Chapter 6: Freedom
…
Tywin POV
I sat in my solar in the Tower of the Hand, a stack of parchment lay on my desk, all of it concerning the running of the kingdoms. But at the moment, my focus strayed from my duties, for in my hand, I held a missive from my wife, Joanna.
The midday sun flooded the room, casting a bright glow over the parchment. Joanna's handwriting was clean and direct, her strokes as sharp as her wit. The letter brought good news, at least on the surface.
A moon ago, my city of Lannisport had been plagued by a spree of murders—hundreds missing or killed in the span of days, a slaughter without a named culprit.
Upon first hearing of this, I sent a missive to my brother Kevan. He had failed to manage the city in my absence, and in my letter, I reprimanded him, demanding that he find the culprits responsible. The killings were staining the reputation of House Lannister.
I wanted to know every detail about the murders.
In the letters I received from Kevan afterward, it was clear from his descriptions of the state of Lannisport's slums that this was no accident. Whoever orchestrated the chaos knew exactly what they were doing.
Still, the unrest served me in ways I couldn't have foreseen.
A moon ago, Joanna was supposed to arrive at court. But she had used the disorder as a shield, a way to avoid King's Landing and its web of intrigue.
I supported my wife's decision; after all, it was best for her. I knew Aerys lusted after her, and I don't know what I would do if he ever so much as laid a finger on her.
The very thought of the king made my teeth clench. I remembered all too well how he sneered when I informed him of Joanna's absence. When I gave the news that she would not be coming to court, he mocked her absence, ridiculing not only my wife but also me in front of his sycophants, attempting to diminish House Lannister and the Westerlands by extension.
In those moments, I came dangerously close to forgetting my self-control. My hands itched to seize him by the throat and crush the life from him. I could still hear his shrill laughter from the last council session, his eyes bright with the madness of power. Aerys is a fool.
He may wear the crown, but he does not rule. The coffers are full only because of me—because of my tax reforms and my ruthless collection of what is owed. Without me, he would be a beggar king.
The chaos in King's Landing after Aerys came to power was quelled by my efforts. I had done everything within my power as Hand of the King to improve the realm and elevate the prestige of House Lannister.
Yet Aerys had no appreciation for it, not even a simple show of respect or thanks.
Aerys neglects his duties while I labor in the shadows. *The king shits, and the Hand wipes*, I thought bitterly, the refrain all too familiar in my mind.
I rose from my desk, setting down the missive from Joanna. I walked away and stepped out onto the balcony, letting the cool breeze of King's Landing sweep over me.
I closed my eyes in thought, thinking of Joanna and my twins, Jaime and Cersei. A moon ago, if there hadn't been chaos in Lannisport, I could have met with them.
I could have embraced my wife. I could have gauged my future heir, Jaime—seen how much he had grown.
And Cersei...
As I was thinking of Cersei, I heard the clang of steel. I looked down from the Tower of the Hand.
Below, the sound of steel striking steel echoed across the courtyard, sharp and rhythmic.
It was Prince Rhaegar and Ser Barristan Selmy.
Under the sun, in the Kingsguard training ground, Prince Rhaegar moved with elegance and precision, his silver hair glinting in the light. Opposite him, Ser Barristan Selmy was calm and assured, each swing of his sword a masterful stroke, testing the young prince with every blow.
Rhaegar fought back, his face a mask of focus, but even from here, I could see his inexperience with the sword. After all, not long ago, he had been engrossed in his books.
Selmy's movements were too refined, too seasoned. Rhaegar, for all his grace, was losing ground. His parries grew slower, his footwork less certain. Selmy wasn't trying to humiliate him, of course, but neither would he coddle him. Every strike tested Rhaegar's resolve, his strength, his patience.
I watched as Selmy advanced, driving the prince backward. Though outmatched, Rhaegar was determined not to lose, that much was clear.
His jaw clenched, his violet eyes sharp with frustration. Yet determination alone doesn't win battles, and in the next exchange, the inevitable happened. Selmy feinted high, then swept low with a powerful stroke. Rhaegar reacted, but not quickly enough. His sword flew from his hand, clattering to the ground a few feet away.
Rhaegar stood there, chest heaving, his hands trembling slightly as he stared at the empty space where his sword had been. But he didn't yield, didn't bow his head in defeat. His eyes flicked to Selmy, who had already lowered his blade.
Rhaegar picked up his training sword. "Again," he said, his voice tight with controlled anger.
He was losing. He would never win against Ser Barristan the Bold. But even though outmatched, the princeling had a fire in him that was unique, different from his father. That stubbornness, that refusal to back down, was what I admired most in him.
I then thought back to Cersei, whose entire existence is centered around marrying Rhaegar.
"The only reason I am still Hand," I murmured to myself, my gaze locked on Rhaegar, "is because of him."
Aerys may sit on the Iron Throne, but Rhaegar is the future. It is the prince who holds the key to the realm's salvation, the only one with the strength of will and intellect to rebuild what his father has squandered. In Rhaegar, I see hope. And through him, I see *my* future, my legacy.
