At the heart of Casterly Rock, the sun's warmth painted the stones of the castle with the soft caress of its rays. The gentle tapestries hung from the walls, whispering secrets of the Lannister lineage to all who cared enough to listen. Joanna Lannister stood at the window, golden hair tumbling down her back, and watched the world below. Her eyes scanned the horizon for a promise of a future she so dearly wished would be filled with love and peace.
In strode her husband, Tywin Lannister, the cold stone floor echoing his boots. With the stoic grace of a man, the stern features spoke eloquently of the burdens he wore. He was clad in intricate armor that spoke volumes of his being the Lord of Casterly Rock. Joanna turned to him, her heart fluttering with love and trepidation. The green eyes met hers solemnly.
"The time has come for me to go," Tywin said, his tone as even and unyielding as the old stones of the castle. Joanna felt the lump form in her throat and her eyes shine bright with unshed tears. "I have to go to King's Landing now and attend my duty as Hand of the King."
The room seemed to grow smaller around her. Joanna knew this moment would come, yet she had not allowed herself the indulgence of thought regarding that time. She took another step closer, her hand reaching out and laying surely on Tywin's broad chest. "What of us?" she asked, trembles sneaking into her voice. "What of the life we are building together?"
Tywin wrapped calloused fingers around hers with gentle strength. "You must remain here," he said implacable, his eyes never leaving hers in the hunt for understanding. "Here is where you are needed, Joanna. The realm is in a sea of change, and here is your place, guiding our house through these stormy times."
"But why?" she whispered, the sting of tears in her voice. "Why can't I be with you?"
"You are the heart of Casterly Rock," Tywin said with emotion oozing from every word, but his face betrayed it. "You are the future of our family. Without you here, I do fear for our legacy.
The unspoken words seemed to hang in the air, a silent admission to the truth he had kept from her. Being a professor from a faraway time and place, he knew about the probable obsessions of Aerys Targaryen, about the madness lurking on the Iron Throne. But Joanna, innocent of his burden, saw only the pain of separation within his eyes.
"You will be safe," Tywin said, his voice low and reassuring. "You have the Rock, and our bannermen are loyal. Besides, we shall not be separated for long. The king's reign is unstable, and I shall return before the leaves fall from the trees."
Joanne nodded, silently praying to keep her fear at bay. She knew Tywin was right; she had to be strong for their family, for their people. Yet, in her heart, his absence twisted through her like a dagger.
"I will write to you," Tywin promised, his thumb brushing away the escaped tear at her eye. "And when my work is done, I will come home to you."
It was a bruising hug that surprised Tywin, a silent pact of love and duty. Joanna clutched him close, engraving the metallic scent of his armor, the warmth of his clutch in her mind. Parting, she felt a shiver run through her body, having little to do with the ever-present draft in the castle.
In the busy streets of King's Landing, Tywin Lannister rode through the gates on his horse and men-a bland show of the power and influence of his family. It was a city filled with either the sound of men shouting at others or the smell of urine and dung from countless horses or other men, so different from the quiet dignity of his home. Tywin's mind coursed with the trials ahead. The king was growing more and more unpredictable, a horror to the realm of Westeros, and he knew well his work was not going to be easy.
Before him, the Red Keep loomed, a crimson beacon of power and chaos. Tywin took a deep breath and steeled himself for what was to come. The closer he came to the throne room, the louder the whispers seemed to grow, the eyes of the courtiers more calculating. He was the spark on dry tinder at court, and he knew his careful treading would be required to ensure his wife's safety, that of his house, and that of his future children.
As he entered the great hall, Tywin's gaze swept over the nobles filling it, settling on Queen Rhaella, her own fears too deeply etched into her face. Sister-wife to the mad king, she was a woman caught in prison of her own blood. Once a strong and just ruler, Aerys had descended into paranoid rage that consumed all around him.
The Iron Throne was filled by the Mad King himself, his eyes wild and unfocused. Flanked by the treacherous Grand Maester Pycelle and the stoic Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Tywin felt a cold knot in his stomach. Aerys's reign had become a tapestry of suspicion and betrayal, and he knew that his every move would be scrutinized.
The silence was thick in the room, heavy with tension, as he approached. He fell to one knee before the throne, his head bowed in mock deference. "Your Grace," he started off without waiting, his voice firm and clear. "I have returned to serve your will."
The Mad King's eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward, his voice a low, dangerous hiss. "You dare to leave my side, Tywin Lannister," he said, the words echoing through the hall. "You dare to leave the realm to the mercy of its enemies."
