Within Casterly Rock, Tywin Lannister looked around like a lion to reclaim his dominion. His golden hair was slicked back, reflecting the soft, dying light of torches and casting an amber hue upon sharp, angular features. His eyes themselves, piercing into a sea of piercing green, looked about with cold scrutiny-a man who knew the exact value of every stone that kept his house.
Before a tapestry depicting the storied history of House Lannister in all its glory, Tywin stopped-just a moment, regarding the silver threads weaving their way through the dark, telling the tale of triumph and blood. His sister, Genna Lannister, glided toward him with the grace of a gazelle, her swollen belly a silent testament to the secret they shared.
"Brother," she whispered, her voice low and sweet, the softest of melodies within that great, echoing chamber. "The children are restless tonight."
"Their blood do not take kindly to caging," Tywin said with a low amused chuckle. "They will fly free, as they were born to do, when the time is ripe."
Genna's eyes, turgid with the weight of both fear and hope churning inside of them, plunged into his. "And Emmon?" she ventured. "He suspects nothing, but if he were to find out."
A cold, hard line, Tywin smiled. "Emmon is a simple man, readily blinded by the glitter of gold and trappings of power, he knows his place well. He would bring them up as his own, and we shall keep up the pretence." His voice was as hard as steel, unbending.
"The blood of the lion runs through their veins, not the watered-down river of the Freys. They will be raised Lannisters in spirit if not in name." With that, Tywin returned his gaze to the window: the moon, a silver path across the courtyard. It was an unbearable compulsion-to test this new freedom, if nothing else.
He nodded, turning to take his leave, leaving Genna to her own turmoil of mind. His boots echoed off of the cold stone floor as he made his way to the highest tower in the castle: his sanctum, where he might be alone with his thoughts-and his powers. Now indoors, Tywin clanged shut the thick oak door, rattling it around the room as he strode toward the open window.
The cool night air nuzzled his face; the delicate whispers were like a lover's caress. Tonight, the pull of the moon was more urgent, calling him to take flight into the sky. He inhaled deeply and concentrated on the Negative Mass, that power giving him flight. His body was light, free from the weight of the world and the secrets he had kept.
He plunged from the top of the keep into the darkness, with wind whipping around him like a river of flight. Excitement blazed into the wild intoxication of fear and force.
The world below had shrunk to a patchwork quilt of lights and shadows, the distant cries of the night watchmen a mournful serenade to his new freedom. Over the city of Lannisport he flew, its sprawling docks and rambling streets testifying in brick and stone to the gold and glory of House Lannister.
Flying was a covert flight of escape, a high never to lose its edge.
He savored the tugs of air that ruffled his sleeves, the drag of gravity's kiss as he plunged and dived yet still flew on. A power that soothed his soul amid intrigue at court, the duty of family. Salt spray misted across his face as he flew across the moon-washed expanse of the Sunset Sea-the wide world, great, and the small concerns of men.
With one final, wide, sweeping curve, Tywin began his drop down toward the sprawl of the city of King's Landing; ahead of him now the dark monolith of power-the keep of the Red Keep-low, crimson stones starkly visible below against the night sky, he could see, and he flew toward the Tower of the Hand, going to his brother Kevan with counsel. The city was quiet below him, all shadow and whisper that kept no secrets from eyes accustomed to X-rays.
As silent as any predator, Tywin landed light as any cat on to the balcony outside of Kevan's chamber, composing himself for a moment before entering therein. Still standing at their posts, the guards had not seen the shadow that had just crossed over their heads. He squared his armor and passed through open doors, at once his eyes adjusting to the dimness within.
Kevan looked up from the parchments laid out before him on the desk, the perfect picture of surprise and annoyance. "Tywin, what in the name of the Seven brings you here at such an hour?" he asked as he laid his quill to rest with a clatter.
"The business of the realm waits on no man's pleasure, brother," Tywin replied as smooth as velvet. He moved forward in silence, his tread muffled by the thick plush of the carpet, the candles flickering in his wake like fireflies; shadows danced upon the walls.
Kevan watched him warily-observing he wore no travel-stained garb. "How is it that you arrive so swiftly?" he asked, curiosity rising.
"Matters of the realm do not wait for ravens," Tywin replied enigmatically. The power of spanning distances without disclosure of his movement-an art in his arsenal-kept his enemies in speculation, his allies ever in his debt. "The night brings clarity, and I find my thoughts are clearest when unclouded by the distractions of the day."
