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Chapter Text

POV: Jaime Lannister

The training yard stank of sweat and steel. Summer’s heat bore down on Casterly Rock like a hammer, and Jaime could feel it seeping through his tunic, baking his skin under the golden lion emblazoned on his chest. The clang of steel still rang in his ears. His arms ached from endless drills, and yet he stood tall, eyes glinting in the harsh sun.

At eleven, Jaime Lannister already carried himself like a knight. Not the kind from songs—no white cloaks or dragon-slaying epics—but the kind molded through sweat and repetition. Sword in hand, posture coiled, smile sharp.

"Had enough for the day, eh boy?" Ser Jonas Swyft called, wiping his brow with the edge of his sleeve.

Jaime smirked, rolling his shoulder. "I could go on all day, Ser Jonas. Can’t say the same for the others."

A few boys groaned behind him, leaning on their wooden practice swords, red-faced and breathless.

"Aye," Swyft grunted. "The sun’s crueler than the Seven today. Back to the castle with you. And Rhodes—don’t ever drop your guard like that again. You handed him that strike."

Jaime gave the boy a half-smile and tossed his sword to a page. It was a good day—his form was crisp, his strikes landed with weight, and his confidence, always present, was now borderline radiant. Yet there was no triumph in his heart. Not really. Not today.

He had barely slept the night before. Cersei kept him up, chattering in that relentless, demanding way of hers. She had been ranting about their father’s refusal to let her train with swords, again. She’d sat cross-legged on his bed, tossing grapes into her mouth with the practiced disdain of a girl who knew the world wouldn’t give her what she wanted—and refused to accept it anyway.

Jaime had listened, offering a few sympathetic nods. But in truth, he didn’t mind. He liked hearing her talk. She was the only one who ever truly said what she thought in this place.

After a quick bath, he dressed for the evening. There was to be music in the Great Hall. A new bard had arrived, and Lady Joanna insisted her son attend.

Jaime didn’t care for songs of love and tragedy. Knights and maidens, sighs and roses, all of it felt hollow. But the war songs—those stirred something. The ones about Barristan the Bold at the Stepstones, or the conquest of Aegon the Dragonlord. Those were worth hearing.

He slipped through the redstone corridors, boots echoing off cold walls, until he heard the familiar voice shout—

“Jaime! He’s here, Mother!” Cersei's voice rang across the hallway.

He sighed. Of course she was already in place.

---

The Great Hall of Casterly Rock was as grand as any in Westeros, but it felt colder these days. The high seat at the center of the lord’s table was empty, as it often was.

Father was in King's Landing. Where real things happened. Where decisions were made.

Jaime took his seat beside his mother, nodding respectfully. Cersei tapped her foot impatiently, eyes rolling before the bard had even opened his mouth.

“Greetings, my lady,” the bard began, bowing low. “It is my honor to perform at Casterly Rock.”

“Honor, my foot,” Cersei muttered under her breath.

“Cersei,” Jaime hissed.

She arched a golden brow. “He’s not here for honor. He's here for coin. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

He frowned. “It still matters. He’ll be able to say he performed for House Lannister. That’s worth something.”

His mother’s gaze flicked over, just for a second, and both children went quiet.

“And now,” the bard declared, lifting his harp, “a song to honor the lord of the castle—though absent, his shadow looms large. My lady, I present... The Rains of Castamere.”

Jaime froze. That song. That cursed, beautiful, terrifying song.

The harp sang its first sorrowful notes.

> "And who are you," the proud lord said,
"That I must bow so low?"

It wasn’t the words. It wasn’t even the music. It was the weight. The echo of it. Like the stones of the Rock remembered the blood spilled beneath them. Like the wind off the sea still whispered the names of the dead.

> "A coat of gold, a coat of red,
A lion still has claws…"

Jaime’s stomach turned. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was the oysters. Maybe it was something else.

“Excuse me, Mother,” he whispered, standing.

He slipped into the corridor, where the salt wind from the western sea slapped his face. He breathed in deep, eyes scanning the darkening horizon. Far below, waves crashed against jagged stone. He didn’t want to go back. Not yet.

The song... it haunted him.

They all spoke of Father’s greatness. The strength it took to crush a rebellion, to destroy House Reyne and Tarbeck root and stem. But how many of them had really thought about what that meant?

He pulled a bow from the rack in the practice yard. Drew an arrow. Let it fly. Missed.

Again. Thud.

He heard the footsteps before the voice.

“Seems distracted, Jaime.”

He turned. “Uncle Kevan!”

Kevan Lannister leaned against the wall, arms folded. The image of his brother, Tywin—only softer. Warmer. Less iron, more flesh.

“Not enjoying the bard?” Kevan asked.

“I was thinking,” Jaime admitted, lowering the bow. “About... Castamere.”

Kevan’s expression darkened, eyes distant.

“Why did Father do it?” Jaime asked. “I know they rebelled. I know they mocked him. But... he ended them. Completely. Even the children.”

There was silence. Then Kevan walked over, picked up the bow, examined it.

“Your father didn’t make that choice lightly,” he said. “And it didn’t happen the way the songs tell it.”

“Then how did it happen?” Jaime asked.

Kevan looked at him long and hard. Something settled in his eyes—resolution, perhaps. Or resignation.

“It’s time you knew. The truth. Not the song. Not the myth. But the real story.”

He sat on the bench beside the archery stand, gesturing for Jaime to join him.

“It began... long before the rains fell at Castamere.”

Chapter Text

POV: Kevan Lannister

The Great Hall of Casterly Rock shimmered in golden candlelight, but Kevan Lannister sat still and quiet, as unnoticed as a shadow in the corner of his father’s table.

At eight, he had already learned the power of silence. He spoke little, watched much, and let the words of others shape his understanding of the world. It was a skill none of them realized he possessed—not his father, not his sister Genna, and certainly not his brother Tywin, who already acted as if he wore the Rock upon his back.

Tywin sat beside their father tonight, back straight, chin raised. Only ten, and already lords bowed lower than needed when they passed him. He had a stillness about him, the kind that made men uncomfortable. Not like Tytos, their father—who laughed too loud, drank too deep, and trusted too easily.

Kevan watched him now, chuckling at something said by the guest of honor—Lord Walder Frey.

Frey's presence alone disturbed Kevan. The man had a leering grin and a voice like wine gone sour. He spoke with jest and bravado, but behind those watery eyes was something... calculating. Worse, he treated the serving girls like possessions, as if every smile earned him a finger’s worth of ownership.

Kevan didn’t like him.

By the look on Tywin’s face, neither did he.

Their sister Genna, dressed in a new green gown with gold embroidery, smiled sweetly at the guests. Seven years old, cleverer than most grown ladies, and blissfully unaware of the political storm brewing around her.

Kevan glanced farther down the high table, to where the Red Lion sat—Lord Roger Reyne of Castamere. Hair the color of rusted blood, face carved from hard angles. He laughed at none of Tytos’s jokes. His wine remained mostly untouched. He only watched.

Beside him, his sister—Lady Ellyn Tarbeck—smiled coldly. Once married to their uncle Tion, now married to a lesser lord and made powerful through Lannister gold. Kevan did not remember her well, but she frightened him in the way crows frighten young wolves—always circling, always waiting.

He leaned closer to Tywin. “Why is Lord Reyne glaring at Father?”

Tywin didn’t look at him. “Because he sees a lion that’s forgotten how to roar.”

---

The feast dragged on. Trays of spiced pork, sugared almonds, honeyed duck. Enough food to feed a village for a month. Kevan ate little. His stomach was tight.

Their father rose at last, cup in hand, smiling his wide, watery smile.

“My lords, my ladies, I thank you,” Tytos began. “I thank you all for your presence, for your loyalty, and for the joy you’ve brought to my home.”

Kevan saw the flicker in Tywin’s eyes. Barely perceptible. But there.

“We are especially honored by Lord Frey’s company,” their father continued, “as today we celebrate a most joyous union.”

Genna straightened in her seat. Kevan felt her hand tighten on his under the table.

“Our daughter,” Tytos announced, “is to be betrothed to Lord Emmon Frey!”

Silence.

Then whispers. Disbelief. Shock.

Genna’s fingers trembled in his.

Across the hall, Roger Reyne did not react. He only stared.

Ellyn Tarbeck laughed aloud, her sharp voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

Tywin stood.

“You cannot mean this, Father.”

Kevan held his breath.

All eyes turned. Walder Frey blinked in confusion. Tytos’s smile faltered.

“This match is—” Tywin’s voice was even, but each word struck like a hammer, “—an insult to our house. To our name. We are lions, not… frogs of the river.”

“Boy,” Walder Frey snapped, standing. “Mind your tongue.”

“I’m not speaking to you,” Tywin said coldly. “I’m speaking to my father.”

A low murmur spread across the hall. Ellyn Tarbeck leaned forward, lips curled in delight. Roger Reyne stood—slow, deliberate—and silence descended again.

But this time, when the Red Lion spoke, it was no passing protest.

"This—" Reyne’s voice cut through the air like steel, "—is not just foolish. It is dangerous."

Kevan saw it now. The hunger in his eyes. The restrained fury. A man who had waited too long for something he believed was already his.

"To offer your daughter—your own blood—to this man’s line? A second son of a petty river lord?" Reyne spat. "You insult the banners that stood with your house for generations. You insult me."

Tytos opened his mouth, wheezing for words. “My lord, please—”

“Spare me,” Reyne growled. “You think this is about pride? About hurt feelings?” He gestured sharply toward Tywin. “Even your cub sees it. We kept your coffers full, Tytos. We bled for your name. While you—” his eyes narrowed, voice sharpening, “—poured our gold into the hands of beggars and fools.”

Kevan watched his father shrink in his own hall, eyes darting like a rabbit sensing the hawk above.

"This is not the Casterly Rock I swore fealty to," Reyne continued. "And if it is the one you wish to build, then you shall have to do it without me."

His voice echoed with finality. “But know this—when your gold runs dry, and your daughter sits forgotten in the Twins, don’t come crying to Castamere.”

He turned sharply, cloak billowing like smoke. Ellyn Tarbeck followed with a triumphant smirk, her red lips parting just enough to whisper toward Genna, “Poor child. The Freys breed like rats.”

Genna flinched.

Tywin stepped forward, voice like flint.

"That’s enough."

Ellyn turned, amused. “Oh? What will you do, cub?”

"I’ll remember."

She laughed. “Do. We all will. Especially when the Rock collapses under its own weight.”

---

Back in their rooms, Kevan helped Genna out of her gown. She was pale and rigid. Her lips trembled, but no tears came. Only silence.

“She’ll laugh all the way to Castamere,” Genna said softly. “That woman. Ellyn.”

“She won’t,” Tywin replied from the shadows. “She won’t laugh long.”

Kevan watched his brother—still, quiet, dangerous in a way none of them understood yet. Not even Tywin himself.

---

Their father’s rage came later, crashing through the door like a storm.

“TYWIN!”

“I stand by what I said.”

“You humiliated me!”

“I protected us.”

“You think you’re lord already?” Tytos’s voice cracked.

“No. But someone has to act like one.”

A slap nearly landed—but Tywin didn’t flinch. Tytos stopped short, gasping, hand raised and useless.

“You’re leaving. At dawn. King’s Landing. Cupbearer to the King. That’s what you’ll be.”

Tywin gave a small, terrible smile. “Then may the King drink deep.”

Tytos stormed out, leaving silence in his wake.

---

Later, as dawn neared and bags were packed, Kevan stood by the window with Tywin.

“You’ll be alone in the capital,” Kevan said. “No allies. No safety.”

“I’ll make both,” Tywin said simply.

Kevan hesitated. “And us? You’ll leave us to… this?”

Tywin’s gaze darkened. “Watch Father. Watch Reyne. Tarbeck. Frey. Don’t let them circle too close. Not until I return.”

He looked at Kevan for a long moment. “You’re stronger than you think.”

Kevan wanted to believe it.

At the door, Genna hugged Tywin fiercely. “Come back. Soon.”

“I’ll come back when I have power,” he said, gently pulling away.

And when he looked at Kevan, his voice dropped.

“We are lions,” he whispered. “Let them laugh. Let them plot. One day, they’ll choke on their own ambitions.”

Kevan watched him go, gold hair catching the light of the torches as he vanished down the stairwell.

That night, Kevan made a vow. No matter what came, he would be the shield behind Tywin's sword. He would never let the Rock fall—not again.

And far below them, in the sea caves of Casterly Rock, the water whispered against the stone. Waiting.

Chapter Text

The air in King’s Landing was thick with salt and filth, clinging to Tywin Lannister’s cloak as the gates of the Red Keep opened before him. The gold lion of his house flared in the sunlight, but the streets had little regard for banners. People didn’t bow. They pushed, shouted, traded, begged. And watched.

Everything was eyes in this city. Watching, weighing, waiting.

Tywin did not flinch beneath their stares.

From his mount, he studied the keep rising above the capital like a red crown. The towers of Maegor’s Holdfast, the high battlements, the tiled roofs that glittered faintly in the midday sun—he saw not beauty, but machinery. Power constructed brick by brick.

The city stank. Not just of fish and horse dung, but of things hidden. Rumors. Secrets. Plots.

Good. Let it stink. He would learn its corridors, its whispers, and master every one.

“Lord Tywin,” said Ser Rodrik beside him. “They’re expecting you.”

“I would hope so,” Tywin replied, dismounting with a practiced ease.

Guards at the gate recognized the crimson and gold banners and gave way. Pages scurried forward to take his horse. He handed off the reins without a word, turning toward the keep with a heart that beat steady and cold.

His father had exiled him to this place thinking it was punishment.

It would be the making of him.

---

Monterys Velaryon was waiting just past the main stair. He was not much older than Tywin—perhaps sixteen or seventeen—but his Valyrian eyes were sharp, his silver hair tied back in a formal tail, and he moved with the clipped precision of someone who had no time to waste.

“You must be Lord Tywin.”

Tywin nodded. “I am.”

“You’ve arrived sooner than expected. We were told it would be a week yet.”

“I like to be early.”

“So I see.” Monterys turned, his voice crisp. “His Grace is in his solar. You’re to be taken directly to him.”

Tywin followed, matching the young Velaryon’s brisk pace. As they moved through the stone corridors, Monterys spoke without looking back.

“A word of advice, Lord Tywin. His Grace is not like the rest of the court. Or the songs. He prefers simplicity. No fawning, no grand declarations. Speak plainly. Listen well.”

Tywin arched an eyebrow. “He’s the king.”

“And yet he prefers not to be treated as one. In private, at least. You’ll learn.”

The hall narrowed into a winding staircase. Monterys led him up past painted walls and golden sconces, to a long corridor guarded by two men in white.

The Kingsguard.

Tywin recognized the one on the left immediately. Ser Gerold Hightower. The White Bull. A mountain of a man, with a stern brow and a hand always resting on the pommel of his sword.

His gaze fixed on Tywin.

Monterys paused. “Ser Gerold. This is Tywin Lannister, come to serve His Grace.”

The knight said nothing. His eyes bore into Tywin with the quiet judgment of a man who had seen lords rise and fall with equal ease. Tywin met his gaze without blinking.

“Your father,” Ser Gerold said at last, his voice low and even, “was once known for his honor. Let’s hope you live up to something more.”

He stepped aside. The doors opened.

---

The king’s solar was not the grand chamber Tywin had imagined. It was a room of function more than form—parchments scattered across a long table, maps pinned to the walls, and half-burned candles standing sentinel over volumes of law and history. No guards. No fanfare.

King Aegon V sat by a window, not in a throne but in a modest chair, dressed in simple robes of dark red. He was reading, lips moving slightly as he scanned the page. The crown rested on a shelf behind him, dusty from disuse.

Tywin stood silently, waiting to be acknowledged.

It took nearly a minute before the king finally looked up. His eyes, when they met Tywin’s, were sharp—more curious than commanding.

“Tywin Lannister,” he said at last. “You’re taller than your father at your age.”

“I wouldn’t know, Your Grace.”

“And less timid, I’d wager.”

Tywin said nothing.

The king gestured lazily to a nearby chair. “Sit. Speak only when you have something worth saying. That’s how I prefer it.”

Tywin took the seat.

“I’ve read the letters,” Aegon continued, pulling a new scroll toward him. “The outburst. The match your father proposed. The public confrontation. Brave. Foolish. Both, maybe. What do you say for yourself?”

Tywin’s voice was level. “I disagreed with my father. But not with his intentions—only his execution.”

“Execution,” the king repeated. “Interesting word.”

Tywin met his eyes. “There are ways to rule that don’t require being liked.”

The king studied him for a long time.

“I had hoped you’d be older,” he said. “The court is a vulture’s roost. I’m trying to teach it how to fly like a falcon. But falcons don’t listen well to old men.”

“I can listen,” Tywin said.

“And you can speak plainly. That’s rare.” Aegon turned back to his desk, pulling a fresh piece of parchment forward. “Good. You’ll be my cupbearer, yes. But more than that, you’ll observe. Listen. Watch. Learn where the rot is.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

The king glanced up again. “And one more thing. I don’t care for flattery. If you think I’m wrong, say so. If you think I’m a fool, wait until we’re alone—and then say so twice as loud.”

Tywin allowed the faintest flicker of amusement in his expression. “As you command.”

A smile tugged at the corner of the king’s mouth, brief and tired.

“Go. Monterys will see you to your quarters. Get to know the keep. Meet the other boys. Make friends if you must. Just make sure they’re useful.”

---

His chamber was smaller than he expected but not unpleasant—plain stone walls, a single window overlooking the yard, and a modest bed with scarlet hangings. His trunk had been placed neatly at the foot.

Tywin had barely set his things down when the door swung open without a knock.

A tall, broad-shouldered boy strode in with all the confidence of a prince—but none of the finesse. His black hair was damp with sweat, his tunic untucked, and a grin wide enough to shame a fool.

“Ah! Found you, Finally!” he said, stepping in. “I’m Steffon. House Baratheon. You’re Tywin Lannister. Obviously. No one else scowls that well.”

Tywin blinked. “I don’t scowl.”

“You really do,” Steffon said, walking around the room like it was his own. “Not a bad setup. I’m in the next room over. Yell if you need anything. Or don’t. I’ll probably show up anyway.”

Tywin frowned. “Do you always invite yourself into rooms unannounced?”

“Only when the occupant is important. And grim-looking.”

Steffon clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. I’m taking you to the yard. You need to meet the others.”

---

The training yard was filled with the clang of steel and the barked commands of sergeants. Pages and squires moved in tight drills, sweat glistening on young brows. Tywin’s eyes scanned the yard like a commander assessing a battlefield.

And then he saw him.

Silver hair glinting in the sun, a tall, wiry boy was finishing a match with fluid grace, sword tapping against his opponent’s shoulder before he even realized the bout had ended.

“Oi! Aerys,” Steffon called out. “Found us a new companion.”

Aerys Targaryen turned, eyes the color of old amethyst flashing with curiosity.

“So this is the lion cub,” he said, sheathing his sword.

“Tywin,” Tywin offered, bowing his head slightly. “An honor.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” Aerys said, brushing the air. “No honor here. Only bruises and wasted breath.”

“I thought princes preferred being called ‘Your Grace’.”

“Only when I’m in trouble.”

“Which is often,” Steffon muttered.

Aerys grinned. “Come. Let’s get you a sword. You don’t get to be heir to Casterly Rock and not prove you can swing steel.”

Tywin followed, the weight of expectation heavy on his shoulders.

But as his fingers closed around the practice sword’s hilt, something inside him steadied. This was no longer the Rock. No longer his father’s house.

This was a different world.

And he would make it his.

Chapter Text

The hammer came down like thunder.

Tywin twisted aside, the air shuddering as the steel head slammed into the earth where he’d stood just moments ago. Dust exploded around him. He moved quickly, never straight back, always circling—his muscles coiled and burning.

Steffon Baratheon snarled. “Stand and fight, Lannister!”

Tywin didn’t answer. His sword dipped, blade gleaming in the sunlight. His breath came fast, but even. Controlled. Measured. Every step was part of the plan.

They’d been at it for some time now—long enough for sweat to soak their tunics, for the others in the yard to stop sparring and begin watching. It was always like this with him and Steffon. Their matches drew eyes.

Steffon fought like a storm. Tywin, like a siege.

“Never fight on your enemy’s terms, Steffon,” Tywin said between breaths. “Isn’t that what Ser Gerold teaches us? As his page, I’d expect you to have remembered that.”

Steffon grunted, hefting his hammer again. He was strong—Gods, was he strong. But strength had limits. Patience didn’t.

“I always heard stags were fast,” Tywin went on, circling left. “But you? You fight like an ox with a head wound.”

Steffon’s eyes flared. He bared his teeth and roared, “I’ll show you speed!”

There it was.

He charged, hammer raised high. Tywin had seen the move a dozen times before, maybe more. But it still took discipline not to act too soon. Wait. Watch the hips. Count the steps.

He ducked low, rolled beneath the arcing swing, and slashed across Steffon’s front. The training sword cracked against his cuirass in a blow that would have gutted a lesser man.

Dust sprayed from the hammer’s impact. A half-moment passed. Tywin straightened, lowering his sword, about to call the match.

Then Steffon tackled him.

Tywin’s world flipped. His lungs exploded as he slammed into the dirt. The impact drove the breath from him in a shocked grunt. Before he could rise, heavy arms locked around his chest and hauled him up—and then dropped him again with force.

“Oaf!” Tywin hissed.

“You were saying something about oxen?” Steffon grinned down at him, breathing hard.

Tywin shoved him off, face red, not from embarrassment but rage barely restrained. “You lost that duel.”

“I won the brawl.” Steffon offered a hand, which Tywin ignored.

---

They sat in the shade after, leaning against a wall that overlooked the training yard. Boys still sparred. Some older men from the household guard drilled with spears. But the world seemed quieter after the fight.

“You could’ve taken my head off with that first strike,” Tywin muttered.

“I almost did,” Steffon replied, rolling his shoulder. “You’re quick. But don’t forget—one mistake, and I flatten you.”

“You’re predictable.”

“And you’re insufferable.”

“Good. We understand each other.”

Steffon chuckled. He reached into the pouch at his side and pulled out a wrinkled pear. “Want it?”

Tywin looked at it with mild disdain. “No.”

“Your loss,” Steffon said, biting in.

Moments passed. The heat of the afternoon soaked their tunics and dulled their muscles.

“Ser Gerold says Aerys will be joining us in the yard later,” Steffon said after a while. “He’s been sulking in his chambers all morning. Something about his father moving the wrong statue.”

Tywin raised an eyebrow.

“You’re serious.”

“I’m always serious when it comes to royal tantrums.”

Tywin shook his head. “The prince worries about statues. The king worries about ink and parchment. Who worries about the realm?”

“Hopefully not you,” Steffon muttered through a mouthful of pear. “You’re too grim to rule anything.”

Tywin allowed a thin smile. “Someone must think clearly while the rest swing swords and throw fruit.”

“You say that now,” Steffon said, rising. “But you still got tossed like a sack of flour.”

---
Later, Tywin dusted himself off and left the yard, boots scuffing across the red stone. The cool corridors of the keep offered some relief from the heat—and from Steffon’s grin, which still lingered in his mind like an itch.

He turned a corner—and stopped short.

Joanna.

She was standing by a narrow window, half in shadow, half in sun. Her hair was pinned back loosely, gold catching in the light. Her gown was simple, traveling clothes still rumpled from the road. But she carried herself as if she belonged here already.

She turned before he could say a word.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite cousin pretending not to notice me.”

Tywin folded his hands behind his back. “I noticed.”

“I should hope so.” She took a step forward. “You didn’t write.”

“I wasn’t aware I was expected to.”

“You weren’t. But it would have been decent.”

Tywin hesitated. “I’m not in the habit of writing letters for the sake of it.”

“Of course not. That would suggest you have feelings.”

He frowned, but she smiled—softly, not mockingly.

“Princess Rhaelle sent for ladies. Mother thought it would be good for me.” Her eyes roamed the corridor, as if reading the walls. “You look thinner.”

