Chapter Text
Tywin Lannister
Tywin hovered over the table, fists braced on either side of the map. The inked fields of the Westerlands sprawled before him—rivers, ridges, keeps—none gave him any peace.
The flap of the tent was thrown back sharply. Tygett entered first, his helm swinging from one hand, a fresh cut bleeding sluggishly across his brow. He tossed the helm onto the war table with a clatter, heedless of the map beneath it. Though he wore a black mood like a second skin, he held his tongue—at least for the moment.
"What?" Tywin growled, not lifting his gaze.
"We are losing." Tygett said flatly.
The tent stirred again. Kevan entered next, his mail clinking softly, and behind him sauntered their youngest brother, Gerion—blood spattered over his armor as if he'd bathed in it, a roguish grin tugging his lips.
"Tywin, we are losing." Tygett repeated, sharper now.
"We can hardly say that now, can we, brother?" Kevan interjected swiftly, ever the loyal mediator, always eager to prevent the rift from widening further. "Tarbeck Hall has already fallen. Walderan is dead, his line extinguished. We have fresh banners from both House Marbrand and House Prester..."
"The Reynes have gathered more." Tygett cut in, jabbing a finger toward the west. "Banefort. Plumm. Stackspear. Westerling. Reynard Reyne is no fool. He flees to Castamere to seal the gates behind him, and once he does… you and I both know we cannot break them." He fixed Tywin with a hard stare. "And when the realm sees that the proud lions of Lannister are gnawing on their own tails outside Castamere's walls, we shall be the laughingstock of all the realm."
Tywin's hands tightened on the table's edge. "And what would you have me do, brother?" He said coldly.
"You should have accepted the crown prince's offer of aid." Tygett said, without flinching.
Tywin’s jaw clenched. Across the table, Kevan raised both hands as if to appease the coming storm.
"Now, now, let us not—"
"I see our victory at Tarbeck Hall has not sated your bloodlust, Tygett." Gerion drawled from the other side of the tent, sprawling lazily into a chair. He propped his mud-caked boots on the edge of Tywin’s maps. "I say let the Reynes run to Castamere, we will give chase. The Red Lion is wounded, and his brother a coward… What did that bitch say? Their claws were as sharp as ours?" He snorted. "Seems not."
"And what then?" Tygett turned on him. "They dig into their mines, we starve under their walls like beggars while their crossbows pick us off one by one?"
"It may not come to that." Gerion countered with a grin. "You thought the same outside Tarbeck Hall, yet here we stand—midst a brotherly quarrel, while Walderan Tarbeck's severed head adorns what’s left of their walls."
Tygett opened his mouth to retort, but Tywin had heard enough. He swept from the tent without a word. A breath later, he heard footsteps behind him.
Kevan. Steadfast as a hound.
“Tywin." Kevan called, catching up, his voice low and uncertain. "You cannot just walk off in the middle of—"
"I need time to think." Tywin said, each word clipped and sharp.
Kevan hesitated. For once, he did not immediately retreat. His face—usually so open, so guileless—hardened.
"I do not mean to question you, brother. I would follow you into the seven hells if you asked it." Kevan said. "But you have been... distracted of late. You listen, but do not hear. You see, but do not act." He drew a breath, deep and steady. "Gerion believes you have a plan. All of us do. But if the Reynes dig themselves into Castamere, if Banefort and Stackspear and the others come to their aid... what then? We may get ambushed as we siege them under their own gates."
Tywin said nothing.
Kevan shook his head. "I do not wish to doubt you. I only fear this will become a war without end."
He seemed to be waiting—for an answer, for a sign—but none came. Tywin’s mouth remained a hard, thin line.
With a stiff look, Kevan turned and left him alone with the weight of the gathering dusk.
Tywin remained where he stood, the wind catching the edges of his cloak, the scent of iron and ash thick in his lungs. His mind raged, but it was not only the war that filled it. Something else stirred beneath the surface—unwelcome, unwelcome.
He remembered watching through the blurred panes of glass, the wind howling as a distant figure slipped away from King’s Landing, like a thief into the night…
And he crushed it down.
He made for the horses, tethered loosely beneath a line of battered pennants. Even here, at the edge of camp, air was thick with the stench of smoke and char, and Tywin could taste the ruin of Tarbeck Hall on the back of his tongue.
