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Tywin Lannister
His siblings sat in the chairs arranged before him: Kevan to his right; Genna beside him, her hands folded in her lap; Tygett on the other side of the table, a wide grin on his lips and his lips smelling like wine and beer; and Gerion, well, his legs were resting on the table, a casual smile on his lips that irritated Tywin, he could not understand how his brother didn't die from smiling so much, he was just like father....weak.
"King Robert has announced a Grand Tourney," Tywin said without preamble. "Two weeks of celebration in King's Landing. Jousting, melee, feasting. In honor of the Crown's victory over the Greyjoy Rebellion and—" he paused, "—the safe return of Adrian."
Genna's eyebrows rose. "Another tourney? How many has the King held in the last seven years since he took the throne? Five? Six?"
"Seven," Kevan said quietly. "This will be the eighth."
"The man celebrates getting out of bed in the morning," Tygett muttered.
Gerion pulled his legs off the table, but only to push the bottom of his feet against the table frame, causing his chair to lean back, and he was pushing it back and forth, as if trying to see how much he could push it before the chair fell behind, and he, along with it. "To be fair, getting out of bed is probably quite the achievement for Robert these days. I hear he's gained three stone since the wedding."
"The number is irrelevant," Tywin said coldly. "If the King wants a tourney, he will have one. What matters is that House Lannister will attend."
Kevan didn't seem surprised to hear that. "Who will govern Casterly Rock in your absence? Two weeks in King's Landing, plus travel time, we're looking at close to a month and a half, perhaps longer depending on the roads."
"Maester Creylen will act as castellan," Tywin said. "He knows the Rock's administration as well as any of us. Ser Addam Marbrand will command the garrison. Between the two of them, they can manage grain disputes and petty lordlings for a few weeks."
Genna shifted in her chair, the silk of her gown rustling. "You're taking the entire family?"
"The family. A suitable retinue." Tywin's gaze moved across each of them in turn. "House Lannister suffered the greatest losses in this rebellion. Our ships burned. Our people died. Our heir was taken and held in chains for three weeks." Tywin said. "We will attend this tourney and we will show every lord and lady in the Seven Kingdoms that despite what was done to us, we remain the strongest House in Westeros. Our appearance will not be one of recovery. It will be one of dominance."
"So Adrian is coming," Gerion said, and the way he spoke his name, one would think he was talking about his daughter. "That will do the boy good. Let him see more of the world. Get him out of the Rock for a while. See King's Landing, meet other lordlings his age." He paused, then added with a slight grin, "For once, when he's not being kidnapped."
Tygett snorted. Genna shot Gerion a look.
Tywin's expression did not change. "Adrian is coming because the King's letter mentioned him specifically. Robert wants to see the 'little lion' again. He was... impressed at the war council." He picked up the scroll and set it down again, a gesture of finality. "I have already instructed Olander to prepare the household. Provisions, wagons, a full retinue. We depart in four days."
"Four days?" Genna sat up straighter. "Tywin, that's barely enough time to—"
"It is sufficient time. Olander has his orders. The seamstresses have theirs. Adrian's wardrobe is being prepared as we speak." Tywin looked at his sister. "You will have time to pack whatever gowns you require."
Genna's mouth thinned, but she nodded. Then her expression softened slightly, something almost wistful crossing her face. "King's Landing. I haven't been to the capital since before Robert's Rebellion. It will be strange seeing it without the Mad King sitting on that damned throne." She paused. "I wonder what Cersei is like now. Seven years as Queen. And her son, Joffrey must be, what, five years old?"
"Four," Kevan corrected.
"I'd like to meet him," Genna continued. "My great-nephew. The heir to the Iron Throne."
Tywin said nothing. The matter of Joffrey Baratheon was one he intended to assess personally. Reports from King's Landing had been... concerning.
"Will Joy be coming?" Gerion asked, and it was rare to see such a hard look on his brother's eyes. If only Gerion always carried himself like that, and Tywin was not happy that the hard look was directed at him. "Adrian's rather attached to her. Might do him good to have a familiar face around."