“I’ve been training.”

“You’ve been brooding.”

She moved closer, her voice lower. “Tywin. Are you… alright?”

That word. He didn’t know what to do with it.

“I’m learning,” he said.

She tilted her head. “That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’m willing to give.”

She exhaled, studying him.

“I know this place is full of flatterers and liars. But I’m not one of them. If you ever feel like remembering that, I’ll be in the west wing with the rest of the ladies, probably trying not to die of boredom.”

She turned to go. Then paused.

“It’s good to see you.”

He didn’t answer until she had gone.

“…and you.”

---
Later that day, Tywin returned to his chambers, only to find them already occupied.

Aerys Targaryen sat in his chair, legs crossed, hair damp from the bath and tied back in a silver tail. He wore a tunic too fine for sparring, but his sword belt was on.

“You took your time,” the prince said without looking up.

“I wasn’t aware I had an appointment.”

“You always have an appointment—with me.” Aerys stood, stretching. “Steffon said you handled him well today.”

“I did.”

“He didn’t mention the part where he threw you.”

Tywin frowned.

Aerys smirked. “I jest. Sit. Unless you’re still nursing bruises.”

Tywin sat on the edge of the bed.

“I’ve been watching you,” Aerys continued. “Since you arrived. You’re not like the rest.”

“How flattering.”

“I didn’t say it was a compliment.” Aerys tilted his head. “You’re too careful. You calculate. Plan. Never joke unless it serves a purpose. That’s a dangerous habit, Tywin. One day, someone will see through it.”

“And what will they find?”

“I don’t know yet,” Aerys said with a smile. “But I intend to.”

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. It was curious. Measured. Two minds sizing each other up—not enemies, not friends, but something in between.

Then Aerys said, “We’re going out. Down to the docks.”

Tywin blinked. “Now?”

“You’ve been in the Red Keep for months and haven’t seen the city. That’s a crime. Come on. Steffon’s already waiting.”

Tywin hesitated.

“You’re not a prisoner here,” Aerys added. “Not yet.”

---

They snuck out through a lesser courtyard gate, escorted by one of Ser Gwayne’s squires who knew which guards to bribe and which hallways to avoid. The docks were loud, cluttered, and filled with the scent of salt, smoke, and roasting shellfish.

Steffon was already devouring a plate of spiced shrimp when they arrived.

“You’re late,” he said, waving them over. “I was about to order another round.”

“You already did,” Aerys said. “That’s mine.”

“Come take it then, Your Grace.”

“I ought to knight your skull.”

Tywin watched them bicker like brothers. It unsettled him, slightly, how quickly they welcomed him into their rhythm. He was not used to being drawn in—most people kept their distance, either out of deference or fear.

But these two… didn’t.

For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t being measured as the heir to the Rock. Just as himself.

And that, perhaps, was more dangerous.

He took a shrimp from Aerys’ plate and ate it. Aerys blinked. Then laughed.

“Well then,” the prince said. “He can be tamed.”

And with that a rare smile passed by his lips. Maybe this could be a pleasant experience after all. Maybe he could find more than just allies in this city. Maybe he just might find some friends.

Chapter Text

The balcony overlooked the sea. Evening light shimmered on the waters of Blackwater Bay, turning ships into silhouettes, the air thick with salt and the perfume of garden jasmine. Below, King’s Landing swelled with noise, but here, in the heights of the Red Keep, it was quiet enough to think.

“You look like you’re preparing to declare war on the sky.”

Joanna’s voice cut through the stillness like silk drawn over steel. She stepped into view, her hair pinned up hastily, cheeks pink from the day’s heat. She wore a simple gown—court-appropriate, but unpretentious. She had always known how to belong without begging to.

Tywin didn’t look at her at first. “I’m thinking.”

“You always are,” she said, leaning beside him against the stone balustrade. “But today, you’re brooding. There’s a difference.”

Tywin let the silence stretch. The horizon was burning red where the sun touched it, and the ships in the bay rocked gently like coins in a counting tray.

She didn’t press. That was one of the things he hated most about her—and valued. Joanna never demanded anything. She simply was, and he found himself giving her answers without being asked.

“They made me Ser Duncan’s page,” he said, finally.

Joanna blinked, then smiled. “The Tall?”

“Yes. For the princess’s nameday tourney.”

“That’s good,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

“It’s… useful.”

She nudged his arm. “Try ‘an honor’—just once.”

“He’s a legend, not a lesson. I don’t intend to stay a page long.”

Joanna laughed under her breath. “Well, I imagine the king’s court will be relieved to know you’re destined for command before you’ve grown into your boots.”

Tywin allowed himself a small, crooked smile. “They’ll learn faster if I don’t waste time pretending otherwise.”

The breeze caught her hair, and she brushed it back absently. “Aerys asked for me again.”

Tywin’s smile vanished. “What did he say?”

“That he liked my laugh. That I made him feel less caged.” She looked out toward the horizon. “He’s not like you.”

“I’m aware.”

“You see the pieces of the board. He sees a dream that’s already broken.”

He didn’t respond at first. Then: “He’ll need help if he wants to survive it.”

“And will you be the one to help him?”

Tywin looked down at the courtyard far below, where squires crossed with blunted swords. “If he proves worth the trouble.”

---

The day before, Tywin had met with Ser Duncan the Tall in the training yard. It had been sudden, informal—Duncan called him over with a wave, like an uncle greeting a favored nephew.

“You’ve got the look of a swordsman,” Duncan said. “Not just your form—your patience.”

“Thank you, Ser.”

“You’ll serve as my page for the princess’s nameday tourney. Her Grace requested more representation from the West, and you’re not a fool. Don’t prove me wrong.”

Tywin gave a short bow. “I won’t.”

Duncan studied him a moment longer. “You’ll be joining the squire’s melee.”

“I hadn’t—”

“You will. There’s a difference between watching a court and being seen in one. You want them to know you’re here.”

Tywin nodded, tight-lipped. But inside, something cold and proud flared.

---

Now, as Joanna left the balcony and Tywin made his way through the stone halls of the Red Keep, that same feeling remained. Quiet fire, steady and self-contained.

The king had summoned him.

He arrived at the solar alone. The guard at the door, one of the Kingsguard whose name Tywin hadn’t yet committed to memory, gave only a nod and stepped aside.

Inside, the room was chaos.

Scrolls lay unfurled across every surface—half-written decrees, abandoned speeches, annotated books with binding cracked from overuse. Maps were stacked beneath a broken bust of Baelor the Blessed. Dust floated in shafts of light through the stained windows.

King Aegon sat hunched at his desk, crownless and barefoot, a cup of wine untouched beside his elbow. His robes were rumpled, beard more salt than pepper. Monterys Velaryon stood near the window, expression unreadable.

“Lord Tywin,” Aegon said without turning.

Tywin approached and bowed. “Your Grace.”

“I’d ask if you’ve read the proposed tax relief for the Riverlands, but I already know the answer.”

“I have, Your Grace.”

Aegon gave a bitter snort. “Of course you have. You always do your reading.”

Monterys stepped forward. “The Riverlords are restless, Your Grace, but this will pass. The Great Houses always grumble when—”

“Enough, Monterys,” Aegon snapped. “They didn’t grumble. They voted it down. My reforms are dead before they drew breath. A dozen lords laughed at me—me.”

He turned toward Tywin, eyes bloodshot and sharp. “You’re clever. Tell me, boy, why do they fear lifting the burden from the smallfolk? Why oppose something that benefits everyone?”

“Because they don’t believe it will,” Tywin said. “Or rather, they don’t believe it will benefit them.”

Aegon stared. “So what would you do?”

“Punish the ones who oppose you,” Tywin said. “Not with swords. With silver. Raise tariffs on their ports. Redirect crown contracts to their rivals. Ease burdens on the houses who support reform, and watch the rest follow.”

Monterys shifted uncomfortably. “That’s—”

“Sound,” Aegon interrupted, voice quiet. “And ruthless.”

“Effective,” Tywin corrected.

A long silence followed. Then the king exhaled.

“They still call me Aegon the Unlikely,” he muttered. “I’ve ruled longer than they ever thought I would, and yet I sit here with more dust than victories.”

Tywin watched him.

“I thought if I could just show them… teach them how to rule better…” Aegon trailed off. “But they want strength. Not guidance. Fire, not parchment.”

He turned toward the fireplace, where an iron stand held a single object: a dragon egg, grey and veined with red, dull and inert.

“I’ve tried diplomacy. Education. Mercy. What good has it done?”

“Reform fails,” Tywin said, “when it is offered as mercy instead of commanded as law.”

Aegon looked at him, truly looked, and for a moment something in his gaze flickered—fear, perhaps, or fascination.

“Do you believe dragons will return?” the king asked suddenly.

Tywin blinked. “No.”

“I do,” Aegon whispered. “I have to.”

He placed a hand on the cold egg. “Aegon the Conqueror united the realm with fire. Perhaps I’ve been trying to hold it together with thread.”

He turned back, seeming older now.

“Go, Lord Tywin. You’ve given me enough truth for one day.”

---

That night, Tywin found Steffon in their shared corner of the mess hall, poking at a bowl of stewed crab with the weary boredom of a soldier waiting for battle.

“You look like someone kicked your dreams off a cliff,” Steffon said, not looking up.

“The king asked for my advice.”

“That’s supposed to be a good thing.”

“He didn’t like what I gave him.”

Steffon smirked. “Then it must’ve been honest.”

Tywin sat across from him, arms folded. “He asked me if I believed dragons would return.”

That caught Steffon’s attention. He glanced up, chewing slowly. “And you said?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Tywin narrowed his eyes. “You don’t believe they will either?”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Steffon said. “Or saviors. Or fire-breathing monsters coming to fix men’s mistakes.”

He leaned back, tossing a crab leg into the bowl. “Dragons are gone. You want power? Build it with what you’ve got. Gold, men, steel. Not bones and dreams.”

Tywin studied him. “You sound like a maester.”

“I sound like someone who doesn’t want to burn,” Steffon said. “Let the king chase ghosts. I’d rather be feared for what’s real.”

A long silence followed.

“I’m to fight in the melee,” Tywin said at last.

“Finally. I was starting to worry you’d die of boredom before you ever swung a sword in earnest.”

“I’ll be facing boys twice my weight.”

“Then move faster than them. Or make them fall on each other. You’re clever—use it.”

Tywin didn’t smile. But the weight in his chest lifted, slightly.

For now, at least.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

The chill of the sea hung heavy in the morning air, mist clinging to the stonework like breath on steel. King's Landing was just beginning to stir, the sound of waves slapping gently against the hulls of merchant ships blending with the distant cries of gulls circling overhead. Tywin stood at the edge of the docks, his cloak still drawn tight despite the summer sun promising heat later in the day. A soft wind lifted strands of his golden hair as he stared out at the horizon, unmoving, as though the sea itself owed him something.

The harbor was a frenzy of activity. Crates thumped against wood, sailors shouted orders, and dockhands moved with the rhythm of men too tired to care about the nobility they might pass by. Tywin paid it all little mind. He was not here to marvel at ships or the chaos of city life. He was here for House Stark.

The northern lords had not yet arrived, though word from the city guard said their ship had been spotted rounding the Blackwater Rush. He had chosen to come early. It was always better to wait than to arrive second. Always.

Behind him, the capital hummed like a beehive on the verge of bursting. Banners bearing dragons, lions, stags, and roses fluttered in the breeze above buildings and inns. The tourney for Princess Rhaella’s nameday had turned King’s Landing into a boiling pot of noble ambition and common excitement. But for now, Tywin's attention was fixed on the narrow strip of sea.

A familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Didn’t think I’d beat you here,” Steffon Baratheon said as he approached, his voice trying for cheerfulness but failing to hide its strain.

Tywin turned slightly. Steffon was dressed in fine blue and gold, the crowned stag of his house pinned at the shoulder. His hair was damp, as if he’d bathed but rushed through it, and his jaw worked as though he was chewing on words he hadn't yet said.

“I make it a point to arrive early,” Tywin replied coolly.

“I noticed.” Steffon gave a weak chuckle, then looked out at the harbor with him. “You think they’ve landed?”

“Soon.”

“I hate this,” Steffon murmured, then grimaced at having spoken aloud. “Sorry. Just—he hasn’t seen me in over a year, and when he did last, it was just to tell me I held my sword like a girl and needed more spine.”

Tywin didn’t answer. He merely glanced sideways at his friend. Steffon shifted uncomfortably, rubbing his hands together.

“I mean, I’ve been training every day. Ser Gerold says I’ve got strength, and Areys says I’ve improved. You’d think that’d matter.”

“It won’t,” Tywin said flatly.

Steffon’s jaw tightened, then relaxed into a bitter smile. “Right. Of course not.”

They didn’t have to wait long. The Stark vessel pulled into the harbor with the grace of a black-winged gull gliding to shore. Its sails bore the direwolf of Winterfell, gray against a field of white. From the upper deck, figures began to prepare to disembark. Guards first. Then a man of middling height but broad in the shoulders, cloaked in gray fur despite the warmth, strode forward with solemnity.

“Edwyle Stark,” Tywin muttered under his breath.

“And the boy with him?” Steffon asked.

“Rickard.”

The heir to Winterfell looked a few years older than Tywin, with cold brown eyes that mirrored the North’s own merciless lands. He stood beside his father with a posture too perfect to be natural, like he was already wearing the mantle of lordship in his mind.

Before Tywin could move to meet them, a new voice cut through the air like a drawn blade.
“You’re late.”

Steffon stiffened. Tywin turned to see Lord Ormund Baratheon, the storm in human form. Dressed in deep black and royal blue, with the gold stags of his house worked into his breastplate, Ormund looked like a king of old Valyria had reborn in the Stormlands. His eyes were sharp, his beard trimmed too precisely, and his frown was carved into his face like a permanent feature. Tywin looked around to see the Baratheon ship, docked around the corner, cursing himself for missing it presence as it arrived.

“I—” Steffon began.
“I’ve no interest in excuses, boy. If you had spent more time training and less time socializing with Lions, you might have remembered what punctuality means.”

Tywin didn’t flinch. Ormund’s eyes flicked to him.

“And you. The son of Tytos.”

Tywin inclined his head in a tight nod. “Lord Baratheon.”

“You serve as squire to Ser Duncan the Tall now, I hear.”

“I do.”

Ormund’s eyes narrowed. “The realm's most honorable knight, and yet your father sends his heir to kneel like a servant. Strange choice.”

“It's the king’s will,” Tywin said evenly.

Ormund grunted. “The king’s will has brought us ruin before.”

He looked back to Steffon, eyes like a sword’s edge. “You’ll ride with me today. We’ll speak in private.”
Steffon gave Tywin a glance, as if hoping for a reason not to go. Tywin said nothing. Steffon lowered his head and followed his father toward their waiting retinue.
As they walked away, Ormund's voice could still be heard, low but harsh.
“we’ll see you spar soon. You have strength, yes, but no precision. No discipline. You flail like a drunk. If you weren’t my blood—”

Tywin turned away from the echo of judgment.
He had his own meeting to attend to.

The Starks had descended from their ship by now. Edwyle Stark’s eyes scanned the dock with practiced calm, noting Tywin’s approach with little interest. Rickard, on the other hand, stood as still as a statue, every bit the Northern heir — lean, tall, shoulders straight, lips pressed in a line that could pass for a smile if one were feeling generous.

“Lord Stark. Lord Rickard,” Tywin said as he approached, offering a courteous bow of his head.

“Lord Lannister,” Edwyle returned, voice like cold water. He didn’t bother with formality beyond that. His gaze drifted over the harbor. “Your city smells of fish and sweat.”

“It is not my city,” Tywin replied. “I am only its guest.”

Rickard offered a more proper nod. “We’re honored by your welcome, my lord. It must have taken some effort to leave the warmth of your stone halls to greet us.”

There was no smile, but the barb was there. Tywin met the young Stark’s eyes without blinking. “The Red keep is always warm. But the North must be colder than ever, for you to come wrapped in a bear’s pelt.”

Rickard did smile then — a tight, sharp thing — and dipped his head as if conceding the touch.

“If you’ll follow me, the king awaits your presence at court. I’ve been asked to escort you to the Red Keep.”
Edwyle gave a vague nod. “Lead the way.”

The Horses moved through the harbor and into the winding streets of King’s Landing. The city was fully alive now — performers juggling in alleys, merchants crying out prices, and the clamor of iron and hooves rising in waves from the cobbled roads. Guards in Targaryen red-and-black cleared a path as Tywin guided the Northerners up through the Street of Steel.
Banners hung from balconies and makeshift stalls. House sigils and vendor flags fluttered in chaos: roses of Highgarden, Stags of Storms end, falcons of the Vale, all converging here for the nameday tourney. The scent of roasted boar and sweetwine mingled with the sour tang of the gutters. Musicians plucked harps and hammered drums. Even in the dirt and sweat, the city dressed itself for celebration.

Rickard's gaze lingered on the noise, the silk-draped whores leaning from windows, the shouting smiths. “Your city is... exuberant,” he said finally.

“It’s alive,” Tywin replied.

“Aye,” Edwyle muttered. “And half-mad.”

The climb toward the Red Keep was swift, but Tywin noticed the Northerners measuring everything — walls, guards, spacing. Rickard in particular walked with the awareness of a wolf in foreign woods. He would smile at the guards but study their formations. Laugh at a jest but keep one hand near the hilt of his sword.
They passed the training yards, where squires and knights tested themselves in full view of the gathered crowds. A few of the younger noble girls giggled as Rickard passed. He offered them a glance but nothing more.

Tywin kept silent until they reached the inner gate.
“You will be received in the solar chamber. The king is in court, but his stewards will notify him. I’ll leave you in the hands of his attendants.”

Edwyle gave another nod — as much as Tywin could expect from him — but Rickard lingered a moment as their escorts stepped forward.

“Tell me, Lord Tywin,” Rickard said, his voice low enough not to carry. “Do your knights actually fight? Or do they just polish their armor and talk about it?”

Tywin didn’t rise to it. “You’ll see soon enough, Lord Rickard.”

“I hope so.” Rickard’s smile was a flash of teeth this time. “I’d hate to win the melee without a proper challenge.”

Tywin’s face was stone. “Then, I’ll endeavour to make sure you’ll get one.”

Rickard gave a short, respectful nod and turned to follow his father inside.

Tywin remained at the gates a moment longer, fists curling slightly at his sides. He didn’t move until the Northern banners vanished behind the stone doors.

In the next courtyard, a boy called out.
“Tywin!”
He turned to see Prince Aerys bounding toward him with the energy of a hunting hound off leash. His silver hair was half-wet with sweat, his sleeves rolled up, and his grin wide enough to challenge propriety.

“I saw you parading the Northerners. Tell me — do they smell like pine needles and horse sweat, or just the latter?”

“They’ve just come off a ship,” Tywin said calmly.

“Oh, so both,” Aerys laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “I still can’t believe they used to call that a kingdom. Half of it is ice, the other half is hills and old trees. And they don’t even have proper gods!”

“Old gods, they say.”

“Old gods, new gods, no gods — still savages,” Aerys said, shaking his head. “Though I will say — that boy, Rickard — he looks like he eats lions for breakfast. You think he’ll be any good in the melee?”

“I’m sure he’ll be loud enough about it, if nothing else.”

Aerys grinned. “That’s what I like about you, Tywin. You say so much without saying anything.”

“Have you met Lord Ormund?” Tywin asked, changing the subject.

The prince rolled his eyes. “yes. Stuffy. Like he’s got a dragon up his arse. I like Steffon well enough, But that man.... Aunt Rhaelle always says he’s got her heart. Unfortunately, he’s got his father’s brow.”

“He seems eager to please.”

“Yes, and doomed to fail at it. That’s the Baratheon curse.” Aerys looked toward the Red Keep. “Come, we’ll watch the practice fields from the tower. I want to see who’s arrived.”

From the eastern turret, the view of the practice grounds below was sweeping. Knights clashed with blunted weapons under the banners of their houses, squires ran about fetching shields and helms, and servants hurried to prepare tents for the great houses arriving by the hour.

The yard was a storm of noise and motion. Tywin watched it in silence. Aerys leaned forward with his elbows on the stone ledge, eyes darting from banner to banner like a boy with too many toys.

“Look at them,” Aerys murmured. “Proud fools, all of them. Here to win a favor, maybe a kiss, maybe a title. But in the end, it’s just steel on steel. Who do you wager for the joust?”

“I don’t gamble,” Tywin replied.

Aerys smirked. “Because you don’t like losing?”

“Because I plan to win. Nothing more”

That got a laugh. “Gods, you’re unbearable sometimes. But I like it.”

They stood in silence for a while, watching the morning unfold. The tourney was fast approaching. Soon the list would be finalized, and men would bleed for glory, love, or revenge. For Tywin, it was something else entirely. Reputation.

The meeting with the king was brief. The Starks were announced, welcomed formally, and ushered into a short audience with His Grace. Tywin did not attend the conversation — nor was he meant to — but he was there to see them out, waiting with perfect posture in the antechamber.

Rickard was the first to step out. He looked bored.

“You were right,” he said dryly as he approached Tywin. “This is not your city. I suppose no one rules here — not really.”

Tywin said nothing. Finding the arrogance Too thick for his taste.

Edwyle followed, saying little. As they moved toward the guest quarters arranged for them in the Tower of the Hand, Rickard slowed beside Tywin again.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” he said casually. “Squire to a legend. Friend to a prince. Close to the king. For a boy from a house of coin and vanity, you’ve climbed well.”

Tywin stopped walking. “Is there a point to this, Stark?”

Rickard’s face didn’t change. “Only that I look forward to seeing whether the West fights as well as it talks, Lannister”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice calm. “You’ll see, Stark”

“You speak little,” Rickard added, studying him. “Is it because you fear your words won’t match your father’s... reputation? Or because you're waiting for the field to speak for you?”

Tywin didn’t answer. He stepped aside, gesturing toward the corridor. “Your quarters are ahead. I’m sure you’ll find them comfortable, though not as quite as Winterfell.”

Rickard inclined his head. “Comfort is overrated. Discipline isn’t.”

He left without another word.

Tywin watched the Northerners disappear down the hall, the sound of their boots echoing off the stone. His fingers curled slightly. There was a heat in his chest, not of anger — not quite — but something colder and deeper.

He turned away and made for the yard.
Steel clanged in the distance. Voices called orders. A hammer rang on an anvil. The sun had risen fully now, casting sharp light across the Red Keep. His cloak flared behind him as he descended the steps to the training field.

He would not respond to Rickard Stark with words.
Let the North see how lions fight.

The training yard was quieter now, the morning crowd thinned. The noble sons had retreated for food or rest, but a few men still moved among the straw dummies and sparring rings. Tywin walked past them without acknowledgment, his mind burning cold.
He found an open space, drew his training blade, and set to work.

The rhythm came back to him quickly — high guard, pivot, counter, step. Again. Again. The blade sang through the air with mechanical precision. Sweat began to bead at his brow, but he did not slow.

He replayed the words in his head: “A house of coin and vanity.” “Do your knights even fight?” “You fear your words won’t match your father’s reputation.”

No. He feared nothing.

He would let the tourney speak. He would let his sword speak. And when Rickard Stark lay sprawled in the dirt, when the northern banners hung limp and the crowd roared for the lion of the west, the boy who’d spoken so confidently would remember that pride alone did not make a warrior.

He adjusted his footwork. Again. Parry. Riposte. Step.
He would not lose.

Across the city, banners were still rising.
The streets were awash in crimson, green, gold, and blue. House Tyrell had arrived that afternoon, their procession full of summer-scented garlands and knights in fresh-pressed cloaks. The Dornish were expected within two days. Lord Tully’s train had already taken rooms along the Street of Sisters, and rumor had it Lord Reyne himself would arrive by week’s end, despite tensions with Casterly Rock.

Merchants pushed carts stacked with oranges and honeycakes. Sword sellers lined the alley walls. Singers in feathered caps stood at corners, singing half-written songs about Princess Rhaella’s beauty and the upcoming melee. Everyone wanted favor. Everyone wanted recognition.

