Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Tywin had once read that the death of a loved one leaves everything grey, that one can't appreciate colors anymore, that they all fade into merciless, grim greyness. Yet when Joanna was dying, colors were all that he saw. Vibrant hues, as if his mind struggled to drown out every other sensation save for sight. Yes, he could almost taste the metallic tang of blood upon entering the bedchamber of his dying lady wife. Yes, he could discern the array of scents typical for labor, with blood dominating the air. But he didn't feel... the numbness enveloped him as soon as Genna emerged and revealed that Joanna wouldn't survive and that the child was a dwarf. And he knew he wouldn't recall the scents and tastes as keenly as he would remember the vivid colors of that fateful night. An image seared into memory forever.

First, there was red, in a dazzling array of shades. The light red of the coals in the fireplace danced with the cherry red of the curtains guarding the shuttered windows. The mahogany of the bed stood as a somber backdrop, while the midwives, their faces flushed, curtsied in a delicate blush. A ruby-encrusted chalice glimmered on the bedside table, a compliment to the Dornish red of the wine he had sipped the night before. An apple-red blanket lay bundled on an unused chair, a poignant reminder of happier times. But above all, there was crimson. Crimson, the color of fresh blood pouring from between Joanna's legs. Once pristine and perfect down there, now torn apart, bleeding despite the midwives' efforts to stifle the flow with white linens. Those linens, now stained a scarlet hue, bore witness to the struggle. Seamstresses who had stitched Lannister banners often debated whether the red was crimson or scarlet. But as the linens soaked through and were tossed into a pile, they took on a darker hue, closer to burgundy, a color of mourning and despair. A red gone to rot.

Some other colors caught Tywin's eye as he approached his lady wife, who cradled the grotesque babe to her breast. There was the warm orange hue of flickering candles casting dancing shadows, the crisp white of clean rags brought by attendants, and the piercing blue of the chief midwife's eyes, sharp with concern. The pale yellow of the midwives' dresses provided a stark contrast against the backdrop of crimson and grey. Speaking of grey, it too made its presence known, fighting for dominance amidst the sea of red but ultimately failing. The grey of the stones with which the tower had been built, the grey of the maester's robe now stained with blood, and the grey pallor of Joanna's face as she fought against the tide of pain. Yet amidst the somber greys and vivid reds, one shade of grey stood out as a beacon of solace - the steely grey braid of the old midwife, retreating from Joanna's side. It was the only grey that looked soft, almost comforting, amidst the chaos.

Amidst this tapestry of colors, three others stood out like splashes of paint against the canvas of red and grey.

The first splash was black. The dwarf had one eye normal, a murky blue-greenish hue typical for a newborn. But the other eye was black, casting a sinister shadow over his already cursed visage with his small, pink, stunted legs. Pink was the second color. Most damning for Tywin now. Too pale to pass as red, it was the hue of the wrinkled, wailing babe, its skin already cleaned from the blood. Tywin couldn't help but entertain a passing thought: what would happen if one were to squeeze the pink form with all their might? Would it turn white, the pink fading away? Would it turn red, blood flowing out? Or would it remain black, like a creature from the darkest of Seven Hells? And so, three splashes of color stood out amidst the chaos - pink, black, and green. The emerald green of Joanna's eyes, now drowning in the red hue of burst blood vessels in her whites.

What disturbed Tywin the most in his entirely numbed and shocked mind was the absence of gold. All the lion's ornaments adorning the chamber lost their polish, turning into the shade of wet, cold sand in winter. The pure gold of the chalice with wine now faded into the shade of rotten corn. The golden blonde of Joanna's hair turned into a matte, greyish hue like oat. Grey was swallowing the gold of her hair, while red was devouring the golden tan of her skin. She was dying, he realized, seeing how the green in her eyes was losing its own battle against red when she raised her gaze to him. "My love," she said. She usually didn't address him so affectionately with an audience present, but now, she didn't seem to care or perhaps wasn't even aware.

Then she lifted the dwarf, but it was an effort, even with the little weight of the stunted form. "Our son," she declared. Tywin, though he knew she would resent the pity, forced himself to relieve her of the burden. She had carried it long enough. The babe, no, the monster, had the audacity to wail, as if missing his mother already. It was a grotesque irony, that such an exquisite woman as Joanna could bring forth something so hideous... And as if knowing perfectly well what he was thinking, Joanna added, "Tywin, he is mine... and yours, do you understand?" He turned to her, understanding her plea immediately. The words pierced some of his quickly erected walls of denial. It was not only Joanna who had produced the dwarf. Yet, the bitter realization that something so repulsive had sprouted from his own seed was a difficult truth to accept.

Nevertheless, Tywin responded to Joanna's plea. "Yes. A Lannister," he murmured, his voice hollow and tinged with an undercurrent of resentment. Granting the dwarf the privilege of his house's name felt like a bitter drink to swallow. A dwarf, bearing the sigil of the rampant golden lion? It is a mockery beyond compare, one that even the most skilled mummer couldn't contrive. But he pushed aside these resentful thoughts, for Joanna was speaking once more.

"Promise me, you will look after... care... for our legacy..." Her strength waning, yet her concern for the glory of House Lannister remained steadfast. For a moment, Tywin forgot about the whimpering bundle in his arms, his attention solely focused on Joanna's fading visage. She had sacrificed herself for the future of their house. And though Tywin would gladly follow just behind her to a world more golden than crimson, he could not deny her final wish. Someone must remain to protect what we have built together, lest it turn to dust. As you soon will.

"I will. A dynasty that will last hundreds of years," he assured her, though a cruel voice whispered in his mind that he possessed poor tools to build such a dynasty. Twins robbed of their mother, a dwarf as a spare heir...

Thoughts of the twins prompted Tywin to turn his attention to the others still present in the chamber, laboring to mask the overwhelming crimson that surrounded them. He issued his orders crisply, commanding them to take the dwarf, admit the twins, and then leave the room. The chief midwife swiftly relieved him of the burden of the whimpering bundle, and Tywin felt a surge of indifference towards its fate. Whether it ended up in the lion's cages or elsewhere mattered little to him now. For Joanna was slipping away, and nothing else seemed to hold significance in the face of her impending demise.

Seated beside her, Tywin grasped Joanna's hand tightly, as if by sheer force of will he could anchor her to this life a moment longer. But she was slipping away like water through his fingers, her lifeblood still flowing despite the attempts to mask it with bedding and blankets. The sight filled Tywin with a profound sense of helplessness, a feeling he rarely experienced and loathed deeply.

As the twins rushed into the chamber, Joanna mustered the strength to bid them farewell, her words piercing Tywin's heart with a bittersweet ache. In that moment, the twins stood out as the only brighter colors in the sea of red and grey that surrounded them. Though their golden hue had begun to fade in the wake of the grievous realization of their mother's impending death, Tywin vowed to polish them until they shone with the same radiant glow that Joanna had once possessed. Our cubs, our future queen and golden knight… just as we wished…

It was evident that Joanna was teetering on the edge of the abyss, her strength waning rapidly with each passing moment. Tywin issued a stern command for the twins to depart, and they exited the chamber in shocked silence, too stunned to protest. As the doors closed with a silent click, Tywin shifted closer to Joanna, his heart heavy with sorrow.

"You were right. I am sorry," Joanna murmured weakly, her voice barely audible above the hushed atmosphere of the chamber. Tywin's chest tightened with anguish, for he had hoped against hope that she would defy the odds and emerge victorious. But reality was unforgiving, and it was clear that her time was drawing near.

"You can't... my lady... Joanna," Tywin began, his voice faltering as he struggled to find the words to express the depth of his despair. How could he convey the crushing weight of the realization that he would soon be left to carry their legacy alone?

Joanna's whispered plea pierced the heavy silence of the chamber, her voice filled with desperation and longing. She expressed her fervent wish to grow old with Tywin, to share their golden years together in the embrace of their love. Tywin, who had always imagined that he would be the first to depart from this world, preferably in Joanna's arms, found himself unable to accept the inevitability of her impending death.

"You will live, do you hear me? You will live, long after our gold turns into silver," he insisted, his voice firm with determination. It was the future he had envisioned for them, their legacy enduring through the ages, their golden heritage passed down to future generations. The two of us—watching it unfold, sharing the burdens, enjoying the glory…

Joanna expressed her gratitude that he was hers, but Tywin couldn't bring himself to agree. "I am yours. I always will be," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. She was the one who held his heart in her hands, and if she was to leave him, she could take it with her. Without her, it is worthless.

For the first time, Joanna released her grip on possessiveness, her voice soft as she uttered, "You will be someone else's too... For legacy... for its future..." Tywin felt a pang in his chest at her words, a stark reminder of the prophecies that had foretold her absence from his side. Mad Malora, Maggy the Frog, the albino witch, Jaendora—all had hinted at a future where Joanna would be taken from him before her time. Why couldn't they be wrong?

"No. No, Joanna, please," he pleaded, desperation creeping into his voice as he sensed her resignation. She wasn't fighting to stay with him, her strength depleted from bringing the monster into the world. "My love," she sighed, her words a balm to his wounded soul, for her love had never wavered, never faltered. Even in her final moments, she loved him unconditionally, effortlessly.

And then, as if mocking them, the merciless Stranger intervened, denying Joanna the chance to bestow upon him one last kiss. She fell, and Tywin caught her, his heart shattering as he felt for her pulse, hoping against hope for some sign of life. But there was nothing.

At first, Tywin tried to convince himself that it was just his own numbness, his mind unable to comprehend the reality of Joanna's death. But his eyes, the only sense not suffocated by shock, mercilessly confirmed the truth. Her chest lay still, her eyes closed—she was dead. And the colors around her did not fade as some poetic tales suggested they would. No, Joanna was claimed partially by grey, which hungrily devoured her skin, and partially by bloody red, surging freshly from beneath her as Tywin gathered her in his arms. Grey and red triumphed, conquering the gold and emerald hues of her former beauty.

Desperately, Tywin reached out to her, hoping to dispel the numbness that threatened to engulf him. He kissed her all over her face, yearning to etch the memory of her soft skin into his mind forever. But it was not the same as feeling her lips respond to his own, the warmth of her breath against his skin.

Then, Tywin turned to smell, burying his nose in her matted hair, searching desperately for faint traces of the perfume she favored. But all his nose detected was sweat and blood, and those observations faded into a grim realization. Her hair, once spun like gold, now resembled old, stiff rope from a ship—its color faded from sun, salted water, and friction.

Friction and salted water—that's all he had now, rocking her lifeless body in his arms and feeling the tears escape him. It was shameful, pathetic, raw. She would have admonished him for such weakness. But she would never have the chance. They would never again share those moments—there was no longer a her, no longer a them. He was alone.

Clutching her corpse, which was rapidly losing warmth, Tywin struggled with the idea of letting her go. To do so would be to abandon her, even though she had abandoned him first. No, she was taken from me—murdered, ripped open and apart by that little monster.

As the hours passed, night slowly gave way to day, Joanna's body stiffening in the process, the blood rusting from crimson to burgundy, yet still red. And red was all Tywin saw when he thought about the situation as a whole. She is dead, murdered by the dwarf. And why should that creature deserve to live when it had claimed the life of his own mother?

Yet the red retreated somewhat as Tywin gazed upon the increasingly greyish face of his dead wife. She had risked everything for this babe, and she had lost. Or would she consider it a victory, knowing that at least the babe was alive, even if unlike anything she had imagined?

Tywin was lost, with red and gray dancing before his eyes. Would the grey prevail as Joanna's body was washed of blood and entombed in a stone sarcophagus? No, Tywin would not allow it. She would be clothed in a golden dress, laid to rest in golden marble, in the Hall of Heroes.

The thought of the Hall of Heroes and the burial stirred a newfound clarity in Tywin. He needed to let go of the cold, lifeless body so the Silent Sisters could work their magic and restore her to her former golden glory. He needed to order the mourning, so the Rock could be adorned with black ribbons over red Lannister banners. He needed to do something; he couldn't just sit there with the grey-red corpse.

It was once the most beautiful woman in all Seven Kingdoms. Now, it lies empty, like shell washed ashore and forgotten by the sea. Tywin sighed against her cold, grey skin, but his breath only warmed the area for a fleeting moment. She was cold, unlike she had ever been. She had always been the warmer, more radiant one compared to him. And now, she is grey, cold, stiff, like stone.

He needed her to be golden again.

Gently, he laid her down. Then, he straightened, his own body feeling strangely detached. Numbness still enveloped him, his focus solely on vision as the dominant sense, stifling any pain, physical or otherwise. He didn't feel if his cheeks were wet, but he wiped them anyway with his sleeve. Attempting to don his usual stern countenance, he knew he had already lost her; he couldn't afford to lose himself too. He was Lord Tywin Lannister. Despite feeling shattered inside, his heart torn asunder and his soul rent apart, he couldn't allow the world to see it. His strength couldn't be questioned. Joanna wouldn't like that.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, a silent promise to fulfill her final wishes and protect their legacy. With one last glance—swift, for she didn't look as she should, so frail and ugly amidst the battle between grey and red—he committed the image to memory. He wished to remember her only in golden finery, but he knew this horrid sight would be etched firmly in his mind. It would haunt his nightmares and plague his waking thoughts, slowly eroding his own golden hue, if he still had one.

He turned and left the bedchamber, his steps resolute. The solar beyond was empty. A shutter, left open to the cold morning air, allowed the first light of dawn to filter in. Despite the bitter chill, he noted the early hour by the slow ascent of the sun over the rugged peaks of the Westerlands.

How could the sun continue its ascent when Joanna had descended into the darkness of death? Who would reflect its golden glow now?

The first rays illuminated the adjacent tower, visible from this particular window. Cersei's tower. His thoughts shifted to the children. Cersei, already hailed as the Light of the West, embodied Joanna's radiance. Jaime, bearing more of his mother's spirit than his own, held the promise of greatness. They were the torchbearers of Joanna's legacy, destined to illuminate the path ahead. And Tywin, though shattered, resolved to nurture their brilliance, ensuring it burned brightly for all to see.

Tywin left Joanna's solar, his mind heavy with grief and determination. His destination was his office, three levels down in the Lord's Tower. However, his path was obstructed by the sight of Maester Creylen, seated on the stairs with his head buried in his hands. The maester quickly rose to his feet at the sound of Tywin's approach, his eyes filled with apprehension. He had likely been sitting there for hours, dreading the inevitable confrontation with the Lord of Casterly Rock.

"My lord," Creylen greeted with a bow, his voice tinged with fear as he anticipated Tywin's reaction. The maester had changed into a fresh grey robe, devoid of any traces of blood. Only the black armband adorning his arm and the shimmering metal of his chain were fighting with the grey of his somber attire.

Before Tywin could speak, a piercing cry echoed through the air—the unmistakable wail of a newborn babe. They were near the nursery, where the source of his anguish lay, crying out as if oblivious to the tragedy it had caused. The audacity of the murderer to cry out so boldly was a slap in the face. The nerve of it—wailing so loudly when it should be silent… silenced forever. Tywin's jaw clenched, his resolve hardening as he turned sharply to the right, striding purposefully down the corridor that led to the room Joanna had prepared for the infant. Creylen followed close behind, the sound of his chain echoing faintly in the stillness of the tower.

Tywin entered the nursery, his expression grave and unwavering. The wetnurse, who had been seated on a plush chair, quickly rose to her feet and attempted to curtsy, but it was a futile gesture. She had made the mistake of assuming comforts that were not hers to claim—the wooden stool in the corner was meant for her. Moreover, instead of attending to the wailing babe, she stood frozen, her gaze flickering nervously between Tywin and the crib.

"Milord," she stammered, her lowborn accent a jarring reminder of her station. Her eyes fell upon the dwarf nestled in the crib, adorned with a blanket embroidered in golden thread—an indulgence that the babe does not deserve. There was disgust on her face—an undeniable repulsion at the sight of the dwarf.

Disgust? That should never be one's reaction to a Lannister.

"Leave. I want you gone from the keep," Tywin commanded, his voice sharp with disdain. The wetnurse paled at his words, realizing the gravity of her mistake. Whether out of fear or the quick intervention of Maester Creylen—gesturing for her departure behind Tywin's back—she offered a hasty nod and another curtsey before hastily making her exit.

Yet, even with the wetnurse gone, the cries of the babe persisted, echoing off the stone walls of the nursery.

"I alerted the Silent Sisters to be ready, my lord," Maester Creylen informed Tywin, his voice steady despite the somber atmosphere.

Tywin nodded in acknowledgment, consenting to the necessary preparations for Joanna's body. "Do you have any specific instructions for them, my lord?" Creylen inquired, his gaze shifting briefly to the dwarf. The maester took it in his arms. With a gentle rocking motion, he managed to soothe the babe, silencing its cries. There was no disgust in Creylen's demeanor, only resignation.

Tywin focused on the question, his mind already contemplating the arrangements for Joanna's funeral. "Tell them to place her in the Golden Gallery. The procession to the sept will be tomorrow," he instructed, his voice firm and unwavering. "She'll lie in state for a week to allow for the arrival of our bannermen. Afterward, she'll be interred in the Hall of Heroes, in a sarcophagus of golden marble."

Creylen nodded in understanding, showing no surprise at the opulence described by Tywin. "And... the dress... jewellery?" he asked, pausing in his rocking of the babe.

"Her best golden gown. Hair washed and unbound. No jewellery. Except... there is a necklace, made of shells," Tywin replied, his voice betraying a hint of emotion. All of Joanna's precious gems and gold would be passed down to her descendants, but the necklace made of shells was only hers to wear.

Creylen nodded, Tywin's instructions already memorized. "I don't know if the babe will live, my lord," he said quietly, his tone weighted with uncertainty. Tywin's gaze shifted to the dwarf, whose very existence was an affront to everything he held dear. His numbness began to recede and it was replaced by a burning fury—a fury that promised to consume him whole.

This creature, this abomination, had taken his Joanna from him. The thought ignited a primal rage within Tywin, a thirst for retribution that demanded to be sated. Justice, vengeance—they were all one and the same when it came down to it, a crimson tide that flowed from the spilling of blood.

And he… it… had shed too much of Joanna's blood to go unavenged.

Without a word, Tywin extended his hands, wordlessly demanding the babe from Creylen. The maester hesitated for only a moment before relinquishing the bundle into Tywin's grasp. But Tywin's icy demeanor brooked no argument.

"It won't," he declared, his voice a chilling echo in the room. "And neither will you if you linger here. Make the necessary arrangements."

Creylen, his hands trembling, offered a bow before retreating from the nursery. Left alone with the dwarf, Tywin's gaze darkened with an intensity that bordered on madness. He had never known such hatred, such seething resentment. It eclipsed even the animosity he harbored toward Aerys, Ellyn Tarbeck, or the Reynes.

Clutching the dwarf tightly to his chest, Tywin emerged from the nursery, his steps purposeful and resolute. The babe remained eerily silent in his arms as he descended the spiraling stairs of the tower and crossed the empty courtyard, heedless of the biting cold that gnawed at his skin.

The open courtyard, usually bustling with activity, now lay deserted, a solemn testament to the grief that permeated the Rock. Tywin paid no mind to the frigid air as he made his way to the lifts, his mind consumed by a singular purpose.

The lifts carried him swiftly downward, their mechanisms groaning softly in the silence. In the dim light of dawn, Tywin navigated the labyrinthine passages of the castle, utilizing secret routes known only to him. He emerged from the Rock's confines and found himself standing on a secluded beach, shrouded in the shadows of the towering cliffs.

There. She had loved it here.

The morning sun had yet to breach the obstacle of the Rock, casting the beach in a cloak of darkness. The night had brought a fresh blanket of snow, mingling with the sand to create a surreal landscape. Despite the bitter cold that enveloped him, Tywin felt nothing but a numb determination as he trudged through the snow, his boots leaving deep imprints in their wake.

With each step, he drew closer to the crashing waves, their rhythmic roar drowning out the tumult of his thoughts. The bleak expanse of the sea lay before him, its usual hues of blue and green replaced by a somber grey. Where once it had been a tranquil sight to behold, now it churned with an unsettling fury, waves crashing against the shore in a display of anger. Wisps of foam marked the sea's rage, scattered amidst the relentless waves.

As he watched, Tywin couldn't help but ponder the impending clash of hues. Would the evening bring a battle between the somber grey of the sea and the fiery red of the sunset? It seemed fitting, parallel to the night before.

But now, in the grayness of the morning, the only hint of red was the wrinkled, scrunched face of the babe he held in his arms. There is no gold to be found in its features, no trace of Lannister majesty. Only ugliness and deformity.

In that moment, Tywin contemplated the babe's fate. There would be no redemption for this abomination, no golden future awaiting it. Perhaps it is best to end its pathetic existence now, before it could tarnish the proud legacy of House Lannister any further. With a resolute step, he ventured into the icy waters, the cold seeping into his bones but ignored in the face of his determination. Step by step, he advanced, the waves lapping greedily at his form, until they licked at the babe's blanket.

The babe's cries pierced the air, a mark of its discomfort in the icy embrace of the sea. Tywin himself felt the urge to roar in frustration, grief, and fury, but he suppressed it, his emotions churning within him like a storm-tossed sea.

It would be so simple to let go, to allow the waves to claim the abomination that had stolen Joanna from him. The water would swallow it whole, silencing its cries forever, just as it had silenced the Reynes once upon a time. But then he remembered Joanna's words, the reminder that the babe was theirs, hers and his. To end its life would be an act of kinslaying, a stain that would tarnish the Lannister name for generations to come.

Tywin recoiled from the thought. A kinslayer, condemned to a life without his beloved lady wife, and cursed to bear the weight of his own monstrous creation. It was a fate too cruel to contemplate.

And yet, what would his life be without Joanna? Without her guiding hand, her unwavering support, his world felt empty and devoid of purpose. But then he remembered his promise to Joanna, the vow to safeguard their legacy at all costs. To forsake his duty to their legacy, to abandon the future of House Lannister, was a betrayal he could not countenance.

Legacy, he thought bitterly. It was the very thing that had brought him to this precipice, torn between his longing for Joanna and his duty to their name.

"Father! Father! FATHER!"

The piercing cry of a child's voice drew Tywin's attention away from his dark urgency in it made Tywin instinctively turn, and there he was – Jaime, his young heir, running fearlessly into the crashing waves, toward Tywin.

Jaime was nearly eight years old, too small and inexperienced to battle the sea. Yet, with unwavering determination, he pressed on, despite the waves that threatened to engulf him. With each step, he called out to his father, his voice carrying over the tumultuous roar of the ocean.

She had fought the sea for me once, too.

In that moment, Jaime bore a striking resemblance to Joanna, his mother, as she had swum in those same waters years ago, determined to reach Tywin's side. The waves pushed and pulled at Jaime, sometimes swallowing him whole, but still, he persisted, his cries growing strangely more muted as he drew nearer.

It is exhaustion, Tywin realized. His boy was struggling, the ground slipping from beneath his feet, his swimming skills rusty from the winter months. The chill of the water was merciless, and the ordeal of the past day had taken its toll on Jaime's young body.

For a fleeting moment, Tywin watched his son with a detached indifference, a remnant of the numbness that still clung to him. But then, his recent sensitivity to color jolted him back to the present – here was his gold amidst the grey. Or perhaps just a nugget of it, a promise of a golden vein to be mined in the future.

With newfound resolve, Tywin sprang into action. He turned on his heels and hurried toward Jaime, the urgency of the moment cutting through the fog of shock that clouded his mind. They met halfway. Jaime drenched and trembling, his fear palpable in the cold, salty air. Tywin remained too shocked to fully comprehend the circumstances.

Jaime clung to Tywin's form, wrapping his arms around his father's waist and seeking solace in the damp blanket that cradled the babe. Its cries had ceased, replaced now by soft sniffling and whimpering.

Tywin found himself at a loss for words, his hands full with the babe wrapped in the damp blanket. What could he possibly say in this moment of profound loss and uncertainty? Had Jaime sensed the dark thoughts swirling in his father's mind, thoughts of kinslaying and even suicide? It was a chilling possibility.

"Father... the babe... my brother... it's cold," Jaime rambled, his voice wavering with a mixture of fear and confusion as he took a few steps back. The water still reached up to his chest, soaking his clothes through.

With a stiff nod, Tywin began to march slowly towards the shore, mindful of Jaime by his side. He held the babe closer to his own damp jerkin. A Lannister, he had said to Joanna. And so he would be raised as one, Tywin decided, with all the privileges and responsibilities that name entailed.

They finally emerged from the sea, and Jaime, now trembling with cold and concern, spoke up. "We need to take him somewhere warm... he could catch a cold and..." He trailed off, but Tywin understood the unspoken fear in his son's voice. The word Jaime hesitated to utter was "die." And the boy was right; if the babe fell ill, it could be fatal.

Another Lannister lost, like Joanna. Tywin couldn't bear the thought. Determination surged within him as he quickened his pace back to the Rock, with Jaime trailing behind. The image of three wet Lannisters would be a pitiful sight, so Tywin opted for secret passages and rarely used corridors to avoid prying eyes.

As he walked, Tywin tried to think of the dwarf in his arms as a Lannister— the lowest and ugliest of them, perhaps, but still one of their blood. He would need a strong, proud Lannister name, though it wouldn't shield them allfrom the mockery and disdain that would surely follow.

Tywin's mind raced through the annals of Lannister history, considering names both noble and notorious. Cerion, Tommen, Loreon, Lancel? None felt quite right. To name a dwarf after illustrious kings of the Rock seemed inappropriate, and the less distinguished Lannisters bore names that carried their own burdens.

As he ascended the stairs of his own Tower, Tywin nearly stumbled - a name from the past emerged, unbidden: Tyrion the Tormentor. The memory made him pause. It would be fitting, in a macabre way, to name the dwarf who had brought such anguish to Joanna after a man known for inflicting pain.

And this deformed son was indeed a torment to Tywin.

With Jaime still following him, Tywin returned to the nursery, now empty. He placed the babe in the crib without much ceremony.

"He needs to be changed," Jaime remarked, his voice tinged with concern.

"Tyrion. His name is Tyrion," Tywin declared abruptly. "And I will summon the maester as soon as I attend to myself."

He then placed a hand on Jaime's shoulder. "You should do the same. You will need to look your best at the procession to the sept tomorrow," Tywin advised.

