TYWIN
Tywin Lannister sat alone in the vast silence of his solar in the Tower of the Hand. A fire crackled softly in the hearth, the only sound to break the thick quiet. Outside, King's Landing pulsed with its filthy, noisy life, but here, in this center of power, the world seemed to be held at bay. On his massive oaken desk, among the reports and royal decrees, lay a letter from Casterly Rock.
He felt a strangeness in the medium he held. This was not parchment. It was whiter, almost flawless, and its texture, though smooth, had a slight fibrous roughness that felt alien under his fingers. It was light, almost weightless, yet the words written upon it carried an immense weight.
He had read the letters from Kevan with the efficiency that had become his trademark. The first part was as expected: reports on Casterly Rock, the health of his vassals, and meticulous details of taxation. Kevan was always thorough, a reliable man who kept the Westerlands running smoothly while Tywin was occupied by the larger, though often more foolish, duties of the realm.
Then, at the end of the letter, he finally found it. The part written in a slightly different tone, a tone of barely restrained astonishment that was very unusual for his calm brother.
"Since this letter was sent, Jaime and Cersei are still preparing their things for King's Landing. And Tywin, he has created something that might change the structure of this kingdom."
Tywin paused for a moment, his pale green eyes narrowing.
"What you are holding now is 'paper,'" the letter continued. "Jaime made it himself, with the help of theory from Maester Creylen and the labor of Jon, his sworn sword."
Kevan then explained the details of the paper, about how it was made from cheap cloth, not from expensive animal hides. He explained its potential for mass production. And then, he got to the heart of the matter, to the strategic thinking he knew Tywin would understand.
"Jaime explained that with cheaper paper, information can be spread more easily and more quickly. And perhaps later, when they can create a 'printing press,' a concept he is still developing, House Lannister might be able to hold and control what information is spread throughout the kingdom. He also explained the income that could be generated from the sale of this paper. It would be like a new, endless stream of gold."
Tywin set the letter down, but he did not release the sheet of paper itself. He was silent. Of course, Jaime had mentioned his "project" in the brief letters he sent every fortnight. Tywin had read about what he was doing with the metal blocks. He had dismissed it as the amusement of a clever boy, a way to occupy his restless mind. He had given it his tacit permission, wanting to see where his son's curiosity would lead him. He had not expected this.
He had not expected a tangible result, a result he could hold in his hands.
A thin, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of Tywin's lips.
Jaime, at the tender age of nine, was already thinking about information control, mass production, and new revenue streams. The boy was everything Tywin could have wanted in an heir. Sharp, ambitious, and able to see beyond the sword and shield. The proof he now held, this paper, made Tywin trust him even more. The boy wasn't just talking nonsense. He had potential. A real and frightening potential.
Tywin valued brains. He had used his own to drag House Lannister out of the disgrace his father had left it in and return it to the pinnacle of power. But even he had never thought like this. He had never thought of "invention," of creating an entirely new source of wealth and power from nothing. Tywin used his brain to think rationally, to politic with clarity, to look into a man's soul and find his weakness. Jaime… Jaime was thinking of changing the very foundations of that world.
He set Kevan's letter down, but his hand still held the sheet of paper, feeling its new and possibility-filled texture.
Jaime was nine years old. He was still young. But in their world, the sons of great Houses were assets to be managed from an early age. And the most valuable assets had to be secured with the strongest alliances. The people around Tywin, the Lords from various places, had already begun their initial maneuvers, peddling their daughters like the finest horses at a fair.
Until now, Tywin had not given it much thought. But now, with such tangible proof of Jaime's potential in his hands, the thought came to the surface.
There were several potential candidates. He could marry Jaime to a daughter of House Crakehall, or Marbrand, or one of the other powerful Houses in the Westerlands. It would be a safe move, one that would strengthen his grip on his own territory. But Tywin Lannister never played it safe. Playing it safe was for men who were afraid to lose.
Then there were the others, the daughters of the great Lords. Catelyn Tully, Hoster Tully's eldest daughter. A match with the Riverlands would be a strategic move, securing the center of the kingdom. Hoster was an ambitious man, and his daughter was said to have her mother's beauty and her father's spirit. A solid asset.
From the North. Lyanna Stark, Rickard Stark's daughter. Uniting Casterly Rock with Winterfell would be an unprecedented move, tying the vast North into Lannister's power.
And then there was Janna Tyrell. Twelve years old, already beginning to blossom. A match with House Tyrell would unite the gold of Casterly Rock with the fertile fields of the Reach. Gold and food. Wealth and population.
His thoughts naturally turned to his other twin. Cersei. His most perfect prize. He had planned her destiny since the day she was born. Cersei would be Queen. She would sit beside Prince Rhaegar on the Iron Throne, and the blood of the lion would merge with the blood of the dragon.
