"You are as sharp as a dragonglass dagger, Ty," Genna Lannister said, with a sly smile, emerald eyes glinting with amusement as she sprawled in the chair by the heavy oaken desk in the chamber they had claimed as their war room.
Tywin Lannister did not look up from the parchments scattered before him. His lips pursed as he studied the latest raven messages, candlelight flickering off the gold in his hair. "Flattery will get you nowhere, sister." He spoke in a voice that would have cut stone.
Genna laughed throatily, warm and rich as the red wine swirling in her goblet. Sipping, she watched Tywin's furrowed brow deepen. "You're working too hard," she said in a voice appropriately set with attention and tease. "Let me handle the menial tasks."
Without looking up, Tywin's hand darted out and snatched a quill from where it lay in its stand. The feather danced as he made work of using it as a pointer at her. "Menial tasks are what win wars, Genna," he said, his gaze never off the parchment. "Each tidbit here may serve one day to prove our salvation. Or our doom."
She smiled wryly, moved close to him; her skirts rustled softly against the stone floor. "But you cannot be expected to lead and have no rest," she added, laying a hand on his shoulder. Her touch seemed to bleed through the armor of his concentration.
Tywin's eyes flashed to hers, a flicker of irritation crossing his face before he composed himself. "Rest is a luxury we can't afford," he growled. "Not while the realm suffers."
Genna's hand fell from his shoulder, and she leaned back. "But even lions must rest, Tywin," she whispered; the promise of their night was heavy between them. She knew he had not slept, could see it in the bruise-like circles beneath his eyes and the tension in his jaw.
Tywin's eyes fell back to the parchments, his hand clenching on the quill. "Kevan is loyal," he spat, "but he lacks vision." His eyes moved over the words as if somehow a hidden strategy was written between. "He follows commands, but he does not foresee the bedlam that rages within the hearts of men."
The silence between them was broken only by the periodic popping and crackling of the hearth and the distant call of the sentinel. The weight of the woes that faced the Seven Kingdoms seemed to have rested itself upon their shoulders, every burning ember an indication of the fires that needed quelling for House Lannister to survive. Tywin's hand began to twitch-a sure sign that he was growing irksome.
"You know," Genna said, her voice delicately piercing the strained silence. "I've been thinking about our future, Tywin." Again, she reached for her goblet, her eyes never leaving his profile. "Our children… they will be strong, like lions of the rock."
The quill in Tywin's hand fell still, and for a moment, he said nothing. In a voice without inflection, he said then, "They will be Lannisters." Unspoken, yet implied was the weight of her words; he gave no overt indication that he had heard her.
Genna's eyes found her brother's profile; the warmth in her chest congealed into a knot of unease. "But, Tywin," she ventured, "what of the whispers? The gods' wrath?"
Tywin's hand had stilled its wild dancing across the parchment, and he finally looked up at her. "The gods are silent," he said, his eyes cold and unyielding as stone. "And if they do speak, it is not in the squalling of newborns or the malformed limbs of babies." His voice was a whip, his words lashing at her terrors with cruel pragmatism.
Genna searched his eyes for some hint of the doubt that plagued her, but all she found there was the steely resolve that had made him such a feared leader. "But what if they're born… different?" she ventured, her voice shaking.
Tywin's face did not change. He laid the quill aside and steepled his fingers, leaning back in his chair. "Different, yes," he said, his voice a low rumble. "But not weak. We will mold them into the leaders Westeros requires."
Genna's heart jumped, and her fingers tightened on her goblet. "And if they were to be… imperfect?" she tried, the hollowness in her gut churning.
Tywin's eyes narrowed and his face screwed up in a fit as he listened to her question. "Perfection is a fleeting concept," he growled out, the low rumble of his voice echoing from the stone. "In a world of snakes and lions, we make our own fate. Our children will be tools of our legacy, not toys for superstition." Genna swallowed hard, the knot in her stomach unravelled a little. "But the gods." she tried again, the sentence dribbling away to nothing.
