In the bustling city of King's Landing, the cobblestone streets shimmered with a fresh coat of rain. The scent of roasting meats wafted from open tavern windows, mixing with the aroma of blooming flowers from the nearby gardens. People moved with purpose, their steps echoing against the ancient stones, as they went about their daily routines. The capital had always been a place of intrigue and power, but now, under new leadership, it felt as if a veil of tension had lifted.
The Gold Cloaks that were once Crimson Cloaks had been replaced by the stoic and disciplined forces of House Lannister. Their gleaming armor and gold-white tabards served as a stark reminder of the change in regime. Tywin Lannister, now the Hand of the King to the ailing King Aerys, had implemented a series of reforms that had begun to reshape the city into a bastion of law and order. The once corrupt guards had been weeded out, and their replacements were chosen for their valor and loyalty. These new guards patrolled the streets with an air of authority, ensuring that the peace remained unblemished.
It had been 6 months and Tywin Lannister was a year older. The man was still young and in his prime, yet the weight of his new responsibilities had etched lines of wisdom and fatigue around his eyes. His office, once a place of chaos under the previous regime, was now a bastion of order. Parchments neatly stacked, quills at the ready, and a map of the Seven Kingdoms spread out on the table, it was clear that Tywin was not one to leave matters to chance. His strategic mind was always churning, always planning for the future.
The knock at the door was soft but firm.
"Enter," Tywin called, his eyes never leaving the map.
The door creaked open, and a young squire, no more than 15 summers old, stepped into the chamber. He was drenched from the rain outside, his cloak clinging to his body like a second skin. His breath came in shallow gasps as he approached the Hand of the King.
"My lord," the squire began, his voice quaking slightly. "A raven has arrived from Dorne. It carries... it carries ill tidings."
Tywin's gaze snapped to the squire, his expression unchanging. He gestured to the desk, where the boy placed a scroll, sealed with the sun-and-spear emblem of House Martell. The room was silent save for the crackling of the hearth and the steady drip of rainwater from the squire's clothing. Tywin broke the seal and scanned the parchment, his eyes narrowing as he digested the words.
The scroll contained reports of growing whispers of rebellion in Dorne. The Dornish lords were discontent with the Iron Throne, believing Tywin had too much sway over the Mad King. They saw his hand in every decision, every misstep. His grip on the Seven Kingdoms had been tight, but it seemed the threads of his control were beginning to fray. He knew the Dornish were fiercely independent and would not tolerate a perceived usurpation of their sovereignty.
It was then that Tywin knew maybe replacing the Gold Cloaks was not such a good idea. He had hoped to win over Dorne by showing them the justice and efficiency that House Lannister stood for, but it seemed his actions had only confirmed their fears. The whispers of his manipulation had grown to a roar, and now the Dornish were poised to act. He felt a pang of frustration, but also a sense of responsibility. This was a mess of his own making, a consequence of his unyielding pursuit of power.
The squire, noticing the change in Tywin's demeanor, took a step back. He was young, but not naive enough to miss the gravity of the situation. "Is there anything I can do, my lord?" he asked, his voice a little less shaky.
Tywin's eyes remained on the scroll, his jaw tight. "There is nothing you can do."
With a curt nod, the squire retreated from the room, leaving Tywin to his thoughts. The rain outside had picked up, the droplets tapping against the windows like a drummer's rhythm, setting the tempo for the storm brewing within. Tywin knew he had to act swiftly. The Dornish were not to be underestimated. Their cunning and stealth were legendary. If they chose to rebel, the consequences would be dire.
The man needed to meet with The King himself to address the situation, and so Tywin Lannister set forth to meet the King. The halls of the Red Keep stretched before him, their crimson walls seeming to pulse with the echoes of past battles and political machinations. His footsteps were silent on the thick carpets that lined the floor, each step carrying him closer to the throne room where the Mad King Aerys Targaryen awaited his council.