And over it all, the Red Keep loomed, ancient and watchful, as if the dragons of old guarding their descendants still.

Inside its walls, in a narrow corner of the training yard, Tywin Lannister honed his blade against ghosts of words and futures yet written.
He trained until his muscles trembled and his arms burned. Until even the sparring dummies seemed too slow. Until the memory of Rickard’s smirk no longer stung, only steeled.

By the time he stopped, the sun was low, and his shirt clung to his back. He breathed deep, sheathed the practice sword, and walked away without looking back.

In the hallway outside his chambers, Steffon waited, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a small bruise already coloring his jaw.

“He hit you again?” Tywin asked, brushing past.

“Three times. All before breakfast,” Steffon muttered.

Tywin opened his door. “You’re still standing.”

“Barely. I think my ribs are planning to revolt.”

Tywin paused. “What did he say?”

Steffon rubbed the back of his neck. “That I’ve wasted my potential, that I need more edge. That I fight like a man with doubts in his gut. And that if I embarrass him in the lists, I’ll wish the Hammer of Justice had finished the job.”

Tywin studied him. “He’s not entirely wrong.”

Steffon scowled. “You’re supposed to say something supportive.”

“I just did.”

A beat passed, then Steffon laughed — short and bitter, but genuine.

“Well. Good thing we’ve got something to fight for now.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed. “We always did.”

Later that evening, Tywin stood alone again on the same balcony where he had watched the city with Aerys. But now, King’s Landing below was different — not alive with celebration, but restless with anticipation. Torches lined the streets, their flames flickering in the wind. The bells from the Sept tolled softly in the distance, signaling dusk.

Inside the Red Keep, servants moved like shadows preparing for the feast that would mark the tourney’s beginning. Tywin could hear laughter from the lower halls, the clatter of goblets and cutlery. But he did not join them.

His thoughts drifted to the melee. To Rickard Stark’s words. To Steffon’s bruised pride. To Ormund Baratheon’s sneers and Aerys’s careless jokes. To his own father, leagues away, likely too distracted by debts and diplomacy to care how his son represented their house.

No matter.

When Tywin fought in the tourney, it would not be for his father.
It would be for House Lannister.
For the West.
For himself.
He turned from the balcony and descended once more, not to the feast but back to the yard. The light was fading, but there were still hours before sleep. He could still push. Still improve.
Tomorrow the lists would be drawn.
Soon the lions would roar.
And Rickard Stark would see what true steel looked like when it came from the Rock.

Chapter Text

The canvas walls of the pavilion flapped softly in the summer wind. Dust drifted in lazy spirals through slivers of sunlight, cutting the stillness of the squire’s tent outside the tourney grounds. Tywin Lannister sat on a low bench near the edge of the entrance flap, the fingers of his left hand resting on the pommel of his new sword. His other hand, gloved in riding leather, drummed once against his knee. Slowly. Rhythmic. Like a clock counting down to something inevitable.

He was already clad in full armor, lighter than a knight’s but still heavy on his shoulders. Tywin rested his hand on the hilt of his new sword, freshly forged in Lannisport and delivered only days before the tourney. The blade was lean and balanced, kissed with a faint reddish sheen along the fuller — a subtle flourish from the smiths of the Rock. Its grip was wrapped in crimson leather, and the crossguard curved like a lion’s fangs. The pommel, cast in gold, bore a roaring lion’s head in fine relief, its eyes set with small rubies that caught the sunlight when he turned it just so. It was not merely a weapon. It was a reminder — to himself, and to everyone watching
He adjusted his grip again, testing the weight as he listened to the muffled sounds of the crowd murmur outside. Cheers rose and fell in waves. It was the day of the squire’s melee.

Across from him, Steffon Baratheon sat slouched on a barrel, his chin resting in one hand. A small bruise had begun to darken the ridge of his nose from all the training .His hammer leaned against the wall, the head still stained with the dirt of yesterday’s drills.

“Drew mine,” Steffon muttered.

Tywin didn’t look up. “Who?”

“Some Reach boy. Fossoway, I think. Red apple, not green. Don’t know if he’s any good.”

“They’re usually not.”

Steffon snorted. “And yours?”

“Ser Karyl Bracken’s cousin. Roderick.”

“Oof,” Steffon said, straightening. “The Brackens breed tough. That might be a problem.”

“He’s fast,” Tywin said. “Likes wide swings. Trains with men heavier than himself.”

“You’ve watched him?”

Tywin nodded once. “Enough to know he leads with his right. Puts weight into his hips when he’s serious.”

“You sound like a maester.”

“I sound like someone who plans to win.”

Steffon grinned, thumbing his chin. “Just don’t get cocky, lion.”

A roar erupted outside as another bout finished. Tywin stepped forward slightly, peeking through the flap.

He watched in silence as the next pair took the field—one of the Vances and a plump lad from House Goodbrook. The Vance was nimble, ducking in and out, jabbing like a water dancer. The Goodbrook boy relied on brute slams, each step rattling the ground. It didn’t last long. The Vance cut a tight line under his arm and sent him sprawling.

Tywin filed it all away. Names. Movements. Habits. Weaknesses.

When his name was called, the noise of the crowd didn’t register. Only the tightness in his chest. Not fear. Not even nerves.

Focus.

He stepped out into the ring. A soft breeze carried dust around him. Opposite him stood Roderick Bracken—broad-shouldered, already sneering, his blade raised with one hand.

“So the lion finally comes in wagging its little tail,” Roderick said.

Tywin said nothing.

They met at the center. The herald called for honor, and the bout began.

Roderick charged first—predictably. A downward slash meant to intimidate. Tywin parried cleanly and stepped aside, avoiding contact. Another swing. Tywin danced back. He didn’t attack. He watched.

He wanted to see what the boy did when his rhythm was broken.

Bracken snarled. “Scared?”

Tywin’s sword flicked out—just a touch, a kiss of steel across Roderick’s knuckles.

The Riverlander cursed and advanced. A quick jab. Tywin deflected. A swing from the left. Tywin ducked, pivoted, and let his opponent stumble forward half a step too far.

He overcommits. Sloppy under pressure.

On the next pass, Tywin caught the flat of his blade and pushed it aside, then landed a shot to the ribs. Roderick wheezed and stumbled.

“You little—!”

Tywin pressed, but not recklessly. He struck with speed, not power. Cuts designed to frustrate. Expose. Wear him down.

It took four more exchanges. On the fifth, Tywin feinted left, ducked right, and swept Roderick’s leg.

The boy hit the ground hard, dust blooming around him. Sword gone. He groaned.

“I yield!” he gasped.

Tywin lowered his blade.

The crowd roared, but he didn’t acknowledge it.

He sheathed the sword and turned back to the tent.

---
Inside the waiting room, cooler and quieter now, Tywin sat alone again. Sweat clung to his brow, and his arms ached from the tension. He was halfway through unlacing his gauntlet when a voice drifted in from behind.

“So, the cub does have claws.”

Tywin didn’t turn immediately. He knew the voice. Smooth, composed, but always laced with something sharp.

Roger Reyne stepped through the tent flap like he belonged there. The Red Lion of Castamere wore a fitted black tunic with red stitching and silver embroidery shaped like flames licking up the sleeves. His posture was easy. Confident. And his eyes, green and glinting, moved with the idle disdain of a man who thought every room belonged to him.

Tywin resumed unbuckling his gauntlet, each motion measured.

“You’re not your father.” Reyne’s tone was casual, but the edge wasn’t hidden.

“I’ve heard that said,” Tywin replied.

“Good. He’d never have lasted two passes with that Bracken boy.”

A pause. Reyne’s bootsteps crossed the straw-padded floor, slow and deliberate. He stopped a few paces away.

“You wore it well. The armor. The sword. Very regal. Very Lannister.” He said the last word like it tasted foreign.

Tywin glanced up. “Was that meant to sound like praise?”

Reyne smirked. “Only if you’re the sort who needs it.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t shift. But inside, something cold settled deeper in his chest. He wanted to rise. To loom. To say something that would bury Reyne’s amusement six feet under. But that wasn’t how lions hunted. Not when the prey was still smiling.

“I don’t need to impress you.” –

“No,” Reyne said, circling slightly. “But you want to make an impression . You want them nervous. The gold lions gleaming, the sword with the lion’s head pommel, the silk under the plate. Every inch of you says ‘remember me.’”

“I don’t hide what I am.”

“No,” Reyne said again, more quietly now. “But your House has. For years.”

Tywin didn’t flinch, but his jaw tightened.

“Beautiful piece,” Reyne said, picking up his sword almost carelessly. “Polished to perfection. It’s almost enough to distract everyone ,where it came from.”

Tywin stood now, Movements unrushed. Deliberately steady.

“Is there a point to this?”

Reyne raised an eyebrow. “Only curiosity. I came to see what kind of man the boy was becoming. I see now.”

“And what is it you see?”

“A lion pretending he doesn’t care if the world stares,” Reyne said. “But dressing to make sure they do.”

He stepped back. “Just be careful. The court’s full of men who think silence is strength. Most of them drown in it.”

“I understand.”

“Good,” Reyne said. “Then perhaps we’ll both see how far you get.”

He turned without waiting for dismissal. Tywin sat back down, but slower this time. The sword was heavy when he lifted it.

He stared at it for a moment longer than he meant to.

He stood in silence.

But the weight in his chest hadn’t left.

---

Two more rounds passed quickly.

One boy from House Foote—sloppy but fast. Another from House Banefort—strong but rigid. Tywin outmanoeuvred both.

He returned back to the tent, bruised and winded.

Steffon and Aerys arrived soon after.

“All still breathing?” Steffon grinned.

“Barely,” Aerys muttered, peeling off his helm. His silver hair was damp with sweat.

“They went easy on you,” Tywin said.

Aerys scoffed. “They think they’re doing me a favor.”

“You’re quick,” Steffon added. “But you charge too fast.”

“I win.”

“For now,” Tywin said.

They laughed, tense and tired.

---
Tywin’s last match of the day was against a Frey—Ser Jared’s second son, Symond Frey. He was tall, sinewy, with the familiar watery-blue eyes that seemed to pass down through the Twins like mildew. He wore a smirk as well-fitted as his fine mail.

He carried his sword like a lord might carry a goblet—confident, careless.

They circled one another slowly as the crowd hushed.

“You Westermen always polish your armor too much,” the Frey called out. “Hope you’ve got something under all that shine.”

Tywin didn’t answer. But the boy’s voice grated. Not because it was cruel—it wasn’t. It was dismissive. Entitled.

And it reminded him, bitterly, of the match they’d forced on Genna.

The Frey boy twirled his blade once, theatrically, and came on fast.

Tywin met him cleanly. Steel rang. He deflected the first cut, twisted, and turned the next. The boy was light on his feet, but overcommitted. Always reaching. Tywin didn’t return the blow—he studied.

Three passes in, he understood the rhythm: two feints, then a full swing. Left shoulder dropped before each lunge. A quick flick of the wrist before stepping into his strikes.

Tywin absorbed the first few blows without offering much back. His blade moved with minimal motion, parrying close to the hilt, conserving effort.

He grinned wider. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

Still nothing.

Another feint. Tywin stepped sideways, clipped the boy’s thigh with a glancing shot. Not deep, but it caught cloth.

The Frey scowled, recovering. He charged again, and Tywin caught his blade high, twisted, and brought his pommel into the boy’s gut—light, not enough to drop him, but enough to rattle his breath.

Now the grin was gone.

They circled again. Sweat glistened on the Frey’s brow. His strikes grew faster, heavier—less elegant now. Tywin could feel the tremor in his arms each time steel met steel. Not weakness. Frustration.

He led the boy in a wide arc around the edge of the ring. Let him swing again. Another clash. Another block. Tywin clipped his ribs with the flat—sharp enough to sting, not wound.

“Yield?” Tywin asked, voice quiet.

The boy sneered. “You wish.”

He came again.

Tywin baited high, ducked under the reply, and stepped behind him. He was starting to feel it now—the rhythm of control. He pressed forward with a swift sequence: one, two, then a third—

And that’s when Symond caught him.

A blind swipe in desperation, almost accidental. But the angle was wrong, and Tywin didn’t adjust in time. The edge of the Frey’s blade raked across his upper arm.

The pain bit sharp and hot.

He gritted his teeth, staggered half a step, and repositioned. The blow hadn’t cut deep, but it reminded him—too soon to assume anything.

Symond advanced with renewed energy, emboldened by the hit.

Tywin didn’t retreat. He parried the next three strikes, redirected them without flare, letting the injury burn its warning into his movement.

Then he struck.

He faked high, then stepped inside. The Frey raised his guard—and Tywin pivoted left, driving the hilt of his sword into the boy’s ribs.

A gasp. Then a curse.

Not enough to end it.

Another exchange. Tywin’s sword snapped across the Frey’s thigh—shallow but clean. The boy stumbled.

They broke apart. Tywin’s breathing was heavy now. Blood was seeping into the cloth under his sleeve. But his mind was clearer than ever.

He drew his opponent into a wide feint, then reversed, swept low, caught the ankle.

Symond hit the dirt hard.

He tried to scramble up to his feet, reaching for his blade, but Tywin’s boot was already on his wrist.

Steel hovered at his throat.

He looked left. Right. No way out. No pivot. No strength.

A long pause.

“I… yield,” he muttered.

Tywin stepped back, breath ragged.

The crowd roared, but it sounded distant.

He turned and left the ring, jaw tight, blood seeping beneath the gilded leather.

He didn’t look back.
---
The sunlight was softer now. Burnished gold. Tywin wandered toward the covered colonnade near the east gardens, drawn by the hush between matches. Servants bustled past him, and somewhere down the slope, drums began to beat for the feast.

He turned a corner—and stopped.

Joanna was standing beneath a high arch, framed by ivy and stone. Her gown was cream with red trim, modest but elegant. Aerys stood with her, posture casual, one arm braced against the pillar as he spoke.

Tywin couldn’t hear the words, but the tone was unmistakable: lilting, performative, the cadence of someone amusing himself. Aerys was smiling more than nessesary. Joanna’s arms were folded neatly at her waist. Her posture remained polite, practiced—poised. But there was a tension in her shoulders that most would miss.

Tywin Remained motionless

Aerys reached out, plucked a leaf from her shoulder, too casually.

She smiled, faint and brief. “My prince,” she said with practiced grace. “You flatter far more than necessary.”

“I flatter what deserves it,” Aerys replied. “And perhaps a little more.”

She gave a small laugh. There was no warmth in it.

Tywin stepped forward.

His boots clicked once on the stone.

Joanna looked over first. Aerys turned a moment later, all ease and princely charm.

“Tywin! Come to rescue your cousin from my terrible wit?”

“She doesn’t need rescuing,” Tywin said.

“True enough,” Aerys replied. “But perhaps some more entertaining company. I’ll leave her to it.”

He bowed—graceful, mocking—and turned on his heel. As he passed Tywin, he offered a quick wink.

His face betrayed nothing. But his lip twitches at the corner, the smallest gesture of discontent.

He moved to stand beside Joanna. She didn’t speak at first.

“Do you always arrive at just the right moment?” she said finally, without turning.

“Coincidence.”

“Mm.”

They watched the garden . Birds flitted between trees, and far off, bells rang in the Sept.

“I’m not naive,” Joanna said. “It helps me to be seen speaking with him.”

Tywin’s voice was quiet. “And did you enjoy it?”

She didn’t answer immediately.

Then: “He talks like he’s rehearsing.”

Tywin glanced sideways. Her face was calm, unreadable. But she hadn’t smiled since Aerys left.

“You looked like a real knight today,” she said. “Even if you aren’t one yet.”

“I don’t need the title.”

“No,” she said. “You never did.”

She looked at him then—really looked—and for a moment, something softened.

“You’re bleeding,” she added, her voice gentler.

“It’s nothing.”

She didn’t press.

“Will you be in the melee tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I rarely am.”

“I know,” she said, and this time her smile was real.

---
The moon had climbed above the towers when Ser Duncan finally approached.

Tywin was standing at the edge of the training yard, helmet off, sword in hand. Blood from the Frey fight had dried beneath his arm, staining the gold-threaded tunic under his armor. He didn’t feel the ache anymore. Only the weight of the day settling behind his eyes.

Footsteps approached. Heavy, deliberate. Not the shuffle of a courtier or the grace of a noble. Just boots with purpose.

“Didn’t think I’d find you here,” came a low, gravel-edged voice.

Tywin turned his head slightly. “Ser Duncan.”

The tall knight nodded, folding his arms. His hair was damp with sweat and tied back. A bruise was blooming above his collarbone, likely from the joust earlier today.

“You fought like someone with something to prove,” Duncan said. “That’s not a bad thing.”

“I did have something to prove.”

“Yeah. Figured that.” Duncan’s voice was plain, almost casual. “But there’s a difference between proving yourself and flaunting it.”

Tywin’s brow twitched. “And which did I do?”

Duncan studied him for a beat, then shrugged. “Bit of both. But you did it smart. Fought with your head. Not many boys your age do that. Hell, not many grown men either.”

Tywin said nothing.

“You’re not the strongest. Nor the fastest. But you’re sharp. Cut clean, ended fights quick. That matters.”

He took a few steps forward, eyeing Tywin’s stance.

“You study up more about command?”

“I study everything that’s required,” Tywin said.

Duncan gave a short grunt of approval. “Then you’ve got the right bones for it. You see the pieces. Where people are going to be before they get there.”

He gestured toward the practice field. “That’s half of it. The other half? Everything goes to shit once steel’s drawn. Plans don’t last long when men start bleeding. Just don’t fall in love with your own cleverness.”

Tywin’s fingers tightened slightly around the sword hilt.

“I understand.”

Duncan nodded. “Good. I’ve seen plenty of smart lads get themselves killed ‘cause they thought the world worked like a board game. But you… you’ve got a colder edge. That might save you.”

He started to turn, then paused. “Rest up. You earned it. Tomorrow, it’s not about winning one match. It’s about surviving them all.”

Tywin looked out at the field, the empty list now nothing more than shadows.

“I’ll be ready.”

Duncan gave him a nod—respectful, simple—and walked off without another word.

Tywin stayed there, unmoving, until the bells of the Sept began to toll the hour.

Chapter Text

“They all look half bored,” Steffon muttered, arms crossed over the handle of his warhammer. His eyes weren’t on the other fighters—they were on the stands, where lords and ladies sat beneath silk canopies, fanning themselves and murmuring as they waited for the final event of the day to begin.

“They're waiting for the knights,” Tywin said. “The squires are just the pageantry before the real show.”

They stood together near the edge of the tourney field, sunlight hot on their shoulders, the clink of armor and snatches of nervous laughter rising around them. Fighters had gathered in loose clusters—each group drawn together by familiarity, loyalty, or shared colors. No words were spoken, but the divisions were obvious.

The Vale boys stood tight as a spear wall, five strong, muttering low among themselves. The Reach squires—four of them—looked more relaxed, but moved with the deliberate calm of drilled formations. The Riverlanders huddled near the western edge, their armor mixed and dull, expressions wary. Two Dornish boys stood apart, lean and sun-browned, weapons sheathed but hands resting on hilts.

And the North. Three of them. Towering, broad, armored in thicker mail than the others despite the heat. Rickard Stark stood at their center like a keystone.

Officially, it was a free-for-all. Last man standing claimed the glory.

Unofficially, it was war by unwritten law. Everyone knew how it worked. You found your kin, your men, and fought together. Lone squires fall quickly.

Tywin, Steffon, and Aerys had no such company. No other Crownlanders. No Westerlanders. No Stormlords. Just the three of them.

“Odds don’t look good,” Steffon said.

“They never do,” Tywin replied.

Aerys adjusted the strap on his gilded breastplate. “Then we make them look worse for everyone else.”

The prince’s armor shone too bright for the sun. His sword was already drawn, glinting like it couldn’t wait to taste blood.

“We start with the Riverlands,” Aerys said. “Three’s nothing. Dornish won’t commit. We clean out the weaklings, then the Vale.”

Tywin shook his head. “You’re thinking backwards.”

Aerys raised a brow. “I’m thinking simple.”

“Simple gets you flanked. The Vale is strong, yes—but they’re the bait. If we charge them first, the Reach waits, watches, and hits us when we’re tired. The North wont move until they’re ready, they never do, but when they do, they don’t stop. We don’t know their pace. We don’t know their strength.”

“So what do you suggest?” Steffon asked.

Tywin scanned the field again. “We let the Vale and Reach hit each other. They will. Their pride demands it. If we move toward the center slowly—measured—we pull attention without threatening. The Riverlanders will hesitate, unsure where to go. The Dornish will pick off the stragglers.”

“And the North?”

“We don’t provoke them. Not yet.”

“That's not much of a plan,” Aerys said. “Too much waiting.”

Tywin’s tone didn’t shift. “That’s why you’ll charge first. You’ll draw the eyes. Youre the Prince , everyone will want you. Then Steffon and I will flank. Create enough noise, force the Vale boys to react. When they move, we cut sideways. Thin out their weakest and collapse them inward. Keep moving. Never let one region consolidate.”

Steffon nodded slowly. “Divide and exhaust.”

“Exactly.”

“Still sounds like I’m doing the heavy lifting,” Aerys said.

Tywin looked at him. “You wanted attention.”

The prince grinned. “Fair.”

Trumpets blared. The herald’s voice rang over the dust and the murmuring crowds, calling names and titles—each one met with scattered applause.

The boys began spreading into the arena.

Twenty in total. Only one would walk away triumphant.

Aerys sheathed his blade and rolled his shoulders. “Don’t take it too hard when I win,” he said. “You’ll still get the glory by association.”

Steffon smirked. “Just as long as you remember that line when I’m the one standing at the end.”

Neither looked at Tywin.

He didn’t speak. His mind was already elsewhere.

Across the field, Rickard Stark fastened his gauntlet and met his gaze.

They shared a brief nod.

Then the horns sounded again.

And the ground began to shake.

Twenty boys moved—not in a surge, but in a tide. Armor rattled. Sand kicked up in plumes. The crowd leaned forward.

Areys advanced at a measured pace, flanked by Steffon and Tywin. No sudden bursts. No charges. Just movement — deliberate, calculated. He kept his gaze level and his blade low.

Across the field, the Reach and Vale squires did as he expected.

They looked at each other—and stepped forward.

Alester Oakheart barked a challenge, his voice theatrical. Mychel Redfort snapped back something too distant to hear. The two groups shifted like beasts testing fences, then collided all at once in a tangle of cloaks, house colors, and polished blades.

Steel rang, and the crowd roared.

“They took the bait,” Tywin said under his breath.

“Don’t they always,” Steffon muttered.

Aerys kept walking, slower now, half turned as he watched the chaos to the right. “We’re just going to let them hack each other apart?”

“For now,” Tywin said. “Keep your eyes on the Riverlanders. Look like we’re aiming for them.”

At the western edge, the Riverlands squires held in a loose formation. Frey stood at the center, bouncing slightly on his heels. Blackwood had a was drawing his sword now. Bracken looked restless.

Tywin narrowed his eyes. “They’re holding for support. They don’t want to move first.”

And neither did the North.

Rickard Stark and his two companions stood in no hurry to join the fray. They held formation like a shield wall waiting for a break in a siege. One boy gripped an axe longer than his forearm. Another carried a blunted spear, watching the Dornish.

The Dornish were already dancing.

Yronwood and the Dayne boy moved like reeds in wind—circling the North, never too close, never static. They weren’t fighting yet. They were feeling. Poking to check for cracks in the northern walls.

Just like Tywin.

“Now,” he said.

Aerys broke first—angling left, away from the Riverlands. Not toward them. But toward the gap opening between the Reach and Vale as their melee tangled tight.

“Go!” Tywin called, and they followed.

Aerys sprinted, eager. Steffon moved faster than he looked like he should be able to. Tywin kept just behind, eyes everywhere.

They cut across the field like a blade slipping between ribs.