A low, mocking laugh snagged his attention. Ahead, near a broken cart, a soldier leaned in close to a woman—no doubt a whore from one of the nearby villages, drawn here like flies to blood. Other than vultures, these were the only creatures who ever truly profited from war, picking at the flesh of fallen men.
Tywin would have looked away, moved on—he had little patience for such spectacles. But the soldier suddenly struck the woman, a brutal backhand that snapped her head sideways.
Before Tywin quite knew it, he was moving.
The soldier raised his hand again, ready to hit her a second time. Tywin seized him by the arm in a grip like iron.
The man turned on him, mouth open with a curse, then paled to the roots when he saw whose hand it was.
"My lord!" He stammered. "My lord, she—"
"I do not care." Tywin’s voice was low and cold. "Any man who bears the lion upon his shield or surcoat will show better discipline… even toward those whose station is beneath contempt.” He added, his glance flicking briefly to the woman.
The soldier gave a clumsy, trembling bow and all but fled.
Tywin turned to the woman, who stood hugging her ribs, eyes wide and wary. For a heartbeat, he simply looked at her—a girl, not much older than Joanna, with a bruise already flowering on her cheek.
He shot her a look of disdain, but said nothing… and then turned on his heel, striding back toward the horses.
Later that evening, Tywin sat alone, poring over maps and war plans by the dim light of an oil lamp. His mind was a whetstone grinding itself dull with the endless edges of strategy when the flap of his tent stirred and the whore from earlier slipped inside.
Tywin did not look up immediately. "How did you slip past my guards?"
The girl smiled coyly and drifted closer. "Guards do not mind a woman, milord. Surely ye do not think me dangerous?"
Tywin lifted his gaze, studying the sheer silk clinging to her curves. No doubt his men had checked her for knives, found none, and deemed her harmless.
But his mouth tightened. "In my experience, women are often the most dangerous, and the most deceptive."
The whore offered him a sly glance over her shoulder. “Oh? Looks like milord knows a thing or two about women after all.”
With a flick of her wrist, she tugged loose a knot at her throat. The thin silks puddled around her waist, baring her body shamelessly to his view.
"What is it you think you're doing?" Tywin asked dispassionately.
The girl giggled, a breathy, delicate sound—but when that did not move him, her laughter faltered. "Ain't it clear enough? M’offering to keep you company for the night.”
Tywin gave her a brief glance, his eyes making quick work of her light curls, the exposed skin, the way she attempted to be alluring—but it all came across as nothing more than desperation. He felt nothing—no stir of desire, not even a flicker of temptation.
Not like the heat that had flared in him in the presence of that infuriating woman, flaunting her indiscretions as if they were virtues—
No.
Surely, any misplaced admiration he had once felt was long gone.
"I would not waste a single coin on a whore." He said flatly, turning away.
Behind him a huff of indignation followed, and the girl’s voice rose tinged with irritation.
"I ain’t a whore." She said. "Aye, my family’s in need... and when the war comes knockin' at your door, this is all a good woman’s got left to offer. But I ain’t askin' for your gold. I came ‘cause you defended me. Ain’t that worth somethin'?"
Tywin sneered. "So you sought to repay me with your body?"
Her brow furrowed, the words tumbling out in confusion. "Why not? Pleasure’s what it’s for, ain't it? Thought you might be hot-blooded enough to enjoy it."
Hot-blooded… He had never given much thought to what it truly meant. Aerys was one such flounder, driven by reckless desires. His own brother Gerion, too, had his fair share of fleeting passions…
Was Olenna Redwyne also hot-blooded? Was that why she had sought out other men? Had she ever resorted to such cheap tricks to entice them, like this girl? He could not imagine it. Her guile was more effortless—a little tut here, a tilt of her head there. The gleam in her eyes, that sly curve of her lips when she delivered a sharp or audacious remark, enough to silence the lords around her…
There was a rustle of cloth as the girl tugged her silks back up, glaring at him now. Tywin glanced at her again.
"If that is what you seek, try one of my brothers." He said, without a shred of humor. "I am certain they would indulge in such a waste of time… what pleasure is there in bedding a stranger?" He added quietly.
She stared at him, then her eyes widened as understanding seemed to dawn on her. "I see, milord. You care for someone."