I could see it as clearly as if it were already carved in stone—my daughter Cersei, her golden hair a crown of its own, standing beside Rhaegar as queen. The Targaryen bloodline would fuse with Lannister gold, and my line would sit upon the Iron Throne for generations to come.
The courtyard below was bathed in the warmth of the sun, but my thoughts remained cold and precise. Every decision I make now, every word I speak, is in service of the long game. And in that game, Rhaegar Targaryen is the most valuable piece on the board.
…
Third POV
Richard walked down the cobbled streets of Lannisport, dressed in attire that allowed him to blend in with the city's more affluent residents. His clean leather boots gleamed with polish, while his tunic, woven from fine silk and linen, and his trousers of soft linen, gave him the appearance of a merchant's well-off son.
To the casual observer, he looked like any other privileged youth, perhaps running errands for his father's trade. But there was something in Richard's gait—steady, deliberate—that set him apart, hinting at a purpose beyond mere business.
The disguise was carefully chosen. Where he was headed, the poor and unremarkable were turned away at the door. He needed to be seen as someone of means, someone who belonged.
His sharp, alert eyes took in everything as he moved through the bustling streets. Gilded carriages rolled by, their wheels clattering over the stones, while finely dressed merchants haggled over silks and spices. The grand facades of the buildings, with their ornate carvings and polished marble, stood as monuments to the wealth that permeated this part of Lannisport.
He was nearing his destination. Richard paused, consulting the map drawn by Humphrey. The destination was one of Lannisport's most exclusive indulgences—an establishment known to cater to the city's elite. This wasn't the kind of brothel that stank of cheap perfume and desperation. No, this place exuded an air of discretion and luxury, its doors open only to those with gold enough to buy silence and pleasures unseen.
He arrived at the brothel, pausing briefly as his gaze lifted to the sign above—just as Alicent had described it. A red cat with dark black stripes, its eyes narrowed as if guarding the secrets within.
The entrance was flanked by two guards, built like mountain goats, with thick arms crossed over their broad chests. Their faces were masks of indifference, but their eyes flicked toward Richard with suspicion. He was young, too young for this place, at least to be coming alone.
One of the guards stepped forward, his brow furrowed. "Can you even pay, boy?" he asked, his voice a rumble of disbelief.
Most who came of Richard's age did so under the watchful eyes of wealthy patrons, fathers bringing sons to indulge in their first fantasies, not alone and unaccompanied. But Richard didn't flinch under their scrutiny.
Without a word, he handed the guard a small pouch of silver stags, enough to buy more than a few indulgences in a lesser establishment. The coins vanished into the guard's hand, and their attitudes shifted at once. The suspicion faded, replaced with a practiced professionalism.
"Enjoy yourself, sir," one of them said, stepping aside as the door opened for Richard to enter.
Inside, the air was thick with a heady mix of jasmine, rose oil, and something deeper, more exotic. The scent clung to his skin as he stepped into the dimly lit room, bathed in hues of red, purple, and gold.
Tapestries lined the walls, their intricate designs telling stories of pleasure and excess. Velvet drapes hung from the ceiling, casting long shadows and softening the edges of the room, giving it an otherworldly, dreamlike quality.
The laughter of women echoed softly, sultry and inviting, mingling with the gentle strumming of a harp from deeper within. The atmosphere was one of quiet indulgence and pleasure.
But Richard was not here for pleasure.
Richard's eyes flicked over the patrons lounging on silk cushions, goblets of wine in hand, and the women—clad in silks and jewels, their faces painted like delicate porcelain masks. He could see the allure, the way men were drawn into this world, but none of it mattered to him. His purpose was singular, and his heart remained untouched by the warmth of the place.
A woman approached him, her posture commanding, though she moved with the grace of someone accustomed to being obeyed. She was the madam of the brothel, her dark hair pulled into a neat coif, eyes lined with kohl, assessing him with the precision of a merchant appraising fine goods. Her gown of deep red clung tight to her waist, her lips painted to match. Everything about her spoke of control.
"Looking for someone, boy?" Her voice was low, practiced. The lack of surprise on her face showed that Richard's youth was of little consequence to her.
Richard's gaze was steady as he regarded her. "Aye. A woman called Maria."
The madam's brow arched. "Many Marias have come through these doors. Have you a mind for which one?" Her eyes flicked over him, weighing him, though the curiosity in her voice was slight.
"She has black hair, blue eyes, and a beauty mark on her cheek," Richard said, his words measured, the way Alicent had described her mother clear in his mind.
The madam's lips curled into a faint smile, her interest sharpened now. "Aye, I know the one. A rare beauty, she is. You'll not have her cheaply." Her eyes glinted, like a merchant who knew the worth of her wares. "A gold dragon for a night with Maria."
Richard didn't flinch. He reached into his coat, withdrew a pouch heavy with gold, and tossed a single dragon toward her. The coin spun in the air, gleaming in the dim light, before landing squarely in her hand.