A Redfort boy tried to peel away from the group to intercept—Steffon caught him with the haft of his warhammer and sent him reeling before the boy could raise a blade.

Aerys laughed as he slid under the swing of a Florent and kicked his legs out.

They were in.

And the battlefield shuddered.

They hit the edge of the melee like a scalpel slicing into flesh already bruised.

The Reach and Vale squires were so entangled in their pride-swollen battle, they didn’t notice the three newcomers until it was too late.

Tywin struck first — not with force, but with timing.

A Greenwood boy broke ranks to chase a wounded Fossoway. Tywin swept low, hamstringing the Greenwood with a single, clean strike. The boy toppled with a scream and trying desperately to raise up again.

Aerys darted through two staggered Reach boys, laughing, his sword glinting. He moved fast — too fast — and nearly caught a backhanded cut from a Vale squire for his trouble. Steffon stepped in and parried with the steel head of his hammer, driving the boy back.

“Stay tight,” Tywin warned, scanning.

But Aerys was already gone — chasing another moment, another pair of eyes watching him from the stands.

Across the field, the Riverlanders had begun to move. Slowly at first, then more boldly. Bracken and Frey surged forward together, wild and wide-striking, not bothering with form. They fell upon a Dornish boy probing the Vale flank, and Yronwood joined him before the other could fall.

The Dornish didn’t hold ground. They didn’t clash. They evaded. Like the wind. Constantly moving.

The Riverlanders screamed with each swing. The Dornish never said a word.

To the north, Rickard Stark began to walk.

Not run. Not charge.

Just walk.

Deliberate. Methodical.

One of his men followed immediately — the spear-bearer. The third hung back, watching the Riverland-Dornish clash with wary eyes.

They were moving as a net. Closing the outer lines. Waiting to see where the center thinned.

Smart, Tywin thought again.

Again, Redfort tried to shoulder Aerys aside. The prince responded with a high, reckless slash that caught only wind.

“Behind you!” Tywin barked.

A hammer cracked the ground beside Aerys’s boot, missing his ankle by inches. A second later, Steffon dropped the Vale boy who’d swung it with a brutal elbow to the chest.

Aerys turned, startled. “I had him!”

“You didn’t see him,” Steffon said.

“Still!” Aerys snapped, indignant.

Tywin didn’t interject. He had no interest in arguing over near-misses.

He was watching the Vale scatter. Two were already down. The Reach had lost three. The clash was splintering now — boys stumbling, backing off, catching their breath. The trio had broken their rhythm.

Now the center’s ours.

He stepped forward. A Florent turned to meet him — slightly bloodied, limping. Tywin feinted high, then reversed low and cracked the flat of his blade across the boy’s shin. When the squire fell, he didn’t get up.

Eight down.

But the noise was shifting.

To the west, the Riverlanders had pushed the Dornish back toward the center. Not in unison — not organized — just chaos chasing grace. Yronwood landed a slash across Frey’s shoulder. The Frey boy screamed. Blackwood jumped in wild, half-tackling the Dayne to the ground.

Steffon turned at the noise. “They’re moving our way.”

“Let them,” Tywin said.

Another squire lunged at Aerys. This time, he was ready. He parried sharply, slashed back across the boy’s midsection, and kicked him away with a grin.

“Ahhh fuck” Steffon barked, bringing Tywins attention to the west.

The northern boys were no longer standing still.

Rickard Stark was twenty yards away and closing.

He didn’t run. He stalked — blade steady at a low guard, cutting a quiet path through the battlefield with the grim patience of a seasoned reaper.

To his left, Karstark had already found Steffon. The two clashed like thunder and storm—hammer against longsword, force against precision. Steffon drove him back in bursts, but Karstark recovered quick, never ceding too much ground.

Rickard moved with intent, eyes locked ahead.

Me, Tywin realized.

He stepped to meet him.

For a heartbeat, they just circled.

Tywin’s blade rose in guard; Rickard’s dipped slightly, watching for a tell. Then Rickard struck—one clean swing angled for Tywin’s ribs. Tywin deflected, spun left, and countered low. Rickard blocked, stepped back, reset.

Second exchange—quicker. Rickard advanced with a feint, then a sharp vertical strike. Tywin caught it, barely. The strength behind it numbed his forearm.

He’s not just strong, Tywin thought. He’s deliberate.

Tywin feinted high, stepped in low, and nearly tagged Rickard’s shin—but the Stark pulled back and came down hard with a diagonal chop that forced Tywin into a half-crouch.

They broke apart again. Breathing harder now.

A rhythm was forming. A pattern of wariness, calculation. Neither boy overcommitted.

Tywin adjusted his stance. Rickard shifted his weight. Their blades raised again—

And that was when Blackwood crashed into them.

The Riverlander came roaring in from Tywin’s left, face red with effort, blade swinging like a pendulum. Rickard disengaged instantly, vanishing back toward Steffon without a word or glance.

Tywin swore under his breath and parried Blackwood’s first strike. The next few moments were all muscle and movement—Tywin ducked, redirected, slammed a flat strike into the Riverlander’s thigh, then cracked him in the shoulder with the pommel.

Blackwood dropped to one knee, winded. He raised a shaking hand.

Yield.

Tywin turned—

Just in time to see Rickard reappear at Steffon’s flank, swinging at the same moment Karstark hammered Steffon’s defense from the front.

They’re going to break him.

Tywin scanned the field. Aerys was still on his feet — but entangled in a brutal free-for-all with Greenwood and Dayne. Both were pushing him hard, trying to land the strike that would earn them the glory of taking down the dragon.

Tywin’s mind raced.

The prince or their hammer.

He didn’t hesitate.

He ran for Steffon.

Three boys clashed in front of him — he pushed into them as Dust stung his eyes. Rickard was raising his pommel edge for a final strike-

Tywin dove.

The blunt edge caught him behind the ear.

Everything spun.

He hit the ground and didn’t rise.

--------------------------------------------------------

The world returned in fragments.

First, the ache behind his eyes—dull and spreading. Then the dry burn in his throat. Then the clink of mail, the faint hush of the wind against canvas.

Tywin opened his eyes.

The tent ceiling above him rippled in the late afternoon breeze. Light slanted through the canvas walls in dusty streaks. Cloth rustled nearby.

Aerys sat on a stool with dried blood at his temple and dirt on his silks. He looked less like a prince than a boy caught in the wrong story.

“You’re awake,” he said flatly.

Tywin propped himself up slowly. His skull throbbed. “How long?”

“Long enough,” Aerys muttered. “Steffon’s been out there collecting cheers.”

Tywin blinked. “He won?”

Aerys’s jaw clenched. “Because you chose him.”

Tywin said nothing.

“I was fighting both of them. Dayne cut my sword away, and Greenwood nearly broke dayne's arm before he got the yield. Then he dropped from exhaustion. He didn’t even get to enjoy it.”

He stood. “And you—you didn’t come. You looked right at me.”

Tywin met his eyes, calm. “I didn’t see how close you were to yielding.”

“You’re lying.”

“Maybe,” Tywin said. “But Steffon was two steps from collapse.”

Aerys gave a tight, joyless laugh. “You really think I’ll forget this?”

“I think you’ll use it, one day” Tywin replied. “You always do.”

Aerys took a breath, face darkening.

“You should’ve helped your prince.”

Tywin’s tone was still measured. “You didn’t need help. Not the kind I could have offered in that situation.”

“You let me lose.”

“I gave him the chance to win. And it will work to your favor.....you just don't see it yet”

Aerys’s hand curled around the edge of the canvas flap as if he meant to tear it down.

Tywin went on. “No one cares if a prince loses a melee. You're a Targaryen. A dragon. They'll always think you're dangerous enough.”

He adjusted how he sat, jaw tightening slightly. “But dragons don’t fight alone. Not in war. And now they’ve seen who fights beside you. They’ll remember that hammer. And they’ll wonder—if you lead him, what happens when you’re crossed?”

Aerys stared at him. His lip curled. “You think that makes this better?”

“I think it makes it useful.”

Aerys said nothing for a long moment.

“I’m going to find Steffon. Make him pay for the wine.”

He slipped out of the tent, without another look, his cape trailing dust behind him.

Tywin let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

--------------------------------------------------------

Tywin didn’t hear the tent flap move. He didn’t have to.

“You lie to the prince too easily,” came Rickard Stark’s voice from behind.

Tywin didn’t look up right away. He was rinsing the bloodied cloth again, pressing it lightly against the swelling beneath his eye. He kept his motions slow. Measured. The bruises were tolerable. The scrutiny was more irritating.

“What do you think I lied about?” Tywin said after a pause.

“I saw you look,” Rickard said, stepping into view. His tone was calm, almost dispassionate. “You had a choice. You knew the prince was faltering. You chose the Baratheon.”

Tywin finally met his eyes.

There was no accusation in Rickard’s expression. Just quiet certainty.

“I helped the man who was closest,” Tywin said evenly. “He was surrounded. Areys had more room.”

Rickard tilted his head, unconvinced.

Tywin didn’t blink. But he felt the edge of something coiling in his chest — not guilt, not shame, but something quieter. An itch that even truth couldn’t entirely soothe.

“You Southerners,” Rickard said, “are always eager to flatter your kings. I thought you’d do the same.”

Tywin leaned back slightly, drying his hands with the edge of his sleeve. “Aerys is our friend. He’s quick. Brave. But not cautious. Steffon was the better bet to finish the fight. And that mattered more.”

Rickard studied him. “Even above the crown?”

Tywin was still for a long moment.

He could feel the weight of the question. Not just in the air between them, but in what it implied — what kind of man he was, what line he walked.

He didn’t speak carelessly. Not here.

Finally, he replied, his voice low and even:

“Power rests where strength holds it. If the prince stumbles, and we win, the realm still holds. If the prince survives and we fall… someone else wears the crown. That’s how history works.”

Rickard’s gaze sharpened. “Duty doesn’t work that way. You don’t weigh outcomes on a scale and toss aside your oaths. You protect your prince — someone who stands a chance to be your future king — because that’s what’s right.”

Tywin met his eyes, steady.

“If this had been a real battle, and I’d chosen to guard the crown while our strongest flank broke, what would you think would happen. we might’ve kept the prince breathing, yes. — only to leave him standing in the ashes of a shattered host. What use is survival if the means of his future victories is gone?”

Rickard said nothing, but the pause was heavier now.

Tywin went on, not to convince — just to speak what he believed.

“My duty wasn’t to shield a title for its own sake. It was to ensure he had the strength left to hold it. Steffon’s victory — at his side — will serve Aerys far better than a narrow escape and a loss. People won’t test a prince who stands beside a warhammer like the one people saw today.”

Rickard’s eyes narrowed slightly. He wasn’t agreeing. But he understood.

“Different realities,” he said.

“Different priorities,” Tywin answered.

“Maybe both.”

They didn’t shake hands. They didn’t nod farewell.

Rickard turned first, disappearing through the tent flap the way he’d come.

Tywin exhaled, slow and controlled, then let the silence settle again.

--------------------------------------------------------

He sat there a moment longer in silence, elbows resting on his knees, before rising and turning to the small basin. The water was lukewarm, faintly murky. He dipped a cloth in and began wiping down his shoulder, where the Frey’s blunted blade had slipped through the crease of his plate and left a shallow cut.

He moved with precision. Efficient. Like it mattered. Like the routine might keep his thoughts from wandering too far.

A voice stirred behind him — light, unmistakable.

“You’d think a man clever enough to outmatch boys much older than him, might have the sense to rest.”

Tywin didn’t turn at first. Just paused, cloth in hand.

Joanna stood inside the tent now, arms folded, watching him with that familiar half-amused expression she wore whenever he did something mildly self-destructive.

“If you keep up with that, you’d reopen that wound trying to prove you’re not injured.”

He turned then, slowly. “It’s not deep.”

“No,” she agreed. “But your pride might be.”

He allowed the faintest twitch of his mouth — not a smile, exactly, but not nothing.

She stepped closer, already reaching for the cloth. “Here. Sit.”

“I can manage.”

“I’m sure you can. Sit anyway.”

He sat.

Joanna dipped the cloth again and knelt beside him, brushing back a damp strand of hair near his temple. She cleaned the scrape there with more care than was necessary. Neither of them mentioned the silence that followed

Tywin sat back against the wooden support post of the tent, his shoulder stiff beneath the tunic. The tourney field hummed in the distance — the next tilt was already underway — but here it was quieter. Just the scrape of cloth, the sting of wine, and Joanna’s steady hands.

“You didn’t join the others?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the bandage she was fixing.

“For a little while,” Joanna said, smoothing the linen with care. “Plenty of smiles. Laughter. Aerys soaking up the attention, much better than Steffon.”

Tywin made a quiet sound in his throat.

“I slipped away before anyone noticed,” she added, then glanced up at him. “Figured someone ought to make sure you hadn’t bled out behind a tent flap.”

“A very specific worry.”

“Mmm. I had a very specific reason.”

Tywin glanced down at her fingers, steady against his skin. Her presence always did this — made the room feel smaller, the air thicker. Not uncomfortable, but… uncertain. Like some part of him couldn’t decide whether to brace for a strike or to stay perfectly still.

“You were watching the fight,” he said quietly.

“I was,” Joanna replied. “You were more reckless than usual.”

“I made a decision.”

“I know. I’m not questioning it.”

“You sound like you are.”

“I’m not.” She looked at him then — level, unblinking. “I know you don’t make your choices lightly.”

There it was again. That calm certainty. That knowledge of who he was before he became who he had to be.

He didn’t know if he hated her for it or not.

She finished dressing the wound, tying the bandage neatly.

“There’s a row of stalls down the hill,” she said, standing. “Past the west rampart. They’re opening for the evening. Music. Wine. Pointless things.”

He looked at her, slow and unreadable.

She didn’t wait for a reply. “I thought I might walk through them. That’s all.”

“I’m expected at Steffon’s celebration.”

“I assumed as much.” She turned for the flap, keeping her tone light, Her expression didn’t change, but he caught the faintest tightening around her eyes — not disappointment, just expectation dimmed slightly. “It’s only a suggestion. I wasn’t planning to wait.”

She had one hand on the tent’s tie when he spoke again.

“Joanna.”

She paused.

“I’ll come.”

A flicker — just one — crossed her face. Not triumph. Just a faint shift of relief she didn’t bother hiding.

“I’ll wait for you after the Joust.”

When she was gone, Tywin remained still a moment longer. He looked down at his hand — the one she’d wrapped — and flexed the fingers once.

He still had one more duty to attend to, for Ser Duncan the Tall.

But his thoughts were already a few steps ahead… walking beside a girl with a sharper tongue than most knights and a gaze he hadn’t yet learned how to meet without flinching.

Chapter Text

The footsteps from the throne room behind him rang with a dull thud that seemed to echo all the way down the corridor. Tywin paused on the marble steps, letting the hush of the hall settle around him. Ahead, the king walked with quick, clipped strides, his long black cloak snapping with each movement. The Kingsguard flanked him in silence, white cloaks trailing across the stone like pale wraiths.

Aegon’s shoulders were rigid. The set of his jaw left little doubt: the meeting had gone poorly.

Another defeat, Tywin thought. And another lesson.

He did not follow immediately. Better to let them all pass.

The lords came next—Reachmen draped in emerald silks, Valemen in deep blue, muttering among themselves. At their center, Lord Alester Beesbury, the master of coin, gestured softly, and the others bent their heads to hear. The sound of their hushed voices and rustling cloaks faded as they drifted away down a side hall.

“Fools. Every one of them.”

Prince Aerys’ voice was sharp behind him, pulling Tywin’s gaze. The silver-haired prince strode forward, quick and restless, his violet eyes still bright with irritation.

“They prattle about tradition while the Riverlands drown. I suggested a canal from the Blackwater to the Trident—imagine how it would change the flow of goods and grain.”

Aerys’ fingers snapped as if sketching the canal out in the air.

“Or perhaps an additional duty on Arbor and Dornish wines to fund food shipments. But no. Too ambitious, they say, too radical! As if ambition were a crime.”

His words tumbled fast, ideas born and discarded within breaths.

Tywin listened in silence, as he often did.

Aerys waved a hand dismissively. “Never mind. They’d strangle their own children before they let a king’s reforms cut into their coin.”

Ahead, laughter echoed lightly down the hall. Princess Rhaella walked past with her retinue of ladies. His eyes caught Joanna, her golden hair gleaming, catching the light as she turned to answer a jest.

Aerys’ gaze lingered on them

“Soon enough they’ll wed me to Rhaella,” he said abruptly.

Tywin was surprised, he hadn't heard about this matter before. “If you dislike the match, you could ask. You are not first in line. Both your father and your uncle refused their first options. It isn’t as though they can't force—”

“They can.”

The word bit through Tywin’s suggestion like a blade.

“My father listens to that witch Jenny brought to court. A prophecy, she says, about a prince that was promised. He believes her. And so I must marry Rhaella, no matter how poorly suited we are.”

The prince’s laugh was soft and humorless.

Aerys’ eyes trailed through the crowd, and for a moment his steps slowed.

“Your cousin,” he said suddenly. “She’s prettier than her friend. Spirited too, I imagine.”

The words were quiet, almost thoughtful.

“Perhaps I’d prefer her.”

Tywin’s fingers curled slightly, but his expression stayed composed.

“She’d be an even poorer match,” he said flatly.

“hmm?” Aerys’ lips twitched, halfway between a smirk and a sneer. “Pity.”

They walked on in silence until the corridor split.

“At least I’m not first in line,” Aerys muttered as they parted. “As much as I'd enjoy the power. No crown. No responsibilities beyond marriage. That’s freedom enough.”

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The corridor fell silent behind him as Aerys vanished down another hall, boots echoing faintly against stone. Tywin turned, letting his steps carry him to a narrow balcony where the cold air cut through the lingering heat of the throne room.

Below, the Red Keep spilled down the cliffs like a stone tide. Beyond its walls, King’s Landing stretched out unevenly—red roofs, winding streets, smoke drifting from a thousand chimneys. The city pulsed with noise even at this height: the distant hammering of smiths, the murmur of merchants in the market, the creak of ropes and sails in the harbor.

Two years. Two years since he had left the Rock. A boy had climbed the Gold Road then, full of lessons half-learned and truths half-understood. A boy who believed he saw the world for what it truly was. That boy was gone.

He saw the knights now for what they were—iron tools in fine cloaks, polished and sharpened for their lords’ use. They spoke of honor and duty but knelt where the gold was thickest and the swords longest.

The lords were a little different. All velvet smiles and empty titles, clawing at each other for scraps of influence while the real strength lay unrecognized beneath their feet. They played at power without grasping the true source of it.

Even the smallfolk, he had come to see, mattered more than most would ever admit. Every coin, every levy, every army started in the hands of farmers and fishers. Without them, even dragons starved.

He gripped the cold stone railing, feeling the ache in his shoulders and forearms. Months of training had hardened his body. Long nights at ledgers and court sessions had sharpened his mind. He had watched. He had listened. He had learned.

And yet—

What good is all of it if I still can’t see the path forward for my own house?

The West was still in decline.

His father’s gold no longer commanded fear or respect; it was scattered in gifts to flatterers and in loans no one repaid. Gold spent like that was not strength—it was weakness masquerading as generosity. The Lannister army had grown fat and dull under a lord who mistook kindness for rule. Half of their bannermen grew lazy; the other half grew defiant, heads filled with their own ambitions.

Once, a Lannister’s coin could quiet any problem. Now it was taken for granted.

Could the answers be found here, in the king’s service? Could watching Aegon claw at reforms and fail teach him how to do better?

There is still more work to do before I can rest. Much more.

The wind shifted, carrying the scent of smoke and salt from the bay. Tywin straightened and turned from the balcony, his boots ringing softly as he strode back into the Keep’s shadowed hallways.

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The library was still at this hour, its high windows catching the warm gold of evening. Shelves lined the walls like silent sentinels, the air thick with the scent of parchment and faint candle wax.

Tywin sat alone at a wide oak table near the eastern window, a solitary flame flickering at his elbow. Books and ledgers sprawled neatly before him, their margins marked with small, precise notes in his hand. His fingers tapped lightly on the wood as his eyes traced another column of figures, the rhythmic sound the only disturbance in the heavy quiet.

The door creaked softly.

Joanna stepped inside, pausing just within the threshold. She let her gaze drift over the shelves, her posture stiff at first, as though bracing herself for company. But when her eyes found him, her shoulders eased.

“oh. it’s just you,” she said quietly. “For a moment I thought I’d found the library empty.”

“You nearly had,” Tywin replied without lifting his head.

She hesitated, then ventured further in, her skirts whispering faintly against the stone floor.

“I didn’t think anyone would still be here at this hour,” Joanna said lightly. “Books aren’t exactly the most thrilling company.”

“For some, perhaps.”

“And yet they seem to suit you.”

Tywin closed the ledger with a quiet snap. “What brings you here, Joanna? You never struck me as one for academic pursuits.”

A flicker of discomfort passed over her face. “Avoiding the prince.”

Tywin’s jaw tensed slightly. “He’s been bothering you again?”

Joanna crossed her arms, fingers tugging at her sleeve. “He lingers. Corners me when I pass, finds excuses to stay when I speak with Rhaella. I’ve tried to make it clear, but he…” She trailed off, gaze lowering.

“Aerys tires quickly of most of his distractions,” Tywin said evenly. “You’ll see. He’ll find something else soon enough.”

“Perhaps,” she murmured. “But this feels different.”

She exhaled softly and shifted her stance, as if catching herself. Her eyes fell to the stack of ledgers before him.

“And what’s kept you shut in here all evening? More war strategies? Or are you finally learning to appreciate poetry?”

“Figures,” Tywin said.

“That’s vague.”

“And sufficient.”

“Not for me.”

When he didn’t answer, she leaned against the table lightly, tilting her head. “You’ve been here most of the times I’ve passed through this corridor. Whatever it is, it must be important.”

“Important enough.”

“Then tell me.”

Tywin regarded her for a long moment, then sighed quietly. “The king’s plan for White Harbor. He means to reroute Essosi trade there”, he explained, pointing towards a small map on the edge of the table, “ he's planning on offering favorable tariffs and reduced duties. From there, goods would move south through the Riverlands, using the trident, with Harrenhal serving as a central trading hub. He hopes this would give the riverlords an upper hand with their restoration works”

Joanna’s brows rose slightly. “And how does that help?”

“The Starks will allow a bulk of these goods, most of which we can't produce —spices for Arbor wine, dyes for Reach textiles, to flow down to this hub, so the riverlords and their merchants can inturn sell them, at a markup to southern lords. The smallfolk gain work. Coin flows through lands long neglected. They gain a new income stream, The north gets their share of profits. And the lords who stood against the king's reforms will have to buy the products they took for granted for a higher price”

“It sounds clever.”

“It is. And bold.”

“But you don’t sound convinced.”

“Because I’m not.” Tywin’s tone was calm but clipped. “It’s a statement, not a solution. In the short term, it works. But in the long term… the Reach and Vale, those who will be most affected, will adjust. Their monopolies will reassert themselves. They always do.”

Joanna studied him for a moment. The silence ruled the room with an iron fist for those few moments.

“You’ve changed.”

“Everyone does.”

“Hmmm, not everyone”, she says with a soft smile, “Just have a look at your two friends. You… you're sharper now. Quieter too. I wonder if even you realize how different you’ve become.”

“Then perhaps I’ve learned something worthwhile.”

“Or perhaps you’re building walls so high you won’t know what’s inside them anymore.”

Her voice was calm, but there was something in her eyes—a flicker of concern or curiosity he couldn’t quite place.

She lingered at the door for a moment, fingers grazing the frame. “You never stop thinking, do you?”

Tywin’s gaze didn’t waver. “Not if I mean to stay ahead.”

“Stay ahead of what?”

“Everyone.”

Her lips curved faintly—an expression he couldn’t read. “Be careful, Tywin. Even lions lose their footing if they never pause to look down.”

Without waiting for a reply, she stepped into the corridor, her footfalls fading into silence.