Tywin’s body stiffened, the thought of it setting his teeth on edge. "I do not."
"Ah... scorned, then?” The woman's smile only grew as she parroted back his earlier words. “In my experience, women are the most dangerous and deceptive… Is she the one you were talking of?"
Tywin turned sharply, his voice low and dangerous. "You speak of matters you know nothing about."
"I may not know much." The girl admitted. "But I know men like you. Whole lives pretending ye feel nothing, nothing but pride and cruelty. Highborn men are all the same."
There was some truth to her words, Tywin acknowledged. His father's softness had taught him what a Lannister must never be. He had built his life into a fortress against weakness... but there were moments, private and fleeting, when he envied those free enough to simply feel without shame.
The thoughtful silence shattered when the tent's flap swung open.
A young squire stumbled inside, then froze, wide-eyed at the scene before him.
"Apologies, Ser Lannister." He stammered. "I can return later—"
"No." Tywin said, cutting him off. "She was just leaving. Put on your clothes, and get out."
The girl shot the squire a scornful glance as she tugged her silks up around her, muttering under her breath, clearly displeased. But Tywin reached for a small purse of gold from his table and tossed it her way. She caught it deftly, her expression brightening instantly.
"Thank you, milord. Thank you!" She said with a wide smile, before quickly leaving the tent.
The squire hesitated, then stepped forward with a bundle of letters, ravens' missives, clutched in his hands. Tywin took them—but noticed the boy still held one aside.
"And what is that?"
The squire flinched. "A letter, Ser. Bound directly for Casterly Rock."
Tywin snatched the letter from him. The handwriting was neat, graceful—an elegant script that read his cousin’s name.
"Did you not think…" Tywin said with deadly calm. "That a letter addressed to my betrothed should go through me? Do you not realize that letters could be forged? That an enemy may be using a familiar hand to smuggle secrets from this camp?"
"It cannot be so, Ser." The squire said, though the blood had drained from his face. "I take them straight to Lady Joanna myself. She is at an outpost keep not far from here in the direction of Casterly Rock—under the protection of her brother Ser Stafford."
"And Stafford thought it wise to allow her so close to a battlefield?" Tywin ground his teeth, then returned his glare to the squire. "Starting today, every raven-letter is to pass through me.”
"Yes, Ser Lannister." The squire said quickly, hands trembling.
Tywin slit the seal open.
As his eyes traced the ink, a sharp sensation tore through him—immediate and consuming.
My dear Joanna,
I hope this letter finds you in good spirits. I trust you are keeping safe, I hear the Westerlands are full of bluster and blood these days.
Word has reached the north of your cousin’s victory against the Tarbecks. You need not worry Joanna, something tells me that the Reynes' days are also numbered… All your worries will soon be swept away…
You have said so yourself, your cousin will not allow these pretender lions to grow too proud.
As for myself, I am safe and well enough, though I miss the sunlit courtyards and the godswood of the Red Keep…
Write to me when you can. The journey north is long, and a friendly word might make the chill a little less biting.
Yours,
Olenna
Tywin crumpled the letter slowly in his hand, feeling the bite of the parchment under his fingers.
He turned his back to the squire. “Get out."
The boy stammered something and fled. The tent was suffocatingly quiet now, save for the brittle snap of the parchment crushing in his hand.
Olenna Redwyne.
Somehow, it was always her.
The letter itself was harmless—yet reading it felt like a fist to the gut.
His cousin, whom he had explicitly forbidden from speaking to her again, had defied him. Lied to him. Tywin had long known his cousin nursed a soft admiration for Olenna Redwyne, but he had not thought she would dare act against his command.
Tywin smoothed the parchment flat once more, eyes flicking over the words. North. She had gone north— on a whim . Madness. Folly. He had heard it in passing from Prince Aerys: Olenna Redwyne had chosen to follow Rickard Stark on some foolish adventure to glimpse the Wall and the northern wilds.
For the briefest moment, his hand hovered, as if he might tear the letter to shreds. Instead, he folded it crisply, with cold precision, and tucked it into the inner pocket of his cloak.
There were enemies yet to conquer—more real, more urgent than the ghosts she had stirred.
Still, as he turned back to the maps and the endless calculations of war, her words clung to him, an invisible thorn aching with every breath he drew.