Tywin's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The bastard girl. Gerion's daughter. A child born of some Lannisport tavern wench or merchant's daughter, Tywin had never bothered to learn which. She had no place in the family by any measure that mattered, and yet Gerion doted on her, and worse, Adrian had formed an attachment.
Still. Even a bastard could have her uses. Especially one who kept Adrian calm, who made him smile, who served as a... stabilizing influence after everything that had happened on those cursed islands.
"The whole family is coming," Tywin said after a moment. "That includes your daughter."
Gerion's face lit up. "Excellent. Joy will love King's Landing. All those people, the markets, the—"
"She will behave appropriately," Tywin cut in. "She is not to draw attention. She is not to embarrass this family. She will be instructed on proper conduct before we depart."
"She's five years old, Tywin."
"Old enough to learn."
Kevan cleared his throat. "What about Tyrion?"
"What about him?"
"Will he attend the tourney? Or remain here to assist Maester Creylen?"
Tywin considered this. Tyrion had performed adequately as Acting Lord during the rebellion. Better than adequately, if the reports were to be believed. He had managed the grain crisis with surprising ruthlessness and kept the Rock running smoothly in Tywin's absence. Perhaps there was more of value in the dwarf than Tywin had previously acknowledged.
"Tyrion will come," Tywin said finally. "Adrian will want him there, and Adrian's comfort serves our purposes. But Tyrion will conduct himself with dignity or he will be sent back to the Rock before the first joust."
"He'll behave," Genna said firmly. "The boy has more sense than you give him credit for."
Tywin did not argue. He simply stood, signaling the end of the meeting. "Four days. Make your preparations. Dismissed."
They rose and filed out, Kevan first, already mentally organizing supply lists; Tygett stretching as he went; Genna pausing at the door to give Tywin a long, measuring look before departing; and Gerion last, whistling softly under his breath.
When they were gone, Tywin remained standing behind his desk for a long moment, looking at the royal summons.
King's Landing. The Court, Varys, The Spider, and the whole Small Council.
And Adrian, walking into that nest for the first time.
He would need to prepare the boy.
The corridors of Casterly Rock were cooler in the late afternoon, the stone walls holding the day's warmth in a way that was almost pleasant. Tywin's boots made no sound on the floors as he walked, his posture as straight as ever, his hands clasped behind his back.
He turned down the eastern wing, past the family chambers, and stopped at Adrian's door.
Raised voices came from within. A woman's voice, elderly, giving instructions. Adrian's voice in response, younger and lighter.
Tywin pushed open the door without knocking.
The bedchamber was in a state of organized chaos. Bolts of crimson and gold fabric lay across the bed alongside folded doublets and breeches. A tall mirror stood near the window, reflecting the afternoon light. And in the center of it all stood Adrian, wearing a half-laced doublet of deep crimson with golden thread at the cuffs, his small frame nearly swallowed by the rich fabric.
Beside him, Tunara worked with the patience of a rock. The old seamstress had been stitching clothes for House Lannister since Tywin could remember anything, perhaps longer. Her fingers were gnarled with age, but they moved like a young woman's fingers as she adjusted the doublet's shoulders, pinning here, tucking there.
Adrian was struggling slightly with the laces, his bandaged left hand hampering his movements. But he managed, his right hand working the ties with concentration, and when the doublet was fastened, Tywin could see that it fit well. The cut was perfect, not too tight, not too loose. The crimson made his pale skin seem less sickly, and the gold brought out the color in his hair.
He looked like a lord's son. Like a Lannister.
Adrian turned at the sound of the door and his green eyes widened slightly. "Father."
Tunara curtsied, her old knees creaking. "My lord."
"Leave us," Tywin said. "The doublet is acceptable. Have the others ready by tomorrow evening."
"Yes, my lord." Tunara gathered her pins and thread, gave Adrian's shoulder a gentle pat that was almost grandmotherly, and departed with surprising speed for a woman her age.
The door closed. Adrian stood very straight, his bandaged hand hanging at his side, the good one smoothing the fabric of his new doublet.
"Is it true?" Adrian asked. His voice was hopeful. "Are we really riding to King's Landing?"
"You would not be trying on new clothes if we were not."