When he arrived, the guards outside the heavy oak doors nodded in respect before swinging them open to reveal the opulent chamber within. The Mad King sat upon the Iron Throne, his eyes flicking to Tywin with a mix of curiosity and wariness. The room was bathed in the warm glow of candlelight, casting deep shadows across the ornate tapestries that adorned the walls. Aerys had not aged gracefully; his once handsome features were now drawn and sallow, his eyes sunken into his skull. The weight of his own paranoia had begun to consume him.
"Ah, Tywin," the Mad King said, his voice a dry rasp. "What brings you to my side?"
The room was suffused with the scent of burning candle wax and the faint metallic tang of paranoia. Tywin felt his heartbeat quicken, but he kept his face a mask of calm. He approached the throne, his eyes never leaving Aerys's.
"Your Grace," Tywin began, his voice measured and firm. "I have received troubling news from Dorne."
The Mad King's expression shifted, the flame in his eyes flickering with suspicion. "What is it?"
"The Dornish lords are growing restless," Tywin said. "They fear I hold too much power in your name."
Aerys leaned back in his throne, stroking his beard thoughtfully. The candlelight danced across the Iron Throne's jagged edges, casting eerie shadows across the king's face. "Is this true, Tywin?" His voice was a low murmur, barely above a whisper. "Do you seek to control me?"
Tywin's jaw tightened imperceptibly. "Your Grace, I serve the realm," he said, his words as precise as the blade of Ice. "My sole aim is to restore order and protect your reign."
The Mad King studied him for a long moment, the silence stretching like a bowstring about to snap. Then, with a sudden, sharp laugh, Aerys waved a hand. "Of course, of course. You are ever the loyal servant, Tywin. Who else could I trust?"
The words stung, but Tywin kept his face neutral. "Thank you for your trust, Your Grace. I assure you, my intentions are pure. However, the situation in Dorne cannot be ignored. They are a proud people, and their suspicion grows stronger by the day."
Aerys steepled his fingers, his eyes boring into Tywin's. "What would you have me do?"
Tywin took a deep breath, his mind racing. He knew that Aerys's mood swings could be as unpredictable as the storm outside. "Your Grace, I request your permission to meet with the Dornish leaders personally. They trust no one else in your service, so do I, and it is imperative that we quell their fears before they act on them."
The Mad King's expression grew pensive, his eyes narrowing to slits. "You believe you can win them over?"
"I believe I can at least make them understand the necessity of unity," Tywin replied.
Aerys's eyes searched Tywin's for any sign of deceit, his own paranoia a palpable presence in the room. Finally, with a grunt, he nodded. "Very well, you have my leave to go to Dorne. But beware, Lannister. I have a long memory, and I do not take betrayal lightly."
The warning hung in the air like the scent of burning pyres, but Tywin merely inclined his head. "Your Grace, I would never dream of such a thing," he said, his voice steady. He knew better than to argue with the Mad King's suspicions. It was a delicate dance, one misstep could lead to the pyre he had just referenced.
With the audience concluded, Tywin left the throne room, his thoughts racing. He had to move swiftly, and with precision. Dorne was a land of snakes, where every gesture had a hidden meaning, and every smile concealed a dagger. He could not afford to be caught unprepared.
It was time to prepare for his journey. Tywin summoned his trusted Maester, Pycelle, to his chambers. The old man shuffled in, his robes whispering against the floor. "You have the look of a man with a heavy burden," Pycelle said, peering at Tywin with watery eyes.
"I am to travel to Dorne," Tywin announced without preamble. "I need you to gather all the information you can on the current political climate there. Who are the key players, their allegiances, their grievances."
Maester Pycelle nodded, his chins wobbling with the effort. "Of course, your grace. I shall do as you command." His eyes searched Tywin's face, looking for a hint of what lay beneath the stoic mask. "But may I ask why?"
"The Dornish lords suspect me of overreach, and their whispers of rebellion grow louder." Tywin's voice was tight with tension. "Their loyalty to the Iron Throne is precarious, and we cannot risk losing Dorne to chaos. I must go there to set things right, to show them the face of the realm they serve."
Maester Pycelle nodded gravely, his eyes flicking to the scroll that Tywin had brought with him. "A delicate situation indeed. I shall prepare a detailed report for your perusal before you depart."
"And Pycelle?" Tywin paused. "Not a word of this to anyone. The only people that are allowed to know are Kevan, and Aerys."