He felt Tywin feel the weight of his accusation and Tywin did not so much as blink. "Your Grace," he replied calmly, "I have done what was best in service to the realm and to your safety. There are no rebellions and your armies are strong."
Aerys stared at him, the fire in his eyes seemingly unquenchable. "Quiet?" he spat. "They are but whispers in the dark, waiting for the moment to strike! And you would leave me in the hands of traitors?"
"Never," Tywin replied, steady as stone. "But the realm requires a firm hand and vigilant eyes. Be assured, the Lannisters are ever faithful to their king."
The silence was alive, stretched taut between them, challenge and promise. Tywin could feel the weight of his legacy, of his family and his people upon him. He had to sail stormy waters that would be Aerys' madness without capsizing the ship of state.
He sat back, a twisted smile playing upon his lips. "Very well," he said. "You shall remain my Hand. For now. But do not think that I have forgotten your absence, nor the whispers that have reached my ears."
"Thank you, your Grace." Tywin began to leave, but the Mad King had different thoughts.
"Wait," Aerys called out, his eyes alight with a sudden thought he had forgotten. "You should have brought your lovely wife, Joanna. It's been too long since I've seen her."
The room was still, with an air of thick understanding regarding the infamous obsession Aerys had toward Tywin's wife. The gaze of the Mad King bored into Tywin, and the implication was that this was a silent testament to the horror they knew. Courtiers were holding their breath in silence.
Tywin knew he needed to be wise in his response, yet still get across the threat to the well-being of the Mad King should he ever try him again.
"Your Grace," said Tywin, his tone measured, "Lady Joanna is the heart of Casterly Rock. She is quite crucial to the strength of our house and the welfare condition of our lands. It would not do for me to bring her to court unless the Queen herself calls for her presence." As in all things, the words were but a dance, a subtle warning wrapped in the guise of duty and protocol.
The smile on the Mad King's lips faltered, his eyes flickering with annoyance. "Very well," he purred, his voice dropping with a dangerous octave. "Yet let us not forget it was your father's pride that brought the Lannisters low. Do not make the same mistake."
The room held its collective breath, palpable tension rising as one. The subtle power play did not go unseen by the assembled courtiers, who watched the exchange with equal parts fear and fascination.
"I shall not, Your Grace," Tywin responded. His voice was cold and hard as the stones of the castle. He turned to go once again, his steps calculated to the pace of each silent declaration of defiance against being cowed.
The whispers started once more. Some spoke about his boldness to challenge the king, others about his wisdom in doing such a thing. Yet, the words of the Mad King released an indelible mark on his soul-a reminder of the danger he faced in this den of snakes.
The succeeding days were a thin balancing act: Tywin worked assiduously, trying to hold the realm together and prevent chaos, even as he swam in the maelstrom of the Mad King's court; wrote letters to Joanna in floods, love-laden, full of promises of return.
The Small Council meeting was well in advance of the next morning, the chamber full of the most influential figures in the realm. Each face etched with the cares of their own lands, their own wars against the Mad King's every whim. As Tywin took his seat, the weight of all their gazes fell upon him. Thick in the air was the smell of parchment and ink, comforting scents in a room full of tension.
"The realm is in dire need of order," he began, his voice commanding yet measured. "The King's Justice has become a joke, and his paranoia poisons the very air we breathe." He paused, looking around the table, his eyes meeting each of theirs in turn. "We must act swiftly, decisively, to restore balance to the Seven Kingdoms."
First to speak was Grand Maester Pycelle, his voice as wheezy as ever. "Ah, Lord Tywin, your wisdom is beyond question. Still, we must be careful not to press the king too hard. His moods are unpredictable."
"The seasons may change, Grand Maester," replied Tywin, never taking his eyes away from Pycelle, "but the needs of the realm do not."
He drew a parchment from his pocket and set it before Pycelle. "Our coffers are empty, the crown's debts pile high as the Wall. We must attend to these matters with alacrity. The Iron Bank of Braavos grows restless, and a dragon does not pay his debts." The room had grown colder at the mention of the powerful foreign bank, their ire a more palpable threat than any army.
The members of the council did not meet his gaze, sidling uncomfortably, accepting the seriousness of their position. "Our belts must be tightened," Tywin continued, unflinching. "Retrench spending, raise taxes where necessary, and see that the crown's gold is not frittered away on the king's whims."
Queen Rhaella spoke softly, her voice shaking. "What of the king's comforts? He is not well. We must take care for his health."