The madam caught it with ease, weighing it briefly before letting it vanish into the folds of her gown. Her eyes flickered to the remaining pouches tied at his belt, and the smile that crossed her face now was one of surprise, but also calculation.
"Very well," she said with a nod. "Wait here." She turned to a younger girl standing nearby. "Fetch Maria, and tell her she's wanted."
The girl scampered off, leaving Richard and the madam alone. She studied him again, a smirk dancing on her lips. "You've the coin for it, boy, but a lad like you seeking out Maria—what's your story, I wonder?"
Richard remained silent, his resolve unyielding. He had what he wanted; there was no need to indulge her with unnecessary words.
The Madam leaned closer, eyes gleaming with curiosity, but Richard held her gaze without flinching, resolute in his silence. "Not one for chatter, are you?" the madam said, her tone teasing yet sharp. "Very well, I shan't pry further. Secrets are the currency of this place, after all."
Richard was led to a private room, its walls draped with heavy curtains that muted the noise from the rest of the building. The space was smaller, intimate, with a large single bed. The scent of incense hung in the air, almost stifling in its sweetness.
He stood by the window, waiting, his hand resting on the small bag of gold hidden beneath his cloak. His thoughts drifted to Alicent—the way her face had hardened whenever she spoke of her mother, the bitterness masked by a vulnerability she tried to hide.
The door creaked open behind him. Richard turned, and there she was—Maria. The resemblance was immediate, unmistakable.
Maria appeared to be in her mid-twenties, her black hair, though streaked with the wear of years, framed a face that bore a haunting similarity to Alicent's. The same blue eyes, wide with surprise, mirrored the innocence he had seen in the girl he had come to know so well. Delicate cheekbones accentuated her features, and there, just above her lip, sat the beauty mark.
"Oh, what have we here?" Maria purred, a seductive smile curving her lips as she closed the door behind her with a soft click.
Maria was taken aback to see a young boy; after all, most people wouldn't be able to afford her services, let alone a boy this young.
"So, what brings a lad such as yourself to a place like this?" Maria inquired, stepping closer to Richard, her seductive smile remaining steadfast.
Richard remained silent, his gaze locked onto her as if he were a predator sizing up his prey.
"Oh my a quiet one are you, have your father given you a gold dragon to indulge for your first time." Maria said as she began touching Richard's chest.
Maria smirked, interpreting Richard's silence as the timidness of an inexperienced boy overwhelmed by nerves.
Maria took the lead, starting to undress, but just as she was about to loosen her straps, Richard finally spoke up.
"Hold, if you please," he said, raising a hand. "I'm not here for that."
Richard's earlier silence had been a careful tactic to gauge Maria's character. While she believed her seductive act was convincing, he could see through the façade, recognizing it as mere pretense.
Maria hesitated, confusion flitting across her features. "Then what is it you seek?" she asked, her voice laced with uncertainty. If he wasn't here for her services, what purpose did he have?
"I'm here because of Alicent," Richard said softly. "Your daughter." The moment her name crossed his lips, Maria's hands stilled, and color fled from her face, as though he had conjured a ghost from the depths of her memory. "Alicent…?"
"Who are you? How do you know her? where is she?" Panic surged through Maria as she seized Richard, shaking his firm frame in desperation.
"All you need to know is that she is safe and well," Richard replied, gently taking her hand and offering a reassuring smile. He then walked over to the bed and sat down, patting the space beside him.
Slowly, Maria approached and sat on the edge of the bed. Her emotions swirled—worry, curiosity, and surprise—each one chipping away at the mask she had worn for so long.
"Do you know when your daughter's name day is?" Richard asked, his tone steady and measured.
"Why are you...?" Maria began, confusion tightening around her throat. But then an image of her daughter flashed through her mind—those cute dark curls and striking sapphire eyes. She recalled the heart-wrenching agony of letting her go all those years ago.
"It's today. Her name day is today." As memories surged forth, sadness laced her voice, and tears began to glisten in her eyes.
"Indeed. Alicent is someone dear to me," Richard continued, his voice resolute yet kind. "Do you know what gift I intend to give her? For her sake. She's been searching for you. I have gold—enough to secure your freedom. I'll buy it for you."
He pulled out bags of gold coins and set them on Maria's lap. The weight clinked softly against her legs, the strings slightly loosened, revealing the glittering contents inside.
Maria's lips trembled, her eyes brimming with tears. She pressed her hands to her chest, her body shaking with silent sobs.
"She… she's alive, my baby girl is alive!?" Tears of joy streamed down Maria's face, washing away the shadows of despair that had haunted her for years.
"Yes," Richard replied, his voice steady. "She's well and thriving."
After a moment of Maria crying tears of joy, Richard offered her a fleeting smile. He then rose from the bed.
"Come now, we wouldn't want to miss your daughter's name day, would we?" he said, extending his hand to her.
Maria's eyes glinted with the light of hope as the prospect of freedom danced before her. She felt the weight of her years in the brothel begin to lift, and with a surge of determination, she grasped the chance with both hands, ready to escape the shackles that had bound her for so long.