Maester Pycelle nodded solemnly, the gravity of the situation clear in his gaze. "Your secret is safe with me, your grace." With that, he shuffled out of the chamber, leaving Tywin to his preparations.
Tywin looked out towards King's Landing, thinking deeply about his impending journey when the door to his chambers was knocked upon again, this time more insistently. He called for entry with a sigh, expecting another messenger with more ill news. But instead, the crimson robes of Melisandre of Asshai, the Red Woman, swept into the room, bringing with her the faint scent of exotic incense. Her fiery eyes searched the room, and when they found Tywin, she offered a knowing smile that made his stomach churn.
"Melisandre," Tywin said, his voice tight. "What brings you here?"
Her smile grew, a knowing glint in her eye. "The scent of fear and unrest, my lord. It calls to me."
Tywin's hand clenched around the scroll, his knuckles turning white. "You have no business here."
Melisandre's smile did not falter. "Ah, but I do," she said, her voice like honeyed venom. "I am the Lord of Light's servant, and it is my duty to guide the worthy."
Tywin's eyes narrowed. He had never trusted the Red Woman, her magic and her whispers of prophecy had always made him uneasy. Yet, there was something in her gaze that spoke of knowledge, of secrets that could not be ignored.
"What do you know of Dorne?" he asked, his voice as cold as the stone walls that surrounded them.
The smile spread, her scarlet lips parting to reveal a host of perfect white teeth. "More than you might imagine, my lord."
Her eyes shone like liquidscent fire as she took a step closer to Tywin's seat, her crimson garb whispering softly against the floor, clinging to the contours of her abundant figure. For all her years, her body still tended toward the voluptuous, a thing that spoke equally to her magic and its faith as to her age itself. Full and round, her breasts were the size of ripe melons, with pert nipples that were standing at attention beneath her robes, even though they were hidden beneath several layers of fabric. Her hips, which swayed with a sensual grace, spoke toward an ample-sized ass that lay beneath.
"I know the Dornish lords are whispering, my lord," she said, low and husky of voice. "They say you are a snake in the grass, waiting for your chance to strike at the realm."
Tywin's face did not change, but his anger flared. "And what would you have me do?
Melisandre leaned in, her hot breath dancing across his ear. "Let me show you the power of the Lord of Light," she whispered. "Let me serve you, and in doing so, serve the realm."
Her hand slid down his chest, going to the fastenings of his breeches. Tywin's cock quickened to life, thick and hard, proud to rise with any notion of being claimed by the priestess. There was just something about Melisandre that made him feel powerful and powerless, a combination that stirred his blood in ways little else could.
Her hands worked deftly, freeing his manhood from the confines of his garments. It sprang forth-long and thick, a veiny girth that made her eyes widen. Her own desire was clear, her pupils dilating as she took in the sight.
"Your weapon is as mighty as your will," she murmured thickly with lust. "Let us use it to conquer our enemies."
With surprising strength, Melisandre sank to her knees, her crimson robes pooling around her. Her hands wrapped around his shaft, her soft skin a jarring contrast to the calloused grip of his own. She began to stroke him, her movements slow and deliberate, her eyes never leaving his.
"You are the hand of the king," she purred, her tone devout. "Let me be your other hand, guiding you in the ways of fire and blood."
Tywin's breath caught and quickened as she took him into her mouth-her lips wrapping around his length with practiced ease that spoke of a thousand other men she'd serviced in the name of her god. Her tongue was a darting thing that danced along his shaft, teasing the sensitive underside before it swirled around the bulbous tip.
He felt himself losing control, his body reacting to her ministrations despite better judgment. His hand found its way to her hair, his grip tightening as he guided her movements. Her eyes never left his, a silent challenge that dared him to lose himself in the moment.
She drew him deeper, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked with growing fervor. Tywin's mind was racing, torn between the need to keep up appearances of being the authority figure and yet to give way to surrender to her delightfully offered pleasure.
"Melisandre," he gasped sharply. "Your mouth is a treasure."