Adrian's face broke into a big smile, the kind of smile Tywin had not seen on the boy since before the Greyjoys took him. "Jaime told me the King would have a tourney. He said King Robert always has tourneys. But I wasn't sure if-" He paused, and something more careful entered his expression. "Father, can Tyrion come? And Joy?"
"The entire family is coming," Tywin said. "That includes your uncle and Gerion's daughter."
Adrian's eyes brightened like someone had lit a candle behind them. The smile grew impossibly wider. "Truly? Joy's coming too? She'll love it. She's never been anywhere except the Rock and Lannisport. She'll want to see everything. And Tyrion-Tyrion knows so much about King's Landing, at least that's what he says-"
"You will conduct yourself appropriately," Tywin interrupted. "King's Landing is not Casterly Rock. It is the capital of the Seven Kingdoms. Every word you speak will be heard. Every action observed. You represent House Lannister. You will remember that."
"Yes, Father." Adrian's enthusiasm dimmed slightly, but it did not disappear entirely. He nodded, serious now, as if Tywin had given him an important command. "I'll remember."
Tywin stepped closer, examining the boy properly. The doublet fit well. The fabric was quality. The tailoring was precise. But as Tywin's gaze traveled upward to Adrian's face, he noticed something.
There, at the temple, just above Adrian's left ear where the silver-gold hair fell in messy waves...
Silver. Not gold.
Several strands, fine and bright as moonlight, growing among the darker gold.
Tywin's breath did not catch. His expression did not change. But something cold settled in his chest.
He had known this might happen. Targaryen blood was strong, stronger than Lannister in some ways, which was why the old kings had married brother to sister for so long, to keep that strength pure. But Adrian had been golden-haired since birth. The silver had been there, yes, in certain lights, a shimmer beneath the Lannister gold that Tywin had been watching for years. Waiting for.
And now it was showing.
Not dramatically. Not obviously. A few strands. Enough to be dismissed as a trick of the light if someone looked casually. But Tywin did not look casually. And in King's Landing, where vipers watched every gesture and spies counted every coin, even a few silver strands could become a whisper. A question. A danger.
Tywin reached out and placed his hand on Adrian's head.
Adrian froze, surprise flickering across his face. Tywin's hand rarely touched in affection, only in correction or demonstration. This contact was neither, and the boy clearly did not know what to make of it.
Tywin's fingers moved through the hair, subtly, as if smoothing it down. He felt the texture, soft, fine, the strands slipping through his fingers. And yes, there it was. Silver mixed with gold.
Adrian chuckled nervously. "Father? Are you feeling all right?"
Tywin almost chuckled. As if the idea of Tywin Lannister doing anything without purpose was absurd enough to suggest illness.
"I am fine," Tywin said. He withdrew his hand.
Adrian's face fell slightly, as if he had been hoping for... what? More touch? A kind word? Tywin dismissed it.
"You will have your hair cut before we depart," Tywin commanded. "A trim. But it will be neat and short. Understood?"
"Yes, Father."
"And you will bathe tonight. Properly. The servants bring hot water to your chambers."
"Yes, Father."
"The journey will take a week, perhaps more depending on the roads," Tywin said. "You will be in the carriage, you cannot ride a pony with that hand. Tyrion will ride with you as well. You are not to wander off when we make camp. You are not to speak to strangers without my permission. You will stay within sight of our guards at all times."
"Yes, Father."
"King's Landing is not a place for children to explore freely. It is large, crowded, and full of people who would use a boy like you for their own purposes. You will remain with the family. Always."
"I understand."
Tywin nodded once, a curt gesture of approval. Then he turned toward the door.
"Father?"
He paused, hand on the latch, and looked back.
Adrian stood in his new crimson doublet, small and straight-backed, his bandaged hand held carefully at his side. "Thank you. For taking us to King's Landing. For letting Tyrion and Joy come."
Tywin said nothing for a moment. Then, simply: "You are the heir to Casterly Rock. It is time you saw the capital."
He pulled open the door and stepped into the corridor, closing it behind him with a soft click.
King's Landing - Jaime Lannister
Jaime sat at the round table in the common room, his white cloak draped over the back of his chair, and tried not to let his face show what he was thinking.