Jaime nodded in understanding and departed, leaving Tywin alone with his thoughts. As he watched Jaime leave, a fleeting suspicion lingered in his mind, knowing his son was likely seeking solace with Cersei. But Tywin had other matters to consider now, his mind already turning to the responsibilities that awaited him.

Tywin's mind churned with practical matters as he strode towards his chambers. He needed to change into dry, black attire, likely stored in his wardrobe. The Silent Sisters would have already taken Joanna's body from the bedchamber. Sleep was a luxury he couldn't afford tonight; there was a legacy to polish and protect.

The maester was needed for the dwarf—Tyrion—then the order to establish a nursery deeper within the Rock, away from the Lord's Tower.

At first glance, these tasks seemed like a blessing of distraction, but Tywin knew better. They were all inevitable consequences of Joanna's death. Grief threatened to overwhelm him once more, and this time, there was no numbness to shield him from its grasp.

Chapter Text

For Laenor Hill, it all began like a bizarre nightmare. The news of Lady Joanna's labor, Dora's evident distress, the sight of her blood—it was all shocking, but it hadn't numbed him entirely. After assisting Dora to her chamber and ensuring she had her handmaiden by her side, he returned to the maester's tower, leaving it occupied in case anyone else required assistance.

Despite the lack of updates from Maester Creylen regarding the progress of the labor, Laenor began to grow increasingly concerned as night fell without any news. No news is good news, he tried to convince himself. He waited for a few more hours, hoping for some word, before reluctantly deciding it was late enough to retire to his sparse room in the servants' quarters.

However, as he stepped into the courtyard beneath the five towers of the Rock, he heard faint screams echoing in the night. His heart clenched, and any thoughts of sleep vanished in an instant. Helping Maester Creylen over the past years, I have heard many cries of pain. But this… this sounds different… I cannot rid my mind of the knowledge that it is Lady Joanna.

Laenor decided to retire to his favorite, albeit empty, room near the library. He had always been cautious not to stray too far from the principal home of the priceless books, and this chamber boasted a comfortable chair suitable for reading—luxurious enough to enjoy, yet not so opulent as to incur reprimand for his presumed unworthiness as a bastard.

As he sat by the flickering candlelight, Laenor read well into the night, yet his mind was relentlessly haunted by the echoes of Lady Joanna's screams. It felt wrong and presumptuous, but he considered her part of his family—a distant aunt, a noble-born sister of his own bastard mother. Despite Lady Joanna's formidable presence, she had always shown kindness and care towards those of her blood, even those tainted by bastardy. Had it not been for Lady Joanna, my mother and I would have been beggars.

If Laenor were more devout, he might have prayed for her well-being. He knew all too well that her pregnancy posed significant risks. However, he placed more trust in Maester Creylen's expertise than in the gods themselves. Trained by the Citadel, the maester surely had the knowledge and skill to assist the Lady of Casterly Rock, didn't he?

At twelve years old, Laenor was slated to commence his studies at the Citadel later that year, courtesy of Lord Lannister's foresight and generosity. Recognizing the intelligence within him, Lord Lannister had provided this opportunity, and Laenor understood it as a considerable debt to be repaid one day. A bastard of a Lannister bastard—but I intend to pay my debts. This one I will repay tenfold.

With determination, he applied himself to his studies, becoming the most capable assistant to Maester Creylen. Though the Citadel's path demanded severing all ties and allegiances, Laenor vowed to always prioritize serving House Lannister.

Even now, as his eyelids occasionally drooped with fatigue, Laenor continued to read. It would be unseemly to sleep while the lady wife of the house was in labor.

Laenor absentmindedly scratched his bald, shaved head as the situation escalated from bizarre nightmare to pure horror. A strange woman entered the chamber, aged and diminutive, her grey hair woven into a long braid. It took only a few exchanged words for Laenor to realize she was one of the midwives he had seen hurrying to the Lord's Tower earlier. Is it over, then?

With a trembling voice, Laenor inquired about Lady Joanna's condition, but the woman's response shattered his world: she had died in childbirth, delivering the dwarf. Tears blurred Laenor's vision as he struggled to comprehend the news. Lady Joanna, a trueborn Lannister, had always seemed invincible. And now, a dwarf... the implications of Lord Tywin's reaction sent shivers down Laenor's spine.

It was widely known within the Rock that Lord Tywin held his lady wife in the highest esteem. The loss of Lady Joanna... would Laenor ever see Maester Creylen again? Speaking of the maester, why couldn't he save her?

Laenor's voice trembled as he vowed aloud to save every woman who sought his help in the birthing bed. But the strange midwife, who had offered him a comforting embrace, seemed skeptical of his declaration. She muttered something about apologizing to the chief midwife for omitting a single letter from her name, then she pushed open the shutters of the balcony doors.

A cold gust of wind hit Laenor's face, but instead of jolting him awake from his nightmare, it only deepened his horror. The old woman stepped outside, and something in her wistful, melancholic expression reminded Laenor of his own mother. Yet despite her humble appearance, she carried herself with the grace of a highborn lady. She spoke with a refined accent, reminiscent of the trueborn Lannisters themselves.

Stranger still were her words, as she spoke of a child named Cerelle, whom her husband had supposedly murdered.

As Laenor, who had studied the history of the House he served almost religiously, heard the name, recognition dawned upon him. He knew the identity of this old woman, and he knew the significance of her words. The mention of four cubs, the confession of abandonment—it all clicked into place. This eerie old woman had to be Lady Rohanne, the grandmother of Lord and Lady Lannister, and the great-grandmother of Laenor himself. The one who had mysteriously disappeared shortly after my grandfather's birth.

But before Laenor could react to this stunning revelation, Lady Rohanne confessed something else, something that sent a chill down his spine. She claimed to see something of her late lord husband in Lord Tywin—a comparison that puzzled Laenor at first. Wasn't it a good thing for the current Lord Lannister to resemble Gerold the Golden? But then, with a sinking feeling, he understood.

Lady Rohanne revealed the dark truth—that Gerold the Golden was not only a lord of great stature, but also a kinslayer, guilty of the murder of his own small niece, Cerelle. And now, in the present, she saw echoes of that same darkness in Lord Tywin.

The shock of Lady Rohanne's revelations struck Laenor to his core, leaving him reeling in disbelief. As her words sank in, he was paralyzed by the gravity of the situation, almost missing her final, fateful words. When he realized her intention, it was already too late.

With a desperate lunge, he reached out to grab hold of anything to stop her, but she was already plummeting into the abyss. His screams echoed through the early morning air, a futile attempt to halt her descent.

In that heart-wrenching moment, as he watched her vanish into the darkness below, Laenor felt a deep sorrow wash over him. Lady Rohanne, the great-grandmother he had hoped to know better, to meet under different circumstances—now lost to the merciless embrace of the Casterly Rock. I should have stopped her.

He wept, knowing that her fragile form would be claimed by the unforgiving rocks below, the lion's paws; her bones shattered, her blood staining the bedrock until the morning tide washed her away. There would be no Hall of Heroes for her, no grand funeral arrangements like those her granddaughter would receive. There will be nothing left to bury.

As Maester Creylen had once explained, recovering the bodies of those who met their end by falling or being pushed from the west side of the Rock was an impossible task. And so, Lady Rohanne's tragic fate was sealed, her final resting place forever lost to the depths below.

As Laenor stood there, frozen in the wake of Lady Rohanne's tragic leap, his tears were the only sign of movement amidst the overwhelming stillness. Yet amidst his sorrow, a chilling realization dawned upon him.

No one would believe me if I were to recount this encounter. They would dismiss it as the delusions of a troubled mind, a product of the stress and chaos that surrounded them all. He had no proof, and even he struggled to believe it himself.

And he dared not reveal the truth to Lord Tywin—that not only had they lost Lady Joanna on this fateful night, but Lady Rohanne as well. The thought of delivering such devastating news to the Lord of Casterly Rock filled Laenor with dread.

The reminder of Lady Joanna's death brought forth a fresh wave of tears, and Laenor found himself unable to bear the thought of the Rock without her presence. And the twins... his heart ached for them, robbed of their mother in such a tragic manner.

Yet amidst his own grief, Laenor knew he had a duty to fulfill. He could not afford to wallow in his sorrow while others suffered. With a heavy heart, he turned away from the abyss and set forth to serve those whose grief was far greater than his own.

As Laenor rushed out of the chamber and up to the towers, he found that mourning had not frozen the Rock in stillness; rather, it seemed to have stirred it into even greater activity. Servants hurried about, their faces etched with sorrow, their arms draped with black bands—Laenor got one as well from a passing maid.

On his way to the towers, he encountered Silent Sisters conversing with Maester Creylen. Or rather, it was the maester who spoke. "And if she doesn't appear perfect, he will have you killed, Cerelle," Creylen said, his words stopping Laenor in his tracks. That name again—Cerelle. He peered closer at the chief Silent Sister, noting the grimness of her expression but also a strange sense of satisfaction, as if she believed justice had been served.

Cerelle... a Lannister name. But Lord Tywin would never consent to sending a noble-born Lannister woman to the Silent Sisters. The strange woman nodded and gestured for her fellow sisters to follow her into the Tower.

Unable to shake off the nagging sense of unease, Laenor hurried to the maester. "Who was she?" he asked, haunted by the secrets that seem to lurk around every corner of Casterly Rock. He couldn't bear the thought of being haunted by the mysteries of Lady Rohanne and now the enigmatic Cerelle of the Silent Sisters.

Maester Creylen sighed heavily, his hand coming to rest gently on Laenor's bald head. "She is an ambitious woman, much like her lady mother was. Both she and her sister have risen through the ranks of the Silent Sisters—Cerelle here at the Rock, and Rohanne in Lannisport. They were born of House Tarbeck," he explained, and Laenor's breath caught in his throat. Lord Tywin had spared two daughters of Lady Ellyn, but if he had known they had ascended so high within the Silent Sisters—high enough to attend to his lady wife's body... Is he aware of it?

"Will she seek retribution?" Laenor asked, his voice edged with concern. He couldn't bear the thought of Lady Joanna's body being desecrated by a Tarbeck woman thirsting for revenge.

"No," Creylen assured him, his shoulders slumping with weariness. "The sisters take their duties very seriously. And Cerelle believes that this... tragedy is justice served."

Laenor winced, then followed Maester Creylen to the Maester's Tower. He was relieved that his mentor had survived, though Creylen's slumped shoulders betrayed his loss of confidence. It's understandable—he feels he has failed. I think we all feel it here today. Once they were inside the maester's chambers, Laenor managed to muster the question that weighed heavily on his mind. "And how are... the Lannisters?" he asked quietly.

Creylen busied himself with placing a kettle of tea over the fire before responding. "The Rock will never be the same, mark my words, boy," he said solemnly. Laenor knew that all too well.

"And you couldn't... you couldn't do something?" Laenor muttered, unable to shake the feeling of helplessness. If any man could work a miracle, it would be a learned one.

Creylen shook his head sadly. "The dwarf's head was too large. Once she was ripped, there was no stifling the blood's flow. She lingered... the strongest woman I ever saw, but saving her was impossible," he revealed, his voice heavy with regret.

Laenor, for the first time, contemplated the fate of the babe. A dwarf... Gods, the implications, the consequences... it was all so painful. The child that Lady Joanna had envisioned as a strong and handsome supporter of Lord Jaime had turned into not only the cause of her death but also a deformed, ugly thing. Yet, could it truly be the babe's fault that he was born this way?

"Will he live? The babe?" Laenor asked, his voice tinged with concern.

Creylen shrugged, his expression troubled. "If Lord Tywin doesn't smother him with a pillow..." he whispered, more to himself than to Laenor.

Laenor froze at the implication. Surely, Lord Tywin wouldn't stoop to such an act of kin-slaying? But then, he remembered Lady Rohanne's words, how she had seen some traits of her kinslaying lord husband in her grandson. And Creylen knew Lord Lannister well... if he believed it possible, then it was.

Laenor shivered involuntarily, and Creylen scrutinized him with a critical gaze. "You didn't sleep well, did you, lad?" he asked rhetorically and emphatically. "Run, rest. I will manage..." he turned to the boiling tea, dismissing Laenor.

Laenor nodded, feeling the weight of exhaustion settling upon him. He had lingered with the book too long, it seemed, for the Rock was already transformed by grief, its once golden gleaming corridors now dark, black in mourning. With a heavy heart, Laenor left Maester's Tower.

To quickly reach the servants' quarters, he took one of the secret passages Lady Joanna had once shown him. The memory of her radiant beauty lingered, causing his heart to clench. She resembled his mother in many ways, but Lady Joanna was like polished gold, while Lynora Hill was a tarnished version of it.

Descending the narrow stairs, Laenor heard steps above him. He quickly sank into one of the dark niches, his heart pounding in his chest. The corridors of Casterly Rock, if not lighted by torches, were smeared with glowing algae that reacted to the gold nuggets in the walls, faintly illuminating the way. However, this particular algae were rare and lost their qualities over time, leaving some pitch-black corners in the labyrinthine corridors of the Rock. Hiding places fit for the unworthy to skulk in.

Laenor held his breath as he watched the strange sight unfold before him. It was Lord Tywin, descending with his face inscrutable and his arms full of a blanket... Laenor realized he carried the babe wrapped in it. His mind raced with questions, but he remained hidden in the darkness, observing silently. Lord Tywin passed by, seemingly consumed by grief and unaware of Laenor's presence.

He vanished down the stairs before Laenor could discern the babe's face. Strange indeed. Why would Lord Tywin rush in that direction, with the babe?

The secret way out of the Rock, the private beach, lay in that direction. Surely, Lord Tywin wouldn't... but Laenor's faith in assurances had been shattered by recent events. If Maester Creylen couldn't save Lady Joanna, then what was beyond the realm of possibility?

Memories of Maester Creylen's fearful words and Lady Rohanne's despair echoed in his mind, fueling his resolve. He couldn't shake off the terrible suspicion that gnawed at him, urging him to confirm or dispel it once and for all.

His destination was the side of the Rock overlooking the private beach, where he feared Lord Tywin might be heading with the babe. He needed to see for himself if his horrible suspicions were mere figments of his imagination or if they held a terrible truth. However, the chambers overlooking the beach were actually on the other side of the whole rock structure, near the route to the sept. To make it there in time, Laenor had to use passages meant for nobles only.

He risked scolding and censure, but he didn't care.

As Laenor hurried through the passages, his heart pounding with urgency, he suddenly encountered young Lord Jaime. The traces of tears on the Lannister heir's cheeks spoke volumes about the anguish he had endured through the night. It was evident that Jaime had been comforting his twin sister in the tower adjacent to the Lord's.

"My lord," Laenor called out, halting Jaime in his tracks. He knew he had to act quickly, for if his suspicions were correct, Lord Tywin had to be stopped, and who better than his own heir to intervene?

"I don't want your condolences, Laenor. Leave me alone," Jaime muttered, his voice thick with emotion. But Laenor couldn't afford to let him go without warning. Curse me, banish me from the Rock—but hear me out first.

Ignoring Jaime's dismissal, Laenor reached out and grabbed the heir's elbow firmly. "I just saw your father, with the babe, heading down to the beach through secret passages. He looked... you have to stop him, my lord," he urged, desperation coloring his words as he tried to convey the gravity of the situation.

Jaime's frown deepened, and a flicker of understanding crossed his features. "To the beach? Why?" he questioned, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and uncertainty. Then, as realization dawned on him, his eyes widened in horror. "You don't think...?" he trailed off, unable to voice the unspeakable possibility that hung in the air between them.

Laenor could only nod solemnly in response, his own dread mirroring Jaime's. "I pray I am wrong," he whispered.

Without another word, Jaime wasted no time. With a determined resolve, he turned and rushed after his father, the apprehension driving him forward.

As Laenor resumed his frantic run towards the chambers overlooking the beach, he was momentarily delayed by the sight of Lady Dorna, her eyes red from weeping, making her way towards the sept. Despite the urgency of his mission, Laenor couldn't ignore the grieving noblewoman. He stopped in his tracks, offering his condolences and a few words of solace to ease her burden.

Lady Dorna, in her sorrow, showed kindness in return, acknowledging the weight of loss that Laenor and his mother also bore. Then, after a nod of gratitude, she continued on her somber journey, a figure shrouded in mourning black.

Finally reaching his destination and stepping onto the balcony overlooking the beach, Laenor's breath caught in his throat as he caught sight of Lord Tywin and Lord Jaime returning to the Rock, the bundled babe still cradled in its lord father's arms. Though he was late in his arrival, the sight of them both safe and unharmed filled him with a profound sense of relief.

Sighing with a mixture of exhaustion and gratitude, Laenor allowed himself a moment of respite, his thoughts swirling with the weight of the night's events. While he couldn't be certain from this distance if their attire was damp, he dared to hope that he had saved... something. Perhaps the babe's life, or even a fragment of Lord Tywin's fractured soul.

With a heavy heart, Laenor decided to make his way back to the servants quarters. He knew his mother, as Lady Joanna's chief handmaiden, would likely be occupied with assisting the Silent Sisters. Those treacherous daughters of House Tarbeck. However, he couldn't shake the nagging worry that she too might be in danger… her and lady Joanna were like the tarnished looking glass mirroring the sun.

As he walked, Laenor longed for the comfort of his mother's presence. There was a solace in her pragmatic nature, a reassurance that few things could perturb her as fantastical or impossible. In his moments of desperation, Laenor often found himself turning to her for guidance and support. She is solid in a way that the Rock is.

He remembered a time when he had once joked that he had found a dragon, and to his surprise, his mother had entertained the notion without a hint of skepticism. It was a testament to her unwavering belief in the extraordinary, a quality that Laenor cherished now more than ever.

Navigating through the bustling servants quarters, Laenor found himself surrounded by the familiar sights and sounds of the keep's busiest area. Despite the somber atmosphere that hung heavy in the air, there was a sense of camaraderie among the servants as they went about their tasks.

Laenor's mother, though respected for her position as Lady Joanna's chief handmaiden, had always been viewed with a hint of distrust by some of the other servants due to her Lannister heritage. However, Laenor himself was well-liked among the staff, often receiving friendly gestures and words of kindness from his fellow servants.

As he made his way to the servant's dining quarters, Laenor found his hands filled with rolls and apples, tokens of sympathy from those who believed he was more entitled to his sorrow than they were. The main cook, known for his jovial nature, added a plate full of eggs to Laenor's offerings, a playful nod to the young boy's bald head.

Though he had little appetite, Laenor forced himself to eat, grateful for the small comforts and gestures of kindness that surrounded him in this time of mourning.

Then, Laenor's attention was drawn to a woman huddled in the corner, her movements slow and her expression troubled. Sniffling and muttering quietly to herself, she packed a bundle of food with trembling hands, while others nearby looked on with pity.

Curiosity piqued, Laenor approached, and the cook nearby offered an explanation. "She was meant to be the wet nurse for milord's babe. But when lord Lannister saw her, he banished her from the keep."

He wouldn't do it without the reason. Nevertheless Laenor took two apples and added them to the woman's bundle. "Thank you, lad," she murmured, her eyes widening as she took in his features. It was a common reaction, for his eyes bore a striking resemblance to those of Lady Joanna and the twins.

"You should count yourself lucky he didn't strangle you on the spot," Laenor remarked, referring to Lord Tywin's judgment. She had failed to meet Lord Tywin's standards, and in his eyes, that was reason enough for her banishment.

The woman winced at the reminder and spoke bitterly, "That babe was a monster. I've never seen anything more repulsive in all my life."

Laenor's voice carried a steely edge as he silenced the woman's words with a warning. "Say it again and you will leave the keep without your tongue," he hissed, his gaze piercing and unwavering. The reaction from those nearby varied, with some gasping in shock while others nodded in agreement. The loyal ones understood the unspoken rule: there was to be no ill-speaking of the Lannisters within the walls of Casterly Rock.

Tears streamed down the woman's face at Laenor's threat, but he paid her no further attention as his mother entered the room. Lynora Hill was a commanding presence, using her resemblance to Lady Joanna to her advantage when necessary. With a dismissive gesture toward the woman, she beckoned for Laenor to follow her.

Once they were alone in her quarters, Laenor embraced his mother tightly, seeking solace in her familiar presence. Lynora sighed, sensing the weight of the night's events pressing down on them both.

Lynora's voice was steady, but Laenor could sense the depth of her grief as she delivered the news. "They took her to the Golden Gallery. Tomorrow, she will be taken to the sept for seven days of lying in state," she said matter-of-factly, though her words carried a heavy weight.

Laenor felt a lump form in his throat as he listened to his mother speak. Stepping back, he murmured softly, "I can't imagine the Rock without her, mother." The pain in his voice mirrored the anguish he saw reflected in her eyes.

"She was... Gods, I loved her so much," Lynora began, her composure slipping as she struggled to contain her emotions. "She never... we cared for each other... she was so sure she is strong enough... and Lord Lannister... the children... gods... why couldn't they take me, instead of her? I am older, I should leave first..." Her words tumbled out in a rush, her stoicism crumbling as grief overwhelmed her.

Laenor embraced his mother tightly, offering what little comfort he could in the face of such profound loss.

In the days following lady Joanna's passing, Casterly Rock was shrouded in a haze of mourning. Laenor observed the somber procession to the sept the next day, his eyes tracing the black-clad figures of the Lannister family. Women were veiled in mourning, their grief evident in the red-rimmed eyes that peeked through the sheer fabric. Lord Tywin led the procession, the epitome of stoicism, though Laenor could discern signs of fatigue beneath his mourning attire. The weight of his loss was etched in the lines of his face, despite his outward composure.

Lord Tywin had been tirelessly at work in his solar the previous day and night, dispatching countless ravens and issuing orders to rearrange the nursery deeper within the Rock. The babe, named lord Tyrion, had been entrusted to the care of two wet nurses, though the maester held little hope for his survival. Rumors swirled throughout the Rock about the deformed infant, but no one dared to openly mock him.

The fear of Lord Tywin Lannister hung heavy over Casterly Rock in the days following lady Joanna's passing. The banishment of the midwives without payment only served to fuel the apprehension that permeated the keep. Laenor had hoped to speak with the chief midwife about Lady Rohanne, but she seemed eager to depart from the place now shadowed by Lady Joanna's ghost. Though it had only been days, the absence of Lady Joanna weighed heavily on everyone's hearts, and they longed for the days when her presence graced the halls of the Rock.

Despite their brave faces at the procession to the sept, whispers spread of Lady Cersei's growing difficulty in the days that followed. She was said to throw tantrums, cursing her infant brother with each outburst. Lord Jaime, once so lively, withdrew into himself, his silence speaking volumes. The elder Lannisters, save for Lord Tywin, appeared utterly crushed. Lord Kevan's concern for his older brother was evident in the worried glances he cast his way. Lady Genna found solace in tears, seeking comfort in Laenor's mother's embrace. Lord Tygett's frustration manifested in his harsh treatment of his squires, while Lord Gerion's jovial demeanor vanished, replaced by a somber silence that echoed throughout the keep.

Laenor made every effort to check on his friend, Lady Jaendora Clegane, despite his own numerous duties and the barriers that existed due to his status as a bastard. Unable to visit her directly, he sought updates from her handmaidens. He learned that she attended most ceremonies in the sept, but otherwise remained secluded in her own chambers. It must have been a difficult time for her, especially given the uncertainty surrounding her position. While she had flowered, there was no promise of betrothal, and without Lady Joanna's support, she lacked a strong ally. Instead, others in the Lannister family seemed more inclined to compare her to her sigil, rather than show her any genuine affection.

As the funeral drew nearer, the bannermen began to arrive, but their presence did little to lift the heavy atmosphere that hung over Casterly Rock. Lord Tywin had decreed that no funerary feast would be held. Lady Joanna was to be granted all the honors befitting the greatest heroes of House Lannister, but there would be no opportunity for discussion of her life and, more importantly, her death. It was a wise decision, it will be better that way.

Attending some of the afternoon prayers open to the smallfolk, Laenor couldn't help but admire the work of the Silent Sisters. He was already familiar with the ghastly appearance of corpses, having studied them with Maester Creylen, but Lady Joanna looked like... a goddess. She seemed to embody the Mother and Maiden in one, beautiful and golden beyond measure.

Chapter Text

The days leading up to the funeral were bleak and almost routine for Tywin. He slept little—never in the bed where she died, but on the settee in his solar. It was uncomfortable for his tall, lean figure, but the discomfort at least didn't try to deceive him into thinking she was still sleeping by his side. Besides the physical discomfort, there were nightmares—memories painted in hues of red and grey. As if her absence wasn't enough.

Every morning, when his squire entered, Tywin was already up, usually gazing out of the window. The cold didn't bother him. Once dressed in armor, he went to the training yard. Nothing changed in his sparring schedule. His household knights knew better than to treat him differently. They sparred with him as they always had, their strikes swift and precise, their respect evident in every motion. To them, he was still the indomitable Lord of Casterly Rock, unyielding and unbreakable.

Breakfasts were harder. Joanna used to join him after he refreshed and changed out of his armor and sweaty clothes into something more ceremonial. Now, he had to eat alone. The emptiness at the table was a silent reminder of her absence, the meals tasteless and joyless without her presence.

After breakfast, Tywin went to the sept. Not to pray—he had lost all faith in the gods' mercy—but simply to look at her. She lay in state there for seven days, and the hours passing didn't undo the magnificent work the Silent Sisters had done. She was golden, perfect, goddess-like. But still, and the painted stones were the wrong color. Her eyes had been emerald, not blue. If not for the stones and the stillness, she could have been sleeping.

But no, even in sleep, Joanna had never lain so still. At night, she always tried to wrap herself around him, her warmth a comfort he had taken for granted. She never lay straight on her back. The wrongness of the painted stones, the rigidity of her body—these were constant reminders that she was gone.

Each day, he stood there, looking at her, wishing for a moment that the gods would grant him the mercy of her breath, her voice, her touch once more. But the gods remained silent, and his golden goddess remained still, eternally beyond his reach.

After morning prayers concluded, Tywin went for a walk around the Rock, often using as many secret passages as he could. The labyrinthine corridors offered a semblance of solitude, a respite from the suffocating weight of the castle's mourning. Even when he encountered someone, he was left unbothered. A bow or curtsy from the servants, a nod from him if the other was noble—it was enough.