Tywin did not bat an eye. "The welfare of the realm is our concern. The comfort of the king is secondary." His words hung in the air, an announcement of intent. The council members exchanged glances; some nodded, others looked concerned by the potential reactions of the Mad King from this.
The meeting dragged on and on, with each member of the council giving their report and making their suggestions. Tywin listened, but his mind was always working through the strategies and contingencies. But it was always Tywin who had the final say.
Finally, the Small Council Meeting was at an end, with Tywin feeling heavier for the weight of all the realm's troubles than he had ever felt before. As the others filed out, leaving him and Queen Rhaella alone in the chamber, a gloomy foreboding touched his mind. The Queen looked at him, her eyes entreating, and he knew what she was about to say.
"Lord Tywin," she started, in a shaking voice, "I beg you, you must speak with the King. His madness gets worse by the day. We have to find some way to bring him back to sense, for the good of the realm."
Tywin sighed, pity and frustration etched on his face. "I have tried, Your Grace," he said-weary. "But his mind is lost to us. The Mad King hears only the whispers of his own paranoia."
Rhaella clasped her hands before her, the knuckles white with tension. "Then what hope is there for us?" she whispered. "What hope is there for our children?"
"I am the hope." Tywin's voice showed certainty. "The realm is too important to be left to madness. I will find a way, somehow, to steady the kingdom, even if it requires me to act outside the duty of the Hand."
Finally, it was time for the Old Lion to rise and go, leaving Rhaella to her thoughts.
* * *
It had been in his office, still sealed with crimson wax-a seal. His curiosity got the better of him, and thus he broke it open to find an invitation from Lady Melisandre, the Red Woman herself. It was to be an unsolicited meeting, one that he knew could hold within it the seeds of either salvation or doom.
The note had been brief and to the point. "Lord Tywin Lannister, I wish to speak with you on matters of the utmost urgency. Meet me in the godswood at dusk."
The handwriting was beautiful, but the words it said ran a shiver down his spine. Tywin knew that no godswood was meant for casual conversations, much less with a woman of Lady Melisandre's ilk. Yet, he could hardly ignore the call. Heavily, he agreed to the clandestine meeting.
With the sun dipping below the horizon, Tywin made his way to the grove of ancient weirwood trees. The air grew colder and the shadows longer. The whispers louder. Above him, heart trees watched with unblinking eyes, carved with faces that seemed to keep secrets of their own. Before the great weirwood, he found Lady Melisandre standing, her crimson robes vivid against the pale bark. She was more beautiful than he had been expecting, like Joanna, a work of art, with her hair ablaze about her shoulders and a figure that seemed chiseled out of fire and blood and sunset.
"M'lady Melisandre," he said, his voice low and wary. "To what do I owe this unexpected summons?"
Her eyes, a deep, fiery red, met his own without a hint of fear. "You are the one who is promised, Lord Tywin," she said, her tone husky with seduction. "The one who will unite the realms and bring an end to the chaos that threatens to consume us all."
The blood caught in Tywin's throat. The prophecy she spoke of he had heard a time or two, but always associated it with Jon Snow and-or Daenerys. Her fanatical devotion unsettled a glance from him yet he betrayed no calm. "What makes you think that of me?" he asked. Now he was curious.
Lady Melisandre walked closer, and before he knew it, he could feel her exhaled breath stir against his cheek, carrying upon it the faint scent of spices from far-off lands. "I've seen it in the flames," she breathed, her eyes searching for his. "You are the one who will lead us to victory, the one who will bring balance to the realms."
The air between them was thick, like the pre-storm air. Tywin's mind was racing with thoughts of power and destiny. Could it be true? Was he truly the hero that Westeros needed? Or was this a false prophecy?
He stepped away, in doing so creating a respectful distance between them. "I am but a servant of the realm," he said inescapably, his eyes not budging from hers. "My duty is to the king."
Melisandre smiled knowingly. "The king is lost," she said. "It is you who must rise to take his place." Reaching out, she laid her hand on his arm. Her touch was unexpectedly warm, sending a shiver through him. "You have the strength, the cunning, and the legacy to rule. Together we can ensure peace and prosperity for generations to come."
Her words hung in the air, an offer as tempting as the veil of destiny. Tywin felt himself pulled by desire and ambition, right into intoxication. But he was a man of honor, a true Lannister to the core. He could not simply throw away oaths and responsibilities because of a vision by some woman who said much the same to Stannis. He was also dutiful to his wife, having understood what this close proximity between them meant, but the professor part of his brain wanted to push the envelope with her.
