"Lord Tywin," the guard yelped, snapping a salute as Tywin Lannister rode toward the gates of King's Landing. Aboil in the sun, they yawned open, prostrating their threshold for the uninvited to cross. He did not give heed to that; his presence was regard enough. His gaze led the way through the throngs: weighing cheers, agape faces, and damn banners bearing the lion of his house.
The crowd churned and surged, thick as the tapestry of nobles and merchants and desperate folk clinging to life by their fingernails; spilling into the cobblestone streets, eyes as one in a mixture of awe and anticipation-and there, in their eyes, he saw it: a longing for a rescuer, a guardian, a god. They got him instead. And Tywin, who was all hard durability, knew not whether it was misfortune for them or for himself.
Hot waves swirled around him: meats roasted to char, stale sweat, salt brine, and a whole lot of shit. The stench of survival. A hundred merchants squawked their wares like crows fighting over leavings; children darted through the tumult, piping laughter cutting through the steady tramp of soldiers. It was alive; it was vibrant; it was well beneath him.
The city, yet hummed with a rhythm, a pulse, which in his darker moments Tywin both respected and somewhat envied. He had visited in secret, cloaked by shadows of night, stealing furtive glances at this bustling, squalid beast of a capital. Each visit was for Kevan. For family. For duty. Every step he took pulled him deeper into the quicksand his house's future was-a weight these simpering fools would never comprehend.
The room with the Iron Throne loomed above him, swallowing in its vastness; centuries of blood and ambition soaked into the stone. His horse's hooves clacked like whispers of doom, the sound stretching into the silence.
Before him stood the king-King Aerys Targaryen, the Mad King. The dark-eyed ruler who'd turned paranoia into somewhat of a twisted art. He lounged upon that monstrous throne-a dead man playing at life-surrounded by his shining Kingsguard and toadying sycophants. Close to him stood his sister-wife, Queen Rhaella-so much an emblem of duty.
Tywin smiled-the faintest curl of lip that never reached his eyes. This was the great king of the Seven Kingdoms? A man who could not sip his wine without envisioning assassins in every sniff? Tywin had leapt over higher walls than city gates, crushed harder men than Aerys on whims. Almost amusing. Almost.
"Your Grace," Tywin's voice came, harsh yet there was a blend of eloquence in them, "I trust my return brings you… delight."
For a second, the fire of madness dimmed, if only for a heartbeat, by something Tywin almost thought was clarity. "Ah, Tywin," the king intoned in a fragile, brittle voice, "how unfortunate that the times call for your presence."
Shame. The word was around the room, a leaden weight that none were willing to break.
"Your Grace," Tywin answered, knowing he had to be deliberate in his answer, "I am ever your servant." He turned his eyes to Rhaella then, who looked at him with coldness. For some reason she looked like Rhaegar who offered nothing but defiance, no welcome whatsoever.
Tywin inclined his chin to a slight nod, guiding his steed around with a fluidity of grace that spoke volumes of control. The creature trembled below him-its power at the thinnest of leashes. The Room. Quiet. Waiting. All the weight of their gazes became a burning heat rising along his back as he left the Iron Throne room.
The door slammed shut behind him was the answer, like a guillotine falling. The suspense that was stretched taut between them snapped free; Tywin blew out a careful, meager breath, tasting iron tang mingling with leather remnants of his ride. Let them talk. Let them analyze his every step, his every word. That was a game for them, not for him.
The stables were a haven, a haven of quiet in the midst of King's Landing. He stroked the neck of his horse, a beautiful beast fit for a king-racing strength packaged in grace. Not unlike his rider. "Well done," he whispered with praise. "You deserve it." The horse snorted softly, a sound almost like a sigh of comprehension, as the stableboy came near to lead him away.
Tywin had begun to turn toward the door, but the soft friction of silk on stone arrested him. He turned his head to find her standing in the doorway, Queen Rhaella, stately, composed, and as chilly as a winter dawn. Her gown swept the floor with a soft swish, as if it would claim ownership. This wasn't a social visit.
"Your Grace," he said, head sideways, the gesture more suggestion than submission.
"Lord Tywin," she replied, she was smooth with it.
His look did not falter. "Your Grace."
She approached with care, each step intentional. "Your return is… unfortunate."
Tywin had a glimmer of amusement shining through that he made no effort to conceal. "How diplomatic. It appears you and your husband are in agreement, at least on this issue."
Her lips became a resolute line. "We are aware of what brought you here. You did not come this distance for him."
Tywin cocked his head to one side. "From Casterly Rock, yes. But for him? No. I didn't."
The weight of Rhaella's expectations pressed heavily upon the space separating them. "You are to remain Hand of the King until Prince Rhaegar comes of age. That is not a suggestion."