He forced himself to have lunch with his family, as before, but there was no conversation above the table. Nobody dared, nobody cared. Grief turned them all into black silhouettes, shadows of their former selves. The only sounds were the clinking of cutlery and the occasional murmur from a servant, the only melody in the oppressive silence. We hadn't truly appreciated how much life Joanna brought to our table, to our house.

After lunch, almost until dinner, Tywin worked in his solar. Piles of correspondence and ledgers were his companions, and he buried himself in them, seeking solace in the familiar routine of duty. The affairs of the realm, the management of the Rock, all demanded his attention, and he gave it willingly. Yet, every so often, his eyes would drift to the settee where he now slept, a painful reminder of her absence, and the nightmares that awaited him there each night.

Tywin received condolences from every corner of Westeros. All were a courtesy, polite words focusing solely on the loss, without any mention of what Tywin had gained in exchange. Yet he had enough spies to know that the entire realm gossiped about the monster born to the Hand of the King. Smallfolk, whose stupidity knew no bounds, believed it was a bad omen, predicting that the Westerlands' mines would run dry, their food would rot, and winter would never end. If their fear made truth, the world would have ended long ago.

Tywin tried to focus on the genuine messages, like those from the Baratheons or Queen Rhaella. These were rare glimmers of sincerity in a sea of hollow sympathies. Tywin tried to pay no mind to Grand Maester Pycelle's reports that the king was not sympathetic and had been heard saying the whole tragedy was a great lesson in humility for the proud Lord of Casterly Rock.

Jaime's lessons were suspended, and the twins no longer ate dinner with the adults. Thus, Tywin saw them only during midday meals and paid little attention to them anyway. He learned more about their grief from Maester Creylen's daily report, delivered an hour before dinner. Creylen also provided updates on the dwarf... on Tyrion's resilience. The infant stubbornly clung to life.

A torment by its very existence.

There were hours when Tywin fervently wished for the baby to die, to spare them all the mockery and insults that would surely follow. There were moments when he felt twinges of guilt for thinking this way. Joanna had died bringing Tyrion into the world; wishing the child dead seemed a betrayal of her sacrifice. But mostly, Tywin tried to ignore the matter altogether, focusing on his duties.

Dinners became somber affairs, each one an ordeal as the Lannisters hosted their bannermen who had come to pay their respects. Tywin's silence at the head of the table was palpable, a heavy presence that cast a shadow over the gathering. No noble from the Westerlands dared to press him into conversation, for they knew better than to disturb the lion in his mourning.

It fell to Kevan and Genna to shoulder the burden of courtesy, their efforts a thin veil to conceal the absence of their late lady's grace. Tywin's longing for Joanna was a relentless ache, a void that gnawed at him from within. How was he to navigate these social intricacies without her steady hand by his side? Joanna had possessed a charm that could sway even the most stubborn of bannermen, earning their loyalty without sacrificing an ounce of respect. In contrast, Tywin wielded authority like a weapon, instilling fear where Joanna had inspired admiration.

On the eve of the funeral, Joanna's younger brother, Ser Stafford, arrived at Casterly Rock. Joanna had shared a close bond with him, perhaps closer than with her older half-brother, Daemon, but not quite as intimate as with her half-sister, Lynora Hill. Tywin had always found Stafford to be rather dull, though he rarely voiced such thoughts to Joanna. She would agree, but she would admonish me nevertheless. Now, with Stafford seated beside him during dinner, the man's incessant praise of his late sister grated on Tywin's nerves.

As if I needed Stafford to remind me of Joanna's virtues, as if I hadn't known them intimately, firsthand. Each word felt like a jab, reopening wounds that Tywin had been trying to keep tightly closed. He endured the evening with a clenched jaw, silently counting down the moments until he could escape to the solitude of his solar once more.

"Joanna was truly a gem among women," Stafford began, his voice brimming with emotion. "Her grace, her wisdom, her kindness... she possessed all the qualities of a true lady of the Rock."

As some of the bannermen nodded and raised their goblets in agreement, Genna, sensing Tywin's growing irritation, deftly intervened to shift the conversation's focus.

"And what of Lady Myranda, cousin?" she interjected, her voice a gentle diversion from the tension in the air. "She must be nearing her time in the birthing bed."

A flicker of warmth softened Stafford's demeanor at the mention of his wife. "She fares well, my lady," he responded with pride. "Should the gods grant us a daughter, she shall bear the name of Lady Joanna, in homage to my late sister."

Tywin's jaw tightened at the notion. He inwardly hoped for a son for Stafford, for no girl could ever hope to match the strength and poise of his departed wife.

Stafford, oblivious to the tension thickening around him, pressed on. "And speaking of names, how is my nephew named?" His words hung in the air like a heavy fog, suffocating the room with their audacity.

The silence that followed was deafening. Could this fool truly share blood with Joanna? With me? Tywin's eyes narrowed to slits, his gaze piercing through Stafford like a dagger. "Lord Tyrion," he pronounced sharply, the name dripping with disdain.

Stafford faltered, realizing the extent of his misstep. "A s... strong... La... Lannister name, my, my lord," he stammered, his voice betraying his unease.

Kevan, ever the diplomat, intervened swiftly to diffuse the mounting tension. "Stafford, the evening prayers are open to all," he interjected smoothly, his words a lifeline amidst the brewing storm. "Perhaps you would like to light a candle?"

Seizing the lifeline offered by Kevan, Stafford hastily mumbled his thanks and retreated from the table, eager to escape the oppressive atmosphere. Tywin dismissed him with a curt wave of his hand, his patience worn thin by the evening's proceedings. He had endured enough of the stiff, somber dinner, his appetite nonexistent as it had been for days. The taste of the food remained metallic, like blood in his mouth.

Leaving the dining hall behind, Tywin retreated to the highest levels of the Rock, seeking solace in the solitude of his chambers. As he passed his office, he dismissed any thought of work. Tomorrow would be a trial, he knew, the last opportunity to gaze upon her beautiful face... The thought nearly caused him to stumble, but he caught himself just in time.

However, as he neared the bedchamber, a noise interrupted his thoughts, breaking the silence of the empty corridors. Tywin's irritation flared anew. Who dared disturb me at this hour? With a scowl etched upon his features, he strode purposefully to the door and threw it open, fully prepared to reprimand the servant responsible for the disturbance.

For a moment, Tywin thought he was seeing the ghost of the little girl who had captured his heart so many years ago. But then he realized it was Cersei, sitting on the floor, sniffling and clutching one of her mother's dresses. The resemblance was haunting.

"You shouldn't be here," Tywin said, the first thought that came to his mind.

Cersei hugged the dress tighter to her chest and mumbled, "It still smells like her."

Tywin approached her, at a loss for what to do. "Leave the dress and return to your chambers, at once," he ordered, his voice sterner than he intended.

Cersei shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears. "She let me stay when I had night terrors. I dreamed last night that the monster would kill me too," she rambled, clearly tired, lost, and full of anguish.

Tywin clenched his fists and said, "Utter nonsense. Stop this mummer's farce and go back to your tower."

Cersei sobbed then, burying her head in the red dress. Red was all Tywin saw. He bent and tore the dress from her grasp. "You are ruining it with your tears. Will you go by yourself, or shall I order one of the red cloaks to carry you out?"

Cersei frowned, as if astounded her tears had no effect on him. Then she stood up and stomped her foot on the floor, enraged. "I wish the monster had killed you instead of her!"

For a moment, there was silence. Cersei paled when she realized how badly she had spoken out of turn. Tywin clenched his fingers around the fabric of the dress, his eyes so cold that Cersei shivered.

"I apologize. I apologize, my lord. I didn't mean it," she pleaded, her voice trembling.

Tywin stared at her, his expression hard and unforgiving. "You will not speak of this again," he said, his voice like ice. "Go to your chambers. Now."

Cersei nodded, her eyes wide with fear. She turned and fled the room, leaving Tywin alone with the dress in his hands. He looked down at the red fabric, the color a cruel reminder of his loss, and felt a surge of anger and grief so intense it nearly overwhelmed him. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and forced himself to regain control. There is no room for weakness. Not now. Not ever.

The funeral the next day was a torture for Tywin. From a ceremonial and detached point of view, the entire affair was perfect, with Joanna honored more than any Lannister lady, perhaps with the exception of the one she was named after, Lady Johanna. But enduring hours next to her lifeless body, observed by everyone searching for the tiniest hint of weakness, was an ordeal beyond words. Tywin remained as stone-faced as if sculpted from the same material as Casterly Rock.

Every word spoken, every hymn sung, was a dagger to his heart. The gathered nobility watched him, waiting for a crack in his armor, but Tywin gave them nothing. He stood resolute, a pillar of strength, determined to uphold the dignity of House Lannister even in his deepest grief. As the ceremony dragged on, he felt the weight of their scrutiny but forced himself to remain unyielding.

He looked at Joanna's body, hungrily memorizing every detail. His mother's face had blurred in his memories; he wouldn't let that happen with Joanna. Her golden hair was meticulously arranged, her serene expression giving no hint of the tragedy that had befallen her. Tywin's gaze never wavered, drinking in the sight of her one last time. His jaw tightened, fists clenched at his sides, but he refused to let a single tear fall.

Beneath the finery of the collar of her golden dress, Tywin noticed something green. He realized it was the ribbon of a shell necklace, the shells themselves hidden under the dress, near her heart. Gods, I smiled only for her. I would never smile again... what reason could I have? Jaime welcoming his first son into the world? Cersei's son becoming king? His legacy was the only hope he had now. It was a cold comfort, but it was all he had left. The only reason for enduring this damned sept, the scrutiny of all those foolish people, the pain of being unable to kiss her one last time.

After the prayers in the sept, there was a solemn procession back to the main bedrock of Casterly Rock. Tywin marched first, following the knights carrying the bier. Behind him, Cersei and Jaime followed closely, their hands brushing as they walked. They behaved well, Cersei likely still frightened from yesterday's scolding and Jaime haunted by the incident on the beach. Next came the other Lannisters, their faces etched with grief.

Only the family was allowed to witness the final interment into the magnificent sarcophagus, made of sandy marble with golden veins. The somber atmosphere was thick with sorrow and reverence as the bier was carefully placed within the sarcophagus. The effigy, which would be placed on top later when completed, was commissioned by Tywin. It would depict Joanna lying peacefully, her head resting on the back of a lioness, with two lion cubs at her feet. He hoped it would capture her noble spirit, though he doubted it could ever do justice to her beauty.

The knights lifted the lid, a single polished plate of stone, and slowly placed it over the sarcophagus, sealing Joanna's body from their sight forever. As the heavy stone settled into place with a solemn finality, the golden glow that once illuminated their lives was gone, shrouded in the cold embrace of the Hall of Heroes.

This cavernous chamber, usually a place of pride and awe where Tywin had admired the effigies of his ancestors as a child, now became the final resting place of half his soul. The sorrow that gripped him was so profound, so all-consuming, that for a fleeting moment, he wished to join her there, to escape the unbearable weight of his loss. He could almost see his own sarcophagus, adjacent to hers, or imagine demanding the demolition of the wall between them, so they could rest together in eternity.

But he stopped that trail of thought, steeling himself. Jaime is not ready. Tywin's legacy needed to be secured, his house preserved and strengthened. Only when he had ensured that House Lannister stood unshakable could he consider the peace of joining Joanna.

The knights stepped back, their task complete, and a heavy silence settled over the chamber. The family lingered a moment longer, each grappling with their own grief. Tywin stood unmoving, his gaze fixed on the now-sealed sarcophagus, a cold resolve hardening within him.

One by one, the Lannisters slowly left the Hall of Heroes, their steps echoing in the solemn silence. Tywin and the twins were the last to depart. As they emerged from the cave of the famous dead, someone was waiting for them. Jaime, without hesitation and still holding Cersei's hand, pulled her toward a sad figure dressed in black. The plain girl embraced the twins, holding them tightly and offering all her comfort.

But then she looked up at Tywin, her dark purple eyes filled with... guilt. Tywin stopped in his tracks, a sudden realization dawning on him. She knew. Lady Jaendora knew Joanna would die. She had likely seen it in her prophetic dreams.

"Go back to your chambers," he said quietly. Jaendora quickly released the twins, and all three turned to leave. But Tywin added, "Not you."

Jaendora halted mid-step and turned slowly to face him. The guilt in her eyes was unmistakable now, and Tywin's gaze bore into her with a mixture of anger and curiosity.

"Come with me," he commanded, his voice low but firm. He led her away from the twins, who watched with wide, anxious eyes.

They walked in silence until they reached a small, secluded antechamber. Tywin closed the door behind them and turned to face Jaendora.

"You knew," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper but heavy with accusation. "You saw it in your dreams, didn't you?"

Jaendora trembled as she stood before Lord Tywin, who looked as though he was ready to rip her apart with his bare hands. The intensity of his gaze, the barely restrained fury, made her feel as if the ground beneath her feet might give way at any moment. It had all been a nightmare—her moonblood, the start of Lady Joanna's labor, then the devastating news of her death and the birth of a dwarf son.

Her dreams had warned her only about the first event, and even that was merely hinted at, mentioned only once in passing. She had been haunted by the uncertainty and the cryptic nature of her visions.

"It was strongly hinted, my lord," Jaendora pleaded, her voice unsteady and wavering. "But I couldn't be sure..." Those dreams are never precise.

She recalled the dream where Lord Tywin accused someone of directly causing his lady wife's death. Now, standing before him, she understood why she hadn't seen with whom he was speaking. It had to be the dwarf—Lord Tyrion.

Tywin took a step towards Jaendora, his presence looming over her like a storm cloud. "You suspected my lady wife would die. In childbirth. And you did nothing!" His voice was a low, menacing hiss, dripping with anger and accusation. How could this cursed, rotten dragon egg—this girl we had taken in and raised within the walls of Casterly Rock—have hidden something so meaningful from me?

Jaendora felt tears streaming down her cheeks, her heart pounding with fear and regret. "I couldn't do anything!" she cried, her voice trembling with emotion. "It was too late already. My lord, I would gladly exchange my life for hers... please."

Her plea hung in the air, desperate and raw. She didn't even know what she was asking for—his mercy, perhaps, or his understanding. But Tywin could only think of the unfortunate truth that lay between them: helplessness. It was a feeling that united them in their grief and despair. Even if Jaendora had come to him with her suspicions, he knew deep down that there was nothing he could have done. Joanna wouldn't have allowed me to endanger the babe.

Tywin's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched as he spoke, each word carefully measured. "So your dreams are more of a curse than something of use to me. Did you know... what the child would be?" The hesitation in his voice was barely noticeable, but it was there. A child, a babe, a son—he struggled to think of the dwarf in those terms.

Jaendora understood immediately that Tywin was referring to his second son, the dwarf, and shook her head. "He was not shown to me. But I suspect he must be the father of the girl with mismatched eyes." She shuddered at the memory of the vision with the older Lord Jaime and the girl, a dragonrider. The girl did not appear to love her lord father much, and there were hints that she had been raised solely by her lord grandfather.

Tywin nodded, though the notion that a dwarf could beget a descendant worthy of note seemed bizarre to him. "He has mismatched eyes too," he muttered, more to himself than to Jaendora.

Jaendora shrugged, her eyes still wet with tears. "I have not seen the babe yet, my lord," she said softly, her voice trembling.

Ugly little thing, nothing to admire about it. Tywin suppressed a grimace at the mere thought of that dwarf. He hadn't set foot in the nursery since it was moved deep into Casterly Rock's bedrock. Some part of him had hoped the maester's predictions of the dwarf's demise were accurate... but now, Jaendora's visions hinted at the opposite – a future where the creature not only survived but sired offspring.

"You won't have much time for that. I want you out of the keep," he growled, his voice cold and commanding.

Jaendora's hands trembled, her eyes widening in shock. "But... my lord..." she faltered, her mind racing with the implications of his command. Was he sending me back home? Unbetrothed and disgraced?

"You failed to inform me about your latest dream. You will visit your lord father's keep and return to the Rock after the Dornish guests have left," Tywin declared, his gaze unwavering. He didn't want the girl with purple eyes around the cunning Princess Loreza of Dorne.

Jaendora felt a flicker of relief at the thought of being permitted to return to the Rock. But the relief was fleeting, overshadowed by the pressing issue of her marriage. Her father would undoubtedly ask about it. Would I be forced to admit I had failed House Lannister? Her lord father had no idea her dreams were truly prophetic. He believed her unique, chosen to be the ward of his liege. She dreaded shattering his hopes by revealing the truth – that she was cursed.

"What... what about my... future, my lord?" she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. She couldn't bring herself to mention that she had flowered; the words were too embarrassing to pass through her throat.

Tywin's eyes narrowed, his voice laced with cold cruelty. "Didn't you dream about it?"

Jaendora paled, the blood draining from her face as the chilling implications of his words sank in. She had never wondered why she was not present in the snippets of the future her dreams revealed. Now, after Lady Joanna's death, it struck her with a terrifying clarity. Did this mean I, too, would die soon?

"It's yours to decide, my lord," she answered as loyally as she had been taught.

Tywin looked her over, a calculating glint in his eyes. It struck him that if her mother had been noble, this girl would have a serious claim to the Iron Throne. Half-Targaryen, yet her fate was in his hands. He had absolute power over her. She had been taught to behave like the loyal dog of her adopted House, and now she is asking for a bone.

"And I will decide," he said, his tone as sharp and cold as a winter's gale. "But if you disappoint me again, I will consider sending you to the sept."

Jaendora felt her heart hammering in her chest. The threat from Lord Tywin was clear, and it struck at the very core of her deepest desires. Her greatest wish was to become a good lady wife and a mother, to have a child of her own whom she could love unconditionally. But in the sept, she would be denied that, trapped in a life of servitude and solitude. It was terrifying how Lord Tywin knew exactly where to strike to inflict the most pain.

"I won't, my lord," she managed to say, her voice barely above a whisper. "I will report every dream, in detail. I just... she wouldn't believe me. And I didn't want to ruin... her joy. She was so..." Jaendora's voice trailed off, her thoughts swirling with uncertainty and fear.

Something shifted in Lord Tywin's expression, a reminder. Jaendora sensed that talking about her strange dreams was a distraction from his own grief, and now it was returning with renewed intensity. She was ready to acknowledge that the grief honed, but she knew that the sword it was forging could very well sever her head. So she held her tongue, allowing the silence to hang heavy between them.

Tywin understood the girl's point, though he would never openly admit it. Even if Jaendora had revealed that her dreams foretold Joanna's death, they would have dismissed it, resenting her for ruining their joy with ominous notions. And she was right earlier—by then, it was already too late. The babe was a trap, all set and sprung. It all boiled down to a feeling of helplessness, something Tywin would never confess to experiencing.

So, he glared at the girl, his eyes cold and unyielding. He wouldn't acknowledge the truth of her words aloud. Instead, he let his silence and his icy stare speak for him, a silent reminder of the power he wielded and the consequences of failure.

Jaendora sensed the dismissal in Lord Tywin's cold glare. She curtsied deeply, and at his curt nod, she turned and left. His threat would linger in her mind, as would the sorrow for Lady Joanna's death. As the black-attired girl disappeared down the corridor, Tywin was left alone with his grief.

He had buried his lady wife today. The pain was so intense it felt almost unbearable, a gnawing emptiness that threatened to consume him. Yet he forced himself to move, his every step deliberate. He had to reach his tower. There, he could begin to think about the future, about the legacy he must secure. He needed to find a way to make them all golden again.

Chapter Text

The next few days were strange and disorienting for Tywin. The world within the colossal walls of Casterly Rock felt like a shadow of itself, haunted by the lingering presence of Joanna. Her ghost seemed to inhabit every corner, every corridor, every room. Despite his attempts to function, Tywin found himself barely managing to maintain his usual rigor.

He had moved his bedchamber to what had once been Joanna's solar, hoping that the change might offer some respite. But the new, enormous bed only emphasized her absence, the emptiness beside him a constant, aching reminder. Night after night, he tossed and turned, sleep eluding him. The decision to close off the bedchamber where she had died had been necessary, he told himself, to prevent Cersei from sneaking in to take her mother's dresses or jewelry. He allowed her only Joanna's old, unused embroidery set, sending it to Cersei's tower as a reminder of her duties as a lady.

On the matter of a lady's duties… Genna had stepped into the role of the main lady of the Rock, taking on most of the duties Joanna had once performed with effortless grace. Tywin tried to lose himself in his work as the Hand of the King, but even that brought little relief. The tasks were mechanical, the decisions he made rote and lacking his usual fierce precision.

The days blurred into one another, marked only by the heavy silence that filled the Rock. Tywin moved through the motions, a man trying to rebuild his world from the shattered remnants of what once was. Yet, despite his efforts, Joanna's absence was a gaping wound, and the ghost of her presence was an unrelenting torment. Sometimes it feels like she was beside me just yesterday, though in truth a fortnight has already passed…

Sometimes, Tywin felt like the ghost himself, a silent, grim specter haunting the halls of Casterly Rock. Servants and nobles alike grew fearful and apprehensive at the sight of him, their gazes dropping to the floor, conversations halting mid-sentence. During these walks, Tywin retreated into his mind, seeking solace in the memories of Joanna that played like scenes from a distant, happier life.

He remembered their childhood, the innocent games and laughter they shared. It echoed through the empty library, where we had once held our childish debates, or rose with the waves on our secret beach. Their reunion in King's Landing was vivid in his mind, then the way the War of the Ninepenny Kings had made him realize how desperately he needed Joanna by his side. Their betrothal at Storm's End had been a moment of triumph and joy, their wedding a lavish celebration that still seemed like a dream. There, beneath the eyes of the realm's greatest nobles and courtiers, in the splendour of the Sept of Baelor, I truly believed—perhaps for the only time—in the presence of the gods, in the guidance of the Seven… for there was something sacred in that moment. The memory of her maidenhead, given to him on their wedding night, was one he cherished deeply.

He recalled the passionate nights that followed, their occasional fights that always ended in heartfelt make-ups and compromises, and her first pregnancy. The birth of the twins, Jaime and Cersei, had been a moment of immense pride and happiness. Taking power over the Rock after his father's death had been a significant milestone, but Joanna's steadfast support and unwavering love had been his true strength. She was born to fill the role of Lady of Casterly Rock.

He was just reminiscing about the warm welcome she had given him when he arrived with the king at the Rock, her laugh echoing in his mind as he remembered how his stumble had tickled her thighs.

Meanwhile, his feet carried him instinctively in the direction of the library. But as he turned a corner, lost in these precious memories, he saw her.

There she stood in the corridor, a book in hand, her gaze fixed on the portrait of their grandmother, Lady Rohanne. Tywin approached her, his footsteps quiet but purposeful, as always. Golden hair, emerald eyes... it was her. She is not dead. He could touch her. He reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder, her solid shoulder, and she jumped, startled.

"My lord!" she exclaimed, turning to him with surprise. She tried to curtsy, but he still held her shoulder. Why is she even curtsying? They always left ceremonial things for public display.

"My lord?" she said again, frowning. The wrinkles on her forehead were more prominent than he remembered. He frowned himself, realizing he had never noticed she had acquired permanent lines there.

"Is everything all right, my lord?" she asked, holding the book up to her chest in a bizarrely protective gesture. The hand holding the book looked unfamiliar. It was the hand of a servant, a working woman, not that of a noble lady like his wife. There were scars and callouses. Joanna had cared for her hands meticulously, so what had happened?

He looked into the emerald eyes and suddenly understood. It was not Joanna. It was her bastard sister, Lynora Hill.

Seven Hells.

Tywin's hand dropped from her shoulder, a wave of cold realization washing over him. The resemblance was uncanny, but now he saw the differences, the subtle but unmistakable signs that marked Lynora as separate from his late lady wife. The shock of mistaken identity left him momentarily speechless.

Lynora stuttered slightly as she spoke, "I was going to the library, to give back the book Laenor had read, my lord." She clearly felt the need to explain herself, and there was a fear in her emerald eyes. Joanna had never feared me.

He wondered... he could push this woman into the quiet, empty chamber down the corridor and fuck her against the wall. She wouldn't protest. Would she cry his name? No, if she were vocal, she would cry, "My lord." Joanna had shouted his name, clenching around his cock. This was not her. This was her bastard sister, who had just taken a step back, horrified. Did you see the lust in my eyes?

All those ruminations lasted a fleeting moment, after which cold dread and nausea replaced them. How could I even think about it? The shame shook him to the core.

Tywin's voice was as cold and sharp as the northern winds. "You both have overstayed your welcome here in the Rock. Your son will sail with the first ship to Oldtown. You will serve Lord Stafford from now on."

He didn't want Lynora here, didn't want to ever see her again. Her half-brother could take her, and her son could start being more useful in the Citadel.

Lynora curtsied, her movements stiff and fearful. "Yes, my lord. I will help with Lord Stafford's babe. A boy, Lord Kevan shared." She tried to smile bravely, but it was a pale imitation of Joanna's radiant smile. The differences were glaringly obvious now. Aerys could pretend; Tywin would not.

"Lord Daven," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Go, out of my sight."

Lynora didn't test his patience. She almost ran in the direction of the library, her fear palpable. Tywin watched her retreat, his jaw clenched, his thoughts a hard knot of grief and anger. It shouldn't have happened.

He turned to the portrait of Lady Rohanne, his grandmother's stern gaze seeming to pierce through him. He imagined she would scold him from top to toe for the thoughts he had entertained. Lady Rohanne was known to be a fierce woman, unyielding in her principles.

Shame washed over him as he reflected on his moment of weakness just now. Nobody could compare to Joanna. Lynora might have been physically similar, but even entertaining the idea of fucking her felt like a betrayal of everything Joanna stood for. It would stain me irreversibly.

He shook his head, trying to banish the disturbing thoughts from his mind. No, it iss best to forget about this moment altogether. It was a weakness of the flesh, deprived of its rightful mate. He would control his urges, his thoughts better from now on.

And as for those useless walks around the Rock, he decided they would end too. Reminiscing only brought pain, and he had suffered enough. It was time to focus on the present and the future, to uphold the legacy of House Lannister.

A few days after lady Joanna's funeral, Jaendora mentally listed all the tasks she needed to complete before departing from Casterly Rock. Lord Kevan's kindness in lending her a retinue of twelve red cloaks was not lost on her; their escort would provide a measure of safety on her journey. Lady Genna's allowance of one handmaiden was a thoughtful gesture. Even in their grief, they had spared me a thought.