Tywin remained still, staring at the closed door for a breath too long before turning back to his ledger. The numbers blurred slightly. He blinked once, then forced his focus to sharpen.

The king’s plan… clever in parts, fragile in others. And if it collapses…..when, it collapses, someone will have to pick through the pieces.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The king’s solar was dim, lit only by a few scattered candles that cast flickering shadows across the stone walls. Beyond the narrow windows, the world had gone dark; the faint murmur of the city below drifted upward like an echo from another life. Inside, the air was thick—not with warmth, but with the closeness of too many men holding too many unspoken thoughts.

Tywin stood by the far wall, a flagon of wine balanced in his hand. He’d been there for the better part of an hour, still and silent, watching. His posture was straight, his face calm, but every word spoken seemed to settle somewhere behind his eyes, filed and weighed.

Aegon V sat at the table’s head, fingers steepled. The king’s gaze was steady now, but Tywin could sense the faint edge to it—controlled irritation beneath a calm mask.

Lord Beesbury cleared his throat, the sound brittle in the quiet. “Your Grace, I only ask that you consider the long-term effects.” He wet his lips, glancing briefly at Edwyle Stark seated opposite him. “Redirecting Essosi imports to White Harbor will upset centuries of established routes. Gulltown will suffer. Even Storm’s End—”

“Gulltown will adapt,” Aegon said flatly.

Beesbury’s hands shifted on the polished wood. “Will they? Proud men with thinning purses do foolish things, Your Grace. History has shown us as much.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly. Proud men. Beesbury didn’t mean Gulltown or Storm’s End. He meant Oldtown. The Reach.

Edwyle Stark leaned forward. His presence casting a thick air of tension in the room, considering the man never comes south unless absolutely necessary. His voice rang deep, even, with the faint clipped edges of the North. “The South has long enjoyed the lion’s share of Essosi trade, my lord. Perhaps it is time others share in that wealth. The Riverlands in particular are struggling after the floods. The king’s plan gives them the means to recover.”

Beesbury’s jowls trembled faintly as he turned to face Stark. “With all due respect, my lord, White Harbor’s worth lies in exports—timber, furs, ironwood. It is not meant as an import hub.”

“Neither is Old town, or lannispo….”

“It will be,” Aegon said, cutting him off.

Beesbury’s mouth opened, then closed. His fingers tapped the table once before pulling back to his lap. The Reachman was trying to compose himself, but Tywin could see it—the faint sheen of sweat along his brow, the too-quick rise and fall of his chest.

“Your Grace,” Beesbury began again, his tone softer now, almost coaxing, “surely it is wiser to bolster our existing ports rather than elevate a northern harbor so swiftly. Oldtown’s docks are the finest in Westeros. Arbor wines sail from there across the world. Reach textiles—”

“The Reach lords will still have their coin,” Aegon interrupted. “This plan does not strip them of trade. It balances the scales.”

Tywin watched Beesbury’s jaw clench. Balance was not a word Reachmen liked when it wasn’t in their favor.

Aegon’s eyes flicked briefly toward Tywin. “You’ve been quiet all evening, Lannister.”

Tywin felt the weight of every gaze shift toward him. He stood his ground, staying calm and deliberate. “Your Grace,” he said, “I have no standing to advise on trade. But I see how the southern ports—while still profitable—will not welcome this adjustment. The larger harbors will endure. Oldtown, Gulltown, Arbor….. Lannisport,even. Our businesses are too well established to falter from one shift. But the smaller harbors—Duskendale, for instance—”

“Duskendale?” Beesbury’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing.

Tywin met the gaze evenly. “The largest port in the Crownlands. One of the oldest in Westeros. One under your direct control, Your grace. Its levies are strong, its ships numerous, and its lord commands more men than any in the region save the crown itself. To risk souring Duskendale’s loyalty would be unwise, especially when they are often the first to respond to the call of banners.”

The words landed heavy in the room.

“And yet,” Tywin continued, his tone measured, “the crown cannot act in fear of displeasing every vested interest. If Your Grace believes this policy strengthens the realm, then you must pursue it without hesitation. A retreat now…”, he said, with his eyes lingering on Lord Beesbury, “...teaches your rivals that with enough pressure, any word of yours can be undone. They will never stop pressing after that.”

For a moment, silence thickened the air. Beesbury’s face was tight, though his lips pressed into what he clearly meant as a polite line.

“You have a lion’s sense of things, young Lannister,” Aegon said.

The faintest flicker of a smirk crossed Beesbury’s face, gone as quickly as it came.

The king turned to Steffon Baratheon, who had been leaning idly near Ser Gerold Hightower, arms folded. “And you, Dear nephew? You’ve yet to speak.”

Steffon straightened slightly but did not leave the pillar. “I’m not clever with coin, Your Grace. Whatever you decide will work better than anything I could suggest. Unless there’s something to hit, I’m of little use.”

Aegon’s mouth twitched faintly. “You will be Lord of Storm’s End one day Steffon. Your father didn't send you here so you can learn to….hit things. You cannot solve all your problems swinging your hammer”

Hightower’s deep voice rumbled from the corner. “And as long as we're speaking of swinging hammers, let us not forget the whispers from across the Narrow Sea.” He says with his eyes burning into Steffon with displeasure, “The Blackfyre threat still lingers in Essos. If too many southern lords find themselves feeling wounded, they may start looking outward for allies.”

The tension in the room thickened another degree.

“Let them look,” Aegon said coldly. “They will find no dragons in Essos. Only pretenders.”

“Pretenders with a large and well trained armies, your grace”

“Pretenders, still….”

He rose, his robes rustling softly.

“White Harbor will have its tariffs. Harrenhal will serve as the Riverlands’ hub. And the crown will grant Duskendale a royal contract….” he said, glancing at Tywin with the smallest of nods “...to raise men, clear the Kingswood of bandits, and expand its shipyards to help root out pirates. It's about time anyways. Duncan shall deliver the contract himself, so there can be no doubt of their value to the crown. Meanwhile, Duncan…..the tall, will escort Lord Stark back to white harbor….i want this deal to be done as soon it can.”

Beesbury’s lips parted faintly, but Aegon’s voice cut through like a blade. “The dragons still sit the Ironthrone, Lord Beesbury. And they have decided.”

And that ended it.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the meeting broke, Tywin slipped quietly behind the departing lords, his steps measured. At the door, Ser Duncan the Tall stopped him with a hand the size of a smith’s hammer.

“You think much too much for a boy….did I ever tell you that,” Duncan said.

“I try to listen more than I speak…..and I'm barely a boy anymore”

“Good. But remember—thinking won’t save you when men start swinging steel. I hope you’ve not forgotten how to hold a sword.”

“I haven’t…..and you've told me that many times before”

Duncan studied him for a moment longer, then smiled faintly.

“ I’ll be sailing north with Stark. You've heard that my squire had to leave to take up his New Lordship?”

“Sam Piper….Lord Piper now. I did” he replied with a frown, having a faint idea where this was going.

“You do realise you're getting too old to still be a cup bearer….I would need a Squire for my journey north. Never been much of a seafarer. I would appreciate the help”

“It would be an honor,” Tywin said, bowing slightly

“Pack some warm furs then. You’ll need them. And I know you'd rather indulge in court intrigue than a boring journey but who knows….When it comes to me these journeys tend to get out of hand”

As Duncan strode off, Tywin lingered for a moment, glancing at the flickering candles. The long journey was barely to his interests. His mind still lingering on The king’s decision. It was bold—perhaps bold enough to inspire fear. And fear…..that one look in Lord Beesbury’s eyes as he gave way. Maybe that could be the answer he's been looking for.

Chapter Text

The ship rolled sharply beneath Tywin’s feet, pitching forward just enough to send a wave of nausea coursing through his stomach. He tightened his grip on the wooden rail, knuckles paling as he steadied himself. It was hardly his first voyage. He’d sailed the waters off Lannisport countless times in his youth, shadowing his uncle Jason as the older Lannister spoke confidently of trade and tides. But familiarity had done little to soften the ocean's contempt for him, or his body's stubborn refusal to adapt to the ceaseless sway.

He exhaled slowly, jaw tightening as he fixed his gaze stubbornly on the horizon. Tywin had learned long ago that discipline masked discomfort better than denial. If he ignored it long enough, perhaps the nausea would fade.

"It won't get easier just because you stare harder," said a deep, calm voice from behind him.

Tywin turned slightly, reluctantly meeting Ser Duncan's eyes. The massive knight stood quietly at the rail beside him, his expression mild and unreadable.

"I'm fine," Tywin said shortly. "Just restless."

"Aye, seasickness makes even a knight restless," Duncan replied easily, his eyes twinkling faintly. "And pretending otherwise doesn't fool anyone."

Tywin stiffened slightly, unwilling to concede weakness so easily. "I'm used to sailing," he said evenly.

"Being used to something doesn't mean you're comfortable with it," Duncan answered gently. "Especially when the discomfort runs deeper than just the waves."

Tywin narrowed his gaze, momentarily uncertain how to respond. "Meaning what, precisely?"

Duncan shrugged slowly, gaze still on the horizon. "I've spent a good deal of my life watching people, lad. And you've spent most of your life watching something else entirely. You're always looking past what's in front of you, searching for whatever comes next."

Tywin felt irritation flicker faintly in his chest. Duncan had a habit of speaking as if he already knew him, already understood him. But he didn't—not truly. He was just another knight, another mentor assigned by circumstance rather than choice. Tywin turned his gaze deliberately back to the sea, unwilling to rise to Duncan’s gentle provocation.

The silence between them stretched, heavy and expectant, broken only by the creak of the ship and the distant murmur of waves. Finally, Duncan spoke again, voice mild but persistent. "You don't like answering questions, do you?"

"Not particularly," Tywin admitted dryly, still facing away. "I find that questions often reveal more about the person asking than the one answering."

Duncan chuckled softly, the sound deep and resonant. "Fair enough. But indulge an old knight just a little. Tell me, what is it you're truly after?"

Tywin hesitated, his guard tightening instinctively. "I'm here serving the king. Nothing more complicated than that."

"Ah," Duncan replied knowingly, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth. "The king's service. Duty and honor and all the fine words men toss around when they'd rather avoid the truth."

Tywin turned sharply, irritation rising in earnest. "Are you implying I have some hidden ambition, Ser?"

"Every man has ambitions," Duncan said evenly, unbothered by Tywin’s cold tone. "It's no great sin. You're young, cleverer than most. You watch, you think....maybe too much. It's only natural to wonder what you're after. Gold? Fame? Or perhaps you're seeking power."

Tywin studied Duncan carefully, wary now. "My house already has gold and fame, and power is nothing without the strength to wield it."

"A careful answer," Duncan said approvingly. "But you didn't deny ambition."

Tywin felt his jaw tense again. Duncan had steered him expertly into a corner. "Ambition isn't shameful," he finally admitted, reluctantly. "It's necessary."

"To restore House Lannister’s greatness?" Duncan guessed quietly, observing Tywin carefully.

Tywin’s eyes flashed briefly in surprise, swiftly masked. "My house is already great."

Duncan tilted his head slightly, eyes calm but shrewd. "Of course it is. But perhaps not as great as you’d like it to be.....or to the heights it once was"

Tywin said nothing, unwilling to concede more ground. He stared forward stubbornly, the silence itself a defiance.

After a long moment, Duncan spoke again, more gently this time. "You remind me of someone I knew once. A young boy who carried too much, thought too deeply. Always sure he saw everything clearer than the rest. Yet still knowing nothing"

"And what became of him?" Tywin asked quietly, against his better judgment.

Duncan’s expression softened, a flicker of sadness passing briefly across his face. "He learned too late that the more tightly you hold power, the faster it slips through your fingers. Men believe in power because it serves them. The moment it stops, they'll abandon you without a second thought."

Tywin frowned slightly, turning those words over slowly in his mind. "Then what, in your opinion, should a lord strive for, if not power or strength?"

Duncan gave a slight smile, his gaze distant. "That depends. Men aren't remembered for how much they gained, but for what they gave others. You can spend your life chasing power, gold, legacy—but in the end, all that matters is what good you've done with it."

Tywin was silent a long moment, staring thoughtfully across the darkening sea. Duncan's words grated against the cold pragmatism he'd embraced all his life. He respected the knight, begrudgingly, for his quiet strength and his undeniable wisdom—but he could not fully accept such sentiment.

Finally, Tywin spoke quietly, his voice carefully neutral. "I respect your insight, Ser Duncan. But you misunderstand me. I'm not chasing power for myself. I'm simply trying to hold onto what my family already has."

"And you think your family is in danger of losing it?" Duncan pressed gently.

Tywin hesitated again, wrestling with pride and reluctance. "I think," he said finally, choosing his words carefully, "that if we become complacent, even the greatest house can fade into irrelevance."

Duncan nodded slowly, understanding dawning in his gaze. "Aye. And that frightens you."

"It concerns me," Tywin corrected sharply.

The knight’s gaze softened slightly. "Concern, fear—call it what you like. You don't want to lose the ground you've gained. You're afraid of what might happen if your family falls."

Tywin's jaw clenched again, a final stubbornness flashing through him. "Fear is useless," he said firmly. "I don't fear what might happen. I simply refuse to allow it."

Duncan studied him quietly, then placed one large, reassuring hand gently on his shoulder. Tywin stiffened at the unexpected gesture, uncomfortable with the intimacy. Yet, he didn't pull away.

"Well, lad," Duncan said softly, "you may deny it all you like, but you'll learn soon enough—fear, ambition, duty—they're all tangled together, and each will shape you in ways you won't understand until it's done."

Tywin didn’t respond. He stood silently, stubbornly, his gaze fixed once again on the horizon, his thoughts churning like the darkening sea below. Duncan’s words lingered in his mind long after the knight left him there, alone in the twilight, haunted by truths he was not ready to accept.
--------------------------------------------
Tywin had returned below deck hours ago, retreating to the solitude of his cramped cabin, trying and failing to find rest. He sat hunched by the dim glow of a single lantern, an open book on the Northern trade routes resting unread before him. Each subtle sway of the ship tugged insistently at his gut, distracting him from the words he struggled to absorb. The quiet groan of timber, the steady creak of rigging, and the distant muffled shouts of sailors offered a monotonous backdrop to his restless thoughts.

It was the sudden change in those shouts....a sharp shift in tone from casual calls to terse, urgent commands, that snapped Tywin's attention away from his book. A muffled shout became a distinct alarm, quickly joined by hurried footsteps rushing across the deck above.

He sprang to his feet, heart quickening as he buckled on his sword belt and rushed out into the narrow corridor, climbing onto the main deck just as another shout echoed from the masthead lookout.

"Ships approaching from the west! Three sails!"

Tywin moved quickly through the gathered sailors, spotting Ser Duncan beside Lord Stark near the ship's stern. Duncan's eyes were narrowed, scanning the dark horizon where three dark shapes steadily drew closer, black against the deepening twilight.

Lord Stark stood rigid, his hand resting quietly upon the pommel of his blade. Duncan turned his head briefly, noticing Tywin's arrival, and gave a slight nod of acknowledgment.

"Whose banners?" Stark called calmly, his voice sharp and commanding.

The sailor atop the mast hesitated for a heartbeat before calling down, "Krakens, my lord! Ironborn!"

Tywin felt his chest tighten reflexively. He had grown up on tales of Ironborn raiders—bold, ruthless men who once terrorized the western coasts from Fair Isle to Lannisport. He knew their cruelty firsthand from family chronicles; he'd read vivid accounts of villages left burned and ships stripped bare by their ruthless blades. Yet, here, so far east from their island fortresses, the sight of those banners felt jarringly out of place, as if the old tales themselves had come alive to haunt them.

Lord Stark exchanged a swift, uncertain glance with Duncan, who frowned deeply but remained silent.

The Ironborn ships drew closer, sleek longships gliding smoothly through the waves, their black sails catching what little wind remained. The foremost vessel quickly closed the gap, manoeuvring expertly to match pace beside their own. At its prow stood a slender young man, his dark hair whipped by sea winds, eyes sharp and hostile beneath furrowed brows.

"I know the boy.....Balon Greyjoy," Duncan muttered quietly to Stark. "Quellon’s eldest."

Balon Greyjoy stood silently for a long moment, regarding their vessel with thinly veiled disdain. He rested one hand casually on the edge of his axe, his posture aggressive even in silence.

"You stray far from home, Greyjoy," Lord Stark called firmly across the narrowing distance. "State your intent."

Balon's lip curled faintly at the corners, his disdain barely concealed. "My intent, Stark, was to stay at home. But my father's oaths send me here, chasing after fools from my own islands."

Duncan’s brow creased in confusion. "Explain yourself plainly, lad."

Balon's eyes narrowed slightly at Duncan's familiarity, but he answered grudgingly. "Blacktyde men have taken coin from someone....enough coin to betray their oaths. They aim to board your ship, seize a certain gold shipment you’re carrying....” he said, with his eyes scanning the ships hull with a hidden hunger, “....and drag you north in chains. My father sent me to stop them."

Stark studied him coldly. "Since when do Greyjoys concern themselves with the well-being of the North or the Crown?"

Balon’s jaw tightened visibly, irritation and embarrassment warring behind his fierce expression. "Since my father decided to play at loyalty, I’d sooner ra....” He snapped, stopping himself with whatever he was saying, trying hard to compose himself, “my father values his honour and his word. He refuses to allow traitors from our islands to defile those oaths. So here I am, delivering warnings like some trained raven."

His voice dripped with barely concealed resentment, but beneath the bitterness lay an undeniable authority. Even at his young age, Balon commanded visible respect among the Ironborn crew behind him.

"We appreciate your father's honour, Greyjoy" Stark responded cautiously, though his tone remained wary. "But rest assured, we are prepared to handle whatever threat arises”
Balon laughed sharply, short and harsh. “Prepared? Have you ever faced Ironborn raiders, Stark? Men from Blacktyde fear neither steel nor death....they’re half mad. And you’re far from your walls and snow. I’ll escort you safely, as commanded. whether you want it or not.”

He held Stark’s gaze for a moment longer, as if daring him to object. Then, with a sharp flick of his fingers, Balon barked orders to his crew. His longships began to fall back, maintaining a measured distance between their line and the Stark vessel.

“They’ll shadow us now, I assume” Duncan murmured quietly as the Ironborn ships adjusted course. “Keeping close enough to pounce, should the Blacktyde dogs appear, and far enough to give us no comfort.”

Lord Stark’s brow furrowed as he watched the long, lean shapes of the Ironborn ships slide into the growing dusk, their black sails lowering partially to blend with the darkening sea.

“Strange, isn’t it?” Stark said softly. “That they knew about this shipment. Knew the crown was sending gold north.”

Duncan nodded, his arms crossed. “It means someone’s talking. Or worse—someone’s betraying the king. The Blacktydes wouldn’t act without incentive.”

“Who benefits?” Tywin asked quietly, breaking his silence.

Stark glanced at him briefly. “Any number of lords. The Reach has lost the king’s favour of late. The Arbor thrives on southern trade. And there are plenty in the Crownlands who’d rather see this venture fail than shift the balance of power.”

“A message, then,” Duncan said grimly. “One ship lost, a shipment stolen, and suddenly the king’s reforms seem fragile. The wolves and Dragons look weak.”

As they spoke, the Ironborn longships began to slip further into the shadows, manoeuvring carefully behind scattered rocky outcroppings and low-lying islets. Their movements were slow, careful, like predators stalking their prey without alarming it. In the fading light, Tywin could see them only intermittently. A flicker of a black sail here, the glint of a wet prow there, vanishing and reappearing as they wove through the sea’s natural cover.

“They’re hiding themselves now,” Tywin observed, his voice low.

“Aye,” Duncan confirmed. “Trying to keep any watching eyes blind to their presence. A clever tactic.”

Lord Stark exhaled through his nose, his breath misting faintly in the cool air. “Cleverness and Ironborn. Not a pairing I’m used to.”

Duncan cracked a faint smile but said nothing, his eyes still trained on the horizon.

As darkness deepened around them, Duncan turned to a cluster of Stark men at the rail. “Double the watch,” he ordered. “I want sharp eyes aloft and on all sides. Any movement out there...any at all. you sound the alarm.”

The men nodded, scattering swiftly to their posts.

Then Duncan’s gaze fell on Tywin. “You take first watch, lad. Don’t let your eyes rest too long in one place. The sea hides more than you’d think.”

Tywin gave a curt nod, moving toward the rail as Duncan and Stark retreated below deck.

The hours passed in steady silence. The night air was damp and heavy, the only sounds the soft slap of water against the hull and the occasional creak of rigging. Tywin kept his hands clasped behind his back as he paced slowly, scanning the horizon with quiet diligence.

The Ironborn ships were gone from sight now, their positions hidden in darkness. Perhaps they’d withdrawn entirely, he thought. Perhaps the Blacktydes had seen the Greyjoy escort and abandoned their plans.

The thought did little to ease him.

Eventually, heavy footsteps sounded behind him. One of Stark’s older men approached, wrapped in a thick cloak. “Lord Tywin,” he said softly, “my turn.”

Tywin gave a small nod, relinquishing his post with quiet efficiency. The chill in his bones deepened as he descended the narrow steps to the cabin below.

He paused briefly at his door, hand resting on the latch, before exhaling sharply and stepping inside. The air was warmer here, still and close. He unbuckled his sword belt slowly, lowering himself to the hard cot.

Maybe they’ve turned tail already, he thought. Maybe the Greyjoy presence was enough. Or maybe the whole thing was just a rumour.

But even as sleep pulled at him, unease lingered like the salt spray clinging to his skin.
--------------------------------------------
Tywin jolted awake as the deck shuddered beneath him. For a moment he didn’t know where he was. From above came the muffled shouting of men and the pounding of boots on wood. Another lurch of the deck sent him sprawling against the wall. He scrambled upright, breath sharp in his throat, and rushed for his sword.

The shouting was growing louder now, closer. Somewhere above, a voice barked orders, and the roar of the sea rose to a deafening crescendo. He pulled on his leather jerkin with stiff, clumsy fingers. His chainmail was folded neatly by the cot, but there was no time—his gut already told him so. He buckled his sword belt, snatched up his blade, and shoved out into the narrow corridor.

Men-at-arms were pushing past, some barely dressed, some still fastening mail hauberks as they half-ran, half-fell toward the ladders leading topside. Someone cursed as the ship listed hard, and bodies collided in the confined space. The air reeked of sweat and pitch and fear.

He followed, forcing his way through the crush. By the time he reached the top, the world had become noise and motion.

The deck exploded with sound. Waves smashed against the hull in rolling crashes, sending cold spray into his face. The ship pitched and groaned like a living thing beneath him. Men moved like shadows in the darkness, lanternlight flickering across their faces.

Tywin’s boots slipped on the wet boards as he lurched upright. He grabbed the rail to steady himself and looked out.

There, lanterns bobbing on the horizon. Five of them. Long, low shapes barely visible in the blackness, but he could feel them closing in.

Ser Duncan stood at the center of it all, towering over the chaos. His voice was a hammer against the storm as he bellowed orders, his blade already in hand. Lord Stark was beside him, sword drawn, his guards clustering around.

Tywin stumbled toward them. As he reached Duncan’s side, the knight glanced at him and barked, “Lose the mail, boy. You go overboard in chain, you’re already drowned.”

“I can fight better with it.”

“You’ll be dead with it. Strip it off.”

A hiss broke the air. Tywin flinched as an arrow thunked into the mast behind him. Another buried itself in a Stark guard’s shoulder. The man cried out and toppled forward.

“They’re closing,” Lord Stark growled. He gestured out into the blackness. “Circling us.”

Tywin scanned the horizon, trying to make sense of the moving lights. No sign of the Greyjoy ships. No sign of help.

The deck jolted violently as something crashed against the hull. Tywin staggered sideways, slamming into the rail. A moment later came the hollow thump of grappling hooks biting into wood.

“They’re boarding!” someone shouted.

The first Ironborn hit the deck with a guttural cry.