"Fate is a mean bitch," Tywin said, like round barbed wire hidden in a Christmas gift. "Even the biggest and oldest oaks can fall before a sudden storm.
She hardened her face: "Is that your way of telling me my son won't live to sit upon his throne?"
He didn't blink as he met her. "I say only this: the future's never sure, Your Grace. Nothing more, nothing less."
She parted her lips and stopped, saying nothing. Pivoting on her heel, she glided away, cold as snow, as the tone she had not used. Tywin watched her go, a sardonic smile curling the corner of his mouth. Let the games begin.
Kevan was buried alive in the library of the Red Keep: tomes and scrolls everywhere, bloodshot eyes, dead tired. A scholar in a war zone. It was in this pose that Tywin found him-drowning in parchment, with shadows under his eyes darker than a moonless night.
"Kevan," Tywin said, leaning on the doorway like a king who owned the air. "You look like you fought a dragon and came out as lunch."
Kevan snorted, glancing up only briefly. "And you rehearsed that line in front of a mirror." He moved a mountain of paper to uncover a map of the Seven Kingdoms beneath. Lines were drawn across its surface-alliances, betrayals, means of survival. "You're late. The council's a madhouse in your absence."
"You are the ringmaster," Tywin replied. "I am merely training the lions."
Kevan laughed—sharp and tired. "Feels more like I'm shoveling dung after the show."
Tywin's hand resting on Kevan's shoulder with the weight of an iron gauntlet. "You've done enough. This… this madness? It's not yours to clean up anymore."
Kevan did not stir, the hope in his eyes almost quivering. Almost. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying," Tywin declared, applying pressure before finally releasing his grip, "step back. If you wish, go to Casterly Rock. You've already sacrificed enough to the mad king. To our house. To me."
Kevan's eyes fell again to the map, his shoulders hunching under its unseen weight. "You think I can just walk away? Leave you here, with all this?"
Tywin leaned on the table, voice dropping. "You think I'm alone? Never am."
Kevan watched him, searching for… what? Reassurance? A chink in the armor? He got nothing from Tywin. Only silence, as solid as a throne.
"Fine." Kevan stood, chair scraping against the stone floor like a sword being unsheathed. "If that's what you want, Ty."
"It is."
And with that, Kevan was gone. No ceremony, no fanfare, just a man dragging his tired soul down the hall. Tywin lingered a moment longer, his fingers brushing the edges of the map. Then he turned and left as well. The halls of the Red Keep pulsed around him, alive and treacherous. Whispers in the stone. Footsteps echoing like a heartbeat. His.
He was inside his chamber, armor weighing upon him, like a press, reminding him of who he was, what he was. Inside, he let out a sigh—a sound nobody else could hear. In fragments, the armor came off, clattering against the cold floor. The noise was raw and final. It was like tearing away a piece of himself with every plate that went off. Without it, he was just a man. But wasn't that the trick, though-to feel fragile and still manage to stand unbroken?
The room was quiet. Steam curled from the bath waiting for him; the scent of lavender and rosemary cut through the air. Genna, of course-she'd sent this. She always knew how to cut through the noise.
He stripped, muscles tense, catching the light like a statue carved from resolve and regret. The water beckoned warm, enveloping. For just a moment, just for a moment, Tywin let himself sink.
The first knock came softly, almost shyly. He did not flinch. Could've been anyone; a messenger, a lackey, or perhaps even a spy. Yet he wasn't naive. His gut knew. It was her, The Red Woman, Melisandre.
Her heat bled through cold stone-a tease of fire in a tomb. He gave no heed to the door; there was no need to. His eyes pierced through the wood as if it were transparent. And there she stood-a crimson glow, sharp angles, the silhouette of the devil. She fastened onto his look, probing, prying, stripping away layers. Identifying for something. Yet she would not find it. Not within him. He gave nothing away.
With her entrance, she had filled the room with her scent: spice, smoke, secrets.
"Your bath's cold," she said, her voice warm as a knife.
He did not cover himself. "I have endured worse," Tywin said toward the ceiling.
Her dress whispered soft flirtation and menace. "Your secrets are the children of rats, Lord Tywin," she purred, "they hide in dark corners and scurry out at night.".
His eyes, as unruffled as the man facing the ceiling, turned on her. "And?"
Her smile was pointed, cool, without warmth. "I want the truth of your heart-the flaws in your armor-to serve.
He stepped out of the tub, water clinging to him. No rush, no shame. "I'm fresh out of truths." He reached for a towel, wrapping it around his waist like armor. "But if it's warmth you're after, my bed's open."
Her smile sharpened. "I'm not after your bed." She radiated heat. "It's your trust, my lord. That's the prize."
"Fine," he said. "From now on, anything from me stays between us."
Her smile faded to an indefinable something. "As you please."