The heavy snows that had descended in the last few days made travel perilous, but Jaendora knew better than to question Lord Tywin's orders. It was mercy enough that he allowed me to return after the Dornish princess's visit. Tomorrow, she would bid farewell to the twins, but there was one more task weighing on her mind: seeing Lord Tyrion.

Servants were strictly forbidden from seeing the dwarf, except for the wetnurses, the septa, and the maester. Even nobles had no reason to visit him. People were fearful of Tyrion and of Lord Tywin's wrath alike.

While the Lannisters grappled with their grief, Jaendora found herself mourning Lady Joanna's loss alongside them. Her fear of Lord Tywin had only intensified, yet she harbored no fear of the dwarf. Instead, she felt a strange kinship with him. He was cursed with his stunted looks, just as she was cursed with her visions.

After ensuring her handmaiden remembered to pack spare gloves, Jaendora exited her chambers and made her way to the nursery. It had been relocated from the Lord's Tower to the bedrock, just two levels below her rooms. On the one hand, the nursery's removal to the deep recesses of the Rock spoke of how little Lord Tywin valued his second son; on the other, the distance it set between Lord Tyrion and the rest of the family was humanly understandable.

Upon arrival, Jaendora found the wet nurse dozing on an uncomfortable stool. The woman stirred as Jaendora entered, quickly rising to her feet and offering a curtsy. Jaendora returned the gesture with a smile before surveying the nursery.

The room was dim, lacking windows, and the small fireplace did little to dispel the chill in the air. Jaendora approached the crib, where Lord Tyrion lay awake. His mismatched eyes—one green, one black—stared back at her as he wiggled his stunted limbs, but he made no sound.

As Jaendora extended her finger to the babe, she couldn't help but notice his lack of traditional beauty. Yet, she reflected, I am a beauty neither. Who am I to judge? It was a strange notion that two such handsome individuals as Lady Joanna and Lord Tywin could produce someone so outwardly unappealing.

Despite his appearance, Jaendora felt a strong protective urge toward the child, even more so than usual. Perhaps it was because she was acutely aware of the challenges that lay ahead for him. Already, people gossiped and assigned blame to him for various misfortunes. It is unfair, she thought. He is just a babe, innocent and utterly helpless.

Jaendora leaned over the crib, a playful glint in her eyes as she observed the tiny bundle before her. With a mischievous smile, she began to make funny faces, her eyebrows wiggling and lips contorting into exaggerated expressions. The babe watched her intently, his mismatched eyes wide with innocent wonder.

She chuckled softly, her fingers gently tracing the outline of his large head. "You're quite the curious one, aren't you?" she whispered, her voice filled with warmth and affection.

As she continued to play, Jaendora couldn't help but marvel at the innocence of the child before her. Despite the whispers and gossip that surrounded him, he remained oblivious, content in his own little world. Still blissfully unaware of how much grief his arrival had caused.

As Jaendora continued to make faces at Tyrion, the sound of the nursery door opening made her straighten abruptly, ready to explain herself. Her tension eased when she saw Laenor Hill enter, a small smile on his face.

"I have the maester's permission to check on him, my lady," Laenor explained as he approached.

Jaendora relaxed, nodding. In a quiet voice so the wet nurse wouldn't hear, she replied, "I came to see him... for the first time... and probably the last for a while. I am leaving tomorrow."

Laenor nodded, his expression understanding. "I will leave the Rock soon too. My mother just... Lord Lannister ordered I sail with the next ship to Oldtown."

There was a note of concern in his voice when he mentioned his mother, prompting Jaendora to ask, "And your mother? Will she stay here?"

Laenor shook his head, his expression troubled. "She will help Lord Stafford with his babe... but she looked scared today, unsettled."

Jaendora frowned, her mind racing. Lynora Hill was accustomed to the Lannisters; she had some of their blood in her veins. "She probably worries about you. And Lord Stafford won't mistreat her."

There was an unspoken implication in her words. Here at Casterly Rock, there was no such guarantee that the second son of Lord Tywin wouldn't be mistreated. Lady Cersei already believed Tyrion had killed her mother, and whatever Lord Tywin thought about Tyrion, it was undoubtedly complicated.

Jaendora glanced down at little Lord Tyrion. His mismatched eyes stared back at her, full of innocent wonder. The child was blameless, yet already a subject of fear and resentment.

Laenor's voice broke the silence, filled with determined resolve. "Gods, in the Citadel, I will learn everything about childbearing and I will try to help noble women, so tragedies like this would never happen again."

Jaendora grimaced. "Mothers die," she muttered, the bitterness clear in her voice. Be grateful the gods spared yours.

Laenor must have heard her, because he responded, "Nevertheless, even dying, they want the best for their children. Little lord here will need care. It's a miracle he survived."

Jaendora nodded, the weight of his words settling heavily upon her. "I will care for him after I return. I don't think the Dornish visit will last long," she vowed, her voice steady with determination.

She supposed that if Lord Tywin was sending even them away, he wouldn't be particularly welcoming to the Princess of Dorne and her children. They shouldn't linger—only offer their condolences and leave.

"Dornishmen are resilient. Anyway, you will return sooner than me, Dora." Laenor caressed Lord Tyrion's cheek, causing the babe to gurgle with amusement.

"I hope we will see each other again. I will miss you," Jaendora mumbled, feeling a pang of sadness at the thought of their impending separation.

Laenor smiled warmly. "I will miss you too, Dora. But remember, we both have our duties. We will meet again, and when we do, we will have stories to tell and knowledge to share."

Jaendora sighed, the reality of their situation pressing down on her. Laenor could, of course, be sent to serve in any keep, though she suspected Lord Tywin would pay much gold to have a trained maester loyal entirely to him back at the Rock. The uncertainty of their futures weighed heavily on her mind.

Jaendora looked at Laenor, a sudden wave of uncertainty gripping her. Would we truly meet again? The future was so unpredictable. She could be wed by then, or worse, she could be dead before Laenor finished his studies. The thought sent a shiver down her spine.

As if sensing her turmoil, Lord Tyrion wailed, his tiny voice piercing the quiet nursery. She quickly made a hushing noise, soothing the babe with gentle words. "Shhh, little one. All will be well."

Laenor watched her with a mix of concern and affection. "Dora, we will meet again. We have to believe that."

Jaendora nodded, though the uncertainty lingered. She turned her attention back to Lord Tyrion, whose mismatched eyes looked up at her with innocent wonder. "And we will be little lord's allies, as his lady mother was to us," she whispered, her voice soft but resolute.

Chapter Text

In the moon following Joanna's funeral, a permanent cloud settled over Casterly Rock. Initially, Tywin attempted to maintain his usual routine, but with each passing day, he resigned from something that reminded him of his lady wife's absence. The vast halls and chambers of the Rock, which once echoed with her presence, now felt unbearably hollow.

His children reminded him most of Joanna, so he limited his time with them. The sight of Cersei's golden hair, the sound of Jaime's laughter—each was a piercing reminder of what he had lost. Joanna will never see them grow, nor witness what they become, nor whether they will be as golden as we dreamed. He continued to receive Creylen's reports about their education and health, even those concerning the dwarf, but he largely ignored them. The detailed missives on their progress seemed trivial, a distraction from his consuming grief.

When his siblings tried to approach him, he growled and snapped, shutting them down with a ferocity that left them wary and withdrawn. They tiptoed around him, sensing the tempest within. The servants, too, did their best to avoid him, moving silently through the halls and doing their work with downcast eyes. The gift of blending into the walls, of vanishing at the urging of self-preservation, is a trait to be valued in kin and servants alike.

The absence of the "rotten dragon eggs" from the keep brought a strange sense of relief. Jaendora Clegane and Laenor Hill, with their Targaryen blood, had irked him inexplicably.

Tywin tried to explain his discomfort by attributing it to Laenor's paternity and Jaendora's striking purple eyes, which served as constant reminders of Aerys Targaryen. May the Seven Hells swallow him. The king had long ceased to evoke any positive feelings in Tywin; their relationship had become nothing but a series of humiliations and attacks, many directed at Joanna. The memories of Aerys' lecherous advances towards his wife stoked a fiery rage within him, and any reminder of the Targaryens served to reopen old wounds.

If the reports from his spies in the capital were to be trusted, Aerys was not mourning the loss that Tywin and the realm had suffered with Joanna's death. Instead, His Grace seemed to be gloating, taking a twisted pleasure in Tywin's misfortune. The king had apparently remarked that the gods had decided to humble Tywin by giving him an ugly dwarf for a second son. These cruel words stung deeply, not because they held any truth, but because they came from a man who had once been his friend.

He dares mock me for her death, as though he were not the one who set the world askew. I will remember this slight, as I remember all things, and one day it will be answered.

So Tywin sat in his solar, the dim light casting long shadows across the room. Before him lay a plate of strawberry jam cakes, untouched and mocking in their sweetness. He stared at them, his thoughts a tangled web of hatred and grief. The Targaryens were at the heart of it all, their legacy a bitter poison that had seeped into his life and now threatened to consume him. He could almost hear Aerys's gloating laughter, a cruel echo of his loss and humiliation.

A knock at the door pulled him from his dark reverie. A guard's voice announced Kevan, and Tywin's younger brother stepped into the room. Kevan's keen eyes immediately assessed Tywin's mood, reading the storm clouds that had gathered over his brother's soul. Despite knowing the risk, he spoke, his voice gentle but firm.

"Eat some. You are not eating enough."

Tywin's eyes narrowed, a spark of anger flickering. Kevan had noticed his lack of appetite, the weight he had lost in the moon since Joanna's death. It irked him that his weakness had been observed.

"You are not to judge that," Tywin growled, his tone sharp and defensive.

Kevan sighed, unperturbed by his brother's harshness. "No, I am not a septa, besides we are both past the age any septa could admonish us. But I am your brother, my lord."

He reached out and gently pushed the plate of cakes closer to Tywin. The gesture was simple, but it carried a weight of concern and care that Tywin found difficult to dismiss.

Is this your revenge for never managing to disarm me in the training yard? I have no need of your concern, nor will I thank you for it… when a weapon slips from your hand, you must evade…Tywin felt an almost desperate urge to change the subject. The weight of this conversation with Kevan was becoming unbearable. Seeking a way to redirect the focus, he asked, "You came here with some reasonable matter?"

Kevan nodded, pulling a letter from his pocket. "From the capital. I was in the maester's tower because I heard the Martells' ship was spotted."

Kevan glanced toward the balcony doors, but they were shut tight to keep out the winter wind. Tywin's interest in the Martells was minimal. If Princess Loreza had any sense, she would sail back to Sunspear without delay. What business could she possibly have here? Tywin had never liked her; it was Joanna who had maintained their connection. Joanna...

His thoughts veered dangerously close to the painful memories of his late wife, so he quickly opened the letter to escape them. His eyes narrowed as he saw the black ribbons painted around the text. Someone had died.

"What is it?" Kevan asked, noticing the change in Tywin's expression.

Tywin scanned the letter quickly. The formal language and intricate script indicated it was from a high-ranking official. As he read further, his frown deepened. The letter informed him of the death of a little Prince Aegon, who had succumbed to a sudden illness. The black ribbons were a traditional mark of mourning.

"Aegon is dead," Tywin said, his voice flat.

Kevan's eyes widened slightly. "Aegon? The prince?"

Tywin nodded, folding the letter and placing it on the table. As he thought about Aegon's death, a cold satisfaction settled over him. The gods had finally dealt Aerys a blow for all his mocking. With his second son dead, the Targaryen dynasty was not as strong as it once was. It seemed fair, and Tywin's own numbness made him indifferent to the tragedy. Could a lord be more mournful than I already am?

Kevan appeared deep in thought as well, then he asked, "Do they demand your return, my lord?"

It was a reasonable question. Who knew how Aegon's death had affected the king? If Aerys had gone even more mad, someone would have to step in and manage the realm. The king and the Hand couldn't both be incapacitated with grief.

Tywin shook his head. "No. And I won't go back to King's Landing until the Martells are gone from my keep."

Kevan raised an eyebrow. "Do you think they will linger?"

Tywin's gaze was steely. "If Princess Loreza has any sense, she will not. If she has any business here, she should state it quickly and return to Sunspear. I have little patience for her or her kin."

Kevan opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then hesitated. Tywin waved his hand with impatience. Speak your mind.

"Will you greet them? What chambers should Genna assign to them?" Kevan asked, displaying the practicality Tywin usually appreciated, but now it was just another reminder. Joanna had planned the entire visit of her friend: the places she wanted to show Loreza, the feasts she wanted to organize, the trade deals she wanted to secure between their regions.

"I won't," Tywin replied curtly. "Tell Genna to place them somewhere gloomy, so they will wish to leave faster." They are an inconvenience to us now, so they should not be granted all the comforts and splendor reserved for welcome guests.

Kevan's brow furrowed slightly, but he nodded. "As you wish, my lord." He stood and bowed. He cast a pointed glance at the cakes, but Tywin only glared at him. Understanding the unspoken command, Kevan retreated, leaving Tywin alone once again.

Tywin leaned back in his chair, the weight of his solitude pressing down on him. The once vibrant halls of Casterly Rock seemed dim and lifeless without Joanna's presence. He closed his eyes briefly, letting the memories of her laughter and warmth wash over him. But the pain of her absence was too sharp, too overwhelming.

With a heavy sigh, he opened his eyes and stared at the plate of cakes. They were Joanna's favorite, a reminder of her that he both cherished and loathed. He forced himself to eat one, mechanically chewing as his thoughts drifted to the Martells. Loreza's visit was ill-timed and unwelcome, but he would endure it as he endured everything else.

Joanna's plans for the visit, her excitement, and her meticulous preparations were now ghosts haunting him. He could almost hear her voice, full of enthusiasm, as she discussed the details with him. But those dreams are shattered now.

The Martells arrived at Casterly Rock on an impressive vessel, its sail proudly adorned with their sigil—a blazing red sun pierced by a golden spear. Black ribbons were sewn into the edges of the sail, a sign of mourning, but the somber black seemed mocked by the bold orange and red banner of House Martell. The contrast was striking, as if to remind everyone that even in mourning, the Martells' fiery spirit remained undiminished.

Tywin did not greet them. He ignored their arrival altogether, sequestered in his solar within the Lord's Tower. He rarely left its confines now, only venturing out in the early mornings to the armory for his routine training. The highest levels of Casterly Rock were forbidden to the Martells, ensuring they remained at a distance both physically and socially.

His siblings, however, took on the responsibility of hosting the Dornish guests. They tried their best to handle the visit with grace, though the shadow of grief and tension loomed large. Kevan and Genna escorted the Martells to Lannisport, showing off its bustling harbor and prosperous markets. They led them to the bowels of the Rock, where the lions roared in their cages, a display of the Lannisters' might and majesty. The opulence of the sept, adorned with gold and precious gemstones, was another attempt to impress their guests.

Princess Loreza, undeterred by the veiled insults and deliberate discomforts, repeatedly asked for an audience with the Hand of the King. Each time, her request was met with polite but firm refusals. Despite this, the stubborn, infernal woman lingered, outwardly indifferent to the slights and cold reception.

Tywin, aware of her persistence, found it vexing. He had no desire to see her, nor to entertain any discussions that might remind him of Joanna's meticulously planned visit. His disdain for the Martells, and for Loreza in particular, only deepened with each passing day of their stay.

One early morning, as Tywin strode purposefully from the lifts toward the armory, he found himself unexpectedly accosted by the Princess of Dorne. At first, he struggled to recognize her, so stark was the contrast from her usual attire. Clad in a somber black dress fashioned in the style of the Westerlands, she appeared almost unrecognizable. Typically, her choice of revealing silks drew his disapproval, but now, draped in mourning garb, she seemed more akin to a somber mummer than a noblewoman of Dorne. Every aspect of her appearance was tinged with darkness—the dress, her hair, even her eyes, which appeared shadowed by grief. Her bronze skin seemed out of place amidst the pallor of the Westerlanders who had lost their summer tan to the harsh winter.

"Lord Hand," she addressed him, her voice a solemn interruption as she blocked his path, "my sincerest condolences. Lady Joanna was a very dear friend to me."

Do you truly believe such a shallow display of grief and concern would earn you an audience? Tywin thought but then nodded, staring at the older woman before him. Loreza had aged since he last saw her, the lines on her face more pronounced, her eyes carrying a depth of sorrow. He wondered what she saw when she looked at him. How much of his own loss was reflected in his appearance? The princess, to her credit, was brave enough to voice her request.

"I would very much like to be granted an audience with you, my lord. There are some important matters I wish to discuss," she said diplomatically, her tone carefully measured.

Tywin felt a surge of impatience. He had no tolerance for courtly games, not now, not ever. "Many things require my attention, Princess. But if you are dissatisfied with your accommodations or anything else, voice your complaints to Lady Genna or Lord Kevan."

He knew well enough that she wouldn't dare complain, even if she had anticipated a warmer welcome. Loreza's expression remained composed, but Tywin could see the determination in her eyes. She was not easily dissuaded.

"My only dissatisfaction, my lord, was that you chose not to greet us with bread and salt yourself. However, I understand the timing of our visit is not favorable."

That's understatement. Tywin's eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing, allowing her to continue.

"Nevertheless, it was your late lady wife's great wish to build close ties between our houses. Sailing back upon hearing about her tragic demise would be a taint to her memory."

Would it? Or perhaps it would be a sign of respect for our mourning?

As Loreza stepped closer, Tywin caught the strong, spicy scent of her perfumes. It was an olfactory intrusion into his personal space, one that he found mildly irritating. She held his gaze, her dark eyes earnest. "I loved Joanna dearly, my lord," she said softly.

Tywin stifled the urge to grab and shake her. Nobody loved Joanna more than he did, and yet now, the very concept of love felt empty to him. Love, he reflected bitterly, was fleeting. It wouldn't keep Casterly Rock warm, it wouldn't buy horses, it was a worthless weakness that had left him vulnerable. He regarded Loreza with a mixture of disdain and resentment. She was wrong to think she could share in his grief, wrong to believe they had any common ground.

Tywin hissed, his voice a low growl, "Then you will respect the mourning period, Princess. I will grant you an audience after that, though I do not believe there is much to discuss personally between us. Now, excuse me."

He made a move to pass by the princess, and although her expression was bewildered, she did not stop him. Perhaps she sensed the fury radiating from him. Tywin's anger burned hot within him. How dare she accost him in his own keep? How dare she maintain her foolish expectations of alliances between their Houses? He had no doubt that Loreza came with betrothal proposals in mind. Yet, Martells were Dornish, not good enough for his twins.

Tywin marched with angry strides, his boots echoing through the stone corridors as he made his way to the training hall. His mind was a storm of resentment and rage. The audacity of Loreza, to approach him now, to try and impose her desires on him in his time of grief—it was intolerable.

The training hall was a stark, cold space, its walls lined with weapons and armor. In winter, when it was too cold to train in the open courtyard, this place served as the heart of martial practice at Casterly Rock. Tywin found solace in the familiarity of the hall, the scent of sweat and metal, the rhythmic clashing of swords.

Today, however, along with the familiar sounds of training—grunts, the clash of steel, and the thud of boots on the ground—there was another sound that Tywin disliked and distrusted: laughter. One note of it was particularly familiar, stirring unpleasant memories of his pathetic lord father.

Tywin followed the sound, his footsteps echoing through the stone corridors of the training hall. He showed no outward surprise upon finding the source: his brother Gerion, laughing loudly with a Dornish lad who appeared to be around fifteen namedays old by his estimate. At least Gerion had the sense to stop and bow before Tywin. The Dornish lad followed suit, bowing gracefully.

"Pleasure to finally meet you, Lord Hand. I am Prince Oberyn Martell," the boy said, his voice tinged with an insolence that Tywin did not appreciate. As though his princely title gave him leave to laugh in my mourning keep!

Tywin nodded curtly. He had heard many tales about Princess Loreza's youngest, and not many of them were favorable. Oberyn Martell had a reputation for being hot-headed and unpredictable, qualities Tywin held in contempt.

Gerion, still rubbing at a bruise on his arm, grinned. "Oberyn is as swift as a viper with his spear. Gave me some fine orange bruises."

Tywin raised an eyebrow at the familiarity in his brother's tone, but Oberyn seemed unfazed. The young prince met Tywin's gaze with an impish grin. "Well, I learned walking with the first spear my mother gave me. She would come and show her skills, but I suppose it would be frowned upon here. Haven't seen any lady out and about," Oberyn said, looking around with a cheeky smile.

Tywin had the urge to frown but stifled it, maintaining his composed exterior. "We protect our ladies," he said stiffly. "And the prince wouldn't have hurt you with his spear if you had worn your armor properly, Gerion."

He glanced disapprovingly at the loose plates of his brother's training armor. Gerion had always been more carefree, more reckless, and it showed in his haphazard approach to almost everything, including his own protection.

Gerion shrugged sheepishly, adjusting his ill-fitting armor once more. "I'll fix it, Tywin. I promise."

Oberyn, meanwhile, whistled softly before speaking up. "I would find a way to pierce the turtle with a spear, Lord Hand. Have more faith in my abilities."

His words, laced with confidence, only irritated Tywin further. Cocky young lad, especially for a second son. Tywin's expression hardened.

"Confidence is commendable, Prince Oberyn," Tywin said coolly, "but remember that overconfidence can be a dangerous flaw."

Oberyn rolled his eyes, and Tywin felt his patience with the Dornish reaching its limit. He turned away from the young prince, his focus shifting to a secluded corner of the training hall. There, Tygett was engaged in a ferocious sparring match with Ser Amory Lorch. The clang of steel against steel reverberated through the hall, a sharp contrast to the dull throb of Tywin's thoughts.

Tygett noticed Tywin's presence and faltered momentarily, his guard dropping. Lorch, simple and brutish, didn't see the opening. Tywin pursed his lips in disapproval. Everything seemed so lacking, so lackluster without Joanna. His once keen interest in the finer details of training and strategy had dulled.

As Tywin watched his brother and Lorch, his thoughts drifted. The bloody winter reigned over Westeros, a cold grip that seemed unending. The Sunset Sea, once a place of solace and freedom, was now an icy expanse, uninviting and foreboding. He wondered if summer would ever come again. Or were the Starks right, and the winter had come to stay, never to leave?

Chapter Text

A fortnight later, the relentless winter still held Casterly Rock in its icy grip. Tywin strode through the open courtyard beneath the five towers, a place that usually bloomed with vibrant flowers but now lay frozen and desolate. The icy wind clawed at his red Lannister cloak, a biting reminder of the harsh season. He had just returned from his morning spar, his muscles still warm from exertion, but the cold seemed to seep into his very bones.

As he walked, his thoughts drifted to Joanna. The memory of her warmth beside him, the invigorating kisses they shared before breaking their fast, now seemed like a distant dream. The Lord's Tower loomed cold and uninviting, and if not for the sake of appearances, Tywin might have allowed himself to shiver. It would not do—whispers might take root here, grow into rumors, and soon become word of my incurable affliction in King's Landing. He stifled the urge, determined to maintain his composure.

It was then that he heard the sound of someone coughing. The noise was weak, a pitiful hack that cut through the winter air. Tywin paused, his keen eyes scanning the courtyard.

At first, Tywin thought it was Cersei, having escaped her septa once again. He prepared to scold her severely for her disobedience. But as he drew closer to the cloisters, the figure kneeling at the entrance was not his daughter. Yes, it was a girl, clothed in a red, fur-lined cloak that would make a Northman proud. But her face and darker skin did not suit the clothes, nor the snowy scenery.

It was a Dornish girl, Princess Loreza's daughter. She was pretty, for a Dornishwoman, but the fur and snow around them made her look out of place, like a piece of vibrant southern art hung in a drab northern hall. Tywin wondered fleetingly if any Dornishwomen had ever been wed to Starks. Unaccustomed to the cold, they wouldn't fare well there. And of course, this particular girl is not thriving here either. If Loreza's intention is to leave this weakling here, she is truly foolish. By the way, the girl is not allowed to wander the higher levels of the Rock.

"What are you doing here, princess?" Tywin asked sharply, startling the Dornish girl.

The princess almost jumped, but then made a shushing sound. Tywin's sharp eyes caught what had captured her attention. In her arms, she cradled two tiny orange kittens, their fur bright against the dark red of her cloak. She held them tighter against her chest, then rose and made a poor curtsey.

"My lord," she said, her voice soft. "I was returning from the Maester's Tower and saw them. They would freeze to death if left here." Her slight accent was noticeable, but her tone was polite.

He remembered her name now. Elia. She coughed then, her whole frail figure shaking. "Are you well, princess?" Tywin asked, because courtesy demanded it, even though he didn't care at all. She could rot, kittens too. Loreza had probably tricked Joanna into believing her sick daughter would be a suitable future lady of the Rock. One look at the pathetic creature here, and Joanna would agree with me... if she wasn't dead... murdered by another cursed creature.

Princess Elia nodded and said, "My little brother was concerned and persuaded Mother to send me to the maester. But I actually think the harsher air might do me some good. I like the Rock, my lord. I am only very sorry I didn't have the opportunity to meet your late lady wife. Mother sung her many praises in her letters from the capital." The girl talked fast, visibly nervous. Reminding Tywin of his loss was a poor choice. He narrowed his eyes and asked, "And why are you unescorted, princess?"

Elia, nervously caressing the orange fur of the kittens, replied, "I was, by the twins, my lord, but they disappeared somewhere... and ... well, I had a hard time keeping up with them anyway. They are spirited children, my lord."

Tywin stifled the urge to respond that they were normal and that she was the frail and lethargic one. Instead, he said, "You should return to the keep, princess."

Elia nodded, then asked, "Can I keep the kittens, my lord? I like cats; I will care for them." She was nearly a woman grown, but there was something childish in her voice now. Tywin waved his hand dismissively. "You can even take them back to Sunspear with you. The Rock is full of cats; there has never been a problem with vermin in the keep."

As Tywin turned to his tower, he noticed the surprised look on the girl's face. So she thought she would stay here, fed with foolish hopes by her mother. Tywin decided to grant Princess Loreza an audience tomorrow. The sooner the Dornish left, the better.

