The Breaker of the Oceans, Chapter 16

Tymond Lannister stood beneath a lime-washed arch, hands clasped at his waist, watching his twin sons at their practice. The courtyard was a sunlit square of flagstones and pale dust, bounded by the high walls of Casterly Rock. Servants flitted along the edges, heads bowed, while a pair of house guards lingered by the gate in idle conversation. The sound of wood on wood rose in the still air.

Jason and Tyland were at it again, circling each other, wooden swords in hand. Both boys were lean-limbed, the same copper hair that Tymond himself had worn in his youth. Jason was a touch broader in the shoulders, Tyland a bit lighter on his feet. They had sparred like this for months, though now their skill showed in each measured step. Their eyes glinted with twin bursts of mischief and focus.

Tymond recalled his own youth. He had never cared for blade work. He remembered the bruises and the sore muscles. He remembered trying not to shame himself when faced with older cousins who relished the clang of steel. Let them love it, he had thought. He had other callings—numbers, commerce, the endless turning of coin. And he had thrived in that realm. Now, as he watched his sons trade blows, he felt a mild sort of pride. They at least had the skill he had lacked.

He moved a step forward, boots scuffing on the worn stones. A hush fell across a few servants who noticed him, then they continued their tasks. A breeze rustled the banners overhead, golden lions on fields of crimson. He breathed in the faint smell of warm stone and sweat and listened to the thwack of wood as his boys parried and struck.

“Go for his right side,” he called softly, though not loud enough to break their rhythm. Tyland aimed a swift slash, but Jason caught it on his own sword, twisting to deliver a tapping blow on Tyland’s ribs. Tyland stumbled, grimaced, and recovered. The match continued.

A hush of leather soles on stone made Tymond glance aside. The steward, a lean man named Werrick, bowed stiffly. “My lord, the carpenters ask for your presence. They need your judgment on the new cargo wagons.”

Tymond nodded. “Tell them to wait. I’ll come soon.”

Werrick inclined his head, stepped back, and departed with brisk steps. Tymond turned to the courtyard again, noticing the bright flush on Jason’s cheeks, the tight set of Tyland’s jaw. The wooden swords clacked, each boy pressing, neither giving quarter. He felt no urge to intervene. They were near the end of their match, breathing hard, eyes narrowed.

Tyland, panting, tried a feint. Jason jerked aside, pivoted, brought his blade down from above. Tyland blocked, but he stepped on uneven ground, lost balance. He toppled backward, hitting the stone with a solid thud, breath fleeing his lungs. Jason leveled his sword at Tyland’s chest, smiling triumphant.

“Yield, brother,” Jason said. He stood over Tyland, hair plastered by sweat, arms trembling with the fatigue of effort.

Tyland let out a short grunt, tapping the ground with his free hand. 

“Fine,” he rasped. “I yield. Victory is yours, Jason—for now.”

Tymond approached, his shadow long on the stones. He beckoned them to stand. Jason offered Tyland a hand, helping him up. Both boys breathed heavily, faces flushed. Tymond felt a faint pride, though he kept his expression measured.

“Well done,” he said, voice quiet. He cast a glance around, saw no courtiers lurking. Good. He preferred privacy for these matters. “You’ve improved your footwork, both of you.”

Jason, chest heaving, managed a grin. Tyland rubbed his elbow, then offered a smaller nod. “He was lucky,” Tyland murmured with mock resentment, though a teasing light glinted in his eye.

Jason smirked. “Luck had little to do with it.”

Tymond stepped between them, his gaze shifting from one son to the other. “Enough, you two. Go wash. The midday meal comes soon, and your mother expects you to be presentable.”

They dipped their heads in near unison. Jason offered Tyland a playful thump on the shoulder, and Tyland gave him a mock glare in return. Then they walked across the courtyard, wooden swords tucked under their arms. Tymond watched them until they disappeared through a side door that led to a small armory. 

He let out a slow breath. 

Twins, he thought, both so different in certain ways, yet bound by that brotherly bond. He recalled his earlier musings—who would be the better match for Hela Greyjoy, the so-called Red Scourge?