Tywin’s sword came up almost instinctively. He took a deep breath to steady his pounding heart, but the sea pitched under him again, throwing his balance. He turned just as a shadow loomed.

An axe flashed toward him. Tywin twisted, the blade missing his ribs by inches. He struck back. Steel rang on steel.

The man, was big and broad-shouldered, stinking of sweat and old fish. His teeth bared in a feral grin as he swung again. Tywin barely had space to move. There was no room to sidestep, no ground to retreat to. The deck shifted with each wave, making his footing treacherous.

He parried, sparks flying in the dark. His arms jolted from the force of the blow. He tried to riposte, but his blade glanced off the man’s mail shirt.

The man slammed a shoulder into him, driving him back into the rail. Tywin’s breath left him in a rush. The man raised his axe high for a killing blow.

Desperation took over. Tywin dropped low and thrust up hard. The point of his blade bit under the man’s arm, where the mail was weakest.

A guttural sound escaped the Raider’s throat. His axe clattered to the deck as he staggered back, clutching at the wound. Blood welled hot and dark.

Tywin watched him sink to his knees. The man’s mouth opened, closed, opened again—trying to speak, or maybe to breathe. Fingers scrabbled weakly at the deckboards.

The boy from Casterly Rock stood frozen, his blade slick in his hands. Trying to process what just happened.

Then another shape barreled out of the gloom. Tywin barely got his sword up in time.

Steel screamed against steel. The clash jarred his teeth. He shoved forward and hacked clumsily at the attacker’s leg. The Ironborn screamed, falling sideways as Tywin pulled his blade free.

He was breathing hard now. Every muscle in his arms felt like lead.

Around him, the deck was chaos. Men pushed and stumbled and cursed. Somewhere to his left, a Stark bannerman went down screaming as an axe split his helm. The Enemy were pouring over the sides now, howling like wolves.

Tywin pivoted to meet another attacker. Parry, twist, thrust. He didn’t know if the man fell or if he simply moved on. There was no time to look. He was being pushed and pulled by the tide of bodies, carried toward the hatch leading below deck.

And then he saw it.

Four Men breaking away from the main fight, heading for the hold. The gold.

If they take it....

“TO ME!” Tywin roared. His voice was hoarse but cut through the din.

No one listened. Men were too busy clinging to their lives.

He grabbed a Stark soldier by the arm and yanked him around. “The gold!” Tywin barked. “If it’s lost, the king’s mission fails! Your lord will be dishonored! The king’s wrath will burn us all!”

The man blinked, his eyes clearing. He nodded, hefted his sword, and followed.

“You!” Tywin pointed at a massive brute of a man with a hammer. The man’s face was already smeared with blood—his or someone else’s, Tywin couldn’t tell. “With me! The hold must not fall!”

The big man grinned—a savage, mad grin—and fell in beside Tywin.

More came. Not many. But enough.

They crashed into the Ironborn at the hatch.

Tywin struck first, driving his sword low into a man’s hips. He shrieked and fell. Another raider swung at him, and Tywin barely deflected the blow. His shoulder burned from the impact.

The brute with the hammer waded into the fray like a demon, bellowing with each swing. A head burst like a melon under one blow. Another was flung back against the rail, ribs caved in.

Tywin kept moving. Step, strike, parry, thrust. His arms trembled from exhaustion, but he couldn’t stop. Moving on instinct and training. If the hold fell....

A sword bit into his forearm. He cried out, twisting away. Blood slicked his grip.

The deck shifted again as another wave crashed against the hull. Tywin stumbled, barely regaining his balance before a screaming Ironborn lunged at him.

He ducked under the wild swing and drove his blade up into the man’s belly. Warm blood gushed over his hand as the man toppled backward.

Still they came.

But, they were slowing.

Tywin noticed it first in their footwork. The waves of men that had crashed against him again and again were thinning now. Fewer blades clashed against his own. Fewer screams rang out in his ears.

He drew back a half-step, forcing a labored breath into his burning lungs. The salt air stung his nose and throat. Blood...his or someone else’s—made his sword slick in his grip. His shoulders ached from the weight of his blade, his forearms cramping.

Something warm dripped down his side. He glanced down and saw a tear in his leather jerkin, a dark stain spreading. It shouldn’t matter. Not yet.

The ship was brighter now, lit by an orange glow that shimmered across the wet deck. One of the lanterns must have been shattered in the fighting, its oil catching fire. Flames licked hungrily up the rigging, crackling and spitting sparks. Shadows danced wildly across the planks, revealing the carnage around him.

The bodies. So many bodies.

The deck was a charnel house of steel and flesh, littered with the dead and dying. Stark men and The Blacktydes alike sprawled in heaps, their limbs tangled. Blood pooled between the planks, mixing with seawater to form dark, slick rivulets that made every step treacherous.

Tywin turned his head and saw the big man. The massive brute he’d rallied to his side earlier.

The man fought like a mad dog. His hammer rose and fell in wide, savage arcs, each swing spraying blood and splintered bone. An Ironborn lunged at him and was swatted aside like an insect, his skull caved in with a sickening crunch. Another raider tried to close in but hesitated, his eyes flicking to the pile of mutilated corpses around the big man’s boots.

The hesitation cost him his life. The hammer came down with a roar, and he fell screaming.

Tywin watched, and something shifted in his mind.

They’re afraid of him.

It was plain in their movements now. The Blacktydes were beginning to favor the Stark front, flowing toward Lord Stark and his men instead of braving the blood-slicked hell that Tywin’s group had become.

A gust of wind carried the smell of burning wood. Tywin looked up and watched the scene unleashing before him.

The Greyjoys had arrived in the confusion. And they were hunting those ships like sharks.

Out beyond the railing, fire danced on the waves. Two Blacktyde longships were burning, their hulls riddled with arrows that burned like quills in a porcupine’s back. Smoke curled into the sky in thick, choking columns.

And there, farther out—two ships circled each other warily. One flew the kraken banner, black and gold. The other with its oars thrashing the water in a desperate bid to flee. The two vessels danced and lunged, their prows carving foaming arcs as each sought an angle to ram the other.

On the Stark ship, the tide was turning.

The two raiding vessels still entangled with their hull seemed to shudder with uncertainty. Tywin could hear shouts carrying across the water. Panicked voices debating whether to cut their grapples and run.

He exhaled slowly. The worst might be over.

But there was no time to rest.

A roar split the air. Tywin turned just in time to see Ser Duncan stagger.

The big knight was hemmed in now, three Ironborn hacking at him with wild, desperate blows. Duncan’s blade swept out in a wide arc, forcing them back, but even his massive strength was flagging.

Tywin didn’t think.

He charged. His boots slipped on the gore slick planks, but he kept his footing. One of the Blacktyde men turned to meet him, swinging a notched sword with brutal strength.

The first clash nearly drove Tywin to his knees. The man was strong. recklessly strong, and his strikes came fast, one after another, forcing Tywin back step by step.

There was space to move now, but space was no comfort. Bodies sprawled everywhere. Tywin’s boots found no purchase on the slippery boards. He stumbled once, caught himself, ducked under a swing that might have taken his head.

The Ironborn pressed forward, his teeth bared in a snarl. Tywin feinted left, then darted right. His blade managed to score a shallow cut along the man’s side.

He roared in frustration and came at him harder. Steel rang on steel. Tywin felt the man’s strength in every blow. His arms were numb. His legs trembled.

He couldn’t match brute force. He needed precision.

The next time the man swung, Tywin sidestepped, letting the blade hiss past. He pivoted, brought his sword up, and slammed the hilt into the man’s jaw.

The Raider stumbled.

He struck again, this time low, driving the point of his sword into the man’s leg. The Ironborn howled, his knee buckling. Tywin ripped the blade free and struck a final time.

He finally fell, clutching his gut as his lifeblood poured out across the deck.

Tywin staggered back, chest heaving.

When he looked up, Ser Duncan had dispatched another attacker. Lord Stark standing beside him, his sword running red as the last of the Blacktyde men collapsed at his feet.

It was over.

Tywin lowered his sword slowly, his arms trembling. His shirt clung to his back, soaked through with sweat and seawater. Every muscle screamed in protest.

The ship groaned beneath him, but not from battle this time. It was the familiar sound of timbers shifting as waves lapped against the hull.

Out on the horizon, the sun was rising. Pale light spilled across the sea, turning the waters to molten gold. The enemy ships were breaking away now, unhooking their lines and fleeing for open water. Two Greyjoy ships gave chase, their prows knifing through the waves like hunting dogs loosed on a fox.

Tywin stood still, breathing hard.

He was alive. Somehow, he was still standing.

The fight was over, but the deck still felt alive beneath him.

Tywin stood hunched, his shoulders tight with strain, his sword dangling loose in his hand. His fingers burned from gripping the hilt too long; his knees trembled every time the ship rocked against the waves. Every breath came ragged, as if his lungs had been scrubbed raw.

The smell hit him harder now—blood, salt, and the acrid tang of burned wood drifting on the breeze. His stomach turned, though there was nothing left in him to retch.

Ser Duncan’s boots thudded on the planks as he approached. The Kingsguard moved with that same unhurried confidence as always, his size alone making him look like some giant pulled from an old story. His armor was dented, his cloak torn and dark with soot, but his expression was calm. Controlled. Even as his breath felt forced.

“You broke away.” Duncan’s voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it. Not anger. something heavier. “Why?”

Tywin blinked hard. His head felt stuffed with wool, his thoughts crawling sluggishly into place.

“I…” His voice came out hoarse. He swallowed hard, forcing it steady. “I saw them… heading for below deck. For the hold.”

Duncan said nothing, watching him with steady eyes.

“Lord Stark—he had you. And his guards.” Tywin’s shoulders rose and fell as he drew in another breath. “The hold… it had ..... The gold… it was the king’s. If they took it…” He trailed off for a moment, shaking his head faintly. “It was the objective....”

There was no elegance in his voice. His usual confident flair. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like an older man.

Duncan’s gaze lingered on him, stern. Slowly, the big knight turned his eyes toward the hatch leading to the hold. The door was still shut. Around it, the deck was thick with Ironborn corpses, blood seeping between the planks.

“You held it,” Duncan said finally.

Tywin let out a sharp, bitter breath. “Yes. But I wasn’t sure I could.”

He stared down at his hands, at the blood drying in his knuckles and beneath his nails. His sword felt heavier than gold now.

“This wasn’t… this wasn’t like I imagined” he said quietly. “There was no order. No clean fights or measured blows. Just noise. Men screaming. Steel in the dark.”

His throat felt dry. “I thought I understood what battle meant.....I didn’t.”

Duncan tilted his head slightly. For a moment, the faintest trace of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—not unkind, but knowing.

“No one does, not until they’ve lived it,” the knight said. “And yet… you didn’t freeze. You rallied men to your cause....men who don’t owe you any loyalty....held them, and fought when you could have cowered. You came to my aid when you might have stayed where it was safer.”

Tywin looked up sharply. “You saw?”

“I see everything, boy.”

Duncan stepped back then, his long white cloak stirring faintly in the salt breeze. He cleaned his blade on the hem and let it hang loose at his side.

“On your knees.”

Tywin blinked, his body slow to catch up.

“I—”

“On your knees, Tywin Lannister.”

The ship creaked softly underfoot. Men across the deck had stopped to watch, their faces pale and streaked with soot. Even Lord Stark had turned, silent and still.

Tywin’s legs felt like lead. But he dropped to one knee, his movements stiff and pained, the wet planks biting into him through his torn trousers.

Duncan drew his sword once more, raising it in both hands.

“In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.”
The blade touched Tywin’s right shoulder.

“In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the young and innocent.”
Left shoulder.

“In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.”
Right.

“In the name of the Smith, I charge you to use your strength to build, not only to break.”
Left.

Tywin could barely process what was happening. A dream to most kids. An achievement every one fights for.... yet, he could barely concentrate.

“In the name of the Maiden, I charge you to protect all women and keep them safe from harm.”

“In the name of the Crone, I charge you to seek wisdom and give counsel wisely.”

“And in the name of the Stranger, I charge you to accept that all men must die… and to face that truth unflinching.”

Duncan lowered the blade, its edge gleaming faintly in the new light of dawn.

“Rise, Ser Tywin of House Lannister. A knight of the Seven Kingdoms.”

As Tywin stood, slowly, painfully. the sun broke across the horizon, bathing the deck in pale gold. The air still smelled of death and fire. But for the briefest moment, Tywin felt something new stir in his chest.

Not triumph. Not relief. Something quieter, heavier.

Responsibility.....And a sense of new found strength, telling him he could bare it.

Chapter Text

The journey home stretched longer than Tywin anticipated, each additional day at sea deepening his weariness. Nearly two months on open waters, since they left the capital, had him craving the certainty of firm ground. Even now, as King's Landing slowly emerged from the horizon, he gripped the rail tightly—not from fear, but from exhaustion.

White Harbor had surprised him. He had expected something bleak and stark, yet he found a city full of vigorous activity brimming with loud voices and rough humor. Northerners were not the quiet, stoic people he’d imagined. They were loud and open, fierce in their camaraderie, laughing easily even in the bitterest cold. Their strength was undeniable. their manners rough but honest. It felt foreign to him, strange compared to the polished courtesies of southern courts, but he could not deny the practicality of it. The Northern lords were tough, pragmatic, blunt and entirely loyal.

That had been his greatest realization. He watched closely as Edwyle Stark spoke in the great hall, his voice plain but carrying unshakable authority. Tywin had always seen loyalty as a commodity, bought by gold or fear, yet here, loyalty seemed effortless and unwavering. These men obeyed without resentment. They trusted the Starks not through fear, nor flattery, nor gold. but through something older, something he could not quite grasp. It frustrated him deeply, for it was something he knew he could never replicate in the Westerlands. Still, it made him think. He would have to find another path, one suited to his own lands and people.

As the ship finally docked, Tywin stepped onto the solid stone of King’s Landing, a relief after weeks on swaying wood. Around him, the docks bustled with more ships and traders than usual, carrying an air of excitement he had not expected. The city felt alive with preparation, as though another grand tournament had been suddenly announced.

He began organizing papers from White Harbor, instructing the men to unload their gear. He noticed their behavior toward him was subtly different since White Harbor . Men who once offered casual nods or indifferent glances now dipped their heads in genuine respect. Tywin had always been the son of a great lord, but something had changed. Now he was a knight. Someone who had earned respect by his deeds rather than his name alone. The difference was subtle but noticeable, and he found he liked it.

“Ser Tywin!” A familiar voice called mockingly from behind. “My gallant knight, vanquisher of the Ironborn! Shouldn’t you have servants unloading your baggage now?”

He turned to see Steffon Baratheon leaning casually against a crate, arms crossed, eyes glinting mischievously.

“You seem awfully cheerful,” Tywin said dryly.

Steffon laughed heartily. "And you've gotten even grimmer, if that's possible. Gods, Tywin, I've never heard King's Landing chatter so much about one man. Everyone from Flea Bottom to the Red Keep is talking about your heroic stand."

Tywin frowned slightly, but said nothing as he watched the men unload the crates.

Steffon pressed on, clearly enjoying himself. "They're saying you faced down a dozen Blacktyde ships single-handedly. Carved through hundreds of Ironborn, didn't even break a sweat."

Tywin’s frown deepened, irritation stirring. Still, he remained silent, checking off documents as crates passed by.

"Honestly," Steffon went on, shaking his head dramatically, "they make it sound like you stood alone on that deck, a one-man army. Must've been something to see."

"There weren't that many ships," Tywin finally muttered curtly. "Five. Not a dozen."

"Still," Steffon said, oblivious to Tywin's mood, his eyes alight with envy, "I'd have given anything to be there. Just imagine standing alone, blade flashing, cutting down man after man…"

"That's not the point," Tywin snapped abruptly, his voice harder than intended.

Steffon blinked, surprised by the sudden sharpness. "What isn't?"

Tywin took a breath, forcing his voice steady. "The fight. Your obsession with charging into the thick of battle…that's not what men like us should be doing."

Steffon scoffed lightly. "Says the knighted hero. You did precisely that, didn't you?"

Tywin shook his head, tension in his jaw. "I did what I had to. But what you described…standing alone, cutting down dozens…it wasn't anything like that. It never is. Do you think I held that deck alone? I barely held my ground. I only did so because I held my men together"

Steffon grinned playfully. "So you're a leader of men now, then?"

Tywin's eyes narrowed slightly. "Yes," he said sharply. "And that's the point, Steffon. We don't fight alone. We command, we lead."

Steffon waved dismissively. "I don't need men holding my hand. I'd have stood alone if I had to."

Tywin stared at him, frustration building inside. "Then you'd have died…. There was a man with me….big brute, wild as a beast. Bigger even than you, if you can believe it. He stood in front of me, hacked through men like they were nothing. Absolutely mad, mutilated people without a care. The ironborn feared him so much they hesitated to attack our side. Because he stood there, men would think twice about coming for me. But he's dead now. He died from his wounds, suffered terribly. I paid his family gold, and now the men who followed me then follow me still, because they believe I'll care for them. These people …” he said pointing vaugely at the men going on with their work at the docks stealing the occasional admiring glances in his direction, “...don't fear him…they don't know him, or remember him….they fear the lord who commands him. Because I am known and I am seen".

Steffon's playful expression faded slightly, turning thoughtful. Tywin continued, quieter now, more intense. "If I had charged recklessly like you're so eager to do, and fallen, it would have been over. My men would scatter. The gold would have been lost. Everything we fought for—gone."

He stepped closer, eyes locked on Steffon's, voice lowered contemplatively. "One misstep, one moment of misfortune—that's all it takes. Maybe your horse throws you during a reckless charge. Perhaps your ship moves an inch to the left in rough seas during a battle and cracks upon rocks. Or maybe you'll slip and fall during a fight in wet mud. It's all over. We don't have the luxury to chase glory. We build strength, we command loyalty, and we survive. We hold our place and put the monsters we built infront of us so we can keep building them….directing them to protect what we hold dear"

Steffon was silent a moment, meeting Tywin's gaze without flinching. Finally, he sighed, unimpressed. "You know your problem, Tywin? All that caution, all that careful planning…and for what? You'll still die when your day comes. Maybe your horse throws you on some muddy road after a hunt. Maybe your foot slips on wet stones after a simple dinner. Or maybe some lucky bastard with that crossbow gets his shot off killing you while you least expect it. In the end, death comes regardless. Me? I'd rather go out swinging, a hammer in my hand, laughing at fate. And when I'm gone…. well, you'll look after what I love….or Aerys will. What's the difference?"

Tywin stared at him a moment longer before finally turning away, shaking his head slightly. Steffon's words resonated uncomfortably, though he refused to show it.

After a pause, Tywin changed the subject abruptly. "What's all the excitement about, anyway? Seems crowded, even for King's Landing."

Steffon’s face lit up again, the tension lifting instantly. "Ah, right! You wouldn’t have heard at sea. The King's announced the wedding between Aerys and Rhaella. Set for next week, actually. Most of the Seven Kingdoms are pouring into the city. Perfect timing for your return, I'd say."

Tywin frowned lightly, curiosity replacing irritation. "Aerys must be thrilled," he said dryly.

Steffon laughed aloud, shaking his head. "Oh, he's been unbearable. Doesn't want it, obviously. Though why he wouldn't like Rhaella—well, that's beyond me. Sweet girl, really. Far better than he deserves, if you ask me."

Tywin nodded quietly, eyes moving back to the busy dock. "So things haven't changed."

Steffon chuckled, clapping a hand on Tywin’s shoulder as they turned toward the Red Keep. "Not even slightly, my friend. Not even slightly."

Together, they walked back toward the looming towers, leaving Tywin's earlier words hanging uncomfortably in the air, unanswered and uncertain.

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The days passed swiftly, bringing subtle yet undeniable changes. King's Landing buzzed with anticipation every street filled with fresh arrivals, merchants plying exotic wares, and entertainers weaving through crowds, their performances hinting at festivities to come. The Red Keep itself was no less busy, filled with lords and knights from all corners of Westeros. It felt as though the city itself held its breath, awaiting the royal wedding.

Yet for Tywin, the most notable shift was far more personal. Lords who had once barely acknowledged him now stopped to speak at length, their words respectful, their gazes calculating. Minor bannermen of the Westerlands, men who had scarcely noticed him before, sought him out with subtle eagerness, offering pleasantries and gestures of respect. Some aimed to discern his intentions, others perhaps sought alliances. But their motivations mattered little to Tywin. What mattered was clear: he had stepped beyond being merely the son of a lord. Now, he was someone to reckon with.

His reflections were abruptly broken one evening as he walked through a quiet corridor near Maegor's Holdfast, heading toward the royal apartments to meet Aerys and Steffon. He found both the boys, standing by an arched window overlooking the city, Aerys pacing irritably, his face twisted in frustration.

"—Not even a word," Aerys was saying bitterly as Tywin approached. "They don't let me choose the bride, and now they're even scrimping on the wedding? As if it weren't humiliating enough."

Tywin and Steffon exchanged brief, knowing glances, as he walked towards them. "Aerys," Steffon ventured lightly, attempting to ease the tension, "it’s still a royal wedding. It’ll be grand enough, I'm sure."

Aerys scowled, waving a hand dismissively. "For one or those other princes, perhaps. They spared no expense when uncle Duncan was wed to that lowborn witch. But for me….it's an afterthought."

Tywin leaned quietly against the stone wall, watching his friend’s petulance with mild detachment. Aerys’s complaints were becoming frequent and tiresome. He had grown increasingly erratic over the past weeks, ever since the wedding was announced. Every conversation was tinged with bitterness and resentment.

Steffon, determinedly cheerful, tried again. "Perhaps after you're married, they'll begin seeing you differently. You’ll no longer be just a boy."

"See me differently?" Aerys laughed harshly, eyes sharp with scorn. "They see nothing, Steffon. They’re blind to anything beyond their precious traditions and self-interest. They'll never allow me true authority, not while the old king breathes, nor after maybe with Duncan and Jenny set to inherit." He paused bitterly, his voice dropping lower. "Perhaps Uncle Duncan had the right idea. Forget King's Landing and its miserable court. Live simply in Summerhall, away from it all."

Tywin frowned slightly, skeptical. "You'd despise it there."

Aerys turned, eyes flashing with a strange intensity. "Would I? At least uncle Duncan's different. He sees the rot in this city clearly. Perhaps living in Summerhall, close to him, I could change things. When he becomes king, I might become his Hand, bring in fresh minds—young minds. Rip away the rot and rebuild."

Tywin exchanged another glance with Steffon, skepticism mirrored clearly in their eyes. Aerys loved spectacle, craved attention and praise; quiet seclusion was not his nature. Yet his voice held a sincerity Tywin found unsettling.

Steffon broke the awkward silence, tone softened. "It won't be the same here without you, Aerys."

Tywin hesitated briefly, then spoke, "Actually, I'm considering leaving as well."

Both turned toward him in surprise. Aerys raised an eyebrow curiously. "You? Leave court? For what?"

Tywin's voice was quiet yet firm, conviction clear in his tone. "There's work to be done in the West. My father has let too much slip through his fingers. Our lands are fraying. Now that I'm knighted, men are willing to follow me…I actually have managed to build up a small band. There's still more strength to gather, debts to collect, and matters to settle."

Steffon looked suddenly thoughtful, sadness flickering behind his eyes. "So that's it, then. Our time here…it's nearly done."

A quietness settled over them, each lost in thoughts of childhood days and simpler times. Steffon finally broke the silence, a wistful smile on his face. "Gods, it feels like yesterday I first came here….three foolish boys, looking for trouble."

Aerys gave a bitter laugh, his eyes distant. "And trouble found us….a lot".

Tywin remained silent, his expression unreadable. He felt the ending of something intangible yet deeply familiar. They were on the brink of manhood, each stepping toward separate destinies.

Steffon, ever the peacemaker, forced cheerfulness back into his voice. "Well, tonight's ours at least. Let's not waste it brooding over what's coming. A drink or two, for old times' sake?"

Aerys snorted, his smile faint but genuine. "Well….I wouldn't say no to a drink."