"Your flattery is as potent as your magic, Lady Melisandre," Tywin replied calmly. "But I am not so easily swayed. My loyalty remains with the king." He also wanted to say he was also loyal to his wife but that part went unsaid.
The smile never left Melisandre's face, though the fire in her eyes seemed to intensify. "Loyalty is a laudable quality, Lord Tywin," she said, letting her fingers linger on his arm. "But you and I know that loyalty is misplaced."
Tywin felt his anger flutter in his chest at the accusation but did not feel his anger was real. She was right, but he wasn't about to trust her with that revelation.
She revised herself, sensing the man's mock anger: "I doubt the king's ability to rule, my lord. And it is truth I offer, not flattery. The dragon has three heads, and you are one. You are the lion that will sit upon the Iron Throne."
He had heard the prophecy of the three-headed dragon all his life, both old and new, and he always thought it was Aegon, Rhaegar, and Viserys. That he could be a part of such a fate was intriguing and terrifying in ways he could not explain. He knew that were he to pursue this path, it would mean betrayal and war, perhaps even the end of his house. Yet, power was an alluring thing.
Taking a long draught, the smell of weirwood sap and night to come, he replied, his voice measured, "I will think on your words. Yet, for now, I would be true to my king."
He stopped then continued. "You will hold the guest quarters until further notice," he told her, his voice firm. "I will send for you when I require your counsel."
Melisandre nodded gracefully, her eyes never leaving his. "As you command, my lord," she said, her hand slipping from his arm.
Tywin watched her retreating figure, the red of her robes disappearing into the darkness. For he was more fixated on her fat bottom. Her hips swayed to an almost hypnotic rhythm, each step making the soft flesh of her ass jiggle enticingly. He couldn't help but envision how it would feel to have his hands full of it, to squeeze and knead that voluptuousness as he claimed her from behind. It was a notion both treacherous and tantalizing. She was most definitely doing it on purpose, Tywin managed to think.
Then, her words burrowed into his mind, a siren's call that grew louder with each step she took away from him. He knew all too well he could never trust her fully, but there was something about her that responded to a chord within him-a power, perhaps, or some sort of mutual comprehension of the cruel games of power that ruled the realm.
* * *
Early in the morning, The Old Lion was in a quiet corner of the sprawling Red Keep, his real clothes set aside for a simple tunic and breeches, loose enough to allow ease of movement. The air was cool, yet promise spoke of a warm day.
The cobblestones beneath his feet held the memory of countless steps from yesteryear, echoing power and strategy that had shaped the very fabric of the kingdom. Tywin's eyes cut through space, sharp as the points on his beard. The world had a way of creeping in, even here at the heart of King's Landing. The raucous call of a raven cut the stillness like a warning omen that the messages could come anytime and change the weighing balance.
He stretched, feeling his muscles complain momentarily with the movement before relenting to his iron will. His body was still honed, but his face showed its age, the years carving their lines into it. The whispers of age were but a faint murmur against the roar of his endurance. Tywin's servant, a young boy with wide eyes and trembling hands, brought forth a wooden staff. It was not a weapon of war but an instrument of another kind of combat-the one against time and decay.
With a deep breath, Tywin raised the staff. The first movement was slow, deliberate. Every swing, every twirl, was a dance-a silent conversation with his own mortality. The rhythm quickened, fluid movements now more like a waltz. The body arched and flexed, a sculpture of power and control. Beads of sweat began to form on his brow, but his eyes never strayed. This was not vanity, not a display of prowess for the benefit of others. It was a near ritualistic thing for him, a denial every day that he would ever abdicate his place in the greater scheme of things.
The soft sound of shuffling footsteps grew louder, and he knew without looking that Grand Maester Pycelle had arrived. The old man's gait was unmistakable, an unhurried shuffle that managed to say a great deal about his determined scorn of haste. Tywin did not break the rhythm of his stroke. He knew the Grand Maester would not have come unbidden, yet Tywin would not give him the satisfaction of looking eager. Pycelle was sufficiently wise to know never to disturb Tywin's morning exercises; his patience belonged to a variant species of steel-one far more pliable, more muted, yet no less deadly.
Finally, the staff stopped its mute symphony, and Tywin turned to face the newcomer. Pycelle looked at him with curiosity mingled with apprehension, his eyes darting from Tywin's unyielding gaze to the sheen of sweat oozing on his bare muscular arms. The Grand Maester was a study in contrasts, his velvet robes stitched with threads of silver that flashed softly as he moved, a pointed reminder of his status and softness of his nature.