Her eyes flashed brightly with triumph, and she took him even deeper yet, her throat constricting around his cock as the head of it reached her swallowing muscles. Tywin felt his orgasm building, a crescendo of pleasure that threatened to overwhelm him.
She could sense his imminent completion and quickened the pace with hands cupping his heavy testicles, massaging them. "Give in to the fire, Tywin," she purred around his shaft. "Let the Lord of Light fill you with his power."
The words sliced through like a signal for Tywin, and he could not hold it in any longer. With a loud roar, he ejected into her mouth, spurting his hot seed onto her tongue. Greedily, she swallowed it down, her eyes never leaving his as she savored his release.
As he stood there, panting and spent, Melisandre rose gracefully to her feet. She licked her lips, a smear of his cum on her chin that she wiped away with a slow, deliberate gesture.
"I have tasted your power," she said, her eyes alight with something that was not entirely human. "And it is strong. But it is not enough."
The chill of her words ran down Tywin's spine. He knew she desired more than his seed, that she wanted his soul, his loyalty to her gods.
"What do you want?" he growled.
She pressed closer, the weight of her breasts upon his chest. "I want you to come to me, not just for pleasure, but for guidance. To embrace the Lord of Light, to burn away the darkness that clouds your judgment."
Her hand reached up, her long, slender fingers tracing the contours of his face. "To rule the Seven Kingdoms, you must be more than a mere man. You must be a god."
Her gaze and Tywin's never wavered, while the latter ran the gamut in his thoughts. He knew full well that to give in to her would be to lose himself-a poor pawn in her game of gods. At the same time, he couldn't help but feel irresistibly drawn to her power, it seemed.
"I will consider it," he replied in a carefully modulated tone.
Melisandre's hand slid down his body, tracing the muscular lines of his abs and coming to rest at the base of his cock. It was thick and heavy, a testament to his virility. She felt it twitch beneath her touch, the veins pulsing with need. Down to his shaft, her eyes fell, noticing how the girth was already leaking precum in anticipation.
"Good," she whispered, her tone husky, a purring promise of seduction. "But first, let me show you a glimpse of what awaits you in the flames."
With that, Melisandre turned from him, her crimson locks spilling down her back as she presented for his taking. Tywin's eyes drank in the sight, his cock swelling further at the thought of plunging into her wet heat.
She leaned over the bed edge, bending her back, which made her breasts hang down, large areolae with taut nipples pointing at the floor. Wet and ready, her labia were swollen and inviting. Tywin came up behind her, his cock at her entrance, feeling her tightness as he pressed inside, her walls clenching around him.
"Mmm, yes," she panted, pushing back against him. "Take me, Tywin. Take me for the Lord of Light."
He began to thrust, hands digging deep into her hips as he pounded into her. Her breasts shook with each stroke, soft flesh tantalizingly jiggling. The sight mesmerized him, and his control slipped away.
Her moans grew louder, more fervent, and Tywin knew she was close. He reached around, finding her clit with his thumb, and began to rub it in tight circles. She bucked against him, her pussy quivering around his cock.
"I am yours," she gasped, her voice ragged with desire. "Yours to command, yours to worship."
They were magic words, and Tywin felt himself being swept up in the moment. He thrust harder, faster, his balls slapping against her ass as he claimed her in the name of the gods.
And as he felt her climax building, he knew that he too was on the edge. But he would not let go so easily. He wanted to feel her shatter beneath him, wanted to hear her scream his name as she came.
So he pushed deeper, his cock filling her completely, and she did scream, her orgasm ripping through her body like wildfire. Tywin felt her pussy clench around him, milking him, and with a roar, he gave in to his own release.
He emptied himself inside her, his seed mixing with her wetness, a token of their union, of his surrender to her will.
Melisandre fell back upon the bed, her body spent, her breathing ragged. Tywin pulled out, his cock glistening with their combined juices. He looked down at her, his eyes filled with lust and something more.
Tywin Lannister knew his place, and it was not as a pawn to her gods.
***
When the storm broke, and the sun was as a plate of beaten gold upon the city, Tywin called for Kevan Lannister to attend him in his solar. His brother was a stout man in his prime years, with a broad face pink from the razor. He had a square jaw that spoke of solidity, of good sense and stolidity, yet Kevan was a rock. Still it was reassuring just to have him near in these swift and fluid tides of the court.