The next day, Tywin invited Princess Loreza into one of the solars near the Golden Gallery. He had no intention of talking with her within the Lord's Tower. Preferably, he wouldn't speak with her at all, but the infernal woman had lingered in his keep too long. She even seated herself comfortably before his desk, not waiting for an inviting gesture. With an impatient move, she pushed her unbound hair back, and the intense smell of her perfume reached Tywin's nostrils.

"From your expression of utter disdain, I presume you won't grant me another audience, my lord?" she cut straight to the heart of the matter. She navigated the court well but still could be terribly direct.

"I need to return to King's Landing, princess. So state your case now." They both knew it was just an excuse. Tywin had no fondness for the capital either.

Princess Loreza straightened her posture, her eyes flashing with determination. "It was Joanna's fervent desire to forge a bond between our houses. I propose a union between our children, Lord Hand. Your daughter, Lady Cersei, is as fierce as my son, Oberyn—"

But Tywin interrupted her sharply. "A second son, already shaming his house with bastards? My daughter is meant for a prince, but the one that will one day sit on the Iron Throne, princess," he hissed. How dare Loreza insult him with the suggestion that his golden daughter would be wasted on a reckless Dornish prince?

Princess Loreza's initial shock quickly gave way to defiance. Instead of faltering, she launched into a defensive tirade, citing Dornish customs and the nurturing environment her homeland could provide for Cersei. But Tywin's words were like a thunderclap, drowning out her protests. "She will be the Queen. That is my final decree."

Princess Loreza's resolve remained unyielding, her gaze steady despite the icy chill in Tywin's demeanor. "Then perhaps, Lord Hand, you might deign to consider a match between Elia and Jaime," she proposed, her voice carrying the weight of her conviction. "There are no other princesses of suitable standing available for him to wed at present. She is the highest born unwed woman in all of Westeros."

But Tywin's reaction was swift and harsh, his tone dripping with scorn as he rebuffed her proposal. "She is frail and twice his age," he countered sharply, his voice cutting through the silence like a sword. "I heard her coughing just the other day. She would not bear Jaime strong heirs."

The princess's audacity in suggesting such a match was an affront to the Lannister name, and Tywin had no qualms about making that clear.

"She is stronger than she appears, beautiful and wise," Loreza protested, her voice tinged with defiance as she sought to defend her daughter. But her words seemed to fall on deaf ears, for Tywin remained resolute in his stance.

With a disdainful snort, Tywin retorted, "She can wed Tyrion," the words dripping with contempt as he spoke the name of his second son. Loreza's reaction was immediate and visceral, her eyes flashing with indignation at the suggestion.

"You can't be serious," she shot back, her tone laced with incredulity and outrage. But Tywin remained unfazed, his expression unyielding as he met her gaze head-on.

"Oh, but I am," he replied coolly, his voice laced with a hint of satisfaction at having turned the tables on her. "You proposed a second son for my only daughter first, princess. So I propose my second-born son for yours."

The challenge in his tone was unmistakable, a silent dare for Loreza to refuse his offer and admit defeat in their verbal sparring match.

Loreza's grimace deepened at Tywin's retort, her expression betraying a mixture of frustration and anger. She shook her head slowly, her voice tinged with bitterness as she responded, "Joanna would be appalled, hearing you now. The friendship we enjoyed was different from the one you once had with His Grace. She would never be so cruel, to me, to my daughter, to her own son, as you were just now."

Tywin's patience was wearing thin, his temper simmering beneath the surface as he struggled to contain his mounting frustration. Who did Loreza think she was to speak of Joanna in such familiar terms? Did she truly believe she had the right to claim Joanna's thoughts and confidence as her own? Tywin's grip on his temper was slipping, his voice rising in indignation as he countered, "And what of your own behavior, princess? Acting as if you were the one sharing Joanna's bed? You presume too much."

Loreza's frown deepened, her lips pulling down at the corners as she regarded Tywin with a mixture of disappointment and sadness. Her laughter, when it came, was sharp and bitter, a sound that grated against Tywin's patience like sandpaper on stone.

"It's sad, my lord," she said, her voice laced with a hint of mockery. "She could have had the king, the princess, yet she wanted only you. And you still didn't trust her entirely."

She rose from her seat, her movements graceful yet filled with a subtle challenge. Tywin felt his jaw clenching in frustration. He had trusted Joanna implicitly. She was the only one who had ever earned his complete trust. He had believed her when she swore her loyalty, when she promised she had never betrayed him.

He had valued her counsel, allowing her to govern the Westerlands in his absence. He had been certain that Joanna would refuse Princess Loreza's offers.

Tywin's thoughts churned as Loreza's words echoed in his mind. Could she have swayed Joanna with her tales of beautiful princess Elia and fierce prince Oberyn? It was possible, he admitted begrudgingly. Joanna was not immune to the allure of tales and romance, but he was certain that once she met the Martells in person, she would find them lacking, just as he did.

Yet, Loreza's familiarity grated on him like a dull blade against his skin. Her casual mention of his lady wife was a deeply insensitive and concerning thing. He felt the lion's tail being poked, a provocation not to be taken lightly.

"Mention my lady wife again, princess," he threatened, his voice a low growl that rumbled through the room.

Her mistake, he thought grimly, was assuming that Dornish customs were welcomed elsewhere. For a brief, unsettling moment, Tywin's thoughts drifted to Loreza's husband, quiet and polite as he appeared. Did he fuck her as a bitch, as she clearly needed to be fucked? Or did he submit to her in the bedchamber too?

He was aware that the violence simmering beneath his gaze was palpable as Loreza took an unsure step back, fear finally flickering across her features for the first time.

At that moment, Tywin knew he had her where he wanted her.

The Princess of Dorne shook her head stiffly, her demeanor suddenly aloof. "Forget this audience, my lord. My family will leave as soon as the weather permits."

Tywin fought the urge to question her further, to demand what she was truly thinking in that moment. Did she plan to entrust her children to Joanna, yet never consider leaving them in Tywin's care? Was she considering the fate of the Reynes and Tarbecks, their ambitions crushed beneath his iron will?

One thing was certain: Tywin Lannister would not forget her insulting suggestions.

"Princess," he bid her farewell, his bow shallow and devoid of warmth. She attempted to retreat with dignity, but Tywin could see the flicker of fear behind her eyes. She thought him cruel, he knew. It was curious how she failed to see the same in Joanna. For we were one and the same—a terrible force to reckon with.

More striking still was Joanna's fondness for this insolent woman. Tywin couldn't help but wonder at the depth of their bond. Then, a deep understanding settled within him. He recognized that Joanna was drawn to powerful women, much like himself. Yet, for him, there was a distinction: while Loreza wielded her power and position with a certain finesse, it lacked the grace and subtlety that Tywin valued.

She navigated the courtly game adeptly, but her unwavering pride in her Dornish heritage, her refusal to bend to universal rules, grated against Tywin's sensibilities. The motto of House Martell, "Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken," echoed in his mind, but Tywin couldn't help but think that no one could truly remain unbroken.

He knew this truth intimately, for he himself had shattered after Joanna's death. The loss of his wife had fractured him in ways he never imagined possible.

A week later, as the Martell ship disappeared into the distant horizon, Tywin remained on the high balcony of his solar in the Lord's Tower, a solitary figure amidst the grandeur of Casterly Rock. The cold wind whipped at his cloak, but he made no move to retreat indoors, his gaze fixed on the vanishing vessel. They are leaving at last.

A knock at the door broke the stillness, followed by the announcement of his children's arrival, but Tywin remained unmoved. Even as the soft footsteps of Cersei and Jaime approached, he continued to stand in silent contemplation.

Cersei emerged onto the balcony first, her fur cloak wrapped tightly around her slender frame against the biting chill. Jaime followed, his expression unreadable, though a fur-lined cloak adorned his shoulders as well. They had been dressed so because they had ventured to the cold harbor cave to weave their farewells to the Martells, a gesture Tywin had not bothered to make.

"They are gone, at least," Cersei announced, her tone tinged with disdain. "I don't like them."

Jaime frowned slightly, his thoughts betraying the memory of Prince Oberyn's impressive skill with the spear. Yet, he chose not to voice his admiration. Instead, still standing by the railing, he turned his gaze to his father and asked, "Will you leave too, Father? For the capital?"

Tywin usually prided himself on knowing his son's thoughts, but now Jaime's tone revealed nothing. It was devoid of emotion, almost indifferent to Tywin's presence. Recognizing the shattered spirit in his son, Tywin softened his own tone as he replied, "I have to govern the Seven Kingdoms while His Grace grieves Prince Aegon's death."

Jaime nodded, but it was Cersei who reacted more sharply. "You will leave? May we go with you, my lord? I don't want to stay here, with the monster."

At first, her resemblance to Joanna struck a painful chord in Tywin, a ghost of his beloved wife lingering in their daughter's features. But her last words shattered that illusion. "What monster?" Tywin growled, his voice suddenly harsh.

"The one that killed Mother!" Cersei cried out, raising her arms in an accusatory gesture before placing them protectively over her belly. Tywin's mind was suddenly awash with memories of blood, screams, and the haunting colors of that fateful day.

He blinked, momentarily disoriented by the vivid recollections.

Then Tywin's gaze turned cold as he fixed his eyes on Cersei. "The boy is named Tyrion. He is a Lannister, and you will address him as such. Do you understand, Cersei?" he demanded sharply. I let him live, bearing my name, and it is difficult enough to remain indifferent to his existence. Why can you not respect that, my wrathful girl, and follow my example?

During the Martells' visit, he had not once gone to see the dwarf—Tyrion. He did not intend to see him before his departure to the capital either, despite Creylen's warnings that the danger still lingered. It was astonishing how long the dwarf had survived, how stubbornly he clung to life.

Joanna had been stubborn too.

"I understand, Father. But can we go with you?" Cersei fluttered her eyelashes pleadingly.

Tywin shook his head, his resolve unyielding. "No. You need to learn more before I bring you to court."

It was painfully obvious to him that his children were not yet ready for the vipers' nest that was King's Landing. Jaime, still grappling with his emotions, and Cersei, with her impulsive tendencies, needed to be tempered and taught the intricacies of power and politics. The capital was no place for the unprepared.

Cersei's face fell, her disappointment clear, but Jaime nodded and said, "The city smelled bad. And Mother was sad there."

Tywin clenched his fists, willing his hands to stop shaking. Memories flooded back—Joanna, Aerys's attack, that cursed tourney. It was no wonder his son had no eagerness to return there. Truth be told, Tywin wasn't eager either. He could already imagine the mocking and whispers he would have to endure, the relentless court gossip.

Moreover, he would be haunted by Joanna's ghost. The Tower of the Hand, the Lannister manse in the city—each place would carry traces of her presence. Some part of him felt a twisted relief that remnants of her would follow him even to King's Landing, offering a semblance of connection. Yet another part yearned for peace, a respite from the constant reminders that she was gone.

Tywin turned to Jaime, his gaze stern but with a flicker of softness. "You will continue to improve your reading. And send me letters," he commanded, his voice brooking no argument.

Then he turned to Cersei. "You will learn from Aunt Genna how to manage the keep. But remember, managing the Rock means caring for all Lannisters within. Without exceptions." The weight of his words hung in the air, a tacit acknowledgment of his own struggles. Without exceptions… even when exceptions feel like a test the gods placed before us. The task of caring for Tyrion, of seeing past his deformities and recognizing his place within the family, was one that Tywin himself found nearly insurmountable.

He felt a pang of shame at the thought, knowing this responsibility might overwhelm Cersei just as it overwhelmed him. But it was a lesson she needed to learn, one he hoped she could bear.

"Together, we will manage," said Jaime, taking Cersei's hand. Despite his own likely sense of being overwhelmed, Jaime tried to show bravery, a trait that reminded Tywin of Joanna. There was a resilience in his son that echoed his late wife, a quiet strength that Tywin admired.

Cersei, on the other hand, had more of Tywin in her—his ambition, his ruthlessness. It would be enough, he told himself. It had to be.

He nodded curtly, his face a mask of resolve. "Good. Then see to it that you uphold the family name and fulfill your duties."

Chapter Text

Tywin returned to King's Landing and the sprawling city seemingly unchanged since his last departure. Yet, within him, a profound and irreversible transformation had taken root. The foul-smelling, half-rotting city evoked nothing but disdain. As he rode through its filthy streets, gazing upon the sad, hungry faces of its inhabitants, an irrational urge gripped him—to sentence them all to death. How could such scum be allowed to live when my lady wife was not?

He continued his journey toward Maegor's Holdfast, the red bricks looming in oppressive familiarity. They reminded him starkly of the past—of the blood, traces of Joanna's blood once staining the stones after her desperate leap from the second-floor balcony. His jaw tightened at the memory, a mixture of sorrow and anger churning within him.

Turning his gaze to the Tower of the Hand, Tywin was assaulted by bittersweet recollections of their wedding night. In our youth, ruled by feeling, we could not have foreseen how dark and twisted our path would become. What was once sweet now carried a bitter aftertaste, every memory tainted by her absence, every joy corrupted by grief.

As Tywin dismounted, he was greeted by Ser Barristan Selmy. Their exchange was curt, limited to the bare necessities of courtesy.

At the foot of the tower's stairs, Ser Ilyn Payne bowed deeply, his grim face betraying no emotion. The red cloaks lining the hallway wore black armbands, a silent symbol mourning. Tywin, clad entirely in black, moved past them with deliberate purpose, the only color on his attire the gleaming golden pin of the Hand of the King. He ignored the assembled guards and their solemn tribute, his mind a fortress against the pain that threatened to break through. It is simply tradition, something appropriate.

He ascended the stairs with purposeful strides, determined to project an image of unyielding strength. On the surface, nothing had changed, but inwardly, everything had. Each step echoed in the quiet corridor, a stark contrast to the turmoil within him.

Entering his office, Tywin found it pristine, unmistakably Lannister in its opulence, yet devoid of sound or smell. The room was resplendent with red and gold, yet it felt empty, hollow. He should refresh, perhaps change from his travel-worn attire, but the thought of entering more private chambers paralyzed him.

What was I to do with the bed on which I had deflowered her? The thought was unbearable. He knew he wouldn't be able to sleep in it, not with her ghost imprinted in the sheets, the mattress, the very headboard.

So Tywin stood in his office, the silence pressing in around him. The weight of his responsibilities was a heavy cloak on his shoulders, yet it was the absence of Joanna that truly threatened to crush him. He forced himself to focus, to banish the memories for now. There was work to be done, a realm to govern, but even in the sanctum of his power, he could not escape the shadow of his grief.

Tywin spent the rest of the day undisturbed, the silence of his office only amplifying the thoughts that weighed heavily on his mind. As the hours stretched on, fatigue finally overcame him, and he fell asleep at his desk. The uncomfortable position brought no real rest, and by morning, the ache in his back and neck only strengthened his resolve to pull himself together.

It cannot happen again.

Rising stiffly, he bathed and changed into fresh clothes, then summoned the servants to furnish a bedchamber closer to his office. The thought of that haunting bed was too much to bear, and practicality demanded a solution.

Forcing himself to break his fast, he felt as though he was chewing ashes, each bite a hollow reminder of the void inside him. But he knew he could not delay his meeting with the king any longer.

Clad once more in black, the golden Hand's pin gleaming against the dark fabric, and his magnificent sword hanging at his belt, he marched with purpose to the royal chambers. As he ascended the stairs, he encountered an unexpected sight: Queen Rhaella, surrounded by three Kingsguards.

What surprised him most was her visible pregnancy. He halted, his expression impassive but his mind racing.

"Your Grace," he said, bowing with the impeccable courtesy befitting his station.

The queen stopped as well, her eyes scanning the surroundings as if wary of unseen spies, though Tywin knew the most dangerous eyes belonged to those in white cloaks. When her gaze returned to his, it was filled with raw, honest emotion. She, too, was clad in black, and Tywin could see that her mourning extended beyond her lost son to Joanna as well.

"Lord Hand," she said softly, and at the same moment, they both uttered, "My condolences."

The air between them grew heavy with the weight of shared grief and unspoken words. Though they had known each other since childhood, the years and the burdens of their positions had turned them into strangers. They were both acutely aware of their inability to offer solace to one another. The only connection between them now was loss—a tenuous thread, insufficient to forge a meaningful bond.

Tywin gave a curt nod, his face an impassive mask. The Queen mirrored his gesture, and they moved on without further words. For there is nothing left for us to say, for we are both bound by the roles we bear—and yet it is those very roles that compel us to endure, for in their proper fulfillment lies our legacy, and the survival of our Houses.

A few minutes later, Tywin was announced at the king's solar and admitted inside, though he noted the wary gazes of the Kingsguard. The king, dressed in black with subtle red embroidery at the hems, awaited him. Tywin's eyes were drawn to Aerys's favorite crown, recently mended, though one of the dragons remained slightly dented. He forced the memory away and bowed deeply.

Aerys nodded excessively in acknowledgment, the gesture reminiscent of a puppet show Tywin had once seen mummers perform at the market.

"Rhaella is with child again," the king finally said.

"We met on the stairs. Congratulations," Tywin replied, his words bereft of any genuine feeling.

Aerys shrugged dismissively. "The realm needs good news. And you, here. The Small Council is not effective without the Hand in the long term. People in the streets are complaining of hunger, injustice, and cold. This has to stop."

Does it, now? Tywin thought to himself that if he was to suffer, then everyone around him should suffer too. Moreover, he knew the winter could hold the realm in its icy grip far longer than the two years that had already passed. The smallfolk had no right to complain now; if the winter lasted longer, the conditions they had now would seem a luxury later.

"A lion doesn't concern himself with the opinions of the sheep, Your Grace," Tywin said coldly.

Aerys smiled, a rare and unsettling sight. "So you haven't lost your fire. I wondered... What does he look like?"

The king's curiosity was strange, and for a moment, Tywin didn't understand. He had never had a fire; his blood usually ran cold, but he had lost something more profound—his soul. And who was Aerys asking about?

"Who, Your Grace?" Tywin asked, his voice devoid of any hint of emotion.

Aerys leaned forward, a flicker of something almost childlike in his eyes. "The dwarf. The son your lady wife died bringing into the world. How does he look?"

For a brief moment, Tywin's control nearly slipped. The mention of Tyrion, coupled with the reminder of Joanna's death, was a dagger to his guts. But he maintained his composure, his face a mask of stoicism.

"He looks as any dwarf would, Your Grace," Tywin replied, his tone icy. "Misshapen, but a Lannister nonetheless."

Aerys tilted his head, a sinister glint in his eyes as he licked his lips. "People believe it's a bad omen for the realm, a monster born to the Lord Hand."

Tywin stared Aerys down, his gaze unwavering. "Some of them believe in grumpkins and children of the forest. Some believe in prophecies of foolish albino witches."

It was a subtle barb, but one nonetheless, and Aerys grimaced at the reminder of the witch responsible for his miserable marriage.

"Fix the Seven Kingdoms for me, Tywin," the king ordered, waving his hand dismissively.

Tywin bowed stiffly, his jaw clenched. "Your Grace," he forced through gritted teeth.

With that, he turned on his heel and left the solar, feeling unnerved, as he had anticipated. Aerys's twisted mind was a dangerous place, and Tywin knew that navigating it would require all of his cunning and strength. As he walked through the corridors of the Red Keep, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease that lingered in the air like a dark cloud.

A few months passed peacefully, with Tywin effectively ruling the Seven Kingdoms. Despite winter's relentless grip on the land, the realm thrived under his stern governance. The myriad challenges of administration were welcomed by Tywin, each problem a welcome distraction from the aching void left by Joanna's absence. There was no comforting thought of her waiting at the Rock, no anticipated visits to look forward to.

Letters from home arrived regularly, and though he read them dutifully, they no longer brought the thrill or joy they once had. His replies were terse and efficient: instructions, admonishments for the twins, orders for his siblings. Reports about the dwarf—no, about Tyrion—went unacknowledged. He was acutely aware that the court whispered behind his back about his monstrous child. Courtiers mocked him or, worse, pitied him. They will regret it one day.

The king largely left Tywin alone, preferring to indulge in his string of fair mistresses and the so-called 'education' of Prince Rhaegar. Tywin believed that the boy could learn from Aerys how not to rule, but he kept his silence. At least the prince displayed no trace of madness, a small mercy in the increasingly chaotic court.

Though Aerys was not entirely lost to madness—he still possessed a strategic mind when it came to certain matters. He understood the importance of mending relations with the Baratheons. To that end, Tywin formally invited Steffon Baratheon and his family to court. Steffon wisely left his lady wife and second son at Storm's End, bringing instead his mother, Princess Rhaelle, to the capital. It was before her that Aerys had much groveling to do, a sight Tywin found both necessary and grimly satisfying.

Tywin himself eagerly anticipated the arrival of his old friend and Steffon's esteemed lady mother. The Baratheons' presence promised a diversion from the court's toxic atmosphere and the whispers that haunted him.

As the day of their arrival approached, Tywin ensured that everything was in perfect order. The accommodations for Princess Rhaelle were lavish and befitting her royal blood, while Steffon's quarters were arranged with the comfort and respect due to a close ally and old friend.

The Baratheons arrived in the courtyard, all clad in black, a color that conveniently matched their house colors and the somber mood of the realm. Tywin stood alongside Prince Rhaegar, who fidgeted nervously until his close friend, Arthur Dayne, hurried to his side.

Tywin's gaze moved appreciatively over the fine horses of the Baratheon retinue, noting the effort it must have taken to make the journey in such harsh conditions. The temperatures were so low that ice had formed along the shores of the Blackwater Rush.

"My prince, Lord Hand!" Steffon's booming voice echoed across the courtyard. He dismounted and hurried toward them, his presence commanding and warm despite the cold. After ruffling Rhaegar's white hair affectionately, he grasped Tywin's hand firmly.

"I am so sorry, my friend," Steffon muttered, his voice low and sincere.

Tywin knew the words were heartfelt, and he appreciated them. "Thank you, Steffon," he replied, his tone steady.

As they exchanged a few more words, Princess Rhaelle descended from her carriage with grace and dignity. Tywin inclined his head respectfully. "Princess Rhaelle, welcome to King's Landing."

Princess Rhaelle, now forty-four, looked more matronly than when they had last seen each other, but her dignity remained undiminished. Her presence commanded respect as she approached them. "Rhaegar, how you have grown," she said warmly, kissing the young prince's forehead. Rhaegar blushed and muttered, "Princess."

Tywin remembered the worry and embarrassment on Rhaegar's face when Aerys had insulted his aunt. He holds Rhaelle's opinion in high regard, considering her family, yet even at his young age he is mindful of the political consequences at stake.

Princess Rhaelle turned to Tywin, her eyes full of genuine compassion. A strange lump formed in his throat as she spoke. "You are in my prayers every day, Lord Hand," she said softly.

Tywin could only nod and kiss her hand in response. Her words touched him more deeply than he expected.

As they moved inside, Tywin felt a small measure of relief. He had a meeting planned with the Baratheons that evening, away from the prying eyes of the court. There were matters that needed discussing, alliances to strengthen, and plans to forge without the interference of courtiers and sycophants.

In the evening, after the formal greeting ceremony in the throne room, Lord Steffon and Princess Rhaelle made their way to Tywin's solar in the Tower of the Hand. Steffon immediately seated himself near the fireplace, muttering about how the journey had frozen some of his blood vessels. The crackling fire seemed to draw him in, and he rubbed his hands together to chase away the lingering cold.

Princess Rhaelle, however, approached Tywin directly. She placed her hands on his shoulders, her touch both comforting and commanding. "You know that if I were to name a man who is like a second son to me, it would be you, not Aerys. So whatever you need, I am here now, Lord Tywin," she said solemnly, her violet eyes full of sorrow.

Tywin felt a mix of discomfort and gratitude at her words. "I... I appreciate it, my princess," he replied, his voice uncharacteristically halting. I do. In a world where mothers die… I am glad you remain here.

Princess Rhaelle squeezed his shoulders, then released him. Tywin gestured for her to sit, and she took a seat with grace. He moved to pour three goblets of wine, his mind momentarily preoccupied with the choice of vintage. Dornish Red… some fool has forgotten that I prefer Arbor Gold.

Handing a goblet to Princess Rhaelle and another to Steffon, Tywin took a deep breath. The warmth of the fire and the company of his old friends provided a rare comfort.

"Your sincere letters were... House Lannister values your support greatly," Tywin said, taking a sip of the wine and setting the goblet down. His hands itched, a habit he'd picked up of worrying the skin around his fingernails when forced to let them lay idle.

Steffon smiled faintly, his voice warm. "You are doing great, Tywin. Everything here runs smoothly, despite winter, Aerys, and... all else."

"Yes, it's admirable. But you must look after yourself, my boy," added Princess Rhaelle, her gaze moving over Tywin's lean figure with a worrying intensity. She could see the toll Joanna's death had taken on him, the weight he had lost.

"Don't fret over me, princess," Tywin replied, a commanding note in his tone. He was enduring, and for now, that had to be enough. Rhaelle sees too much at times, and worse, she is unafraid to speak of it. To question. To correct. To worry. Rare qualities in those around me—and troublesome ones.

Princess Rhaelle ignored Steffon's subtle shake of the head and asked calmly, "And how is the child?"

Tywin's jaw tightened momentarily before he forced himself to respond. "Tyrion is... alive." He paused, choosing his words with the precision he was known for. "He is being cared for, though his condition remains the same." He will never grow into a normal man…

Princess Rhaelle nodded, her expression one of understanding rather than judgment. "He is still your son, Tywin. Remember that. No matter the circumstances of his birth."

The words hit Tywin with a weight he did not show. He nodded curtly, more to acknowledge her words than to agree with them.

Princess Rhaelle pressed further, her voice gentle but unyielding. "He will need your acknowledgement, Tywin. His life won't be easy, and his condition, the circumstances of his birth, are not of his choosing."

Tywin narrowed his eyes, his fingers unconsciously worrying the skin around his nails harder. "He has a Lannister name. And it's not that I wished this condition upon him," he hissed, his voice cold and sharp.

Steffon sent his mother a warning glare, but she ignored it. "Of course you didn't, Tywin," she said softly, then bit her lip before shaking her head. "Say it," Tywin commanded, his patience thinning. He had lost Joanna; he could endure everything else.