But Aerys… the King was truly unstable now. Every time Tywin carefully suggested the match between Cersei and Rhaegar, the King would just change the subject, or mutter about "thinking about it," his violet eyes flickering with paranoia. As if there were someone better than a Lannister for the Iron Throne. As if his gold and his daughter's intelligence were not enough. The insult felt like a hot coal in Tywin's gut.
He forcibly pushed the thought from his mind, returning it to the steel box in his mind where he kept all his frustrations. He could not control the madness of a King. But he could control his son's future.
Tywin decided to go out. The same walls that usually gave him a sense of power and control now felt suffocating, as if the echoes of the King's growing madness were seeping through the cracks in the stone. He needed to think, and fresh air, even the polluted air of King's Landing, sometimes helped to clear the mind.
He walked down the vast corridors of the Red Keep, his steady footsteps making no echo on the Myrish carpets. The white-cloaked Kingsguard guards bowed respectfully as he passed, their faces expressionless behind their helms. Courtiers and servants moved out of his way, bowing their heads in a mixture of fear and respect. He was the true power in this castle, and everyone knew it.
Everyone, it seemed, except the King himself.
His mind drifted back to the past, to a time that felt simpler, clearer. Aerys, Steffon, and himself. Three young men, bound by ambition, war, and a genuine friendship. Steffon Baratheon, with his booming laugh and his easy strength. Aerys Targaryen, once charming and full of spirit, his violet eyes sparkling with the promise of a golden age. And himself, Tywin, the quiet strategist, the anchor for his more spirited friends. They were an inseparable trio, bound by their shared experience in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. It was on the bloody battlefields of the Stepstones that he had truly earned Aerys's trust. That was why, when the throne became his, Aerys had called on him to be his Hand. It wasn't just because Tywin was competent; it was because he was his close friend.
But where was that warmth now? Lately, whenever Aerys looked at him, the King's eyes were different. The warmth of friendship had long since died, replaced by something else. Something flickering, restless, and filled with a poisonous suspicion. Tywin no longer understood what he was thinking. There was only one conclusion his logical mind could draw: madness. The King was going mad.
However, Tywin was not a fool. He understood the root of that madness, at least the part that was directed at him. Aerys might feel threatened. Threatened by him. Tywin had ruled this kingdom in Aerys's name. He had refilled the royal coffers that previous kings had emptied. He had built new roads, suppressed rebellious vassals, and enforced the King's justice with merciless efficiency. The kingdom ran smoothly under his watch.
And that was the problem. People saw it. When it came to this, people spoke of the Hand of the King, not of the King himself. Lords from distant lands came to him first to ask for permission or help. His voice carried more weight in the small council than the King's.
But this was his duty. The duty of a Hand was to rule. Aerys should have been grateful to him for bearing this burden, allowing the King to enjoy his feasts and tourneys. Aerys should have been grateful to him for repaying the crown's debts to the Iron Bank of Braavos, debts that his own father had accumulated.
But instead, Aerys slapped him in the face. Every day, in small, cunning ways. Rejecting his suggestions in public. Making demeaning jokes about lions and gold. And worst of all, the most painful, was the constant stalling regarding the match between Rhaegar and Cersei.
Once, this plan had been a foregone conclusion in Tywin's mind, a logical certainty. The Crown Prince would marry the daughter of his Hand. The blood of the dragon and the blood of the lion would unite, creating a dynasty that would rule for hundreds of years. It was the smartest, most powerful move. Even Aerys, in his saner days, had agreed to it in principle.
His aimless steps had taken him across the inner courtyard and towards the only place in the Red Keep that offered true silence. The Godswood.
He stepped under the shade of the ancient trees. Here, in this small pocket, the noise of the court seemed to vanish. The air felt cooler, smelling of damp earth and wet leaves. He was not a follower of the Old Gods, but he appreciated the silence and the age of this place.
As he stood there, in the silence, he heard it.
The sound of a harp.
The music drifted through the trees, a complex and melancholy melody filled with an indescribable sadness. Each note was played with perfect precision, yet filled with a raw emotion. A harp in the night. There was only one person in the entire Red Keep who could play like that.
Prince Rhaegar.
Tywin did not move. He remained in the shadows, hidden from view. He listened, his usually racing mind now calm, focused only on the music.
In that sad melody, he heard the echo of all his frustrations. He heard the beauty he wanted to claim for his daughter. He heard the dragon's blood he so desperately wanted to unite with his own. He heard the son of the man who stood in his way, the son of the man who had betrayed their friendship. The music was everything he wanted and everything he could not have, all woven into one heartbreaking song.
He felt no anger. Anger was a useless emotion. Instead, he felt something far colder, far harder. Determination.
The music stopped, leaving a silence deeper than before. Tywin did not move. He just stood in the growing darkness, listening to the echo of the last note fading in the air.
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