“I would but….when did you two ever let me do what I wanted to”, Tywin says, with a small smile shrugging.

"Good," Steffon grinned, clapping both friends heartily on their shoulders. "Then let's get to it."

As they moved away, Tywin lingered briefly, watching them walk ahead, their laughter echoing softly down the stone corridors. A faint unease tugged at him, an unspoken sense that nothing would ever quite be the same. Yet he pushed those thoughts away, stepping forward to join his friends one last time, before their childhood ended forever.

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Tywin moved through the hall with calculated ease, though it was not the opulence of the space that occupied his thoughts. He had no need to marvel at the shimmering banners of House Targaryen, or the intricate latticework of golden candelabras that threw warm light over clusters of lords and ladies. His focus was narrower, sharper: this was no mere gathering. It was an opportunity.

For weeks now, the whispers about him had spread across the city like fire racing through dry grass. The tale of the young lion knighted in the aftermath of a desperate battle at sea had been recounted and reshaped, growing more elaborate each time. In the telling, he had become larger than life, a boy turned man in the crucible of blood and steel. Tywin found the exaggerations distasteful, but useful. And he had resolved to use them ruthlessly.

He had spent the evening ensuring those tales worked to his advantage. Every step, every word, every glance was deliberate as he wove his way through the westerners who had trickled into King’s Landing for the wedding. Minor lords of the Westerlands. some of them long accustomed to his father’s hollow grandeur….looked at him differently now. Where there had once been polite disinterest, there was attentiveness. Where there had been condescension, now there was caution. He cultivated it quietly, speaking in measured tones, projecting calm authority. Tywin Lannister, they would remember, was not his father.

It was among their younger sons, however, that he found his richest soil. Restless, ambitious men, eager to carve a place for themselves beyond the shadows of their elder brothers. Tywin gave them his time, his attention. He let them glimpse the kind of lord he intended to be. decisive, pragmatic, unyielding. And already, he could feel them being drawn into his orbit.

Leo Lefford had been among the first. The heir of the Golden Tooth had approached Tywin with the bluster of youth, but it had not taken much—two conversations, perhaps three—to redirect that energy into loyalty. The boy was sharp, eager to please, and Tywin suspected he would prove useful in the years to come. Already Leo hovered nearby, close enough to make his allegiance plain to any who cared to observe.

Tywin’s expression remained still, even as he allowed himself a single thought of satisfaction. Brick by brick, he was building his future. And when the time came to lay his claim to the West, he would not do so alone.

It was then a familiar voice cut through his thoughts, warm with amusement.

“I thought the first thing you’d do in a hall like this was look for your little brother,” the voice said lightly. “Instead, you’ve spoken to half the realm and still not to me.”

Tywin turned sharply, his pale green eyes narrowing as they fell on a figure he hadn’t expected. Kevan stood there, taller than Tywin remembered, broader too. His boyish face had lost some of its softness, though his smile remained the same—open, guileless, almost irritatingly so.

“Kevan,” Tywin said after a beat, his voice even, though something flickered briefly in his gaze. “I didn’t think I'd see you here”

His younger brother grinned, stepping forward through the press of courtiers. “That much is obvious. You’ve spoken to every man and his dog in this hall, but not me. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten I existed.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into the faintest line. “Did our father send you in his stead?”

“No.” Kevan shook his head. “I came with Lord Reyne.”

Tywin’s expression cooled, almost imperceptibly. The air seemed to tighten around them. “Roger Reyne?”

“Yes,” Kevan said, his tone easy, though his brow furrowed slightly at Tywin’s reaction. “Father thought it best. Lord Reyne has… resources. Connections. He offered to take me as his squire.”

Tywin’s jaw tensed. “I see.” His words were flat, clipped. “And do you find the arrangement agreeable?”

Kevan hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded. “I do. Lord Reyne has treated me well. He’s not so bad.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “He might not be bad to you, Kevan. But don’t fool yourself. Roger Reyne doesn’t do anything out of generosity. He’ll use you if it suits him. That’s exactly what I would do if I were him.”

Kevan drew in a slow breath, his shoulders stiff but his tone still calm. “I understand….but it's not like that, he's…”

Before anything more could be said, a voice interrupted them—smooth, edged with the faintest amusement.

“Well, if it isn’t the two golden lions of Casterly Rock, side by side again. What a rare sight.”

Roger Reyne approached, clad in deep red and black, his presence commanding even in the crush of nobility. His smile was easy, his eyes anything but.

“Kevan,” he said, resting a hand briefly on the younger Lannister’s shoulder. “Fetch me a drink, would you?”

Kevan nodded and slipped away into the crowd.

Tywin and Roger watched each other in silence for a moment, the noise of the hall dimming to a distant hum.

“I hear you’ve been making quite an impression, Tywin,” Roger said at last, his tone light but his gaze watchful. “You’ve built your own little circle of westerners in a few short weeks. Impressive.”

“I don’t have time for half-measures,” Tywin replied coolly. “The West has drifted long enough. I intend to correct that.”

Roger tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “The West drifted because it was led poorly. Perhaps it needs stronger hands to guide it.”

“Stronger hands don’t always mean better ones,” Tywin said. His voice didn’t rise, but there was steel in it. “The Lannisters have guided the west for centuries. We’ll do so for centuries more.”

“Perhaps,” Roger said, his tone still deceptively pleasant. “But power doesn’t come from gold alone, like you Lannisters think. It comes from action. And I see a lot of western lords looking elsewhere for guidance these days. That should be troubling for you.”

“It isn't,” Tywin said simply. “They’ll remember where their loyalty lies soon enough.”

Roger’s smile widened slightly, though his eyes never warmed. “We’ll see.”

Kevan returned then, carrying a goblet of wine. Roger took it with a murmur of thanks, his gaze still locked on Tywin’s.

“Good to see you, Tywin. Truly,” Roger said, his voice smooth as silk. “We should speak again before the wedding.”

Tywin didn’t reply, watching in silence as Roger strode away, Kevan trailing a step behind him, with a quick apologetic look before following his lord.

It was only when they disappeared into the throng that he let out a quiet breath

“You’ve grown, Kevan,” he murmured.

“You’re talking to yourself now?”

Tywin turned, and his expression shifted ever so slightly. Joanna stood there, her gown crimson red, her golden hair coiled neatly.

“Was that Kevan with Lord Reyne?” she asked, her brow slightly arched. “It’s been years since I last saw him.”

Tywin didn’t turn immediately. Joanna’s voice came from just behind his shoulder, soft but certain, as though she had been there all along and he’d simply failed to notice.

“He looks so different,” she said, stepping closer. Her perfume—faint lilac and something warmer, uniquely hers—carried to him in the swell of the music. “It’s strange seeing him like that. When I last saw him, he was barely up to my shoulder and terrified of everything. And now…”

“Now he’s squiring for Roger Reyne,” Tywin said, his voice flat but with an edge that only she would hear.

“Yes.” Joanna folded her hands in front of her, watching the crowd swirl around them. “He’s all grown up. But then, aren’t we all?”

Tywin’s lips pressed into the faintest line. “Some more than others.”

Joanna let out a quiet laugh, tipping her head slightly. “And here I thought you’d be glad to see him. But I suppose you’re too busy brooding over the state of the Westerlands to appreciate seeing your own brother.”

“I have little choice but to brood,” Tywin said, his eyes quitely following the different lords and ladies moving gracefully on the ballroom floor, “There’s too much at stake not to.”

“You’re watching them all too closely,” Joanna said softly.

“They’re lords,” he said. “It’s worth seeing how they move when they think no one notices.”

“And yet, I’ve seen you stand straighter in tournaments than you do here,” she teased gently. “Your shoulders look ready to snap.”

He exhaled slowly, not quite a sigh. “Then you’ve been watching too closely as well.”

Joanna stepped to his side, folding her hands. “Perhaps I have. You’ve changed… no.” She caught herself, shaking her head faintly. “It’s not that. You’ve grown heavier.”

Tywin arched a brow.

“Not in your frame,” she added quickly, her lips tugging at the corner in the faintest smile. “In your bearing. In what you carry.”

He was quiet at that, but not cold.

“It suits you,” Joanna said after a moment. “Even if you think it doesn’t.”

He drew in a breath, steady but deep, and for once didn’t deflect.

“Come,” she said softly. “Dance with me.”

“I don’t—”

“Yes, you do,” she cut in before he could finish. “Or you did. And you’re not about to shame your house by standing still while every other lord makes their round.”

“I’ve no interest in—”

“Then do it for me,” Joanna said. “If nothing else.”

Her fingers brushed his sleeve. He hesitated, but to his own quiet surprise, let her lead him onto the floor.

The music was soft, a lilting tune carried by lutes and viols, filling the air like silk. He placed his hand carefully against her back, feeling the faint warmth of her gown through the layers, and let her fingers slide into his.

“You’re as stiff as a sword in its scabbard,” she murmured.

“And you’re as persistent as a sparrow at dawn,” he replied, though his tone was lighter than he expected.

“Better a sparrow than a lion who won’t bend,” she said, smiling faintly.

They moved in silence for a time. Tywin’s steps were precise, almost too precise, as if he were keeping himself from misstep not only in footwork but in thought.

“I’m leaving,” he said suddenly, his voice quieter than she’d ever heard it.

Joanna tilted her head slightly but didn’t stop their slow turn. “I know. I heard.”

He looked down at her then, her face illuminated by the soft glow of the chandeliers above. “You’re leaving too.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “After the wedding. To Summerhall, with the princess.”

“I thought as much.”

Their hands tightened faintly on each other’s, though neither seemed to notice.

“You’ve been here a long time,” Joanna said. “Long enough that it’s strange to think of you anywhere else.”

“And yet it doesn’t feel enough,” he admitted.

“Enough for what?”

“Enough to leave something behind,” he said quietly.

The words surprised her, and for a moment she said nothing.

They turned again, the music weaving gently around them, their steps slow and unhurried. Her hand rested lightly in his, her other hand barely brushing the edge of his sleeve.

“You’ve grown quiet,” Joanna murmured, her voice barely rising above the melody.

“Perhaps I’ve nothing left to say.”

His eyes flicked to hers, sharp for a moment before softening. She wasn’t asking, wasn’t pressing. Only observing, as she always did. with that quiet certainty that somehow unsettled and grounded him all at once.

The faintest smile curved her lips, though there was a trace of sadness in her eyes. “It’s all right, Tywin,” she said gently. “You don’t always need to have the right words.”

The way she looked at him then…calm, patient, as if she could wait forever, unlocked something in his chest. For a moment, he simply held her gaze, feeling the warmth of her hand against his and the weight of words he had kept buried too long.

“I’m glad you came to King’s Landing,” he said at last, his voice low, almost reluctant. “I don’t often say such things. Perhaps I never have. But I’m… glad you were here.”

Joanna smiled—not brightly, but deeply. A knowing smile that reached her eyes.

“I know,” she said softly. “You don’t have to say it.”

“I should.”

“You don’t have to,” she repeated, her thumb brushing lightly across his hand.

There was silence between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The hall seemed to fade, the other dancers melting into blurred shapes, leaving only the two of them in the candlelight.

“You’ve been my peace in this place,” Tywin murmured.

“And you’ve been mine.”, She smiled faintly, almost imperceptibly, but it warmed her eyes.

There were no more words, he only held her gaze. For once, the mask was gone—not fully, but enough for her to see the man beneath it.

“You’re impossible,” he said quietly, shaking his head, with a rare smile.

“And yet, here you are,” Joanna replied, her eyes turning just slightly sad.

As the last notes of the music lingered, she drew back, her hand resting for a moment against his chest.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Tywin,” she said softly. “But more than that… I hope you find something worth holding onto when you're done.”

Her touch lingered, light but warm, before she stepped away, curtsied, and vanished into the crowd.

For the first time in years, Tywin felt… unmoored.

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The torchlight from the harbor swayed gently in the night breeze, casting long flickering shadows across the quay. Tywin leaned on the stone balustrade, staring down at the restless water. His mind was anything but still.

The Rock loomed in his thoughts. his father’s debts, his bannermen’s insolence, the creeping sense that the West was slipping through Lannister fingers. Soon, he would return and make it right….or…

“You’re far too young to brood like an old man.”

The voice broke through his thoughts. Aegon stood behind him, draped in his heavy cloak, Ser Duncan at his shoulder like an immovable shadow.

Tywin straightened. “Your Grace.”

The king stepped beside him. “I hear you’re leaving us soon.”

“Yes, Your Grace. After the wedding.”

“Good. You’ve learned all you could here. Now you must learn in the West, where the lessons cut deeper from what I hear.”

Tywin inclined his head.

The king’s gaze turned toward the black water. “The realm is shifting, Tywin. The Blackwoods and Brackens feuding again even as their lands drown. The Stormlands grumbling about coin and grain. The Reach whispering of monopolies broken and power lost. And now…” Aegon’s sharp eyes flicked to him. “The West.”

Tywin’s chest tightened slightly, though his face betrayed nothing.

“I hear troubling things of your bannermen,” the king continued. “Reynes and Tarbacks growing bold. Other lords testing the limits of their fealty. If you mean to bring them to heel, do it quickly. Strike cleanly. Delay too long, and their defiance will fester….and when it festers, it spreads. Then I will have no choice but to intervene and enforce the king’s peace.”

The words were soft, but they carried an edge sharper than Valyrian steel. If you delay your actions once you began, he seemed to say, I would have no choice to step in and stop you.

Tywin inclined his head. “I understand, Your Grace.”

“Do you?” Aegon studied him for a long moment. “You’re sharp, Tywin. But don’t mistake deliberation for inaction. The realm cannot wait forever for you to steady your house.”

“I would not be the one to disturb your peace, your grace” Tywin said carefully. “You’ve earned a rest after all you’ve done.”

“Rest?” A faint, bitter smile crossed Aegon’s lips. “No, lad. Not yet. There’s one last fire I must light. One last task to secure House Targaryen’s future.”

Tywin frowned faintly. “Your Grace?”

“Dragons, Tywin,” Aegon murmured, and in that instant, he was no longer the calm king but a man possessed.

The air seemed to thicken around them.

Tywin remembered vague whispers from his early months in King’s Landing—tales of the king sending men across the Narrow Sea, chasing after myths in old Valyrian ruins. He had dismissed them then as gossip, as the idle fancies of an aging monarch.

But Aegon’s eyes gleamed now in a way that made Tywin’s stomach tighten.

“I’ve searched for years. My agents scoured Valyria, Lys, even Asshai. And they found it—ancient scrolls, rituals lost to time. The priests of R’hllor have deciphered them. They can wake the eggs from stone.”

Tywin’s gaze darted to Ser Duncan, who shifted uncomfortably.

“Your Grace,” Duncan said quietly, “we’ve spoken of this—”

“I will not hear it again,” Aegon cut him off sharply. “I know what I’m doing.”

The king’s voice softened, but his fervor did not.

“Dragons built this kingdom. Dragons kept the lords loyal…not just fear, but respect for power they could never match. Now the lords forget. They grumble, they conspire, they act as though the Iron Throne is theirs to question. But when they see dragons again… they will remember.”

Tywin’s thoughts churned. Dragons reborn. Lords cowed into submission. Or perhaps… the realm burned in dragonfire. He wasn’t sure which vision unsettled him more.

Aegon’s hand clamped down on his shoulder. “I will summon my lords to Summerhall when the time comes. I want them to witness the rebirth with their own eyes. You’ll be there?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Tywin said evenly, though unease coiled in his gut.

“Good.”

The king studied him a moment longer. “You have the sharpness for great things, Tywin. But the realm is restless. Strike fast and sure in the West. Cement your place. If you delay….”

It was a warning, and a challenge, wrapped in the velvet tones of a king.

Tywin inclined his head again. “I will remember.”

“See that you do.”

Aegon and Duncan turned and began to walk away. But before they vanished into the torchlight, the king’s voice floated back:

Tywin stood there in the quiet, his eyes fixed on the black water.

Dragons…

The thought coiled in his mind, heavy and tight. The world looks like it might change once again. And if he wasn’t careful, it would change faster than he could master it.

And in the midst of all these thoughts, a softer voice lingered: “I hope you find what you’re looking for, Tywin….But more than that… I hope you find something worth holding onto when you're done.”

Tywin’s lips tightened.

Happiness is a luxury for simpler men. Not for lions with a purpose.

Chapter Text

The lake lay quiet beneath the morning sun, its skin broken only by a few reeds nodding in the breeze and the slow track of a waterfowl. A little farther on rose the low, weather-worn walls of Fellcastle, its banners drooping in the damp air of the stormlands. Not a large keep by any measure. More a stout watchpost on a hill than a true seat of power. But it sat in the right place, close enough to the Goldroad and the Reachward passes that a rider could be in King’s Landing within a day, or turn west and reach the marches in half a week.

Under a gnarled tree on the lake’s bank, Tywin sat alone with his thoughts. The past year had drawn lines into him that hadn’t been there before; the boy who had served and learned in King’s Landing was gone. This last year had been spent in motion, almost all of it. Deals struck in Braavos, wagons of grain and wool bought up cheap and sold dear, quiet investments in warehouses on the river, all for one thing: gold. Gold that was his alone, unbound from his father, so that when the time came to act, he would not be told to stay his hand.

Now he had it, and with it a small band of sworn men and young hopefuls. The restless sons of the west who wanted a place in the retinue of a rising Lannister. They had camped here for a week…Thanks to a quiet word from Steffon Barathreon, and a small sum of gold discretely placed in the lord’s hand. The west waited, but he would not march home blind. Not yet.

The sound of hooves disturbed the stillness. He didn’t look up at first, listening to the approach. A horse came to a halt in the grass, and boots crunched softly closer, until a throat cleared and a voice, familiar and with ease, “Well…I’m back from the Rock. And it’s in worse shape than we thought.”

Leo Lefford.

Tywin raised his eyes, giving nothing away. “Tell it straight.”

Lefford crouched a few paces away, brushing the dust from his boots with one hand. “From the outside you wouldn’t know. It still looks like the Rock. Still gold in the sunlight. But inside…” He paused. “It’s barely held together by your uncle Jason’s temper and nothing else. Half the knights you remember are gone. Either to Castamere or to Tarbeks Hall. Mines left to neglect. No court. No hand on the reins. And your father—” He hesitated. “He doesn’t leave his chambers. Word is…. there’s a certain….nursemaid. He barely speaks. Jason tries, but no one listens to him.”

The words sank without comment. Tywin’s face remained carved from stone, but inside he felt each one settle like a lead weight. He could imagine Jason: red-faced, angry, shouting orders to a hall that pretended to hear him and then went about their own affairs.

“And the others?” Tywin said at last.

“Ellyn Tarbeck’s buying land wherever she can find a willing seller. Building, expanding. Tarbeks Hall looks twice the size it did a year ago. Most of it paid for by lines of credit that trace back to the Rock. Old favors, old ties. And Roger Reyne…” Leo’s mouth tightened. “You know him. He’s using it. Whispering. Acting as if he’s the true strength of the west while your father sleeps.”

Tywin listened, silent as the tree behind him.

When Leo had finished, there was only the wind over the water. Finally Leo said, impatient, “So? What are we waiting for? You should go back. They need someone to stand in front of them.”

“And?” Tywin asked without turning.

“And you’d have them again. Your uncle will welcome you. He can’t hold it together. Not without you.”

“And how would that change things?” Tywin asked, his voice quiet. “They do not listen to him. They will pretend to listen to me, for a while. Then they will stop, as soon as they feel bold enough. I need more than a welcome. I need certainty.”

Leo spread his hands. “Then give it to them. We’ve talked of this a dozen times. Call in the debts. Your father won’t. He doesn’t have to know. Stand beside Jason, call them in. They’ll have no choice.”

“They’ll have a choice,” Tywin said. “They can refuse. Then what?”

“Then,” Leo said, leaning forward, “we take what’s owed.”

A soundless laugh escaped him, more a sharp exhale than anything else. He didn’t bother to answer. In his head he saw it: the Rock stirring at his return, the first demands made, and then the defiance. And who would rally to him? A hundred boys and a few banners against men who, for all their weakness, would still rather cling to Roger Reyne than bow to a Lannister who had been gone from their sight, one they don't know truly. Not yet.

He shook his head, stood, and brushed the dust from his cloak, leaving Leo by the lakeside, heading back to the keep, his mind racing with possibilities and calculating the probabilities.

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The days after moved not as quick, but in that steady way of time when there is little to do but think. Each morning, he walked the walls of Fellcastle and let his eyes turned west. Each day, he listened more than he spoke: talks of debts, talks of war, talks of an imaginary army camped at Castamere. He traced roads and rivers in his head, tallied what every house in the west owed and who might pay if pressed.

His companions. Boys with bright swords and too much eagerness grew restless. They spoke of home, of battles to come, of what they would do when the Lion returned to the west. Tywin listened, learning more from their words than even they know about themselves, weighing their strengths and their weaknesses.

And on a bright afternoon, in the middle of a meal in the great hall, the usual routine was disturbed by the lord of the castle striding in, two guards hard on his heels. There was urgency in their steps and something close to unease in their faces. Tywin set his cup down, rose, and met them halfway.

“You come to join us, my lord?” he asked, though his eyes had already read the answer.

“No, ser,” the man said, a little out of breath. “Riders. A score or more…. My men saw them coming fast across the fields. Bandits, by their look.”

“Bandits,” Tywin repeated evenly.

“They’ll be here before long,” the man pressed. “I’ve little enough men of my own, and what I have won’t hold them. I would not ask, but…” He hesitated. “You and your men… I would have your aid?”

Tywin glanced back at the table, at the young faces looking up, eager for something, anything. He weighed the request, the risk, the value of it. Then he inclined his head. The risks of giving away his location didn't matter if his little band, trickled off one by one due to sheer inactivity.

“Very well,” he said. “You have been generous hosts, my lord. And a Lannister always pays his debts.”

He turned to Leo, already pushing back from the table. “Thirty men. Ten with crossbows. We ride.”

The order went out quietly, almost as an afterthought.

“Lose the colors,” Tywin said, his voice even, leaving no room for question.
Banners were furled and packed away, and those who had chosen to wear cloaks marked with the red and gold stripped them off. They would ride out as no one …. a band of swords-for-hire, not as westermen.

When the thirty chosen men gathered, Tywin mounted without flourish. The lord of Fellcastle stood on the steps, uneasy but silent. Tywin gave him nothing more than a curt nod before turning his horse and setting them on the road. They rode in a loose column, hoofbeats drumming over the quiet countryside.

Even in the saddle, his mind worked. This should have been a nuisance, a minor errand ,but even small movements could be used to test, to measure, to sharpen. The land here rolled gently; the sky sagged low and grey, and far away the pale vein of the Goldroad bled westward into the haze.

By late afternoon the air itself seemed to tighten. A faint rhythm, a pounding, rolled over the fields ahead, hooves, many of them, driven hard. Tywin raised a hand and his men slowed, drawing up across the narrow road. Dust appeared first, a ghostly plume rising against the horizon, and then shapes broke through it: riders.

No banners. No bright heraldry. Their horses streaked with foam, armor blackened and scorched, faces drawn tight under smears of ash. They came on in a blur, disordered in shape but relentless in speed. This was no ragged band of hungry robbers.

“Hold!” Tywin’s voice cut through the space between them, cold and sharp as steel. “You ride on Lord Fell’s lands. Pull up and name yourselves.”

The lead rider gave no answer, no slackening of pace. Only when the first line of crossbows came up, silent and deliberate, did he wrench the reins, and the horse came to a violent halt yards away from Tywin’s men.

He was tall in the saddle, broad-shouldered, his mail and leather caked with soot. Ash streaked his face, hollowing his eyes into caverns.

“Move aside,” the rider said, flat and cutting. He did not need to shout.

Tywin’s gaze met his, unblinking. “You trespass, ser,” he said, low and even. “State your names. State your purpose.”

The knight leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “I will not ask again,” he said. “Move aside, boy, or you will be moved.”

“And who,” Tywin asked softly, “are you to command me?”