Princess Rhaelle took a deep breath, her violet eyes filled with both sorrow and resolve. "I was thinking... that it might be influenced by the fact that you and your lady wife were first cousins."

Silence enveloped the room, thick and heavy. Tywin's frown deepened. What is the princess talking about? There is nothing wrong with marrying cousins; many nobles did so to keep their bloodlines strong. His children were entirely Lannister, perfect in every way. The implication that their union could have caused Tyrion's condition was an affront to everything he believed.

"That is absurd," Tywin said icily, his voice barely above a whisper but filled with menace. "Many noble houses wed cousins to preserve their lineage. Our blood is strong, untainted. My children are Lannisters through and through."

Princess Rhaelle nodded, her voice calm and measured. "I do not question the strength of your blood, my lord. But as a Targaryen, whose life has been shaped by incestuous unions, I have studied it extensively. Parents being closely related don't bode well for their children."

Her words and Steffon's presence stirred a horrible memory in Tywin's mind. An ill-thought adventure in Flea Bottom, the horrifying sight of two boys fused together in one body... He shook his head, rejecting the memory. "No. It might be so for common folk and animals, but not for nobles. Lord Stark wed his own cousin too, and he has four healthy children."

Steffon sent another pointed look towards his mother, who shrugged delicately. "So what answer do you give yourself for the question why?" she asked.

Tywin clenched his jaw, the words catching in his throat because he had no good answer. Why was he punished this way? Why was his happiness so cruelly stolen?

"Gods' cruelty. A test," he said finally, but without much conviction.

"And what else? A lesson in humility, as my nephew believes?" Princess Rhaelle asked, her tone sharper. She sent her own glare at Steffon, who gulped almost all his wine in one swing.

Steffon interrupted, his tone firm yet gentle, "Stop tormenting him, Mother. He knows better than to believe the king's ramblings."

Tywin nodded, appreciating the support. "He seeks to undermine my pride, that's all."

Princess Rhaelle pursed her lips, but remained silent. Lord Steffon patted her knee and said, "See? He is wise enough to keep going. He is doing well. I would be so devastated that nothing would drag me out from Storm's End if I were in his shoes."

"I just worry. Over the man I see as a second son, over the realm... we are having two grieving men at the helm..." justified herself Princess Rhaelle.

Tywin pushed his nails into the skin so hard that he drew the first droplets of blood. "But one of them is still sound of mind, princess. I will continue to work for the glory of my house, and you will see that the realm will prosper well," he assured her, and himself.

"Yes, because she would wish for it," whispered Princess Rhaelle, and she was right. Tywin nodded solemnly. Joanna would wish me to keep going, keep working for the betterment of the Lannister position.

"To Joanna," Steffon raised his goblet in a toast, breaking the heavy silence. Tywin and Princess Rhaelle followed suit, the clink of their goblets echoing in the chamber. They drank in silence, each lost in their thoughts.

Then they talked late into the evening, the conversation gradually shifting to lighter topics. But as the night wore on and Tywin found himself alone again, he couldn't shake the words that had been spoken. So he lay in his new, cold bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind racing. Princess Rhaelle's words echoed in his head. He tried to find any possible weakness in her reasoning. Her theory, rooted in the Targaryen's centuries-old practice of incest, seemed flawed. Nobles had wed their cousins for generations without such dire consequences. Hadn't the Starks done the same with no ill effects? It made no sense.

But as he drifted off, his resolve wavered. In his dreams, Joanna appeared, torn open, her body a crimson mess. Her eyes, once full of life, were now filled with accusation. "It's all your fault," she cried, her voice a haunting wail. Tywin reached out, desperate to catch her, to explain, but his words were lost in the void.

"No," he whispered, waking up in a cold sweat. "It's not my fault. It's the dwarf. It's all the dwarf's fault."

The room was silent, save for his ragged breathing. He tried to convince himself that it was all foolish madness, the product of Targaryen obsession with incest and the bizarre twists of fate. Joanna's death, he told himself again and again, was not on his hands. It was Tyrion's fault, the wretched creature who had taken her from me.

Unable to bear the torment of his thoughts any longer, Tywin abandoned sleep altogether. He rose from the bed, the sheets soaked with his sweat, and dressed in the darkness. The Tower of the Hand was quiet at this hour, the only sound the distant murmur of the city outside.

He returned to his desk, the familiar routine of work a welcome distraction. There were letters to write, orders to give, and plans to make. The Seven Kingdoms needed him, especially in these harsh winter months. His pen moved swiftly across the parchment, each stroke a temporary reprieve from the relentless doubt in his mind.

A week into the Baratheons' visit, King Aerys organized a grand feast on the tourney grounds near the King's Gate. Instead of a traditional tournament, the event featured a spectacular array of entertainment: fire shows, mummers' plays, sledge races, and an entirely new spectacle—a large ice rink, where people could try a recent invention from Skagos: shoes with animal bones designed for sliding on the ice, called skates. The amount of gold Tywin had to allocate for the event was enormous, but the guests from Storm's End were most impressed, and the court desperately needed some diversion in the bleakness of winter.

The tourney grounds, usually a place of dust and sweat, were transformed into a winter wonderland. Large bonfires crackled, sending sparks dancing into the frosty air. The mummers, in their brightly colored costumes, moved gracefully on the snow-dusted stage, enacting tales of old Westeros. Fire-eaters and jugglers entertained clusters of nobles, their fiery displays drawing oohs and aahs from the assembled crowd.

Steffon Baratheon, his cheeks ruddy from the cold, stood with his mother, Princess Rhaelle, and watched a group of courtiers attempting to sledge race down a nearby slope. "Remarkable," he boomed, clapping his gloved hands together. "I've never seen such a thing in all my years."

Tywin, standing nearby with Prince Rhaegar, allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk. None of it would be possible without the Rock's gold. The spectacle was extravagant, certainly, but the looks of awe and enjoyment on the faces of his guests made the expense worthwhile. Even Prince Rhaegar, usually so somber, seemed captivated by the festivities.

The ice rink, however, was the true highlight. Skaters glided gracefully across the ice, their movements fluid and mesmerizing. It was a sight none had seen before in King's Landing, and it drew a constant crowd of spectators. The new invention from Skagos had captured everyone's imagination.

"Have you tried it yet, Lord Hand?" Steffon asked, his breath visible in the cold air.

"No, I have not," Tywin replied, his tone clipped but polite. He had no intention of partaking in such frivolities, but he appreciated the enthusiasm of his friend. "But it seems to be quite popular."

King Aerys, clutching the hand of his newest mistress, Lady Cargyll, slid across the ice with surprising flourish. Small icy particles flew up, sprinkling Tywin and the Baratheons. "Aunt, you should try it! I won't ask Steffon, as he has no grace, but I think you will love it," Aerys jested, his cheeks red from the cold.

Steffon laughed heartily, his breath visible in the frosty air. "Yes, I would fall and drag her down. But Lord Hand here has famous cat-like fluidity in his movements, so convince him to join, Your Grace," he added mischievously.

Tywin shot Steffon a sharp glare, but Princess Rhaelle tugged gently at his sleeve. "You won't leave me to fall, will you, Lord Tywin?" she asked, her eyes twinkling with a mix of sincerity and a subtle attempt to lighten his mood.

Tywin's jaw tightened. He knew what Rhaelle was trying to do, but he couldn't deny her in front of the king. "Come on, put the skates on, my lord," Aerys said, attempting to sound commanding, a hungry glint in his violet eyes that Tywin despised.

With a resigned sigh, Tywin gave a curt nod. "Very well," he said, his voice as cold as the air around them. He moved to the bench where the skates were laid out, ignoring the way Aerys's gaze followed him, almost predatory.

As Tywin laced up the skates, he couldn't help but feel a strange mix of irritation and determination. He rose, the unfamiliar sensation of the skates beneath him a new challenge to master. Princess Rhaelle, with skates on her feet too, extended her hand, and he took it, guiding her carefully to the ice.

Aerys watched with a smug smile, still clutching Lady Cargyll. "There, you see? Even the mighty Tywin Lannister can indulge in a bit of winter fun."

Tywin bit back a retort, focusing instead on steadying Princess Rhaelle. They moved cautiously at first, her grip on his arm tight. Despite the unease, Tywin's natural grace began to show, his movements becoming more fluid with each passing moment. The courtiers watched in awe, and a ripple of admiration spread through the crowd.

Princess Rhaelle moved with equal grace, gliding alongside Tywin as if the ice were a familiar ballroom floor. Yet, as he guided her, an intense longing gnawed at him. He couldn't help but imagine Joanna in his arms, laughing and bright-eyed, delighting in this novel activity. She would have loved skating, he thought. It was quite enjoyable, though Tywin suspected that falls here had more dire consequences than during dancing.

"I like it," Princess Rhaelle observed, her voice cutting through his reverie. "But one must have good balance to do it well. My nephew will fall, sooner or later." Tywin read the subtle allusion. Yes, Aerys lacks balance not only on ice.

"Let go of my left hand, princess. You are steady enough to slide sideways with me," Tywin suggested, knowing that Aerys would likely mimic them. Predictably, the king let go of Lady Cargyll's steady left hand, eager to show off his prowess.

Tywin and the princess moved smoothly, their movements synchronized, but it wasn't long before a loud shout shattered the serene atmosphere. The Kingsguard rushed onto the ice. Aerys lay in a heap, crushed under the voluminous skirts of his mistress. Princess Rhaelle giggled softly, and Tywin felt a rare measure of satisfaction.

"See, my lord?" Princess Rhaelle said, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Balance is everything."

Tywin nodded, a faint smirk touching his lips. "Indeed, Princess. Balance is everything."

The Kingsguard helped Aerys to his feet, brushing the snow from his clothes, while Lady Cargyll struggled to regain her composure. The king's cheeks were flushed, not just from the cold, but from the embarrassment of his undignified tumble.

"Your Grace," Tywin called out, maintaining a facade of concern, "are you all right?"

Aerys waved him off irritably, his dignity bruised more than his body. "I am fine, Tywin. Just a minor mishap."

The crowd, initially hushed with concern, began to murmur and chuckle. Aerys's grand display had ended in a farcical collapse, and even the sycophants couldn't hide their amusement.

The Kingsguards, visibly struggling on the polished ice with their heavy armor, managed to escort Aerys out of the rink. Tywin and Princess Rhaelle continued to skate a little longer. Tywin found rare peace in focusing entirely on his movements, temporarily distracting himself from the loss that still gnawed at him. Unfortunately, this respite had to end when Prince Rhaegar approached, asking for a turn with his great-aunt.

Reluctantly, Tywin took off his skates and returned to Steffon, who handed him a goblet of warm ale. "You never fail to best him, do you?" whispered Steffon, observing the crying Lady Cargyll, who probably sprained her ankle in the fall. It serves her right.

"He insisted on it himself. And I was on the other end of the rink when they fell," Tywin replied, not appearing guilty at all.

"Yet you plotted his fall. Be careful, Tywin, because someday someone will notice. I wouldn't put it past my cousin to notice it himself. He observes you closely," Steffon muttered, hiding his lips behind the goblet.

He does, unfortunately. Tywin sighed, almost untouchably. He was well aware that Aerys divided his attention equally between the women he wanted to bed and the Hand he wanted to humiliate. "There is little of the lad we both knew in our youth in him now, Steffon. He is not perceptive enough to see how he fails the realm..."

Steffon interrupted, "But he never stopped craving you. And now, he might consider you free to... torment." Steffon turned to Tywin with naked concern, and Tywin inwardly bemoaned his friend's directness.

Tywin tried to ignore the painful reminder that Joanna was gone and said firmly, "I can handle him." His thoughts betrayed him, though, as he reflected on how the only perceived weakness Aerys could exploit had now vanished. Yet, Joanna had been more his strength than his weakness. Gods, how he longed for her presence, her counsel, her unwavering support.

Steffon looked at him with doubt, and Tywin suspected that the rumors about the Anniversary Tourney had reached Storm's End. The whispers of Aerys's insults, his erratic behavior, and his obsession with undermining Tywin's authority were likely common knowledge among the lords of the realm.

Despite this, Tywin felt a steely confidence in his ability to maintain stability. The realm needed a firm hand, and he was determined to provide it. As Princess Rhaelle had astutely observed, Aerys lacked the balance to not fall. Tywin could exploit that imbalance to his advantage.

A few hours later, as the wine and ale flowed more freely and some nobles started to move a little wobbly, the king announced another show. "Come here, there is something from Essos you have never seen before, my lords and ladies." He gestured towards a large tent where some sleighs were kept.

Tywin frowned, a sense of foreboding settling over him. He was unaware of any additional entertainment planned. As most of the noblemen gathered at the entrance to the tent, Aerys gestured for the curtains to be raised.

From the tent emerged a creature that defied understanding. Tywin's lips pursed with disgust as he realized it was not an ordinary horse pulling the sleigh. No, the creature was more like a misshapen donkey, its form grotesque and unnatural. It had two heads and a crumpled, malformed fifth leg between the first pair.

The Seven Hells must have opened to spew out that creature.

Ladies screamed in horror, while lords grimaced in disgust. The sight was revolting, a perverse mockery of nature. But Aerys was delighted, his eyes gleaming with a manic excitement. "See? A two-headed horse from Essos! A proof that it is possible for a three-headed dragon to exist!"

The crowd's reaction was a mix of shock and revulsion. Tywin felt a cold fury rising within him. This spectacle is an affront, not just to decency but to the dignity of the court. He glanced at Steffon, who looked equally appalled, and then at Princess Rhaelle, whose face had gone pale.

Suddenly, a servant pushed a ragged man to the front. The man twisted his old, tattered cap in his hands, and only after another shove did he realize he had to kneel before the king. He hurried to do so, completely bewildered by the situation.

"My lords and ladies, the owner of this specimen," Aerys announced, and the man nearly fell with his forehead to the ground.

"My king..." the man began, his voice trembling.

"Your Grace," Tywin instinctively corrected.

"Your Grace... if you want... it's yours... I swear, its mother was normal..." the man stuttered.

Aerys laughed, a high, manic sound that echoed across the icy grounds. "Ha! And the stallion?" Though the king addressed the poor man, he was looking directly at Tywin. There was something entirely disturbing in his gaze, a glint of malicious triumph.

"Fine too, my king. Don't know why the foal turned cursed," the man answered, his voice filled with desperation.

The word "cursed" struck Tywin like a blow. The realization dawned on him with chilling clarity: this whole spectacle was an insult to him, an open allusion to Tyrion. His blood ran cold, and a fury like he had rarely known surged within him. He froze, struggling to maintain his composure in the face of this public humiliation.

Tywin's hands clenched into fists, the skin around his nails burning from the pressure. He wanted nothing more than to silence the king, to wipe that triumphant smirk from his face. But he knew he had to play his part, to keep his fury contained.

Aerys's smile widened, revealing his pearly teeth, and he continued with his twisted musings. "Perhaps it is not from the seed of the stallion at all. Perhaps the creature was conceived by some divine intervention... a sign from the gods to us, that if we have two-headed horses, we can have three-headed dragons too!"

His words hung in the frigid air, and Tywin felt something very, very cold growing within him. It was a single, horrible "what if," a chilling possibility that hadn't crossed his mind until now. A "perhaps," rolling mockingly from Aerys's tongue, insidious and malevolent.

An idea so twisted and cruel that Tywin hadn't dared to consider it before. But now, fueled by Aerys's taunting smile, it took root in his mind like a weed, spreading its tendrils of doubt and fear.

The memory of Aerys's delusional smile, the same one he had worn when Tywin had punched him in the face after the attack on Joanna, flashed before Tywin's eyes. It was a smile that sent shivers down his spine, a smile that spoke of madness and malice intertwined.

Tywin's mind spun with dark possibilities, each one more chilling than the last. The blood oozed from the small wounds on his fingers, but he hardly noticed the pain. All he could think about was the horrifying prospect that had taken root in his mind.

What if... Joanna lied? What if she had lied to him to spare him the pain and the realm war? What if Aerys had raped her, violated her in the most despicable way imaginable?

The thought was like a dagger to his heart, piercing him with a pain so intense that he could scarcely breathe. But even more horrifying was the possibility that followed.

What if the dwarf... the abomination... was not from Tywin's seed at all? What if it was the result of Aerys's depravity, a twisted creation born from the faulty Targaryen bloodline?

The idea seemed cruelly fitting, and Tywin felt bile rise in his throat at the thought. If true, it meant that Aerys had killed Joanna, had destroyed everything that Tywin held dear. It meant that Aerys was the one responsible for all of Tywin's pain and suffering.

And now, as he stood there relishing Tywin's tragedy, the mad king likely envisioned all manner of sick fantasies, reveling in the twisted power he believed he held over Tywin.

The realization hit Tywin like a physical blow, leaving him reeling with the weight of it all. His hands clenched into fists, the blood staining his palms as he struggled to contain rage and despair.

The foul two-headed donkey's squeal shattered the tense silence like a thunderclap, drawing everyone's attention back to the grotesque creature. Aerys laughed, oblivious to the turmoil brewing in Tywin's mind, as he reached out to pat one of the heads. Tywin's disgust surged, and he took a step back, the urge to flee or scream nearly overwhelming him. He could feel the rage bubbling within him, threatening to consume him entirely. He wanted nothing more than to wrap his bloody hands around Aerys's neck and squeeze the life out of him.

But before he could act on the impulse, a firm hand clamped down on his elbow, anchoring him in place. Tywin stiffened, ready to shake off the intrusion, but the whispered words reached him, penetrating the haze of his anger.

"Breathe," Princess Rhaelle's voice urged, her grip surprisingly strong. "Cease the dark thoughts, my lord."

Tywin's jaw clenched as he struggled to regain control of his emotions. He knew she meant well, but how could he possibly calm himself in the face of such blatant insult? Of the impossible situation that Tywin found himself in? Forced to raise a misshapen bastard as his own, a foul Blackfyre under the banner of his proud house…

Tywin turned to Princess Rhaelle, and for a moment, she seemed taken aback by the intensity in his gaze. Whatever she saw in his green eyes must have truly terrified her.

"I need to return. I can't stay here. I won't..." His voice was barely a whisper, but the urgency in his tone surprised even himself. He felt a pang of vulnerability, a sensation he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge. It was as if he were a child again, seeking solace from his lady mother in times of distress.

Somehow, Princess Rhaelle understood. She nodded solemnly, her expression mirroring his own unease. "Leave then. You can rule from Casterly Rock, but you can't stay here with..." She trailed off, her gaze drifting back to where Aerys was poking at the limp fifth leg of the two-headed monster, eliciting otherworldly, horrible noises from the creature.

Tywin couldn't help but draw parallels between the creature's wails and the cries of Tyrion, and the rage within him burned anew. He knew he had to leave, to remove himself from this toxic environment before it consumed him entirely.

With a stiff bow to the princess, Tywin turned on his heel and made his retreat, his mind already racing with plans for his departure. He couldn't rid himself of the images and sounds that haunted him, but he could control his response to them. And for now, that meant removing himself from King's Landing, from Aerys's insidious influence, and from the memories that threatened to overwhelm him.

Chapter Text

The next few days proved to be a terrible ordeal for Tywin. Every time his thoughts strayed to Aerys, Joanna, or Tyrion, doubt, rage, and uncertainty clawed at him anew. It was an incessant battle within himself, one that threatened to consume him entirely.

What is truth, and what is lies? What is memory, and what is madness? How completely can fear seize hold of reason?

He managed to persuade the small council that he needed to visit Casterly Rock, and reluctantly, they agreed that he could continue to steer them from afar. Aerys barely acknowledged his Hand's decision to leave, too preoccupied with his own pursuits to pay much attention.

Steffon proved to be a useful distraction during this tumultuous time. Tywin found solace in his friend's company, and he could be reassured that the Baratheons would remain in the capital for a few weeks longer, their presence helping to stabilize some of Aerys's more erratic tendencies. Lord Ormund would have taken pride in the man Steffon had become. Once the most spirited and cheerful of the three of us, he now stands as a respected lord and a rare beacon of stability amidst the king's madness.

The queen's pregnancy, the parade of the king's mistresses – these distractions drew Aerys's attention away from Tywin as well. Yet, amidst the chaos of the court, Tywin remained haunted by the knowledge that if he were to stay, it would only be a matter of time before his patience reached its limit.

There were boundaries that, when crossed, demanded blood. Tywin knew this all too well. And while he could endure much, there were limits even he could not ignore. If he remained in King's Landing, he feared that treason, kingslaying, and war would be inevitable.

So he left the capital, riding hard with his horse and retinue on the journey home. His nights were plagued by nightmares, and he barely slept, often just lying in his cold, empty tent with his thoughts in a terrible mess of doubt.

Every detail of the tourney haunted him, every gesture of Joanna's replayed in his mind. He meticulously analyzed the moons of her pregnancy, trying to determine if the sickening fear that Joanna lied could be true. She was the person he trusted the most, his other half, and a better one at that. She had said Aerys hadn't managed to rape her, that she escaped... yet her desperate need to couple during her last night in the capital, her silence about the babe growing within her... it all gnawed at Tywin.

He was torn, his uncertainty making him colder than the winter around him. By the time he reached Casterly Rock, he was exhausted, both physically and emotionally drained.

Tywin barely acknowledged the members of his family who had come to greet him. He ignored the hurt grimaces of the twins and the concerned looks of his siblings as he rushed to the Lord's Tower. The weight of their silent questions bore down on him, making him feel like a cornered lion, ready to lash out. Cornered he felt, because even if it were true, if the dwarf were a foul bastard, a creature born out of rape... what could Tywin do?

Finally reaching his chambers, he pushed open the heavy oak door and entered his solar, hoping to find solace in the familiar surroundings. But the sight that greeted him halted him in his tracks, freezing him in place like a statue carved from stone. Three objects lay upon his desk, their presence casting a shadow over the room.

Two large portraits commanded attention, their ornate frames gleaming in the soft light filtering through the windows. In the first, Tywin stood proudly alongside Joanna and their beloved twins, their faces frozen in a moment of familial bliss. The second depicted Joanna alone, her serene countenance a poignant reminder of her absence. Yet, it was the miniature nestled between the two portraits that held Tywin's gaze the longest.

In the miniature, Joanna's smile seemed to radiate warmth, her eyes sparkling with a joy that transcended the confines of the painted canvas. It was a mere likeness, a shadow of her true beauty, but in that moment, Tywin felt a pang of longing for the woman he had loved so deeply, the woman whose absence now haunted every corner of Casterly Rock.

As Tywin stood before the portraits, a wave of bittersweet nostalgia washed over him, mingling with his inner turmoil. These were the paintings we had sat for during Joanna's pregnancy, he realized with a pang of regret. The picture depicting the entire Lannister family was likely already displayed proudly in the Golden Gallery, a testament to our unity and strength. Yet, these were the ones Tywin had wanted for himself – a family portrait for his office, a grand depiction of Joanna for his bedchamber, and the miniature to carry with him wherever he went.

With a trembling hand, Tywin reached out to trace the painted features of his lady wife in the larger portrait. The artist had failed to capture the ethereal golden glow that had always surrounded Joanna, but even in the muted tones of the painting, she still exuded a quiet dignity that spoke volumes. In that moment, Tywin's memories of Joanna seemed to converge, the shades of grey and crimson fading into the background as he recalled her words.

She had said the child was his. A Lannister. He had believed her, how could he not? Joanna would not deceive him, especially not in the shadow of impending death. And yet, doubts lingered, fueled by the twisted insinuations of Aerys and the insidious whispers of uncertainty that plagued his every thought.

As Tywin stood before the portraits, a storm of conflicting emotions raged within him. The salted water gathered in the corners of his eyes, and he hated it. He longed for clarity, for answers that seemed forever out of reach. Joanna, my beloved Joanna, is gone, and with her went the possibility of finding solace in her words.

He could go and see the monster that had ripped her open, confront the twisted creation that haunted his every thought. But would it bring me any closer to the truth? And if I were to determine that the babe wasn't mine, what then? There was no denying that Joanna had birthed it, that she had died in the act of bringing it into the world. The dwarf, foul as it may be, still carries Lannister blood. If not Tywin's, then undoubtedly Joanna's. Killing him would be kinslaying, a stain upon the honor of House Lannister that Tywin could not bear.

Tywin turned away from the portraits, his exhaustion overshadowed by a gnawing restlessness that refused to let him be. He made a decision then, a grim resolution to confront the monster that plagued his thoughts. The implications of what he might find—the traces of Aerys in the child—were too terrifying to dwell upon. He marched down the stairs with purpose, then took the lifts, his nails unconsciously worrying the already ruined skin around them. This nasty habit, so ingrained, only stopped when blood alarmed him to what he was doing.

When he finally reached the nursery assigned to Tyrion, he found it devoid of the usual caretakers. No wet nurse, no septa, no maester. Yet the dwarf was not alone. Tyrion was attempting to weave his stunted legs towards the smiling face of Lady Jaendora.

The sight of her, a rotten dragon egg with those damned purple eyes, brought a surge of fury that Tywin could barely contain. Lady Jaendora, with her Targaryen features and knowing smile, seemed to mock him silently.

Jaendora quickly curtsied deeply before Lord Lannister. She hadn't joined the rest of the family to greet him at the Lion's Mouth, having nursed a slight cold, an irritating remnant of her last visit to the icy and dreary Clegane Keep. Maester Creylen had warned her that Lord Tyrion wouldn't be strong and immune to illness, and she knew she probably shouldn't be there. Yet it pained her to see how the Lannisters largely ignored the child, leaving him in the care of servants, with the notable exception of Lord Jaime.

"My lord," she said softly, noticing how pale Lord Tywin looked. Nobody knew the true reason for his sudden return, as the keep was managed well by Lady Genna and Lord Kevan. The West had endured the winter admirably, and no bannerman ever dreamt of rebellion after the fate of the Reynes and Tarbecks. Thus, Lord Tywin's unexpected presence raised many questions, and Jaendora never suspected he would come to the nursery so soon after his arrival.

Tywin looked at the thirteen-year-old girl, a fleeting thought crossing his mind that she seemed less pretty each time he saw her. Must be peasant blood on her mother's side. Today, her nose was red, and her dress fit poorly. He approached with sure footsteps, masking any hint of doubt or uncertainty. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

"I sometimes look after Lord Tyrion, my lord," Jaendora explained, trying to smile but faltering. Lord Tywin frightened her, a memory of their last meeting after Lady Joanna's funeral still fresh in her mind.