Tywin looked in the mirror, seeing his reflection—still a lion, even without its mane. He cleaned himself with sharp efficiency. "Send my thanks to Genna," he sai. "She's why I'm considering this… arrangement."
Jealousy flashed across Melisandre's smirk. But she did nothing. She just watched. Always watching.
Tywin was all in crimson and gold, as fully dressed as his house, his name, his legacy, shining boots to perfection, tunic immaculate, and chainmail softly humming. He was an edged, killing thing, oiled and whetted and ready for the fight.
Melisandre stands there in the shadows, the gown clinging to her form. There was fire in her eyes and it outshone the forges of the Red Keep, her gemstones a deep sparkle like dark secrets. A tempting sight, but he was naive.
"Trust doesn't come easy," she said.
"No." he said, sharp as glass. "And it breaks even easier."
He left the room, her scarlet shadow his shadow. The Tower of the Hand rose before him, a pale beacon guiding him toward what he was, and what he must be.
She had heard the guards saluting as they passed, eyeing her with curious, wary glances. Melisandre savoured the taste of their wariness.
The chambers of Tywin were an expression of power without frills: tapestries of victories and lions were on a glinting mosaic floor, laying out the pride of Lannister. The door closed behind him, shutting out the world and its din, trapping them in his domain.
Past that ravished table, battle-scarred, though this had turned out to be the keenest tool. Above it spread out the map of the Seven Kingdoms-all its borders freshly inked and all the pieces playing. This was Tywin's chair, his real throne; of strategy, control, cleverness.
Melisandre's voice broke the silence. "How does it feel, my lord?" She asked. "To be back in the lion's den?"
He wouldn't look at her. "Like coming home to a house on fire," he repeated, flat. "Can't ignore it, can't run."
She laughed at the sound that might gut a man. "A house on fire," she said, nearing the distance. "But you don't seem the type to burn with it.
Tywin's face sliced to hers like an attack. "I rebuild."
Her smile grew, half her face shadowed, half lit. "Ah, the Lannister way."
He gave her silence, sharp enough to be used as a weapon. Then he twisted, "How does it feel to be back in the lion's den?" His words jabbed at her foreign roots and the fire god she served, each phrase sharp and baited.
Melisandre only smiled. "Where the Lord of Light leads me, I'm home," she said "And it seems, for now, he's led me to you, Lord Tywin."
"I'm no one's lord," he rasped out. "Not how you mean.".
She looked at him. "And yet," she said, "here we are. In your lair. Surrounded by your weapons.
He snorted loudly, never in defeat but in disdain as if a man above petty games. "I am here to rule," Tywin said, eyes on the map—kingdoms and armies mere pawns. "I don't indulge in distractions."
For an instant, the red mask had slipped, and he had seen disappointment. Tywin was a fortress, its walls unbreachable, and she did not have a big enough ram.
"Patience," he smirked, drinking his cup. "You'll have your moment. Not today. Work comes first."
A sly smile twisted her lips, but she suppressed it. "As you wish, my lord."
Then it was strained, a coiled spring, the quietness. Back to his maps Tywin's eyes wandered, ran over the disposition of troops, the lines of rebels, the sweep of victory to come. No screaming soldiers, no wailing of the innocents, only the crackle of the fire and the soft hiss of parchment.
She stared, a wordless dare, which he ignored. His teeth were clenched, but his arm did not move. Wars would not be won by themselves; she could have her games later.
Then there was a commanding knock, pounding against silence like a war drum. Tywin's hand stopped mid-writing on the parchment, candle flame casting his fist's veins into sharp relief. And he froze, weighing this intrusion even before the echoes died away.
Melisandre smiled to herself. "Another admirer?" He did not move. "Duty calls," But then something snapped. His gaze cut to the door, his eyes flashing green for an instant. The oak went translucent and he saw through it: a pallid, shaking girl of about fifteen clutched a message before him like armor.
He could hear the girl's heart, its desperate drumbeat sounding in Tywin's ears, fear, resolution. Hope. In an instant, the glow was gone as Tywin's sight returned to normal.
The door burst open, and there he was: the girl a blur with living glinting steel. But quicker was Tywin, liquid violence, eyes ablaze. Twin points of light cut the air, and drowned the assassin's snarl. She had been frozen in mid-lunge, a laser piercing her chest, her face contorted in a rictus of shock and pain, heat boiling his insides.
The dagger fell upon the stone, her body contorting. Tywin showed no emotion, the smell of scorched flesh still lingering in the air. The scream of the killer ended as she fell on her back. The light went out and died with a sizzle of silence.
Melisandre hissed low, her calm broken. She stared bug-eyed at the smoldering corpse. The air was hot with the stench of death and sweat.
"Rhaella's work," Tywin said icily. The girl's outstretched figure was burned into the stone, a grotesque brazier. "She should be more discriminating in her choice of pawns."