At that thought, he shifted his feet, scanning the courtyard’s emptiness. The idea intrigued him, but in truth, it hinged on many variables. He pictured the Iron Islands’ growing wealth under Valon Greyjoy’s reforms, the same cunning that led to trade pacts and the forging of that monstrous vessel, the Stormrider. Tymond recalled how he had supported that ship’s construction, how the partnership promised him a steady share of profits. He also recalled the stories of Hela Greyjoy’s fearsome nature, how men whispered of her unstoppable might on the seas. A savage, they said, or a genius of war. Possibly both.

He rubbed his jaw. If she was truly beyond reason, marriage might be impossible. But if she simply needed a stable alliance, a path to greater legitimacy, then betrothing her to Tyland might solve many problems. Let Jason aim for a more lofty union, perhaps with Rhaenyra Targaryen, if the gods willed it. Tymond grinned softly at his own ambition. Hardly guaranteed. But one must dream in order to shape the realm.

He left the courtyard, walking through a narrow corridor that opened onto a terrace with a view of the western cliffs. From here, the land dropped away in a sheer rock face, the gold of Casterly Rock’s deeper veins hidden far below. The sea glimmered in the distance. He paused, resting a hand on the stone rail. The gulls drifted in lazy arcs above the waves. A mild breeze stirred his hair.

He thought of Valon, that friend he had made in an unlikely alliance. They had poured coin into the Stormrider, forging a route that might outshine all else. Tymond pictured the Iron Islands as they might be in a decade—rich in trade, brimming with iron and new steel, forging alliances through commerce rather than terror. The old ways would die, replaced by a new seat of power that few in Westeros could ignore. And if Hela Greyjoy’s dreaded ship roamed the southern seas, perhaps none dared cross her father’s domain.

He let out a short laugh. 

“They’ll lose their fangs,” he murmured, “but gain the world in gold.” 

The gulls cried overhead. He turned from the view, deciding to see the carpenters. The courtyard was quiet again, shadows growing as midday came. He walked briskly, boots clicking on the stone, greeting guards with a curt nod.

The carpenters waited by a stable yard, where half-finished wagons stood in a line. Tymond inspected them, noting the thickness of the wooden frames, the steel fittings for wheels. He ran a hand along the polished boards. Good quality. He listened in silence as the head carpenter explained how these wagons would bear heavier loads than typical. Tymond nodded approval, offering a few suggestions: reinforce the axles with a second iron band, ensure the harnesses for the horses remain flexible. 

The carpenters bowed, relieved he was satisfied. He excused them, stepping away.

On his return to the Rock’s main keep, he found a letter waiting in his study. A messenger had arrived from Lannisport, bearing news from Lys. Tymond’s pulse quickened. Possibly word of the Stormrider’s progress. He broke the seal, scanning the parchment. Indeed, it confirmed that the Stormrider had made a successful crossing to the Ghiscari coast. He allowed himself a small, pleased smile.

But no mention of Hela’s position. Perhaps she had ventured elsewhere with that black-sailed doom of hers. Tymond set the letter aside, thinking of how Valon might respond once their coin truly poured in. So many possibilities. He ran a hand over his ledger, picturing lines of gold tallies. The prospect of wealth satisfied him, but betrothals and future alliances still swirled in his mind.

A soft knock on the door broke his concentration. He turned to see a steward step in, bowing. “My lord, your sons await you in the solar.”

“Thank you,” Tymond said. He closed his ledger, rose, and followed the steward through a corridor lit by torches in ornate brackets. The keep’s stone walls carried echoes of their footsteps. Down a short flight of stairs, he stepped into a bright solar where sunlight fell through tall windows onto a table set with bread, fruit, and cold meats.

Jason and Tyland sat on a bench to one side, jesting quietly. Tyland nursed a slight bruise on his forearm, but otherwise, both appeared refreshed in clean tunics. Tymond smiled faintly at the sight. He motioned for them to join him at the table. A servant poured them each a small cup of watered wine. The twins sat opposite him, not quite subdued, but calmer than their sparring hours earlier.

Jason’s gaze flicked to the platters.

“May we?” he asked, half-smiling. Tymond inclined his head. They reached for bread, broke it, spread soft cheese. The father watched them in silence. Soon, he cleared his throat, setting his wine aside.

“Good work in the courtyard,” he said. “Your swordsmanship improves daily.”

Tyland swallowed a morsel of bread. “Jason bested me this time. I’ll repay him soon.”