"You've had no more dreams," Tywin stated, confident she would have informed him had she experienced any, especially after failing to warn them before. He pursed his lips, a gesture of restrained anger.

"No, my lord. I... am not sleeping well at Clegane Keep," Jaendora admitted with a shudder. She had returned to the Rock only a week ago. Her father had not been pleased, interpreting her return after her first moonblood as a sign of their liege's displeasure. But Jaendora was more worried about her brother Gregor. She locked her doors at night, feeling that the aura of Lannister approval protected her less and less.

Tywin had an angry thought that it was very presumptuous of her to sleep better here than in the keep where she was raised. Half-peasant, half-dragon, feeling at home in Casterly Rock! He looked down at the one who might be half-Targaryen too. The dwarf had changed. He had one green eye and one black. The babe had grown some hair, mostly fair blond, but with some black tufts too. A grotesque sight. Yet Tywin tried to see Lannister traces in him.

"He is a curious little one, my lord," said Jaendora, who couldn't bear the silence and the memories of Gregor's cruel laugh after she had found he had killed the weakest hound in their father's kennel. She moved her finger before Lord Tyrion's face, and the babe tried to grab it.

Tywin nodded, still staring at the ugly dwarf. His doubts were so loud in his head that, at that moment, he might have believed the monster was a creature born from the union of a whore and an Other. He forced himself to calm down. It is quite simple, he realized. Either he trusted Joanna or he did not. She had said the babe was his, that Aerys hadn't succeeded in his assault. Questioning it now, disbelieving her words, would mean that Aerys had managed to poison something Tywin had vowed never to let him touch: his trust in his lady wife.

Besides, deciding that the dwarf was a bastard wouldn't change the fact that Tywin couldn't kill him. Or the king. Nothing was more bitter than the powerlessness Tywin felt, but he resigned himself to the cruel fate.

His nails, which had been worrying the skin around his fingers, finally ceased their relentless assault. The blood gathering in the small wounds was a physical reminder of his inner turmoil, but now he needed to let it go. Joanna had been his strength, his other half, the one person he trusted above all others. To doubt her now would be to let Aerys win, to let his madness infect my own mind.

Tywin took a deep breath, the cold air of Casterly Rock filling his lungs, grounding him. He turned away from the dwarf and strode out of the nursery. His footsteps echoed through the stone corridors, each step a reaffirmation of his resolve. He had a realm to manage, a house to lead, and enemies to outmaneuver.

The pain and anger, the doubt and suspicion—they were still there, gnawing at the edges of his mind. But Tywin Lannister was not a man who let emotions rule him. He would find clarity, he would fortify his house, and he would ensure that the Lannister name remained unassailable. Even if it meant swallowing the bitter taste of raising a child he couldn't help but see as the symbol of his greatest failure.

Jaendora watched her liege lord leave, allowing herself a small sigh of relief once the doors to the nursery shut behind him. She cooed softly at Lord Tyrion, cradling the infant in her arms and thinking how his father hadn't even touched him or spoken a single word to him. Deprived of a mother, abandoned by a father, cursed by the gods—how bleak the future seems for this child. Lord Tywin's return might bring changes to Jaendora's own future, but she felt no more blessed than the babe in her arms.

Sympathy welled up within her for Tyrion. She briefly recalled the daughter she had seen in her dreams, the future child of this little lord. At least he would have one good, magnificent child. Did the gods have any children in store for her? She longed for a babe of her own, a purpose to raise it well and shower it with the love and care it deserved.

The next few days at Casterly Rock were tense and charged with a palpable undercurrent of anxiety. Tywin ordered the portraits to be hung, each one a reminder of Joanna's presence. The family portrait was placed in his office, the large one of Joanna adorned his bedchamber, and the miniature was kept close to him, a constant yet painful companion.

Tywin found moments to address family matters with his characteristic severity. He criticized Jaime for his lack of progress in reading, expressing his disappointment in the boy's failure to excel in all aspects. Genna was tasked with finding suitable lady companions for Cersei, ensuring that Tywin's daughter would be influenced by the right sorts of women. Gerion was scolded for some jest or another, Tywin's patience wearing thin with every passing day.

He poured himself into his work, sending letter after letter to King's Landing, meticulously managing the realm's affairs from afar. Yet, he avoided seeing Tyrion again. Ignoring the dwarf was the best plan he had for now, a way to stave off the tormenting doubts and the bitter rage that still simmered within him.

Ignoring the whispers, the mockery behind his back, and the rumors of the gods' displeasure with his hubris was harder. The murmurs of his house being cursed and his line tainted gnawed at him, but Tywin endured it with his usual stoicism. He welcomed the end of the dreadful year 273, hoping the new year would bring some relief from his troubles.

The year 274 brought news that offered a glimmer of hope. Queen Rhaella had given birth to a son, named Jaehaerys. Baratheons, who had stayed in the capital long enough to witness the first months of the babe's life, claimed that the joy had transformed Aerys back to his old self. Tywin received these reports with skepticism.

Yet, beneath his cold exterior, a pang of jealousy lingered. He would never admit it, but the news of Aerys' newfound happiness stung. The king had a son, a legitimate heir, while Tywin's own lineage was marred by the birth of a dwarf.

After a few weeks in Casterly Rock, Tywin felt an overwhelming need to leave again. The problem was with his children. They reminded him too much of Joanna. Jaime, with his bold character and stubbornness, and Cersei, with her striking looks, were constant reminders of his lost wife. Though Casterly Rock was one of the largest keeps in Westeros, Tywin found it increasingly difficult to avoid his children.

Jaime was a handful, always seeking adventure and displaying the same fiery spirit that had once attracted Tywin to Joanna. Every time he saw his son, he saw glimpses of his wife, the echoes of her laughter and the spark of her defiance. It was painful and infuriating, a constant tug at his composed demeanor.

Cersei, on the other hand, was a different kind of challenge. Determined to emulate her father, she had taken to wearing severe black dresses and barking orders at the servants, a behavior that bordered on the ridiculous. Her attempts to mimic his authority and demeanor tested Tywin's patience to its limits. She is a young lady, not the lord of Casterly Rock, and her theatrics only underscore her youth and inexperience.

Every interaction with Cersei was a battle. She followed him around the keep, demanding his attention and approval, trying to prove that she was worthy of his legacy. But instead of seeing the promise of a strong future, Tywin saw a child playing dress-up, a daughter who reminded him too much of Joanna and yet not enough.

One day, not long after Genna had invited some noble girls as companions for Cersei, Lord Farman and his tearful daughter, Lady Jeyne, arrived at Tywin's office, with the unapologetic Cersei in tow. Tywin glanced up from his desk, his expression impassive as he assessed the situation before him.

"My lord, I would never bother you with it, but I fear your noble daughter's actions would have severe consequences not only for my Jeyne, but for Lady Cersei herself too," Lord Farman began, his voice tinged with frustration and concern.

Though the sniffling of Lady Jeyne irritated Tywin, he refrained from dismissing them outright. "I am listening," he replied curtly, his gaze fixed on Cersei, who stood before him with defiant determination. What folly have you committed now, my bitter daughter?

Lord Farman continued, his words measured and firm. "She took Jeyne to the lion's cages, my lord. And she opened one of them. If the lion's keepers hadn't defied her orders, she would have set free the menacing old lion."

Tywin's mind raced as he processed the gravity of Cersei's actions. The menacing old lion she spoke of was no ordinary beast—it was the cub born from the lioness that once attacked his lord father. Though aged, the creature remained a formidable and dangerous presence in the lion's den. Still fit enough to eat reckless little girls.

Turning his gaze to Cersei, Tywin's expression hardened. "Is this true?" he demanded, his voice cutting through the tension in the room.

Cersei, undeterred by the severity of the situation, straightened her posture and met her father's gaze with unwavering confidence. "A Lannister fears nothing," she declared boldly. "Jaime showed me some swordwork. I would defeat the beast."

Her arrogance bordered on the absurd, and Lord Farman couldn't help but snort derisively at her words. However, he quickly composed himself under Tywin's steely gaze.

Tywin, unimpressed by Cersei's bravado, leveled a stern look at his daughter. "You endangered not only the daughter of a loyal bannerman, but also yourself," he admonished. "Even a fully armored knight would think twice before facing that lion. You are a lady, Cersei. Show some courtesy and apologize to Lady Jeyne."

Cersei's confidence wavered under her father's unwavering gaze, and she muttered a half-hearted apology. The Farmans departed, bowing deeply in deference.

Alone with her lord father, Cersei couldn't resist voicing her discontent. "You should punish the lion-keepers, Father," she protested. "They ignored my orders!"

Tywin's patience wore thin at Cersei's defiance. "They were right to do so. Even your uncle Gerion didn't entertain such foolish ideas," he reprimanded, his tone cold and stern. Cersei's lower lip trembled slightly as she bit it, her father's disapproval weighing heavily upon her.

Before Cersei could muster a response, a guard's voice echoed from outside the door, announcing Lady Jaendora's desire to see Lord Lannister. Tywin's attention shifted immediately, his expression firm as he ordered Cersei to leave and attend to her duties. Jaendora's presence indicated that she had another dream to share, and Tywin knew better than to dismiss her visions lightly.

Reluctantly, Cersei shot a glare at the older girl before turning and leaving the room.

As Cersei passed her, Jaendora couldn't help but inwardly groan. The death of Lady Joanna had changed everyone in Casterly Rock, but Cersei had turned particularly foul. Lately, with her newfound bedmaids, Cersei had mostly ignored Jaendora, but despite this recent indifference, Jaendora couldn't shake the feeling that Cersei would find a way to retaliate for any attention Lord Tywin bestowed upon her.

However, Jaendora's immediate concern lay with the disturbing dream that had plagued her. She reluctantly settled into the chair before lord Tywin's desk as he ordered, her gaze fixed anywhere but on him.

"I presume you had another dream?" Tywin inquired, his gaze piercing.

Jaendora nodded, taking a deep breath before speaking. "It was about the red-haired lady. She was on the balcony, in King's Landing, I believe. She was watching a huge building being burned with green flames. I think it was a sept. A sept in King's Landing?" Jaendora shivered, the memory of the enormous fire haunting her. The building of the sept must have been colossal, yet the flames had utterly destroyed it. I never thought a fire could be so huge.

"Sept of Baelor," Tywin muttered, the name stirring memories of his wedding day. Pushing aside his own thoughts, he focused his attention back on Lady Jaendora.

As Jaendora recounted her dream, she remembered the details vividly. "The lady was not alone; Lady Genna was with her, though she seemed less terrified and surprised. She appeared much older than now, with much of her hair turned white." Jaendora paused, taking another calming breath before continuing. "The red-haired lady was distressed, muttering that the gods would punish them for it. Lady Genna responded, 'My lord brother is a ruthless man, my lady. He would never ignore an open attack on his lady wife. Have you forgotten? They brought the doom upon themselves.'" The red-haired lady winced and whispered that there were moments she forgot, and that she hated herself for it."

Jaendora shifted uncomfortably under Tywin's scrutinizing gaze, feeling the weight of his frown upon her.

The frown was a sign that Tywin's dissatisfaction grew. The notion of remarriage unsettled him deeply; no woman could ever replace Joanna as lady of Casterly Rock. She was irreplaceable, her essence woven into the very fabric of their home. And while he would undoubtedly retaliate against any attack on his lady wife, the idea of blowing up the Sept of Baelor seemed extreme, even for him.

Jaendora's narrative continued, delving into the emotional depths of the dream. "Lady Genna was surprised by this admission," she recounted. "'Yourself?' she asked. 'And about what you forget, my lady, because I think you are not talking about the attack during the wedding.' The red-haired lady turned from the smoke and said, 'I forget who he is, what he has done. I fail myself time after time, dancing to his tune, even if the tune is the Rains of Castamere melody.'"

The image of the dignified woman, her turquoise eyes filled with pain, sent a shiver down Jaendora's spine yet she went on.

"Lady Genna put her hands on her hips," Jaendora narrated, "and asked, 'What are you trying to tell me, my lady? That your capture was not a brilliant foresight of my brother's behalf?'"

The red-haired lady laughed bitterly. "People underestimate my lord husband's ability to read their thoughts and emotions, their desires and motivations," she replied. "He does so, just in most cases ignores conclusions and doesn't care to act upon them. But he paid attention to me the very first time we had met and continued to do so every other meeting. So it was easy for him to determine my movements when the war started."

Jaendora paused, then tried to imitate Genna's voice: "Yet it's not your fault," Lady Genna admonished gently. "Blaming yourself for the start of this madness is not right either."

But the red-haired lady remained unconvinced. "It's all a game. Of thrones, blood, legacies," she lamented. "And against him I lose every time."

"Then stop playing against him, my lady," Lady Genna advised. "He granted you a unique opportunity to stand by his side while he wins." She gestured towards the burning sept."

Tywin's gaze remained fixed on Jaendora, pondering her words carefully. She was too young and inexperienced to fabricate such insights, yet her account aligned disturbingly well with the thoughts swirling in his own mind.

"I wouldn't blow up the Sept of Baelor," he asserted, though his voice held a tinge of uncertainty. Admitting to such extreme measures, even in a hypothetical context, felt foreign to him.

Jaendora's next words cut through the air like a blade. "You are the man who drowned Reynes in their mines, my lord. Wouldn't you rain fire on your enemies?" Her question struck a chord within Tywin, and he couldn't deny the truth in her observation.

"Have they said something more?" Tywin inquired, his tone measured.

"No, my lord. If they did, it was not shown to me," Jaendora responded.

"How did they look? Could you identify the other lady? Estimate their ages?" Tywin pressed, seeking more details.

Jaendora paused to recall the scene from her dream. "Lady Genna looked old, but well. The red-haired lady was much younger. She had blue eyes, was very beautiful..." Her voice trailed off, unable to fully capture the memory. Memorizing their words was a challenge hard enough.

Tywin tried to find some solace in the knowledge that his sister would live long enough to look old. The mysterious red-haired lady, presumably his future wife, was a thought he struggled to ignore. Yet, deep down, he couldn't deny that she had accurately captured some aspects of his character.

"It's a strange thing, these dreams of yours," he remarked to Jaendora, who fidgeted uncomfortably.

"They are a curse, my lord. I pray for them to cease," Jaendora replied. The dreams, though intriguing glimpses into possible futures, made her feel like she was failing to grasp a lifeline that could save hundreds of people. She wondered what Lord Tywin would do with the idea that blowing up the Sept of Baelor was possible—perhaps even inevitable—if he believed in her visions, which had thus far proven true every single time.

"Then stop." Tywin declared. "These visions of yours, though unsettling, might offer us a way to prepare for what is to come."

Jaendora felt a shiver run down her spine. The burden of her dreams felt heavier now, knowing that Tywin Lannister was taking them seriously. "I will continue to share them with you, my lord, as they come."

Tywin gave a curt nod. "See that you do. And remember, not a word of this to anyone else."

"Of course, my lord," Jaendora replied, bowing her head.

Tywin dismissed her with a wave of his hand, and as she left, he turned back to his thoughts. The idea of a mysterious lady wife gnawed at him, and the image of the burning Sept of Baelor lingered in his mind. He could not ignore the uncanny accuracy of Jaendora's observation of him, a man capable of raining fire on his enemies. The idea unsettled him a little, yet it was a stark reminder of the ruthless lengths he might go to in order to protect his family and his legacy.

Chapter Text

A fortnight after Jaendora's dream, Tywin had enough of Casterly Rock, where he was equally haunted by Joanna's ghost and plagued by uncertainty about Tyrion. Returning to King's Landing didn't seem like a good idea either. Tywin believed he needed a change—a new scenery to distract him from his tormenting thoughts. Winter was the worst time for traveling, but Tywin didn't care for the cold. Some part of him was already frozen, unlikely to thaw.

When the opportunity to leave and see something new arose, Tywin seized it, not bothering to explain his rather strange decision. Nobody would have predicted that the lord of Casterly Rock would wish to see the humble keep of the lord of the Crossing. When Lord Walder Frey insisted that his second son and two grandsons should spend some time in the Twins, he likely didn't imagine they would come with the Hand of the King himself.

Tywin feigned interest in the keep where his sister was supposed to live, a place mostly renovated with her Lannister gold. Genna, who had taken on many of the duties of the Lady of Casterly Rock and had a hand in raising Cersei, was unlikely to travel to the Twins anytime soon. Her sons, however, were old enough to accompany their father and formidable uncle.

Kevan had warned Tywin that the journey could prove difficult, and Tywin assumed he was referring to the weather or muddy roads. However, the real source of his irritation during the trip turned out to be the Freys themselves. Emmon Frey, Genna's husband, tried too hard to impress his goodbrother. As though I could ever think differently of him after that wretched feast, when Father handed Genna over because Emmon's grasping coward of a father simply asked. His eldest, twelve-year-old Cleos, was more of a whining weasel than a lion. Only eleven-year-old Lyonel showed some sense, keeping his mouth shut and trying to ignore the cold.

It was impossible for the Hand of the King to travel through the realm unnoticed. Tywin had barely reached his first stop, Sarsfield, when a raven from the Lord Paramount of the Trident awaited him there. Lord Hoster Tully, despite having lost his lady wife in childbirth just two moons ago, extended an invitation to Lord Lannister to visit his seat of power, Riverrun. If Lord Tully hadn't insisted in the letter, Tywin wouldn't have imposed on him, remembering how much he had resented Princess Loreza's visit not long after Joanna's death. But it seems Lord Tully either seeks distraction from his grief, or cares more for political alliances than for mourning.

Accepting the invitation, Tywin, accompanied by his pathetic goodbrother, two nephews, and a retinue of five hundred men, set off towards Riverrun. The journey was grueling, with the icy roads making travel slow and arduous. After a week of enduring the harsh winter conditions, they finally arrived at the point where the Tumblestone joined with the Red Fork. Riverrun Castle was barely visible through the icy mist. I wonder if the mist conceals us just as well from the guards upon the battlements.

As Riverrun loomed closer through the milky fog, Tywin's keen eyes immediately began to assess the castle's visible strengths and weaknesses. Riverrun was not one of the most impressive castles in Westeros, and in the bleakness of winter, it looked even less formidable. However, Tywin could imagine it in a different light during the summer, when its natural defenses and strategic location would shine.

The castle's red sandstone walls rose sheer from the water, a natural moat that added to its defenses. The battlements were crenelated, with arrow loops providing excellent vantage points for archers. The towers commanded the opposite shores, ensuring that any approaching force would be under constant scrutiny. Tywin noted the guards wearing fish-crest helms, a proud display of House Tully's sigil, as they shouted to open the heavy redwood doors.

Once inside, it became obvious that the keep was triangular in shape. The first courtyard, with cloisters forming a V-shape, was surprisingly small. The narrow space meant that only a limited number of soldiers could gather there at any given time. As a result, some of Tywin's men had to wait outside the gate, while he and his immediate retinue were greeted with the traditional bread and salt.

Tywin dismounted his magnificent black destrier with a practiced ease, the flourish of his red Lannister cape adding to his imposing presence as he approached the waiting Tully family. Lord Hoster, the lord of Riverrun, had decided to greet the Hand in person. After all, to delegate such a task after extending the invitation and insisting upon Tywin's presence would be an inconsistent insult. Though Hoster was the same age as Tywin, he appeared much older, his face lined with the grief and sleepless nights that had come with recent tragedies.

"Lord Hand, welcome to Riverrun," Lord Hoster said, bowing slightly.

"Lord Tully," Tywin replied, his eyes scanning for the customary offering of bread and salt. Before he could spot them, a child's crying drew his attention. Behind Lord Hoster stood his younger brother, Ser Brynden, known as the Blackfish, holding a three-year-old boy.

"Ah, my heir is impatient to meet you, my lord. Lord Edmure he is called. My brother, Ser Brynden, you have met before," Lord Hoster said, sending a pointed glare at his brother, who quickly hushed the crying boy.

"A bread and salt for you, my lord Hand," a lady's voice rose above the boy's cries. The servants indeed carried the traditional offerings, but Tywin's attention was drawn to the owner of the voice. Pleasant voice. It was a young girl, no older than ten name days, yet she carried herself with the poise and confidence of the lady of the keep—a striking contrast to the similarly-aged girl standing next to her, who appeared more timid.

Tywin took the bread and dipped it in salt, his eyes still scrutinizing the girl before him. "My eldest daughter, Lady Catelyn. Younger one, Lady Lysa. And ward of our House, Lord Petyr Baelish," introduced Lord Hoster. Yet Tywin didn't turn his gaze from young Lady Catelyn. She was a pretty girl, with a promise of maturing into a beautiful lady. As she scrutinized Tywin too, without the fear that almost everyone else displayed, there was something intriguing in her blue eyes. Their color is closer to the turquoise waters of the Sunset Sea than to the rivers of her homeland.

"Well met, my lady," Tywin said deliberately, acknowledging only the eldest girl. She curtsied, then said, "We are very honored to host you in Riverrun, my lord. We all did our best to provide you with quarters, food, and entertainment befitting your station." She emphasized the word "all" and elbowed her sister, who curtsied wobblingly. Tywin finally acknowledged the younger children with a nod.

Lord Hoster, seeing that the bread and salt were properly consumed, said, "Cat, take Edmure to his supper and order the septa to put him to bed. Ser Brynden will show you guest chambers, Lord Hand."

Lady Catelyn nodded and took her younger brother's hand, leading him away with practiced ease. Edmure's cries had subsided, and he followed his sister obediently. Tywin watched them go, noting the composed demeanor of Lady Catelyn and the nervous glances of Lady Lysa, who trailed behind.

A few hours later, before the welcoming feast prepared in the honor of their esteemed guest, Catelyn sat at her vanity, brushing her long, red hair. Her movements were mechanical, her mind elsewhere, lost in thoughts about Lord Lannister. No guest she had ever seen in Riverrun looked grander than he did. His commanding presence filled the courtyard when he rode in on his shiny black destrier, his red Lannister cape billowing behind him like a banner.

Yet, there was a sense of danger about him. Catelyn knew the tales, had heard the song about his ruthless nature. Tywin Lannister was a man to be feared, a man who inspired both awe and dread. What surprised her was the attention he paid not only to her lord father and uncle but also to her. For a moment, his focus had been entirely on me. It was a strange feeling, as if his pale-green eyes could read her like an open book, stripping away all pretense and seeing her true self.

Stranger still was her desire to impress him, to show him that she was already a perfect lady, managing the keep in her mother's stead. The memory of her late mother made her pause, her shoulders slumping a bit. She missed her terribly, even though two moons had passed since her passing. The void left by her mother's absence had not disappeared, and it weighed heavily on her heart. Everyone in Riverrun felt it, their grief palpable in the air.

Lord Hand's visit had provided a welcome distraction, but it was clear that grief-stricken Riverrun hardly looked its best. Despite Catelyn's best efforts, the castle seemed to languish in sorrow. She had taken on nearly all the responsibilities of the most important lady in the castle, working tirelessly to maintain order and ensure that everything ran smoothly. Yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that it was all inadequate.

She placed the brush down and studied her reflection. Her hair, a vibrant red, was now smooth and shining, falling in waves over her shoulders. Her blue eyes, thoughtful and determined, stared back at her. She wore a simple yet elegant black dress. The neckline was modest, and the fabric flowed gracefully around her frame. I look well. Not spectacular, but well enough.

"Catelyn, are you ready?" came Lysa's voice from the doorway. Her younger sister entered the room.

"Almost," Catelyn replied, giving her sister a reassuring smile. She rose from her seat and smoothed her dress, then turned to Lysa. "Remember to smile and be courteous. We must make a good impression." No doubt Father has woven some of his plans around it already.

Lysa nodded, trying to muster a smile. "I will, Cat. It's just...he's so scary."

Catelyn placed a comforting hand on her sister's shoulder. "He is almost the most powerful lord in the realm, Lysa," she whispered, trying to sound confident. "We must be on our best behavior during his stay here." As every weakness would be measured.

Lysa nodded, her eyes wide with apprehension, and Catelyn gently urged her towards the door, silently praying that she wouldn't break down in tears.

As the feast wore on, it became increasingly clear that it was an ordeal for everyone involved. The young Freys looked uncomfortable and out of place, while conversations with Ser Emmon felt like talking to a stone, with only occasional replies that echoed emptily in the air.

Catelyn's gaze flicked towards Lord Lannister, who sat stiffly between her father and her uncle Brynden. She suspected that her father was attempting to find common ground with the powerful lord, perhaps by discussing their shared loss—their dead wives. The worst possible subject. It was a conversation Catelyn wanted to avoid at all costs.

Desperate for a distraction, Catelyn scanned the room, searching for something—anything—that could divert attention away from the uncomfortable atmosphere.

The time dragged on and Tywin found himself unconsciously pressing his thumbs into the sensitive, raw skin around his nails, a habit born of frustration and impatience. Two hours into the feast, and he could already recite a litany of Lady Minisa's virtues from memory. Why Lord Tully, in his blasted state of grief, insisted on showering them with hospitality was beyond Tywin's comprehension. Couldn't he take a hint from Tywin's stony silence and cease the comparisons of their losses?

Any mention of Tyrion, and I'll leave this wretched place without a second thought, Tywin vowed silently to himself, his jaw clenched in barely contained irritation.

Lord Hoster took a long swig of the warm ale, his voice finally trailing off. A sudden hush fell around the main table, as if the room collectively held its breath. Into this silence, a woman's voice rose especially loud.

"Trebuchet!" young Lady Catelyn exclaimed, clutching a spoon tightly and looking at Tywin almost pleadingly. Her eyes shone with a mixture of desperation and determination, and she seemed to grasp at the word as if it were a lifeline.

Everyone turned to her, their curiosity piqued by the unexpected outburst. Tywin raised an eyebrow, his attention drawn away from his nails and the unbearable conversation.

"Trebuchet, my lord," Catelyn continued, her voice steadying. "We have a trebuchet here in Riverrun. It was last used in the conflict with the Ironborn, but I thought perhaps you might have some insights into improving its efficiency. Given your expertise in siegecraft, that is."