Across from him, Ser Meryn Trant picked at his fingernails with the tip of a dagger. To his left, Ser Boros Blount was halfway through a chicken leg, grease running down his chin. Ser Preston Greenfield leaned back in his chair with his boots on the table, and Ser Mandon Moore sat perfectly still, staring at nothing with those dead fish eyes of his.
Only Ser Barristan Selmy sat with any dignity, his posture straight, his hands folded on the table, his expression calm and thoughtful.
Jaime looked at them and thought about Arthur Dayne.
The Sword of the Morning had fought like lightning, and when he'd sat at this very table, every man in the room had felt the weight of his presence. Oswell Whent had been sharp as a blade and twice as dangerous. Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, had commanded respect.
These men were not that.
These men were Robert's Kingsguard. Chosen not for skill or honor but for loyalty to the new king, or because their families had backed the right side in the rebellion, or because they were too stupid to say no when offered a white cloak.
Jaime hated every moment he spent in this room.
"So," Trant said, not looking up from his nails. "The tourney. Two weeks. Should be a fine show."
"Fine coin, you mean," Blount said around a mouthful of chicken. "Heard the purse for the champion is five thousand gold dragons. Five thousand. A man could retire on that."
"A man could buy a keep on that," Greenfield added. He grinned, his boots still on the table. "Set himself up proper. Get a few servants, maybe a wife who doesn't look like the back end of a horse."
Trant snorted. "You planning to enter, Preston? Last tourney you got knocked off your horse in the first tilt."
"That was a fluke. Horse stepped wrong."
"Horse had more sense than you did."
They laughed. Blount wiped his chin with the back of his hand and reached for another piece of chicken. Mandon Moore did not laugh. He never laughed.
Jaime said nothing. He had entered tourneys before. Won a few. Lost a few. It had been exciting once, when he was younger, when the thrill of the joust still felt like something worth chasing. Now it just felt like rich men playing at war, but he remembered the promise he had made to Adrian.
"I'll enter," Blount said. "Why not? Kingsguard are allowed. Barry entered the last one, didn't you, Barry?"
Barristan looked up. His expression was patient, as if he was used to being called "Barry" by men who had no right to shorten his name. "I did."
"And you got to the final three," Blount said. "Not bad for an old man."
"I was unhorsed in the semifinal by Ser Lyle Crakehall," Barristan said evenly. "A skilled jouster. I have no complaints."
"Still. Not bad." Blount tore off another piece of chicken. "Think you'll enter this one?"
"I have not decided."
Jaime doubted Barristan would. The man was in his fifties now, still stronger and faster than half the knights in the realm, but he did not chase glory the way he once had. Barristan Selmy had nothing left to prove.
Unlike the rest of them.
"I'm entering," Trant said. He slid his dagger back into its sheath and looked around the table. "Going to win, too. Already picked my horse. Big destrier, black as pitch, strong as an ox. I'll run through the competition like they're made of parchment."
"You'll last two tilts," Greenfield said.
"Three at least."
"Two."
They kept talking. Jaime stopped listening.
He thought about Adrian instead. The boy would be at the tourney. Tywin's letter had confirmed it. The whole Lannister family was coming: father, the uncles, probably even Tyrion.
And Adrian. The boy who had killed four men to escape captivity, who had claimed a Valyrian steel sword, who had ordered the execution of almost the entire Greyjoy family, one of them being a kid, without flinching.
Jaime's chest tightened. He wanted to see Adrian again. Wanted to make sure the boy was all right, that the nightmares hadn't swallowed him whole, that Tywin hadn't crushed whatever softness was left in him.
"—last night," Mandon Moore said.
Jaime blinked. Moore had spoken. Moore almost never spoke unless directly addressed, and even then he kept his words to the bare minimum.
Everyone at the table turned to look at him.
"What about last night?" Greenfield asked.
"I had the night watch. Guarding the royal family's wing."
"And?" Trant leaned forward, interested now.
"The Prince was awake. After midnight. I heard noise from his chambers."
Blount stopped chewing. "Noise?"
"Screaming. High-pitched. I entered to investigate."
"And?" Greenfield prompted.
Moore's pale eyes did not blink. "The Prince was chasing a cat. He had a knife. A small one, from the kitchens. He was trying to stab it."