Kevan watched him for a long moment, the candlelight dancing upon his furrowed brow. "Your methods grow more… unorthodox every day, it would seem," he said. "But if they bring us victory, I shall not complain."
"Wisdom, Kevan," Tywin said, the smile on his lips sardonic. "I shall have to remember that when the time comes for you to appreciate the full richness of my abilities."
They spoke long into the remainder of the night, urgent low voices weaving remedies to stabilize the realm. The wild hand of Mad King Aerys was an opened sore, threatening to poison the whole kingdom. Quite literally, Tywin could see through walls and know precisely where everyone was inside the castle at any time-a fact that made their privacy uncompromised as they spoke in hushed tones.
As the first rays of dawn were now seeping through the panes, Tywin knew it was time to bid farewell-the time when, even for all his fabulous abilities, his body, too, wanted some rest. He was overusing himself, and even The Anything System could not wholly eradicate the need for rest just yet.
With that, he fixed his unyielding gaze on Kevan, who now was leaned over the desk, and whispered, "Remember, brother, the words said here are but shadows. Speak of them only when necessity commands you."
Kevan nodded in grave agreement, somber in the weight of their words. Tywin knew his brother was loyal, and yet he could not know all that Tywin did. He nodded and turned to stride for the balcony. He paused at the door, his hand yet resting on the cold, iron handle.
"Kevan," he said, the quiet thunder in his voice stirring the stillness. "It will be one day that you will know what to do. Follow your instincts of the lion."
With nothing more to say to the matter, Tywin flung open the doors to the balcony and launched himself into the cold of predawn, slamming it shut behind him. The one deep breath he took drew in the scents of the waking city below him before launching into the air. The world fell away beneath his boots as a sense of weightlessness washed over him.
His eyes skimmed above the sleeping city where shades of building and wall fell strewn upon the ground below the darkness. The wind whispered around his ears, and farther off it carried the distant Cry of the oncoming morning-the scream of a faraway rooster. Tywin's eyes, cleaved as sharp as that of a hawk, saw through the blackness of the day into the agitated city in its sleep.
The flight from King's Landing to Casterly Rock was swift and silent; by the time the sun peered above the horizon, golden light kissed the battlements of House Lannister, and Tywin went down, his molten form taking on the solidity of a man as he touched his window. His armor showed no stain, residual heat from his fall lost in the cool morning air.
He shrugged off the armor in all the ways a man would, with ease after innumerable battles with it on. The skin was warm, shining with perspiration from that molten journey. He stepped into the coolness of his bath, steam rising from the water against his hot body. The air freshened with lavender and mint, its balm to his weary muscles.
After his bath, Tywin dressed himself in a plain nightshirt; his skin felt reborn under the softness of the linen. He climbed into bed-a great, curtained monstrosity of a bed-and threw off the covers; the chill of the sheets hit him in mild contrast to the fire still remaining in his bones. The room was dimly lit, the dying fireplace casting long shadows that danced upon the ceiling.
With his eyes shut, he carried on his face daylight responsibilities and the night's clandestine journey. The mattress, firm from the best goose down, cradled the contours of his body-a haven against a world which asked so much from him. Soon he breathed deep and even-a steady cadence, an attestation to the control exercised even in his sleep.
But it would not last; there was a commanding sudden knock on the door, which shook the quiet in his rooms. Tywin opened his eyes and sat in bed with the quickness of a cat.
"My lord," a shaking voice called from the far side. "It's Lady Genna. Her time has come."
Those words fell upon Tywin like a cold, hard slap. He had been hoping to sleep some more before dawn, but such cries of fate were never allowed to wait. Throwing the blankets aside, Tywin swung his legs over the bedside-the urgent tone in the voice of the guard allowing no delay.
"Tell her I am on my way," he called out, his voice even to the sudden shock to his senses. The guard's footsteps receded, leaving Tywin to his thoughts.
Before the wardrobe, he stood and scanned the neatly arranged garments within. He chose a tunic of deep crimson, the color of the banners of House Lannister, and some breeches that glittered like shining scales of some dragon. His vambraces, with the incised lion head, spoke silently of power and protection. He quickly dressed, fast and efficient; each garment fitted as if the gods had stitched it for him.
The door opened and Genna's maid, a girl named Tansy, came inside, her eyes wide and her cheeks flushed. "My lord," she said, gasping. "Your sister… she is asking for you."
"I am coming," Tywin said, his voice stable as stone, though weary as it was, weighed upon him like a shroud. His belly felt like a beast was clawing at it, gnawing. He wanted sleep, needed sleep, yet he dared not. Soon, but soon it must be. For now, he had to be strong.