The tension at the table shifted as eyes moved between Tywin and Catelyn. Tywin, slightly taken aback by the unexpected topic, felt a flicker of relief at the diversion. It was hardly subtle, mayhaps, yet considerate all the same. He inclined his head, considering her words.

"I could see it indeed, my lady. Does siegecraft hold any interest to you?"

Some of the lords around the table snickered at the idea, but Tywin ignored them. His interest was genuine. The ten-year-old girl's perceptiveness and courage to shift the conversation had piqued his curiosity. The transition in topics wasn't smooth, but he could see the potential in her. With a few more years, Lady Catelyn could become the epitome of an ideal lady.

Catelyn blushed under the intensity of Lord Lannister's gaze, but she managed to reply, "Only as a means to defend my keep, should the need arise, my lord." In the corner of her eye, she saw Uncle Brynden beaming at her, his pride evident. Even her lord father offered her a compliment:

"My little Cat takes great care of Riverrun, Lord Hand. She could hold the castle in the event of any danger and my absence," Lord Hoster said, his voice filled with fatherly pride.

Hm. The same cannot be said of Cersei. Another irritation. Tywin leaned slightly forward, his expression carefully controlled as he asked, "You keep the trebuchet in the main keep?" It wasn't his interest in the siege machine that prompted the question, but rather a desire to free himself from the tiresome company surrounding him. Lady Catelyn had judiciously opened a gate, and Tywin was determined to step through it.

"It's on the barge, but along the eastern wall, on the way to your guest chamber. I could show you from the balcony, my lord," Catelyn offered. She had an odd sense that there was a mutual understanding between her and the formidable blond man. They both had enough of this feast and the oppressive weight of the occasion. This is another opportunity to gain the respect of the lord Hand, something Father craves so much that he seems to have lost most of his own wits and courtesies.

Tywin rose from his seat, his red Lannister cape flowing behind him. "Very well, my lady. Lead the way," he said with a curt nod, addressing lady Catelyn directly and ignoring the surprised glances from the other guests. Just away from here.

Catelyn, feeling a mix of nerves and determination, rose gracefully. "If you would excuse us," she said to the table, her voice steady. She walked with a confident stride, leading lord Tywin out of the hall.

Two sets of guards followed them: Tywin's red cloaks and two Tully soldiers. They kept a respectful distance, allowing Tywin to mutter in a voice so low that only Catelyn could hear, "With time, you will be subtler, my lady." It was a simple statement of fact, not exactly an assurance, but no admonishment either.

Catelyn hoped she didn't blush too much. "The spoon inspired me. Had my little brother been there, I would have come up with something earlier. He has a trebuchet in miniature as a toy." She had to move quickly to keep pace with the tall lord's long strides.

"Why the need to come up with something?" Tywin asked, still curious about her motives. At ten years old, she couldn't be so mature as to seek political gain, or so he thought.

"I have been trapped in similar conversations for the past two moons, my lord. My lord father loses some of his instincts in courtesy in his grief."

"You do not," Tywin pointed out.

Catelyn shrugged. "Courtesy is a lady's armor."

Tywin thought bitterly that courtesy was not always an effective protection, recalling all the insults Joanna had to endure with a courteous smile. Lady Catelyn led him to the unused chamber along the eastern wall. It was cold and dark, the trebuchet barely visible, but Tywin didn't care. The little lady was smart to offer him an excuse to retreat from the tense air of the great hall, and for that, he was grateful.

"I will inspect it closer in the morn," Tywin said, pointing to the siege machine. It was quite clever, swaying together with the barge on which it stood.

"You are not impressed with Riverrun as a whole, are you, my lord?" Catelyn asked, her curiosity piqued. She wanted to know what she could do to improve her house's image in his eyes.

"It's my first day here, my lady," Tywin replied, his gaze shifting from the trebuchet to Catelyn. "But I can already say that there is something impressive."

He looked at her meaningfully, acknowledging her maturity and poise. She had seen only two namesdays more than Cersei, but she was certainly better at her duties as the most noble lady of the keep.

Catelyn felt a surge of foolish pride. She tried to convince herself that it was an immense honor to be positively acknowledged by Lord Tywin Lannister, a man not known for his compliments. "If anything, Riverrun is calm, peaceful. Because of the rivers, I think," she gestured to the dark waters beneath them.

Tywin nodded in agreement. The waves crashing against Casterly Rock could be violent during storms. Here, the rivers ran steady, and the sound of the gentle water was soothing. "Your famous waterwheel is quiet," he said.

He saw the surprise flash across the girl's face. "You read about Riverrun," she muttered, almost in awe.

"I always wanted to see the seats of all great houses," he admitted. It was a dream he had shared with Joanna. He had already seen Sunspear and Storm's End. His duties as Hand had kept him grounded in the capital, but his relationship with Aerys had deteriorated so badly that he didn't suppose the king would deny him some journeys, as a measure to keep distance between them. Gods, Joanna and Aerys, his thoughts were turning bitter again.

Catelyn, sensing a change in his demeanor, tried to steer the conversation back to more pleasant topics. "The waterwheel is at the other end of the keep. Guest chambers were purposefully located far from it. It's not loud, but it can be disturbing if one is not accustomed to it," she explained.

Tywin nodded. The wheel couldn't be more impressive than the lifts in the Rock or as pretty as the Water Gardens in Dorne, but the pride young Lady Tully held for her home was unmistakable. It was something he appreciated. "I am looking forward to seeing the castle in the daylight," he said politely.

They both turned toward the doors. The guards escorting them followed like quiet shadows until they reached the quarters assigned to Tywin.

"Till the morn, Lord Hand." Catelyn curtsied.

"My lady," he replied, watching as she turned to leave. Only after she disappeared around the corner did he realize that usually, he wouldn't know how to talk with a lady her age. Yet, she possessed an understanding that eased the conversation.

Once inside his chambers, extremely tired, Tywin ignored the childish voice whispering in his mind, "Red of hair, blue-eyed..."

Chapter Text

The next day surprised everyone with a snowstorm. Big, heavy snowflakes fell from the sky, draping Riverrun Castle like white sheets. The weather discouraged the Freys from exploring the keep, but Tywin, undeterred, donned warmer clothes and ventured out onto the balcony Lady Catelyn had shown him the previous night.

Snow had gathered in the trebuchet's spoon, but it was nevertheless more visible in the daylight. It was a fine weapon, but Tywin was unable to truly focus on it. Instead, he found himself worrying the red skin around his nails again, lost in thoughts of Joanna.

We should be here together, with her laughing at the thought of placing Aerys upon a trebuchet spoon and casting him into the Red Fork. He would drown, and I would scarcely bother concealing my satisfaction.

Tywin looked down at the mess he had made of his own hands. They were never pristine, as sword-training had sculpted some callouses, and by the end of each day there were usually some ink stains. But now, blood marred them. His own blood, scarlet, bright, almost cheerful amidst the grey of his grief. It was strangely comforting that it wasn't rusty or burgundy...

"A bad habit, my lord," a voice said.

Tywin didn't exactly startle, but he turned abruptly. Lady Catelyn stood there, clothed in warm furs that almost swallowed her slim, childish form. In her extended hand, she held a pair of red-leather gloves. The gloves I must have lost on the way here.

Tywin took the gloves with a nod, not bothering to thank her. He felt a mix of gratitude and frustration that she had noticed this one tiny sign of weakness.

Meanwhile, Catelyn studied his hands. She found them strangely fascinating, even reddened with cold and marred with blood from small wounds around the nails. Those are strong hands, capable of many things, great things, but terrifying too. She thought Lord Lannister had very long and nimble fingers for a man. Her lord father had stubby fingers, one actually shorter from the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Lord Lannister clearly wielded a sword often too, but there was something precise about every movement of his hands.

Suddenly, she realized that she was staring unashamedly, so she blushed. "I found them on the stairs. Red, finely made, and you clearly lack a pair, my lord. It wouldn't do if the Hand lost a part of his hands to frostbite in Riverrun," she said, trying to excuse her fascination with the fact that those very hands held the most power in the realm.

Tywin glanced at the gloves. Joanna would have admonished him for losing them so carelessly, but she was gone, and he didn't even feel the cold. "It would not do at all," he said. Instead of slipping the gloves on, he tugged with his thumb at the loose piece of skin around his pointing fingernail. I would have both my hands flayed—my entire arms, if need be—if it meant bringing Joanna back. Another unbidden thought about Joanna surfaced, and he felt like a mess—a man lost, with the pain better than the growl that sometimes formed in his throat, bidding him to unleash it all in one cry of anguish.

Seeing him indulging in this bad habit again, Catelyn stifled an urge to do the same. She instinctively reached out to put her hand on his but froze, realizing it wouldn't be proper. Tywin froze too, sensing that the girl had wanted to reach out to him, touch him. When was the last time anyone had done that without thinking, without fear, without the creeping apprehension that now colored her face?

Catelyn retracted her hand quickly, her cheeks flushing slightly. "I did it too, as a little child," she explained. "Couldn't keep my hands idle for long. My lady mother lamented that my hands would be worse than a soldier's or a washing woman's. She taught me to embroider when I felt the urge. Better to attack fabric with a needle than my own skin with my nails." She didn't know why she shared this; every reminder of her mother's death was painful.

Tywin glanced at the gloves in his hands, then put them on. He was quite aware that the girl bravely faced her own grief to distract him from his. So he indulged her. "I couldn't very well use that solution, could I, my lady?" he said, trying to focus on the thought that he probably could manage a needle well enough, not on the fact that Joanna didn't like sewing or embroidery. I was always the more patient, the more precise… yet she possessed other strengths that more than compensated for it.

Catelyn managed a small smile, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "No, my lord. I suppose not. But perhaps you could find something else to keep your hands occupied. Something that brings you a measure of peace."

Tywin couldn't think of anything that would distract him from his bad habit. The thoughts of Joanna, too, were inescapable. Nothing could steer him away from them for long. He glanced down at the red-haired girl beside him, mature beyond her years. "So what have you embroidered lately, my lady?" he asked, the question laden with meaning. How had she coped with the loss of her mother? Did she lapse back into some kind of self-harm?

Catelyn looked down at the tranquil river, undeterred by the falling snow. She desperately wanted to forget how she had bounced back to even biting her fingers after her lady mother lost her battle in childbed. "I made a doll for Lysa, a stuffed trout for Edmure," she shared, masking her shame with pride. Her siblings liked the gifts, and older ladies praised her skill.

Tywin heard the pride in Catelyn's voice as she spoke of something she had created herself. It made him pause and reflect. Had I ever felt something similar? Had I ever created something with my own hands? His mind drifted involuntarily to the memory of Joanna's necklace made of shells, a simple yet beautiful creation she had cherished.

"Have you tried wood carving, my lord?" Catelyn's voice interrupted his thoughts. She spoke with a thoughtful tone, her mind drifting to memories of her mother's collection of wooden bats hanging above her bed's canopy. Her mother had believed they protected the Whents from Harrenhal's curse. But they did not protect her from the Stranger in the end.

Tywin shook his head slightly at Catelyn's suggestion of wood carving, but he found himself mulling over its potential. It was a clever idea — a simple yet productive way to occupy his mind. "I haven't, but I may consider it," he replied thoughtfully.

Catelyn, trying to mask the shiver from the cold, shrugged nonchalantly, though Tywin noticed the brief glance of resentment she shot at the snowy sky.

"It's too cold," Catelyn muttered under her breath, her dislike for the snow evident.

"I will escort you to the Great Hall, my lady," Tywin said, extending his arm as if she were a full-grown lady of court, not a ten-year-old girl thrust into the responsibilities of managing Riverrun after her mother's passing.

Catelyn hesitated for a moment, surprised by the gesture but recognizing the honor in it. She nodded gratefully and slipped her arm through his, feeling the contrast between his strength and her own smallness. Together, they walked through the snow-covered courtyard towards the warmth of Riverrun's Great Hall.

After a light lunch, Lord Hoster Tully eagerly suggested they take a ride to one of the nearby villages to show Lord Tywin the affection and loyalty the smallfolk of the Riverlands held for their lieges. The winter sun shone weakly through the overcast sky, casting a soft light over the snow-covered landscape.

Catelyn, confident in her riding skills, mounted her small mare with ease. Petyr Baelish, who had managed to persuade Lord Hoster to let him join, sat behind her uncle Brynden on a larger horse. Poor Petyr, clearly finding the ride with Uncle Brynden somewhat humiliating… yet he must have deemed the excursion too valuable an opportunity to forgo. Lysa stayed behind in the warmth of the castle to tend to Edmure.

Their small procession moved slowly out of Riverrun, two carts laden with grain from the castle granary bringing up the rear. The group rode in relative silence, the only sounds being the crunch of hooves on the snow and the creak of the grain-laden carts.

As they traveled, Catelyn observed the somber faces around her. The journey was more than just a display of the Tullys' benevolence—it was an opportunity for everyone to break free from the confines of grief and sorrow that had gripped Riverrun since her mother's passing. She knew that the arrival of their party, especially with the grain, would be a welcome sight for the villagers and would bring a moment of joy and celebration.

After about an hour of riding through the winter landscape, they approached the village. The sight of the noble party and the carts filled with grain quickly drew a crowd. The smallfolk gathered, their faces lighting up with smiles and cheers as they recognized their lord and his distinguished guests. Children ran alongside the horses, waving and laughing, while adults bowed respectfully and voiced their gratitude.

Lord Hoster led the way, waving and exchanging words with the villagers, his demeanor warm and paternal. Lord Tywin observed the scene with his usual reserved expression, though his eyes probably missed little. Catelyn, riding beside her father, couldn't help but feel a sense of pride and satisfaction at the joyful reception. Do the people of the Westerlands truly rejoice so at the sight of their liege lord?

As they reached the center of the village, the carts were brought forward, and the grain was distributed among the villagers. The smallfolk expressed their thanks with heartfelt words and small tokens of appreciation—handmade trinkets and simple crafts. The atmosphere was filled with a palpable sense of relief and gratitude, a stark contrast to the somber mood that had permeated Riverrun.

Catelyn dismounted and joined her father and uncle in mingling with the villagers. She noticed how the presence of Lord Tywin, despite his imposing and stern demeanor, added a certain gravitas to the occasion. The villagers were in awe of the Hand of the King, yet his mere presence seemed to reinforce their loyalty and respect for House Tully.

Petyr, eager to be part of the event, helped distribute the grain, his sharp eyes taking in everything. Catelyn couldn't help but notice Petyr's keen interest in every gesture and word of Lord Tywin Lannister. It was evident that the formidable presence of the Hand of the King drew the attention of everyone in the group. People instinctively recognized the power and danger he embodied, a silent acknowledgment that he was the most influential figure among them.

Catelyn's mind drifted to a memory from King's Landing, where she had once encountered another person with a similarly commanding presence. Surprisingly, it hadn't been King Aerys. Instead, it was a woman—blonde, green-eyed, and the most beautiful person Catelyn had ever seen. The lady had exuded an aura of pride and dignity, even when hurt and bleeding! Catelyn had helped her during that encounter, but what had left the strongest impression was the woman's unyielding grace under duress.

Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a peasant woman calling out, "Milady! Milady! There is a babe named after you! Would you offer a prayer for her?" The plea brought Catelyn back to the present moment. She repressed the memories of the mysterious lady and turned her attention to the woman holding a swaddled infant.

Catelyn dismounted her mare and approached the peasant woman with a kind smile. The baby, wrapped tightly in a worn but clean blanket, cooed softly as Catelyn gently touched the child's forehead. "Of course," she said softly. Closing her eyes, she whispered a prayer for the baby's health and happiness. The woman thanked her profusely, tears of gratitude in her eyes.

Tywin felt a familiar boredom creep over him as they rode through the snow to the village. The endless platitudes and the overly familiar greetings from the smallfolk were tedious, though he maintained a stoic expression throughout. He was well aware of the wary glances thrown his way, even from those who did not know him personally. The tales of the Reynes and Tarbecks had undoubtedly reached the Riverlands, casting a long shadow over his reputation. But it didn't bother him. Respect, even if born of fear, was still respect.

The constant staring of Tully's ward, Petyr Baelish, was mildly irritating. The boy's keen eyes seemed to study every movement Tywin made, and it reminded him too much of his own ward, Jaendora. He tried to push thoughts of her out of his mind, grateful for the distraction when Lady Catelyn dismounted to bless the child.

The peasant woman, shivering in her threadbare clothes, looked at Catelyn with admiration. "She will be red of hair, as you, milady," she said, her voice trembling from the cold.

"May the Gods grant her an inch of Lady Catelyn's beauty, and the girl will be a lucky one," Emmon Frey chimed in chivalrously, nudging his eldest son, Cleos, to echo the compliment.

Cleos mumbled an awkward compliment, and Catelyn smiled graciously, through her eyes betrayed a flicker of discomfort. Tywin watched the interaction closely, noting the subtleties. The Freys were always eager to ingratiate themselves, but Tywin knew that Lord Hoster Tully's ambitions would never allow a match between his precious daughter and a Frey.

Suddenly, a man trailing behind the woman with the child called out loudly, "Fine Queen our Lady Catelyn would make, milords!" The statement hung in the air, causing Lord Hoster and his bannermen to exchange nervous smiles. Lady Catelyn, the recipient of the compliment, paled and quickly glanced at Tywin.

Catelyn swiftly responded, her voice steady despite the sudden pressure, "Queen of Love and Beauty at some tourney, perhaps, good man. But Queen Rhaella is queen of the realm. Your second daughter you should name after Her Grace." Her words were carefully chosen, displaying her adeptness in navigating the delicate nuances of courtly politeness.

One point for recognizing the danger, girl, and another for softening it through diplomacy. Your mother trained you well. Tywin, admiring her quick thinking and the subtlety with which she defused a potentially awkward situation, added, "And your third for the late Lady Minisa Tully, who raised such a reasonable lady." The villagers and nobles alike nodded in agreement, murmuring their approval.

Lord Hoster discreetly wiped the sweat from his brow, relieved that his daughter had managed the situation so deftly. He knew well that Tywin Lannister considered only his own daughter, Cersei, worthy of the crown, and any implication otherwise could have been dangerous.

In the late afternoon, not long before the feast, Catelyn was summoned to her father's solar. As she entered, she found Lord Hoster pacing before the fireplace, his movements agitated and restless. Catelyn sometimes wondered if her own inability to keep her hands idle was an echo of his restlessness. Since the death of her lady mother, his agitation had only grown more pronounced, but today he seemed almost lost.

"My lord?" Catelyn approached him cautiously.

"Cat, my little Cat," her father said, placing his hands on her shoulders. Catelyn instinctively straightened up, sensing the gravity of the moment. "I am very proud of your composure and courtesy. Somehow, even Lord Hand seems to admire you," Lord Hoster added, a shadow flickering in his blue eyes.

"You told us to be on our best behavior, my lord," she reminded him. She had simply done her duty to uphold the honor of their house. Family, Duty, Honor—those are our words. Yet sometimes, Catelyn believed in the terrible theory that one couldn't be faithful to them all.

Lord Hoster sighed deeply, his grip on her shoulders tightening momentarily. "You did more than that, Cat. You showed wisdom and poise beyond your years. Lord Tywin Lannister is not an easy man to impress, yet you managed to earn his respect. That is no small feat."

Catelyn felt a mix of pride and unease. The attention of such a powerful lord was not something to be taken lightly. "I only did what I thought was right, Father."

Her father nodded, a weary smile touching his lips. "And you did well. But there is more to this than just courtesy. Tywin Lannister is a formidable ally, and his favor could mean much for our house."

Catelyn's mind raced. She had always known that her actions had consequences, but now the weight of those consequences felt heavier than ever. "What do you mean, Father?"

Lord Hoster turned away, staring into the flickering flames of the fireplace. "I mean that the alliances we forge now could determine our future. The respect you have earned from Lord Tywin might be more valuable than you realize."

Catelyn swallowed hard, understanding the unspoken words. Her father's ambitions, the future of their house—it all seemed to hinge on her ability to navigate these treacherous waters. "I will do whatever is necessary to uphold our family's honor, Father."

Lord Hoster made a dismissive gesture, and Catelyn, after a curtsey, left his solar, her mind already searching for ways to meet her father's expectations. He was pleased that she had captured Lord Lannister's attention, so perhaps she should seek the company of the lord Hand? She knew she must be subtle; it wouldn't do for a young and highborn lady to trail after Lord Lannister like a lost puppy. But as she was fulfilling most of the duties of the lady of Riverrun, she could ensure her guest was happy with the hospitality provided, couldn't she?

With a determined resolve, Catelyn made her way to the guest wing. The red cloaks stationed near the doors to Lord Hand's chambers looked at her appreciatively, their eyes following her with interest. To avoid giving them any ideas, Catelyn left the door ajar as she entered.

Inside, she found not only Lord Tywin but also his nephew, Lyonel Frey. The boy sat at the table, closer to the door, his head bent over a piece of parchment as he held a quill, absorbed in calculations. Catelyn noticed him first and stepped closer, curious about his work. However, her attention was quickly drawn to Lord Tywin, who sat on an upholstered settee, carving a piece of wood with an elaborate knife.

"My lords," Catelyn greeted them with a smile, her eyes lighting up at the sight of Tywin's new occupation. He listened to me! To me, a mere girl!

"Lady Catelyn," Lord Tywin replied, lifting an eyebrow. "May I inquire about the reason for such radiance?" It seemed her smile was the most puzzling thing in the world to him.

"I see you took my suggestion, my lord. How do you find it?" she asked, ignoring the confused look that young Lord Lyonel sent them.

Tywin glanced at the small piece of weirwood he had found during his walk in the godswood. Carving into the stubborn, hard, wooden surface was more engaging than he had initially thought. The task required focus, and for now, it took his mind away from the thoughts of Joanna. "It needs more consideration than I have time for. But during pastime... your suggestion was not unreasonable, my lady," he replied diplomatically.

Catelyn nodded, feeling a small sense of satisfaction. "I came to see if you need anything, a servant or... paper, perhaps," she said, her eyes falling on the crossed numbers written by Lyonel.

"If you were so kind, my lady, I would need more of it to solve the puzzle Lord Lannister set for me," Lyonel said with a tone of resignation unfitting for an eleven-year-old boy.

Curious, Catelyn came closer to examine the puzzle. It was about the mining capability of one hundred men, with calculations and variables scattered across the parchment. She furrowed her brow, intrigued by the complexity.

"May I see?" she asked, and Lyonel handed over the paper.

Catelyn studied the numbers and equations. "This is quite a challenge," she remarked, glancing at Tywin.

Tywin inclined his head. "It is a test of resource management and problem-solving skills. Important traits for a young lord to develop."

Pragmatic, which is not surprising. Catelyn nodded thoughtfully. "It certainly is. And you only neglected to consider the breaks the miners would need during their work, Lord Lyonel," she pointed out, indicating the faulty equation.

Lyonel sighed and corrected his work, carefully adjusting the calculations. Once he finished, he approached his formidable uncle with the revised papers. Tywin glanced over the corrections, nodding slightly. "They don't need breaks this long, but other than that, it's good enough. You can go now."

Lyonel showed enough courtesy to thank the smart Lady Catelyn. She nodded in response, her gaze lingering on the equations. It was clear she didn't quite agree with Tywin's assessment of the breaks, but she kept her opinion to herself, respecting the Lord Hand's authority.

"You are good with numbers, my lady?" Tywin asked, his curiosity piqued by her continued display of intelligence. It was a rare thing to find someone who could consistently impress him.

"I am good with household ledgers, my lord," Catelyn replied modestly. She glanced at Lyonel, who was now packing his papers. "Is Lord Lyonel inclined towards numbers the most?" she asked, thinking the boy should appreciate the opportunity to learn from a lord so praised for his administrative skills. Petyr would be thrilled by a lesson like this.

Lyonel replied quietly, "I am not as abysmal with it as with a sword, my lady."

Lord Tywin glared at him, his displeasure evident. Lyonel quickly bowed and left the room. Catelyn could sense that Lord Lannister was irked by Lyonel's self-deprecation. She attempted to ease the tension. "Not everyone can be good at everything. My uncle Brynden is a famous knight, but he wouldn't solve the puzzle you set for Lord Lyonel, my lord," she admitted.

Tywin restrained the retort that Lannisters should excel in all areas. He reminded himself that Lyonel was a Frey, not a Lannister. Instead, he said, "Lyonel is a second son of a second son. He needs to find a way to serve his house. Freys have enough useless idiots in their keep."

Catelyn nodded in agreement. "You are right to teach him, my lord. Second-borns often yearn for first-born privileges, but there is a possibility for all children to serve their families well." She thought of her sister Lysa, who was often jealous, and her uncle Brynden, who might sometimes disagree with her father but ultimately supported and advised him.

Tywin immediately thought of Kevan, wishing his sensible younger brother were here in the gloomy Riverlands with him instead of the Freys. Kevan's presence would have made these duties more bearable. He sighed inwardly, pushing the thought aside.

Catelyn stepped closer, curious to see what he was carving. The knife he used was opulent, adorned with rubies larger than any she'd seen in her late mother's sparse jewelry collection. She had never seen such a fine tool.

"What will it be, my lord?" she asked, noticing that the wooden shape didn't resemble anything yet.

Tywin stifled a sigh, and something compelled him to be honest. "A lion it was supposed to be, but it doesn't look like I wanted it to."

Catelyn smiled, remembering her first attempts at embroidery and how she had initially tried to create elaborate designs. "Try a fish, my lord. It's easier," she suggested.

Tywin raised an eyebrow, intrigued by her suggestion. "A fish?"

"Yes," Catelyn replied, her smile widening. "It's a simpler shape, and once you get the hang of it, you can move on to more complex designs."

Tywin tilted his head slightly, regarding Catelyn with a newfound respect. "It seems you are full of sound advice, my lady. Remarkable, for your age."

Catelyn turned her gaze away, a hint of melancholy in her eyes. "I was like any other little highborn lady, my lord. Used to make mud pies with Lysa. But I changed much..." Her voice trailed off, not needing to explain further that her mother's death had been a catalyst for her maturity.

"Grief hones," Tywin murmured, recalling the wisdom he had once heard from Jaendora, his ward.

Catelyn nodded solemnly, then gracefully curtsied. "I will send a maid with more paper and to clean the floor, my lord."

"Thank you, my lady," Tywin said, his voice carrying a weight of genuine gratitude that resonated beyond mere courtesy.