Tywin's eyes closed a bit more, his face set into a mask of grim resolution. "The gods are as silent as the graves of our enemies," he whispered-a cold whisper that seemed to carry upon it the weight of the very graves themselves.
"Their 'wrath' is a fable the maesters employ to control those who do not know better." He leaned forward, elbows to desk, eyes boring into Genna's. "Our will is our fate-not theirs. And I will not allow our legacy to be controlled by some thousand-year-old myth." The tension in the room was making the air thick, the flames of the hearth dancing weirdly across the planes of Tywin's face, making the bone structure sharply angular along his jaw and across his cheekbones. His hand twitched once more, and he fisted it to stop the involuntary movement. Only Genna knew this-the one crack in his otherwise impenetrable façade.
Yet beneath the unruffled surface, there was a hum in his veins of the power which had come in with The Anything System's next gift.
He had been handed the reins over the very substance of his children, the means to give House Lannister a lineage as pure and strong as any other for generations to come. A smug smile played upon his lips, which he hastened to suppress, knowing too well he did not want his sister privy to this new advantage he held over her.
It was the reason he wasn't that anxious about what she told him-that his hand didn't twitch much. For now, he let the whispers of doom and the terrors of the gods dance in their whispers around them, shades in the candlelight. He would let her believe in the capricious whims of the gods, let her fear the unknown.
The door to the chamber creaked open and a servant said, "Lord Tywin, Lady Genna, luncheon is served in the great hall.
Tywin barely looked up from his maps. "I will be there when I am finished," he said shortly. The servant lingered, then beat a retreat.
Genna's eyes looked for him, the question implicit. "How is Joanna?" she stammered softly-the first probe in the minefield which constituted his personal life.
Tywin did not lift his eyes from the parchments again. "As well as can be expected," he said, his tone as neutral as the stone which walled them. "She will come around."
Genna's eyebrows arched in surprise. "How can you be so sure?" she asked, curiosity lacing into every tone.
Tywin continued his work. "Because she is a Lannister," he said, his voice as smooth and cold as the waters of the Blackwood. "We do not show the weakness of emotional attachment. Duty is our shield, not love."
Genna studied him for a moment, the warmth in her eyes cooling to something more serious. "Love can be a powerful weapon, Ty," she said, setting her goblet aside with a soft clink. "And a powerful shield."
He grunted noncommittally, his hand tracing over the parchments with the precision of a master blacksmith in fashioning a sword. "If you say so," he said, his tone dismissive.
With the final map in its place, Tywin stood, his joints crackling like the distant thunder outside. The candles had burned low, casting the room in an unearthly gloom, a setting that suited his mood. Without another word, he strode from the chamber, his heavy boots echoing down the corridor. Genna followed, her own thoughts, a roiling sea that churned and foamed like that which raged outside.
Clangings of cutlery and peals of laughter greeted them as they entered the great hall beyond the savory smell of roasting meats and fresh-baked bread. As the room was warm, cool was Tywin, in direct contrast. They entered to the symphony of whispers, which grew into a crescendo of greetings as the room took notice of their arrival. The expression on Tywin's face did not change, his eyes scanning the room in some mental calculation of political dynamics.
Brothers, Gerion and Tygett sat at the high table, surrounded by the sea of lesser lords and ladies who wanted some of the brilliance of the Lannister siblings on them. Standing at the end of the table was his beautiful but so remote wife Joanna, who barely acknowledged his presence since he came down from their chamber where they had had their most private word.
"Ah, the prodigal son returns," Gerion called out with a laugh, his cup of wine aloft as he was, while Tygett, quieter of the two, only nodded, eyes narrowing in assessment as Tywin and Genna neared.
The siblings sat with Tywin beside Joanna who is impassive as any statue of stone. He felt a twinge of something-irritation, perhaps-but he buried it beneath his tranquil mask. "Gerion, Tygett," he said, his voice smooth as honey wine, languid with weariness. "I trust the defenses of the Rock are in good hands?
Gerion was ever the charmer, raising his cup in toast. "Always, brother," he said with a wink, "but the real battles are over wine and roast, not in dusty chambers with ink and parchment."