Silence.
"A cat," Trant said slowly.
"Yes."
"The Prince was trying to stab a cat."
"Yes."
Blount set down his chicken leg. "Did he catch it?"
"No. The cat escaped under the bed. The Prince was screaming at it. Calling it names."
"What kind of names?" Greenfield asked, and there was something almost amused in his voice, as if this was funny.
"I will not repeat them," Moore said. "I took the knife from the Prince. He protested. I informed him that weapons are not toys and that the King would be told."
Jaime's jaw tightened. "You told Robert."
Moore's gaze shifted to him. "Yes."
"And what did the King say?"
"He laughed. He said boys will be boys and that I should not concern myself with a child's games."
Of course he did, Jaime thought bitterly. Robert didn't care what Joffrey did as long as it didn't interfere with his drinking or his whoring. The boy could burn down the Red Keep and Robert would probably just shrug and pour another cup of wine.
"The Prince can do whatever he wants," Trant said, leaning back in his chair. "He's the heir to the Iron Throne. If he wants to chase cats with a knife, that's his business."
"He's four years old," Jaime said.
Trant shrugged. "So? I chased birds when I was four. Threw rocks at them. It's what boys do."
"Did you try to stab them?"
"Maybe. Don't remember. Point is, it's harmless. The cat got away, didn't it?"
Jaime stared at him. Trant stared back, completely unbothered.
"The Prince is spirited," Blount said, picking up his chicken again. "Nothing wrong with that. Better than some soft boy who cries at every little thing."
Jaime thought about Adrian. About the boy sitting in that Great Hall at Pyke, watching men's heads roll across the floor, his face pale and hollow. About the way he'd clung to Red Rain like it was the only real thing in the world.
That boy had killed out of necessity. Out of survival.
Joffrey was chasing a cat with a knife for fun.
"Speaking of spirited," Greenfield said with a little sly smile. "Anyone else notice the Queen's been in a particularly good mood lately?"
Jaime's head snapped toward him. "What?"
Greenfield held up his hands, grinning. "Just an observation, Jaime. No offense. It's just, well, she's been smiling a lot. More than usual. I saw her in the gardens yesterday and she actually looked happy. Haven't seen that in, what, years?"
Jaime's hand moved to his sword hilt before he could stop himself. "Watch your tongue, Greenfield."
The grin faded. "I didn't mean—"
"My sister is not your business. She is not a topic for idle gossip around this table. You will speak of her with respect or you will not speak of her at all."
Greenfield raised his hands higher, placating. "I wasn't being disrespectful, Jaime. I was just saying—"
"Everyone's noticed," Trant interjected. "Not just Preston. The servants, the lords, everyone. The Queen's been different since the war ended."
Jaime's jaw worked. He knew why Cersei was happy. Adrian was safe. Her son was alive and coming to King's Landing.
But he couldn't say that. He couldn't say anything.
"The King's return always pleases Her Grace," Barristan said quietly. "It is not unusual for a wife to be glad when her husband comes home safely from war."
It was a lie. Everyone at the table knew it was a lie. Cersei hated Robert. But Barristan said it with such calm authority that no one dared contradict him.
Greenfield nodded quickly. "Right. Of course. That's probably it."
Trant smirked but said nothing.
Blount went back to his chicken.
Barristan stood, his chair scraping softly against the stone floor. "Jaime. You have the Queen's detail today. I will walk you to her chambers."
Jaime stood immediately, grateful for the excuse to leave. He fastened his white cloak and followed Barristan out of the common room without another word to the others.
The corridor outside was cooler, quieter. The morning sun came through the high windows in slanted beams, and their boots echoed on the stone.
They walked in silence for a moment.
Then Jaime asked, very quietly, "How is she?"
Barristan did not need to ask who he meant. "The Princess is well."
Jaime exhaled. "Truly?"
"Truly." Barristan's expression softened, and for a moment he looked almost pleased. "I saw her yesterday in the library. She was reading. When I told her about the tourney, about the King's announcement, she smiled. A child's smile."
Jaime felt something in his chest loosen. "She knows House Martell is coming?"