The cries grew loud, a harmony of pain and will, echoing down the birth chamber and into the cold stone corridors of Casterly Rock. The heavy door came open, and the stink of sweat and fear swirled out, the herbs of the room an insufficient balm. Genna lay upon the bed, her face twisted in the effort of bringing life forth.
Her eyes finally met his, and in them, Tywin knew, lay not a brother but a protector-the lion of their house. It was just one step further, and he found his hand reaching to hers in a contrasting touch of warmth to the cold steel-hard resolve. "I am with you," he whispered, deep and steady as the stone beneath the sea. Yet he knew she was frightened, and rightly so. but there must be no show of fear within the Lannister line.
Thus she spoke-the midwife, an old, crook backed woman, eyes black as ravens-predicting it to him with nods. "Your sister is strong, Lord Tywin," she rasped, soothing to hear. "The babes will be here soon."
Tywin's hand closed around Genna's; the bones in her hand shifted under his grasp, squeezing back, and for a heartbeat, his eyes, red rimmed from want of sleep, seemed to gleam alive, teeming with all he now had to do, and yet the sleep he needed. Even so, he squared his shoulders at the thought of a new life before him.
A flash of green light cut the gloom of the chamber as suddenly Tywin opened his eyes; the room fell silent then but for the labored breathing of the woman in childbed. Wide with surprise, Genna sought his face for an answer.
"Your eyes," she breathed, almost in that very thin line separating terror and awe. "They are… different."
Tywin's face blinked, and the flash of green was gone. She saw it, he knew, but could not tell her, not yet. "The candlelight plays tricks," he said, his deep voice low and soothing as the storm in his belly raged on. "It is but the reflection of the fire."
But even as he spoke, he could feel it: the weight of his eyelids rising, the fogginess of his fatigue blown clear. The room came back into sharp focus, the scents more alive, the sounds sharper. He was filled with the energy of a hundred men; the weariness of his toil & pursuit forgotten.
"Emmon," he said, making the name a command. The man looked up from his vigil, his eyes bleary and uncertain. Tywin knew that he had sat thus, his own fear and pride in turmoil in his belly. "Go to your wife's side. Your heirs are almost here."
He inclined his head, stepped to the bed, took Genna's other hand in his and shook.
He watched them for a moment, the irony not lost on him, before he turned and left, his mind racing with the implications of what he and Genna had let slip. When he stepped into the corridor, though, he found Melisandre waiting for him, her red hair ablaze against the cold stone walls. Her eyes, a piercing red, searched his, and he knew she had seen the change in him… again, which was precisely why she was out here.
"My lord," she purred, stepping close enough that he was enveloped in the scent of her incense and exotically rich perfumes. "Your eyes… they have changed."
Tywin turned back to her, his eyes as cold as the north. "You see well enough," he said, his tone low and even. "But what you see is not for you to speak of."
Melisandre drew nearer, her scarlet skirts rustling on the stone. "I am yours, my lion," she whispered, "bound to your will, and to your service, now and always… and to the fire that consumes you."
He did not turn his face from the mirror, wherein emerald depths glowed within his eyes, reflecting his newest power. "Your devotedness is noted, Melisandre," he finally said, his voice even and low, measured. "Now is not the time for distractions."
She nodded to herself and turned, vanishing as her robes whispered against the stone corridor. Tywin took a moment to compose himself-this intoxicating surge of his new powers, a potent cocktail inside him-that overpowered his lusted after the Red Woman. Then, with quiet determination-as had made him the most feared man in Westeros-he started down into the bowels of Casterly Rock.
Cold and dank, a smell of mold and despair hung heavy in the air of dungeons-the place where secrets were born and died. Indeed, an apt stage for his next experiment. Something was burning inside him, something much stronger than that yellow fiery globe hanging up there in the sky. It was high time to let it loose.
With a thought, the emerald fire blazed in Tywin's eyes, and the darkness fled before him; lines of stone walls and rusting chains appeared anew, and his pupils closed to slits, narrowing the beams to bright twin crossbow barrels, firing at the far wall into the deepest, darkest recesses of the history of the castle.
A beam of angry light burst from his eyes, crackling through the air with the sound of a thousand angry wasps, to strike the stone along a perfect line, clean through the solid rock with the heat of a thousand suns. The air grew hot, and his nostrils were filled with the acrid smell of molten rock. Tywin felt a fierce satisfaction rival the thrill of victory upon the course of the battlefield down his spine, making it shiver.