Jason gave a teasing grin, wiping crumbs from his lip. “Not if your stamina stays so poor.”

Tymond raised a hand to forestall further banter. “Both of you remain young. In time, you’ll each find your strengths.” 

He sipped his wine, choosing his next words carefully. “I’d have you learn more than swordplay, though. Commerce, alliances, those matter too. One day, the Westerlands might need your skill at forging ties, not just swinging steel.”

Tyland glanced up, curiosity in his eyes. “We do learn numbers. Didn’t the tutors say we were competent?”

Jason shrugged. “We keep pace, father. But we prefer the yard.”

Tymond nodded. “Yes. That’s well. But there’s more afoot in this realm than battles.” 

He paused, letting them sense the gravity of his words. “Valon Greyjoy—my friend from the Iron Islands—continues to grow powerful. He’s forging trade routes, forging iron into new steel. The Stormrider sails under his name. That might shape the future of Westeros in ways we cannot yet see.”

Jason’s eyebrows drew together. “He’s that strong?”

Tymond tapped a finger on the table. “Not strong in arms. Strong in wealth, in cunning. And his daughter… Hela Greyjoy. She is something else.” 

He saw them exchange a glance. He softened his tone. “You two may hear rumors. They call her the Red Scourge. They say she terrorizes pirates and Triarchy fleets. Exaggerations, perhaps. But there is truth behind the stories.”

Tyland leaned forward slightly, eyes intrigued. “I heard she’s as fierce as a man. Kills whole crews. Is that real?”

Tymond gave a small shrug. “So they say. I’ve never witnessed it. Yet the Iron Islands do not deny it. She’s rumored to be more brutal than any reaver of old. Or so the sailors whisper.”

Jason frowned. “But she’s our age, father. How can a girl so young wreak such havoc?”

Tymond lifted his wine, taking a slow sip. He savored the dryness before responding. “That is a question many ask. Fear can magnify tales. But men have come ashore speaking of her black ship, The Doom. They tremble at the mention of her name. So there must be some measure of truth.”

Tyland’s gaze dropped to his half-eaten cheese. “Why do you speak of her now?”

Tymond studied them both. “Because the Iron Islands, under Valon’s stewardship, are becoming a force through trade. They will soon stand as an equal among great houses, if not in knights or swords, then in ships and coin. I want you to understand that the realm is vast and alliances shift. Our house must stay aware.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed for a moment, before he suddenly sat straighter. “You… want one of us to marry her?”

Tymond allowed a small, tight smile. He didn’t confirm outright, not yet. “It’s an idea. A union with the Iron Islands could secure wealth and peace. But Valon… well, he has little interest in further heirs. He dotes on his daughter, you see, and she is his sole heir. When we met, he spoke fondly and mostly of her. So if a betrothal arises, it’d be to Hela. And she might have no desire for that. She may remain unmarried. Possibly for life. Unlikely, but it is certainly a possibility.”

Jason pursed his lips, apparently uncertain. Tyland gave a slow nod, as though weighing the notion. Tymond watched them, letting silence hold for a breath or two.

Finally, Tyland broke the hush. “If she’s truly that fearsome, I doubt she’ll want a husband.”

Tymond gave a light chuckle. 

“A husband might be far beneath her. Or so she might think.” He leaned forward, tone gentle. “But the future can surprise us. Each house needs alliances, even the Ironborn. If she desires to expand her father’s legacy, she might consider a union.”

Jason’s eyes flickered with curiosity. “If so, would you choose me, or Tyland?”

Tymond sipped his wine, weighed his answer. “Tyland has a steadier disposition. You, Jason, the older, will aim a little higher. Perhaps a union with a lady of the crown or even… someone like Princess Rhaenyra, if the winds blow right. This is speculation, mind you.”

Jason frowned, color rising on his cheeks. “Rhaenyra Targaryen? That’s… grand indeed.”

Tyland cast a sidelong look at his brother, a smirk teasing his lips. “So I’m the one to handle the savage Ironborn, then?”

Tymond nodded. “Possibly. But do not carve it in stone. Valon Greyjoy might never even consider betrothal. So keep your minds open. Many roads lead to glory.” 

He let his words sink in, then changed subjects with a casual wave. “Now, finish your meal. We have tasks this afternoon.”

His sons bowed their heads and spoke in unison, “Yes, father.”