"Lord Arryn confirmed. Her uncles will be there. Prince Oberyn, Prince Doran if his health permits. She will see her mother's family for the first time since..." Barristan trailed off.
Since the Sack. Since Elia died. Since everything went to hell.
"Seeing the Princess smile like that," Barristan continued, his voice warm. "It was worth more than gold, Jaime. More than any tourney prize or title. That girl has carried so much weight for so long. To see her happy, even for a moment..."
They turned a corner, passed a pair of guards who nodded respectfully, and continued down the corridor toward the royal chambers.
Then Barristan's expression changed. Something troubled crossed his face.
Jaime noticed immediately. "What is it?"
"I am... concerned about something."
"What?"
Barristan hesitated, which was unusual for him. "The Princess told me something yesterday. While we were playing. She has a game she likes, a simple hand-slapping game, and while we were playing, she said something that... unsettled me."
Jaime leaned closer. "What did she say?"
"She said she had seen Egg in her dreams."
Jaime stopped walking. "Egg."
"Yes."
Egg. Queen Elia's name for Aegon. Her baby boy. The one whose head had been smashed against a wall by Gregor Clegane.
Jaime felt cold. "She said she saw him in her dreams."
"Not just saw. She said he was alive. That he was somewhere safe, and that he had played with her. She said she saw him, his face was in shadows, but she knew he was her brother." Barristan looked at Jaime. "She spoke of it as if it were real. Not a memory. Not a wish. Real."
They started walking again, slower now.
Jaime's mind raced. Aegon was dead. He had been dead for seven years. There was no question about it. The body had been presented to Robert, wrapped in a Lannister cloak, true, but Robert had accepted it. The matter was closed.
But Rhaenys was a child. A child who had lost her mother and brother in the most brutal way imaginable. A child who had been raised in the Red Keep surrounded by the people who had killed her family.
Of course, she dreamed of Aegon. Of course, she wanted him to be alive.
"She wants her family," Jaime said quietly. "What's left of it, anyway. And maybe in her dreams, she gets to have them. All of them."
"Perhaps," Barristan said. "But the way she spoke, Jaime... it was not the way a child speaks of a dream. It was the way someone speaks of a truth they know but cannot prove."
Jaime looked at him. "You think she believes he's alive."
"I think she wants to believe it so badly that her mind has made it real for her."
They walked in silence for a moment.
Then Jaime said, "A dream is a dream, Barristan. It's the one place where miracles can happen. Where dead brothers come back. Where mothers are still alive. Where the world is the way it should be instead of the way it is."
Barristan nodded slowly.
"Let her have it," Jaime continued. "Let her dream. Gods know her life has been full of enough suffering. If she wants to spend her nights playing with Egg in some safe place where Gregor Clegane never existed, then let her. She deserves that much. She deserves a miracle, even if it's a dream."
Barristan was quiet for a long moment. Then he smiled. "You are wiser than you let on, Jaime Lannister."
"Don't tell anyone. It'll ruin my reputation."
They reached the Queen's chambers. Two guards stood at the door, both in Lannister crimson. They straightened when they saw Jaime and Barristan approaching.
Barristan stopped. "I will leave you here. I have matters to attend to before the council meeting."
Jaime nodded. "Thank you. For watching over her."
Barristan's expression softened again. "It is my honor, Jaime. Always."
He turned and walked away, his white cloak trailing behind him.
Jaime watched him go, then turned to the guards. "The Queen is inside?"
"Yes, Ser Jaime. She requested no interruptions this morning, but she said you could enter."
Jaime knocked twice, then pushed open the door.
Cersei's chambers were bright with morning light. She sat near the window in a chair upholstered in green silk, a letter in her hands, and when she looked up and saw Jaime, her face broke into a smile.
Jaime knew Greenfield had been right. For the last seven years, Cersei had looked more like a breathing corpse than a queen, but since Jaime returned. Cersei had looked as if she was reborn, happier than ever before. Jaime walked deeper into the chamber, and Cersei's smile grew; for a moment, Jaime feared her cheeks would split.
"Our family is coming, Jaime, for the Tourney...he is coming."
A tear rolled down her cheek, but the smile never left her face.
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