And there it had been, lost in thought-the emerald beam was gone; a molten line, a mark where something had passed, seared on the wall. Again the darkness clamped down, like there had never been a sign of this experiment. And hard, cold reality sanguine into his eyes when a deep breath started to fade the fire in them.
His walk to get to his office was swift, his footsteps echoing down the deserted halls of Casterly Rock. The stillness in this fortress might stand in witness to the battles that had been fought and won, secrets buried deep beneath its stones. Tywin kept his office very neat, as if some sort of stern rebuke against the whimsical outside world. With a proud lion carved into it-the sigil of House Lannister-the heavy oaken door swung open to let him in.
A groan from the chair, sturdy enough to take even more weight, and he sat himself behind the huge oak desk. The parchments laid in front of him were a maze of words and numbers, the lifeblood of the realm. Now that the tiredness no longer addled his brain, each line parted before his eyes like before the combat skill of a master swordsman. Those piercing green orbs constituting his eyes could scan the documents with a speed that left any scholar dumbfounded.
With a burst, a sudden hush fell, and a guard entered, his face afire. "My lord," he said in a husky voice echoing revelry, "to the royal House Targaryen, a son-Prince Rhaegar, just born!"
Tywin's eyes came up from his papers, unruffled. Inside, he was running. A new player in the game, a prince of the blood of the conqueror, a possible threat or opportunity. "So it would seem," he breathed.
He nodded to the guard, who still was excited, "Yes, my lord. King's Landing rings its bells for joy!"
Tywin sat back in his chair, fingers steepled before his lips. A Targaryen prince, born under the protection of the Mad King-what implications were vast with the potentials for alliances and enemies alike sprawled before him like a chessboard. His eyes strayed to the map that dominated one wall: the Seven Kingdoms, the crimson banner of House Lannister planted firmly in the West.
The guard was waiting for some kind of reaction; finding none, he stepped back-the excitement now dampened. "I-is there something you would have done, my lord?"
"Send a raven to King's Landing," Tyrion commanded, his tone matter-of-fact. "And give the king my congratulations. The realm rejoices in the birth of a prince." He nodded, and the guard retreated, being certain to shut the door softly. Tywin remained seated, eyes fixed on the map, his mind afire. The Targaryens had their heir, and with it, the possibilities of peace or war. Common knowledge, surely, that an impulsive nature like that of the Mad King did not go without cognizance, and a new prince would only add to the explosiveness of it all.
It was then the door opened again, and the wish for solitude was destroyed again, this time by the note of urgency in his Maester's tone. "My lord, there is another raven," he said; weight of the message written across his eyes. "King Aerys commands your presence forthwith. He wishes for you to resume the office of Hand."
The room seemed to grow colder, the shadows outstretched, it would seem, in grasping hands of the gods themselves, as Tywin digested this tidbit. His heart pounded in his chest, not from fear but rather for the thrill of a new challenge. Summons from the Mad King were never to be taken lightly, and the timing was… curious, to say the least. "Very well," he said, a cold wind in his voice. "Pack my things. I head to King's Landing straightaway."
It was a surprise that he had demanded his service, yet not unwelcome. Tywin knew Aerys well enough to suppose that the king perceived conspiracies everywhere; yet even so, there was more to the words than that: an undercurrent in the words-with a new heir born, vigilance was necessary, it seemed, in these years when dooms creaked in with whispers spreading like the distant rumble that comes before the storm. "Thus, he fears for his family," Tywin said, barely a whisper to himself, though his eyes never left the map.
The paranoia of the Mad King was the stuff of legend, and the birth of a son would only exacerbate it. He knew Aerys would see his own doom in every shadow, each whispered word. The Maester nodded, hushed. "My lord, at a time of change, speaks the letter of the king. He is… disturbed."
Tywin's eyes narrowed. His mind turned over the implications. Those had been the fears of Aerys he had heard so many times before; the whispers of death had grown louder with every moon. "He sees enemies in every corner," he whispered, "and he thinks I am the shield that will safeguard his son."
The mug of hot tea steaming on the tray, fresh from the kettle, wafted waves of steam with mint and honey in front of him as he took it from his Maester. Tywin sipped, letting warmth seep into his bones. "The realm needs a strong hand, my lord," said the old man's trembling voice. "Somebody to guide it through the gathering storms."
"Mhm." Tywin nodded to that, still glued to his map, before his thoughts weighed in on the gravity of his sister's situation. He knew well enough that a birth was such a critical juncture in time, not only in the children's very survival but in the outcome of House Lannister. He would not leave until he had made sure the children arrived safely into the world.