The knight straightened, the weary horse shifting under him. “Ser Barristan Selmy,” he said, “knight sworn to the Lord of Storm’s End. Move, or I’ll cut my way through.”

The name was familiar. A minor knight, not yet famous, but already spoken of in court as a rare blade. Tywin studied him, studied them all: scorched armor, the rawness of their hands on the reins, the stink of burned leather. Whatever they had come from, it had hollowed them out.

“And pray tell, Ser Baristan, how would I know you're speaking the truth?”, Tywin asked. His hand lifted a fraction, and the line of crossbows tightened.

The air held, drawn taut as a bowstring.

A voice came from behind the riders – weary, rough-edged but unmistakable.
A horse pushed forward, its rider forcing past Selmy’s shoulder. His usual easy posture was gone; his hair clung in ash-smeared locks, his face raw from heat.

“Tywin,” Steffon Baratheon said, half-breathless. “So this is Fell’s land, then? Seven save me, I hadn’t thought we’d come so far.”

Selmy looked back at him once, then lifted a hand for his men to stand down. The weapons lowered but the tension stayed. Tywin kept his line as the Baratheon heir brought his horse forward. Only when Steffon slid from the saddle did Tywin see how bad it was: burns scored across his arms, soot ground into every line of his skin, exhaustion pulling at him like lead.

“What happened to you?” Tywin asked. “Where is your father?”

Steffon met his gaze for a moment, and there was nothing in his eyes but the weight of ruin.

“He’s dead,” he said, and the words fell heavy into the road, cutting through everything.

Tywin stared at Steffon, uncertain if he had heard him correctly. “Dead?” The word came out clipped. “What do you mean dead? Was there an attack…were you ambushed on the road?” His gaze swept over the Stormlanders, over their burned and battered state, but there were no banners of any foe, no loot. Only ruin.

Steffon said nothing at first. He was leaning heavily against the trunk of an old elm at the roadside, his breathing uneven, his face pale with fatigue. He raised a hand to his men, a simple signal to stand easy.

Tywin, still reeling, jerked his head toward Leo. “Water. Help them.” His own men moved forward without question, unstoppering skins, passing them around, steadying wounded arms as Stormlanders drank with hollow eyes.

For a moment the only sounds were the panting of horses and the slow clatter of hooves as the column drew itself up in a ragged line.

Then Steffon spoke, voice hoarse. “We were at Summerhall.”

That name came out through his lips like it was haunted. Tywin’s frown deepened. “Summerhall?” he repeated, “What happened there?”

Steffon shut his eyes and let out a laugh that was not laughter at all, just a thin breath escaping. “It….. burned,” he whispered. “It… just went up in flames.”

Tywin blinked, the words landing slowly. Burned? “What do you mean?” He crouched down so his shadow fell across Steffon. “explain.”

“I can’t,” Steffon said, shaking his head. His voice wavered, raw. “One moment there were….rites, chanting, that damned hall full of nobles and priests with their damned scrolls and powders. And the next…” He opened his hands helplessly. “...The next there was nothing but fire. Fire everywhere. A wall of it. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Tywin waited, silent, his jaw tight. Now, as Steffon spoke, he began to piece together what this meant—the king’s obsession, those whispers about ancient rites, the risk he had been willing to take. Dragons, his mind supplied, cold and sharp. They finally tried to wake dragons.

“You were there?”, he asked, his mind racing.

“I was there,” Steffon went on, his eyes unfocused. “Of course I was there. Half the realm was there. I’m surprised you weren’t. Didn’t you get the invitation?”

“No one knew where I was,” Tywin answered flatly.

“Oh. Right.” Steffon dragged a hand down his face, leaving streaks of grime. “I always said it, Tywin. I said it from the first day. Leave that magic alone. Leave all that sorcery in the past. But no one listens. They brought in crates of….rare oils, strange powders, built furnaces inside the hall. And then… and then…”

His voice faltered. He stared at the ground, as if seeing something else entirely. “Heat like I didn’t know existed. It wasn’t fire—it was…alive…. it was the end of everything. Couldn’t see two feet ahead of me. People were screaming, falling, burning where they stood. The smell…” His words dwindled away, leaving only the sound of his breathing. His hands trembled. “Gods! The smell….. they're all dead.”

For a moment Tywin simply studied him. This was not a man fresh from battle; this was something worse. “Steffon,” he said at last, low and steady, “who? Who are all dead?”

Steffon looked up slowly, and for the first time Tywin noticed the satchel clutched close to his chest. He opened it and drew out a crown, or what was left of one: blackened gold, half-melted, its points twisted and scarred by flame.

Tywin’s voice dropped. “The king?”

Steffon nodded once. “Him. Prince Duncan. His wife. My father. Half the small council. They were closest to the centre. There was no way out for them.”

Tywin’s mouth thinned to a line. For a heartbeat, he said nothing.

“I barely got out myself….I don't know how. There was no clear way, there was nothing to see…if not for ser Duncan…”

“See Duncan?”, Tywin asked, piking up, “he's alive?”

A shadow passed over Steffon’s face. “I don't know…I saw him go back in. Three times. Dragging people out, even when he….. The third time… he came back, shoved this into my hands,” he tapped the burned crown, “and told me to ride to King’s Landing. To put it on Jaehaerys’ head as fast as I could. He went back in again, Tywin. And...”

For a while there was only the wind, and the restless stamping of tired horses.

“I owe him my life,” Steffon said, staring at the scorched metal. “But I don’t know why he thought it was so urgent. I can barely think. All I can hear is that….roar.”

Tywin lowered his gaze to the ruined crown, and for a brief moment his composure cracked: Duncan the Tall was gone. Gone in a storm of fire.

“And Aerys?” he asked finally. His tone was neutral, but under it ran something taut, unspoken. “Rhaella?”

“They’re alive,” Steffon said quickly. “Both in a bad way, but alive. Rhaella—Seven help her—she went into labour when the whole thing began. She and Aerys were dragged out. The babe lived. A boy.”

Tywin said nothing at first. He let the words settle, heavy as stone.
The king, gone.
Duncan, gone.
A realm with no anchor…and a boy born into chaos.

His gaze dropped again to the crown, its melted edges biting into Steffon’s hands. For a moment, the world narrowed to that blackened circle of gold. Then it struck him all at once, with perfect clarity, why Duncan the Tall had pressed it into Steffon’s grasp. Why he wanted to make sure it left that hall.

This could not linger here. Not for a day. Not for an hour.

Whispers he had half-forgotten came flooding back:
Melys Blackfyre raising sellsword banners across the Narrow Sea,
free cities falling into his orbit,
mercenaries gathering on the Tyrosh last he heard,
and all of Westeros muttering, waiting, watching for weakness.

And now…weakness had come.

If this crown did not reach King’s Landing, if Jaehaerys was not crowned before that rumor became bold enough to act, the realm would tear itself apart.

He exhaled slowly. Civil war. Duncan had seen it even as the fire closed in.

And underneath that sudden clarity, like a quieter voice beneath the roar, there was another thought gnawing at him: Joanna.
She had been at Summerhall. She had to have been with Princess Rhaella
He imagined her in that inferno, that wall of heat, falling, burning…
and the thought almost undid him.

Tywin reached down and seized Steffon by the arm, pulling him up from where he had slumped. The man was solid enough, but there was no strength in him now.

“You need to be in King’s Landing before nightfall,” Tywin said, his voice flat as a blade. He shoved Steffon toward his horse with slow, deliberate pressure. “Before the realm hears of this from anyone else, Jaehaerys must be crowned king…at once, a council called, ravens sent before the realm wakes tomorrow to chaos.”

Steffon blinked, still dazed. “Why? He is king now…there’s no one else. Why such haste?”

As Tywin guided him back, his own thoughts were anything but calm.
Joanna.
She was there. She had been in that hall when the fire came.
The image would not leave him…the sight of her lying blackened in some smoking ruin, her bright hair turned to ash. He forced it down, forced his hands to remain steady on Steffon’s shoulders, forced the words out level and controlled.

“There is always someone else,” he said curtly. “You’ve heard the whispers across the sea. Blackfyre stirs. Essos is not idle. And now the realm stands without a king, without a hand, without a shield. The longer we delay, the more uncertain people's idea of the line of succession becomes.”

“War?” Steffon whispered, as though only that word could pierce the fog in his head.

Tywin swung him bodily toward the waiting horse, fingers biting into the cloth of his sleeve.
What if she is gone?
What if the fire took her before he could say what should have been said long ago?
All the unsent letters piling up in his chests.
The thought burned, but there was no time for it, not here, not yet.

“Go,” Tywin said. “Take that crown straight to Ser Gerold Hightower. He will know what to do. The air already stinks of blood. Do not let them seize this moment.”

The urgency in his tone seemed to bring Steffon back to himself. He nodded, silent, gripping the burned crown tighter as he dragged himself into the saddle.

“Tywin,” he called, voice hoarse, “are you coming with me?”

“No.” Tywin was already turning away, swinging up into his own seat without another glance.

Leo was there instantly, trotting up alongside, his voice sharp with disbelief. “What are you doing? We should be riding with them. Jaehaerys has no allies in court…half the council is dead. If we’re the ones to place that crown on his head, Tywin, we’ll be inside his circle before it’s even formed. You know what that means.”

Tywin looked at him, silent. Every word was true. The path was clear in front of him: favor, access, the chance to tie himself to a king still half-formed.
And yet all he could see, all he could think of, was a girl in a burning hall.

“I have something I need to do,” he said at last, tightening the straps on his saddle.

Leo opened his mouth to argue, but Tywin was already riding, heels driving his horse forward. With a curse, the young lord mounted and followed, five more riders falling into line behind.

They wheeled off the King’s Landing road and struck south, toward the low dark line of forest. Behind them, Steffon sat for a long heartbeat, watching them vanish before he turned and kicked his own horse onward.

The trees closed around Tywin, the hooves of his mount pounding hard as thought:
She was there.
She was there when the fire came.
She could be lying there now, in ashes.

Each stride drove him faster, each gust of wind stripping away calculation and consequence. For once, there was no plan, no scheme, no politics. Only fear.

He needed to reach Summerhall.
And he needed to see her alive.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The forest closed around them as the light drained from the world.

Tywin rode at the front, his face a mask, but every thought behind his eyes was a wound left open. The hooves of the horses pounded out a single refrain:

Alive. She must be alive.

The road had long since turned to little more than a beaten track, then to a thread of bare earth. Branches clawed at their arms and faces; the canopy swallowed what was left of the evening sky. It was almost dark when the trees thinned, and the riders broke out into the open.

And there, ahead of them, Summerhall burned.

At first he thought dawn had come early, the horizon flooded with gold. Then he saw the color of it…yellow giving way to orange, orange to red, and deep within the heart of it all a sickly green that made the night feel foul. Flames leapt skyward in twisting columns, as though some mad thing were trying to claw its way out of the ruin. The air trembled with heat. Smoke rolled low, thick and bitter, leaving his throat raw as he drew a breath.

This was no common fire. This was something unholy.

They pressed on, skirting the edges of the destruction. The heat reached them even here, the horses shying, sweat slicking their necks though the night air was cool. As they crested a low rise, the scene below opened like a wound.

Tents. Hundreds of them, sprouted from the ground around the ruined hall, thrown up in desperate haste. Fires smouldered here and there, the glow of lanterns flickering against canvas. Around them, chaos: servants, squires, maids, soldiers…all those who had survived, moved in half-mad confusion.

Tywin pulled his horse to a slow walk, eyes scanning.

There were banners he did not expect to see and many he had expected but did not find. The crimson sun of Dorne. The crescent moons of the Vale. A scattering of Reach, Stormlands, and Riverlands. But none from the West.

None from the West meant no one here for Joanna to turn to.

He told himself that meant nothing, that she might still be alive somewhere among these tents. He kept his face cold, but the tension in his shoulders was iron.

They wove through the camp slowly, past lines of the wounded laid out on cloaks and straw. Some writhed. Some did not move at all. Blood and soot streaked faces; hands reached for them as they passed, begging for water. There were few healers, fewer maesters. The air stank of burnt flesh, scorched wood, and fear.

He ignored it all. Not out of cruelty…he simply could not afford to stop. His gaze searched every face, every tent flap, for a flash of golden hair.

When at last he saw the white, it was like a beacon: a Kingsguard, his armor blackened and streaked, leaning against a tree as though it alone kept him from falling.

Tywin swung out of the saddle and approached. At his nearness, the knight pushed himself upright, swaying, one hand fumbling for the sword at his hip. His eyes were glazed.

“No one is permitted past this point,” the knight said, voice hoarse.

Tywin stopped a pace away. “Ser Roland,” he said, evenly recognising the exhausted knight. “you know me. I am Tywin Lannister. My friend is inside. You are in no state to guard him. Let me put my men here, and you can rest.”

The knight blinked, as though dragging the words through fog. It took him a long moment to focus. “I…I know you my lord…but I can't…My duty… I failed once today. I will not again.”

“You failed no one,” Tywin said, quieter now. “If you collapse, what then? There are others here to watch over him. Six of mine will hold this post until you regain your strength. Six for one. Will you take that bargain?”

His voice, flat as stone but steady, was something even this shattered man could lean on. After a pause, the knight let out a ragged breath and nodded. Tywin gestured, and Leo and five others took their place.

Ser Roland sank down with a groan, clutching at his head, whispering under his breath, “I failed… gods, I failed…”—while his eyes never left the burning shell of Summerhall.

Tywin left him to his grief, as he stepped inside the tent…there's little he could do to a broken man.

He had not realized, until that moment, how fast his heart was beating.

Inside, the air was thick with the smell of smoke and the low murmurs of the half-conscious.

At the center sat Aerys Targaryen, hunched forward on a rough wooden chair, his hair hanging in a wild tangle as his hands covered his face. He looked up at the sound of boots, eyes red-rimmed, hollow.

On a pallet to the right lay Rhaella, her face pale as milk, her lips cracked, her chest rising in shallow breaths.

And to the left..

Joanna.

Her hair was matted with ash, her dress scorched and filthy, her arms wrapped around a swaddled newborn. Her eyes were rimmed red with exhaustion, but alive. Entire.

Tywin’s legs nearly gave beneath him. For a moment the world blurred and the only words that found his lips came without thought.

“Thank the Seven,” he breathed.

Both of them looked up.

Aerys was on his feet in an instant, arms thrown wide, an almost desperate relief breaking across his gaunt face. “Of course you came! I knew you would!” He seized Tywin in an embrace, but Tywin’s gaze was fixed beyond his shoulder.

Joanna met his eyes and held them, silent. There was no strength for words, only the smallest lift at the corner of her mouth, a flicker of relief, of safety, of something she could not express and he could not return, not here.

“You came,” Aerys said again, as though the fact of it astonished him. “From half a world away! All these banners, all these lords, and not one of them looked to me when I needed them. Left here with a useless Kingsguard, left to rot…but you came.”

Tywin stepped back from the embrace. “I came,” he said.

He tried to keep his voice level, but his eyes went to Joanna again, to the streak of soot on her cheek, to the trembling of her arms as she held the child. She was alive.

The boy in Aerys seemed to spill out. His words came tumbling, sharp with anger. “Steffon abandoned me…not a word as he ran away. They all did. But not you. You came.”

“Rhaella is resting,” Tywin said, gently but firmly. “You’ll wake her.”

Aerys’s mouth tightened. “She was weak. Too weak. She could not stand by me when I needed her. But at least she gave me a strong son.” He gestured to the bundle in Joanna’s arms, voice rising. “A son worthy of me. A prince!”

Tywin said nothing, though he felt Joanna’s eyes on him.

After a moment, Aerys noticed it too and huffed a sharp laugh. “Ah. I see. She’s been with us from the start. Helped with the labor when all others fled. And I know you, Tywin…you’d want her safe. Go on then, speak to her. She deserves a word from someone close after this day,” he added, “let one of the other women take care of the boy Joanna. go…”

She passed the newborn to a waiting hand and rose, ash drifting from her skirts as she moved.

“I’ll see to it that you have more men around you,” Tywin told Aerys quietly, with a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “you will be guarded as a crown prince should be.”

He meant it. And while one part of his mind already began to count supplies, men, the display of wealth that would remind the court whose gold still mattered…the rest of him was consumed with a single thought: Joanna.

They stepped out together into the night.

The camp was no quieter here. Screams rose from the wounded, voices shouted for water, and beyond it all the ruin of Summerhall crackled and groaned, spitting sparks into the air.

For a long moment neither spoke. Then, softly:

“Are you well?” Tywin asked.

“I am,” she said, voice hoarse. “I’m glad to see you.”

“So am I,” he said. It was all he trusted himself to say.

He looked at her, and for a moment all the walls he had built felt like paper. The heat from the burning hall warmed his back; the cold from fear still sat in his chest.

Without thinking, he reached for her and pulled her into his arms.

The hug was not quick, nor polite. It was a long, quiet thing, a wordless claim on the only solid ground left to him. The scent of ash clung to her hair, but beneath it was something achingly familiar, a trace of home. He shut his eyes.

Everything that had been burning inside him since the moment Steffon had spoken eased in that single moment. He could feel the tremor in her shoulders, the fragile weight of her head against him, the pulse of her heart as if to say, I am here.

For once he did not think of the Rock, of banners, of debts or crowns. He thought only of how close she had come to being smoke on the wind, and how utterly unbearable the world would have been without her in it.

Tywin let her go at last, fingers reluctant to loosen. The silence between them was loud, the air tasting of ash and scorched stone. Joanna smoothed her hair back with hands that still trembled, trying to summon the same easy poise she had always carried in King’s Landing. It wasn’t there; but she smiled all the same.

“So,” she said, voice low but needling, “you came all this way… for the prince?”

Tywin folded his arms, glad of something to do with them. “For the prince,” he answered, as if the words might settle something in himself.

“I see,” Joanna murmured. “And now that you’ve seen him safe, I suppose you’re relieved.”

“I knew he would be safe.”

“Of course,” she said. Her eyes gleamed, too clear in the firelight, and there was something in the curve of her mouth that made the words a dare. “Then you came here just to be at his side.”

His jaw worked. “He’s my friend. He is the crown prince. He needs me.”

“Then go,” she said lightly, though there was a flicker of something behind her eyes, a challenge or invitation, he couldn’t tell.

“I will,” he began, but his voice caught. He tried again, quieter. “I just… wanted to be sure you were unharmed.”

“I’m fine,” she said.

“Good.”

Silence drew out between them, threaded through with the distant roar of Summerhall’s ruin. The flames painted her hair copper, painted the tears she had not shed silver.

“You’re still standing here,” she said after a while.

“I’m aware.”

“I’m not going to say your words for you, Tywin.”

He frowned slightly. “What words?”

“The words that made you ride across half the realm to come here,” she said, her voice gentler now, without mockery.

“It was hardly across half the realm,” he muttered. “I was a stone’s throw away.”

“That isn’t the point.”

For a moment he could only look at her, feeling at once armoured and laid bare. There were a hundred things he could say to other men, a thousand ways to move them like pieces on a board, but none of those words seemed to fit here. None of them were worth a damn.

“I was worried,” he said at last. It came out too flat, too small.

Joanna tilted her head, a faint frown between her brows. “Worried?”

“Yes,” he said, sharper than he meant.

“That’s all?”

His breath left him. He turned to look at the inferno instead, the crown of Summerhall blazing against the sky. The smoke stung his eyes, or perhaps it was something else. “No,” he said, voice roughened. “No, it wasn’t just that. I was… afraid.”

She stilled, watching him.

“I was afraid,” he went on, each word measured, “that you had died. Steffon said everyone had died, and for a moment I believed him. I thought I would come here and find only bones and ash, and I… I do not know what I would have done. I don’t know how I was supposed to live after that.”

There it was, laid bare, ugly and honest. He exhaled, like the admission itself cost him something. “I was afraid,” he finished quietly. “Does that satisfy you?”

Her answer was a slow, soft smile. Not triumphant, not playful, only warm, and a little sad. She raised one hand, fingers light against his cheek, grounding him in a way no hall, no council, no court ever could.

“I’m not dead,” Joanna whispered. “I’m right here.”

“I know,” he said, leaning just a fraction into her touch. “You don’t know how much that means to me.”

“So many emotions” she murmured with a smirk, “and yet you never even sent a single letter all the while you were away.”

“I wrote them,” he said at last, the words dragged out like something he’d rather keep buried. “Many of them. I just… never sent them.”

Her brow arched slightly. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t know if you’d want to read those,” he admitted. “Most of them are… things that I noticed which others didn't, Petty observations. Things I see, things I want to fix. You used to pry them out of me when we're in kingslanding but, you'd always be….I didn’t want to send you words that would only bore you.”

Joanna’s reply came after a moment, quiet but certain. “You never did understand, did you? It was never about what you said. I liked hearing how you think. How you see the world differently than most others…Even as children, when you talked about stonework and crevasses and siege engines, you never noticed, but I was listening. I liked it…I may not always understand it, but, I liked hearing the way you see it. You made the world sound…certain.”

The honesty in her tone cut deeper than any flattery. Something knotted tight inside him gave way; his breath came heavier, steadier, as though that simple truth had knocked the wind out of him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and there was nothing practiced in the words, nothing guarded. “Sorry it took me this long. Sorry I wasn’t here sooner. I never want to lose you, Joanna. You told me once before….to find something to hold on to when I'm done. That's you…Whatever paths lie ahead, however far they take me…I will always find my way back to you. You are what I want to keep coming back to.”

Silence streched for a while, the firelight flickering across her face and the low wind stirring ash about their feet. She held his gaze, searching, and whatever tension had held them apart simply broke.

Neither of them could say who moved first. It wasn’t planned; it wasn’t courtly. It was simply inevitable. The space between them closed, and their lips met in a kiss that was unhurried and unshaken, a single perfect moment carved out from the chaos around them. The world burned, but for that instant he felt steady.

It was different from anything he had known before. Her lips were softer than he imagined, warm and tasting faintly of ash. His heart hammered, loud in his chest, and for a moment he thought he had forgotten how to breathe. She smelled of smoke and something familiar that seemed to freeze him in that moment, yet throw him back into simpler times. His hands found her waist; hers brushed against his jaw and slid into his hair. It wasn’t his first kiss, but it felt like the first that had ever truly meant something. The rest…all those youthful, empty things, were gone from memory, pale shadows compared to this. This felt like an anchor, like coming home.

When they parted, he kept close, forehead to forehead, and let out a slow breath that misted in the cool night.

“I have to go,” he said softly. It came out like a confession.

“I know,” she murmured, her voice no louder than the wind through the trees. “Go.”

“I’ll come back,” he promised.

“And I’ll be here,” she said.

His fingers tightened at her waist, unwilling to let go. For a heartbeat he stood rooted, her warmth pressed to him, the weight of her steadying him in a way nothing else ever had. His lips still tingled, his chest still ached with the effort of holding it all in. Every part of him protested when his mind finally forced him to move. He drew away as though against the pull of gravity itself, and with every step the air felt colder without her.

Leo was waiting some distance off, standing sentinel near the outer line of tents, far enough not to intrude but close enough to have seen enough to understand. He straightened when Tywin approached, but the faintest flicker of a knowing smile tugged at his mouth.

Tywin gave him one long, flat look and said nothing about it. Instead, his voice was brisk. “Send word to the rest of our men. I want every sword we have here before the sun rises. Not the way they are. Full Armour. Lannister colors. They will form a wall around the prince and his family. Supplies too…tents, food, healers if we can find them. The best of everything. And make sure everything we bring carries the lion. Banners, colors…when these people wake tomorrow, I want them to see the golden lion standing next to the dragon. And all the things it can bring in”

Leo nodded, the smirk gone now. “I’ll see to it.”

Tywin paused, turning back one last time. Summerhall still burned, a vast pyre that devoured the night, its embers clawing at the stars. He stood for a moment and watched it, and in the flames he saw the end of what was.

The old peace, the old lines, the old ways…everything was burning.

And somewhere through those flames he was sure, lay the perfect opportunity for him to make his move.