A jest, and Tywin's lip curled slightly, yet somehow his tone came out light: "War is won before battles are fought, on the pages of strategy and in the hearts of men," he returned; his eyes flicked to Joanna, who stared determinedly at her plate.
It was a banquet for kings arrayed before them, an exhibition of the wealth and power that House Lannister commanded, truly without bounds. On this golden platter sat the roast boar, shining in the firelight, flanked by fruits and vegetables and bread. The clinking of eating irons and murmurs of conversation fell into a cadence soothing to the tightness in the air. They were at the mercy of fate, yet easy sibling rhythm courtesy of stories of battles and politics past flowed freely.
The weight of Joanna's silence grew heavier and heavier amidst the feasting and merrymaking. He felt her eyes upon him, yet Tywin did not lift his face from his plate, his head a maelstrom of the myriad strategies racing there.
Yet it was when the courses were clear and the fragrance of dessert was in the air that she leaned below the table and took his hand in hers. Her skin was so warm, it was catching, sending his eyes to hers for the first time that day. Her eyes sought his, the shadow of a smile upon her lips. "You need a break, Tywin," she said, a gentle song above the clangor of the hall. "The real battles are won here, with those who support us." He squeezed her hand; the touch could be more honest than a thousand words. "I know," he answered, in a low voice, a quiet rumble that only she could catch. "But the battles that decide the fortunes of our House are won or lost in quiet chambers, not in feasts and games."
And in an instant, her smile saddened a little. "And yet," she said, her thumb circling small on the back of his hand, "these are the moments which make life worth fighting for."
He looked into her eyes, the green of them as deep and as unknowable as the emerald. "Perhaps," he conceded. He knew she was right, but the road ahead was full of hazards, and the foes they would encounter would not be defeated by feasts and jests.
And then dessert arrived: a statue in honey and sugar-spun. A few moments later, a strange tingling took hold of Tywin's fingers.
He looked down startled as they started to change, skin and bone giving place to some slick silvery metal that reflected from the flicker of fire. The power of the Anything System flowed through him, a gift he had not expected. Molybdenum was one of those very strong, resilient metals. Then he flexed his new metallic digits, eyes wide in wonder as they moved at his command-fluidly and gracefully, almost inhumanly.
Soon enough, though, he had to change the metal back into skin, because he did not know when someone may see his transformation. There was an unsettling comfort in the weight of molybdenum-solid, unbreakable, exciting, and terrifying all at once. Tywin took a deep breath over his swallowing, and the metallic tang of the power remained on his tongue. He should be careful with this new gift-one too potent to show off, too powerful to waste. Tywin nodded to brother, brother, sister, and cousin in turn, then rose and strode from the table, leaving his family to their dessert. His heels began to ring, echoing off the encasing stones as he exited the Great Hall. The feast continued blithely on, continuous laughter and chatty guests, none a dash of the turmoil within his head. The honeyed sweetness of the dessert forgotten now in cool evening air.
He strode across the courtyard, his heart racing from the anticipation of trying out his new powers.
He stopped in the darkness of a hidden alcove, out of view. Tywin squared his shoulders and breathed deeply to compose himself. Then all in a moment his form began to shift-the skin on the back of his hand ripped like parchment to reveal shining metal beneath. It was a new sensation -a good one, a feeling he was born anew, rebirth into a body so peculiar and at the same time so similar. The metal was molybdenum, an element in some ways reflecting his own stiff resistance.
He stared, enthralled, as his hand melted and the metal flowed like a river of blood across the skies, bathed in sunlight. That color of crimson was intoxicating, starkly different from the silver of his usual, more mundane form. This was something humming in his veins, reminding him that he had passed beyond the limitation of flesh and bone: a weapon, a shield, or a tool-molded by will alone.
With a flick of his hand, the liquid metal burst upwards in a spurt into the air, flying in a smooth arc, to splatter against the cobble with a wet metallic sound. A sight to make any man, even the bravest, quiver-but all Tywin could feel was a cold satisfaction. Power was surging through him, power almost akin to his own thoughts.