"To what do I owe this pleasure?" Tywin asked, his voice a low rumble.
"My Lord," Pycelle began, his voice a wheeze that spoke little of the sharpness of his mind, "I've come to inquire about your health, but I see there is no need. You are as fit and strong as ever. The Hand of the King must be ready to serve his king at all times."
Tywin's eyes narrowed. He knew Pycelle's game-or so he thought. The old man had played the fool, always, his mind a maze of half-truths and guile. Yet Tywin had lived long enough to appreciate the subtle craft that lay beneath the old man's frail exterior. In closer proximity, the clack of heel on stone echoed through the chamber.
"Your concern for my health is touching, Pycelle," he said, the sarcasm as subtle as a knife in the dark. "But I assure you, I require no doctoring. My body serves me as well as ever."
The old man's smile was as warm as a cup of pisswater. "Indeed, my Lord. I merely wish to ensure that the kingdom's most valuable asset remains… operational."
Tywin stared at him for a long moment, before he went back to his training, but he was still willing to talk and he went straight for something that was so glaringly obvious in his eyes.
"Your act is stupid." Tywin said bluntly.
Pycelle's smile didn't falter, "Act, my Lord?"
"The blundering oaf, the doddering greybeard, it's an act, Pycelle. I saw through it on the first day I arrived in this blighted city. You're no more demented than I am." The eyes of the Grand Maester widened innocently, "Why, my Lord, I am but a modest servitor of the Citadel, sworn to the service of the realm and its rulers."
Tywin snorted, resumed his exercises with more vigor. "You're a snake in the grass, Pycelle. You slither and coil, waiting for the right moment to strike."
The old man chuckled, "Ah, but even snakes have their uses, do they not? They keep the garden free of rats and mice."
The air grew thick with unsaid understanding; Pycelle knew Tywin knew his true nature. Yet he danced on, a dance of shadows and whispers that had kept him alive through the reign of many kings.
"Why the act?" Tywin asked, breaking from his exercise again.
Pycelle let go of the staff that had been sustaining him, a silent declaration of his strength. "Survival, your grace. The art of being the second most important man in the room. Often it is the highest flower which is plucked first by the winds of fate. Often the lowest is trampled by those seeking to reach the ascent. I prefer to remain unseen, yet always present."
Tywin studied him, his lips curling so his mouth was twitching with the beginnings of a smile. After seeing his intelligence and being called your grace, The Old Lion knew Pycelle was someone he could count on. The show and books did not give him enough credit.
"A fine stratagem," he conceded. "But what do you want, really?"
He paused, then he laid it on thick: "You are the best thing that ever happened to the realm. The King that wears no crown. The true power behind the Iron Throne. But even you must acknowledge, the kingdom is a fickle beast, and the court is a serpent's nest. I seek only to understand your intentions, to be ready to advise when needed."
Tywin's eyes glowed like embers. "I would think my meaning is plain enough, Pycelle. To serve the realm. As I have always done."
"At what price?" The Grand Maester returned, his own eyes as unyielding as stone.
Tension pulled the room tight as a bowstring. Tywin knew that Pycelle was fishing for weakness, trying to ascertain how deep his commitment ran to the present ruling dispensation. Trying to see if his loyalty to The Old Lion was potentially misplaced. He chose to give a shred of truth that would allow him to pass this test.
"The cost is steep, I confess," Tywin said, the weight of his thoughts in his voice. "But it is a price I am willing to pay."
Pycelle bowed his head. "As you wish, your Grace. Yet let us not forget, a king without a realm is but a man with a crown. The realm is more than the Iron Throne or its Hand."
Tywin's hand tightened on his staff. "I am aware of the responsibilities that come with power. I am not blind to the suffering of the smallfolk or the challenges that face our lands."
"Then perhaps," Pycelle said, the softness in his tone like a flow of honey, "you should consider the long-term consequences of your actions. The path you walk is fraught with danger, and not all threats come from outside the Red Keep's walls."
Tywin followed the wisdom in his words, recognizing that he had more work to do. In a sudden manner, he felt done training. Tywin flipped his staff to Pycelle, stopping him from returning to his act.
"Put that away for me will you?" Tywin said, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Your warnings are noted, Grand Maester. But fear not, I have eyes and ears everywhere. I shall navigate these treacherous waters with care."