"Kevan," Tywin said, in that deep dark dangerous voice of his, "I name you Hand of King in my stead, to rule until I return. I go to Dorne, to settle the matter of the insults of the Dornishmen."
Dignified eyes flickered slightly. "Dorne, brother?" Kevan asked, in surprise. "What has happened there?
"Whispers of rebellion." The tension was plain in Tywin's voice. "The Dornish suspect me of overreach and I must set matters right before they take action on their suspicions."
Kevan nodded solemnly, understanding the gravity of the situation. He knew Dorne to be a treacherous land: the air was as hot as the sands of Dorne itself, its politics as shifting as the dunes. "I will serve in your stead, brother," he said, his voice firm. "You can count on me to keep the realm in order while you're away."
He handed him a parchment with a list of names and orders. "These are the men and women I trust implicitly," he said. "Use them wisely, and keep the peace in my stead."
Kevan took the scroll, eyes scanning down the list. The names were all familiar to him, all of them loyal Lannister bannermen and women of proved valor and intellect. Then there were the specific Council Members whom Tywin trusted. "I shall serve the realm as you would," he vowed.
"And attend Melisandre," Tywin said, his voice holding a shade of wariness. "She is… troublesome."
Kevan nodded, his eyes rising to his brother's for just a moment. He was well aware of the Red Woman's fascination with his brother Tywin, as well as the rumors of dark magic.
There was a busy harbor with ships that were being prepared, their sails rolling down to unroll like one great flock of seagulls about to soar in the sky. The air was heavy with the smell of brine and the cries of sailors as they worked tirelessly to make sure every plank was secure, every rope taut. Tywin stood on the docks, looking out at the vessels that would soon carry him to Dorne. Each flew the lion of House Lannister, proud and fierce-a sight he hoped was enough to deter any predators.
He was aboard a vessel called the "Golden Lion," the swiftest and most fearful in the Lannister fleet. The prow was carved in the likeness of a roaring lion, its eyes of gold gleaming in the early morning light. The ship was an omen of his house's power and of the wealth that came along with it. Yet, the moment he had stepped out onto the deck, a bad feeling had been sitting in the bottom of his stomach and would not go away.
A salty, weathered captain, Lorent Marbrand, came before Tywin and gave him a slight bow of his head. Eyes as blue as the open sky, spoke of a man who had found his life on the sea. "The Golden Lion is ready to sail, my lord," he said in the gruff voice of the waves which lapped against the dock.
Tywin nodded, his eyes running over the vessel. "Good. We can waste no more time."
Captain Marbrand was taken in by the stern expression of the Lord of Casterly Rock. "Aye, my lord. The tides are fair, and we'll be in Dorne in a fortnight if the gods are willing."
Tywin's eyes were sharp, slicing through salt air like the blade of Ice. "See that they are," he said, his tone a hint of steel.
The captain nodded, hearing the sense of urgency in Tywin's voice. He thundered orders at his crew as the ship sprang to life around them. Sailors scurried about, their booted feet thumping rhythmically against the wood as they raised anchors and unfurled sails. The Golden Lion groaned as the ropes began to tighten amid a cacophony of creaking and snapping sounds; the vessel started to pull out from the dock. It was then after that ship after ship followed.
On board were Tywin's personal guard, the cream of the Lannister forces, prepared and vigilant. Bright-eyed, with hands resting on their hilts, they were ready for the duty of protecting their lord against anything that might suddenly threaten him. They knew very well how vital this mission was and how sensitive the situation in Dorne had been.
Then Tywin retired to his cabin on the vessel, the room as opulent as that he had vacated in King's Landing: a stronghold of Lannister influence upon the waves, a very different world from the one outside. He sat and reflected upon his wife Joanna, the guilt now beginning to weigh upon him for his betrayal with Melisandre.
He knew well that his duty to the realm must be first, but he knew equally well that his honour ruled he could not keep this secret from Joanna. It was not a conversation he looked forward to, but he knew that it was one he must have.