And in that instant, there it was: the meaning of this gift, that made him-for the first time in his life-the most powerful man in Westeros, able to bend the world to one's will, to shape it into a mirror image of his unbending dream. The Iron Throne would be his for the asking, and the Seven Kingdoms would bend their knees before the fury of House Lannister.
Yet Tywin knew all too well not to be swept by such thoughts-the path ahead was treacherous, and he could ill afford to appear anything less than human. This new power also had to be kept hidden, even from those closest to him. Lonely would be the burden, a weapon to draw only when the shadows grew darkest.
When the castle had descended into the quiet night, Tywin withdrew into his war room. Long shadows danced upon the rich tapestries hanging on the walls, in the soft light of the candles that lit the room. He shut the heavy oaken door behind him, let the solid thud resound through silence like a promise.
He approached the heavy carving that was the mirror dominating one wall; his reflection stared back at him with cold detachment, like a statue.
He drew a dagger from his side with deliberateness. The glint of the blade shone bright in the dancing light, a dumb witness to the blood that mostly came with power. His heart was blasting in his chest, not because he was scared, but because of the thrill of the unknown. In one thought, his hand took on the molten qualities of molybdenum; the metal bubbled and flowed like the hottest forge in all lands of the Ironborn.
He lifted the dagger high against his chest and let his gaze meet its equal in the mirror. The room was not breathing as the blade fell to his heart. In that one moment, the steel contacted the molten metal, hissing and crackling, giving off the metallic smell of burning iron.
The dagger melted like wax against the sun, droplets of metal spattering to the floor and leaving behind a small puddle of molten steel that cooled and hardened in what was almost an instant.
And in that knowledge, the power surging through him, intoxicating. Never had Tywin felt so alive, so in control. Once more his hand was flesh, and he let it hover over the scar left by the point of the dagger-a small, round imprint, already fading into his skin. He knew now that he could withstand any weapon, face any foe, and emerge unscathed.
But as the shine of those new powers eventually did wear off, the weight of his responsibilities came falling down upon him like a tower. The fate of the realm lay with him now, and once again he could ill afford the appearance of anything less than human.
Tywin blew out a small sigh, refocusing on his work. Parchments crowded the table, each part of the puzzle that was the fate of the Seven Kingdoms. His eyes scanned the pages, searching for the patterns that others might overlook-the weak points in the realm, opportunities to strike.
The door to his war room creaked open and a figure clad in red slipped inside, her footsteps silent upon the plush rugs. "My lord," Melisandre of Asshai, the priestess of the Lord of Light, said with a deep curtsy. Her eyes, pools of liquid flame, searched his face.
His hand stilled on the parchment, as if it had struck an exposed nerve. "How did you get past my guards?" His voice was cold as the steel in his blood.
Melisandre smiled, knowing. "The Lord of Light guides me where I am needed, my lord," she replied, her eyes never leaving his. "Your men see only what they wish to see."
Tywin's face was impassive. "What is it you would have to say?
Melisandre rose from her curtsy as gracefully as she had knelt, the ruby at her throat seeming to pulse with a warm, red light. "Your power, my lord," she murmured, her voice husky. "It has grown. I feel it."
Tywin's hand fell onto the map, his eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?
Melisandre leaned forward, the fire in her eyes seeming to dance across the room. "I feel a change in you, Lord Tywin," she croaked low. "A strength which was not there before. The Fire God speaks to me of a beast transformed, a lion with a heart of the sun."
His hand closed over the quill, his brain racing. "You speak in riddles, priestess," he said evenly, then lied, "I am yet the same man."
Melisandre leaned forward, the river of carmine hair spilling over her shoulder. "The same yet different," she said. "The Lord speaks to us in signs and portents. I feel it. There is something of king's blood in you, mixed with the wolves."
The words hung in the air. For a moment Tywin was discomfited. "I am the same man," he said stubbornly. "My only concern is the security of House Lannister and the realm."
It was when the war room door creaked open again, and through candlelight diffused by the softness, his sister Genna materialized. She took a look at Melisandre and, for herself, her eyes became curious and wary. "Big Brother," she acknowledged him, half in surprise, half accusingly. "I did not expect to find you in such… enlightening company."
Melisandre's smile was tight-mouthed; her eyes did not break from Tywin's face. "Lady Genna," she said, with a tilt of her head that passed for a curtsy. "Your presence is as unforeseen as it is… stimulating."
Genna's eyes moved from her brother to the priestess, her face expressionless. "Melisandre of Asshai," she said, her tone cold. "Your fame precedes you.
Her eyes shone with light, and her smile a promise of confrontation, as she said, "And yours, Lady Genna," her eyes resting upon the scarlet velvet of the gown. "I am curious, what brings the sister of the great Tywin Lannister out in the darkness?" Genna moved stiffly toward the table, not once breaking her stare at Melisandre. "I seek no counsel," she said evenly. "I came to discuss matters of the realm with my brother, but it would appear he is already occupied.
Melisandre smiled, the merest hint of knowledgeable glint in her eye. "Ah, the matters of the realm," she said, her voice lilting. "So often they are matters of the heart."
Genna's eyes narrowed, and she swung to Tywin. Her face was continuously impassive. "What is the meaning of this?"
Tywin set down the parchments and looked up. "Melisandre is a useful ally," he said; his tones were glacial, discouraging replies. "Her… Talents have proved of use already." He thought about ASOIAF as a whole, Melisandre's talents were either a hit or miss. There was also the fact that she was a good lay.
Genna didn't flinch however, her arms crossed over her chest. "I am your sister," she spat, her voice as cold as a razor. "Your confidant and adviser. What could she offer that I cannot?"
Tywin's face softened; his eyes flickered from Melisandre to Genna. "You are all of those things and more," he said, his voice low, a purr. "But Melisandre… she sees things. Knows things. And in these troubled times, knowledge is power."
Genna's eyes searched his, the question unsaid hanging between them. "But her gods," she whispered, her voice tight. "You do not believe in them."
Tywin sighed; the candle flame danced shadows across his face. "No," he conceded, "I do not. But belief is not the currency of power. Fear is. And in fear, Melisandre is a master. Her whispers can turn men to our cause, or drive them to despair. That is her value to us."
Genna studied him a moment, the silence thickening like the velvet drapes that framed the windows. "Very well," she said finally, her voice tight. "But do not let her deceive you, brother. Her gods are fickle, and her visions are as clear as dragon glass."
But Melisandre only smiled, yet behind her eyes Tywin saw the spark of annoyance. "Your skepticism is noted, Lady Genna," she returned, soft and serene and irresistible as a river to jagged rock. "Yet have no fear. I am your servant, but more so to a higher purpose. I serve the Lord of Light, and through Him, I shall serve Tywin Lannister."
A palpable tension, thick with the scent of power and secrets, seemed to fill the space. He jerked his hand, and the fire of molten metal stirred inside him, bursting in restive, ready eagerness to be loosed. He was fully aware that Melisandre was a peril-a wild card, and not one to be wholly trusted-but she was a means to an end, a weapon he could employ for a specific purpose in mind.
"Enough," he growled, and now his voice was low and rumbling, as if those words shook the stones of the castle. "We are all here for the same reason: the survival and prosperity of House Lannister."
Fire danced within the depths of her eyes, and the look with which Melisandre beheld him was warning, though her tone was meek and confrontational in one. "You speak truth, Lord Tywin," she said. "But do not think to control the will of the gods."
Tywin's gaze did not flinch, his hand still raised above the map. "I control what is within my grasp," he said. Iron in his blood coated his tone with steely finality. "And you, Melisandre, are within my grasp."
A knowing glint shone in the priestess's eye, though she did not smile. "As you wish, my lord," she said, bowing her head. "I will make a special effort to find common cause with Lady Genna, for the sake of your house."
"See that you do," said Tywin, his voice soft thunder that brooked no dissent. He knew the value of a united front, and he would not abide dissent, not even from those who claimed to serve the same cause.