#;;Lion's cubs (Eamon Ronin Adela Gerion)

[snowing-willow-archived]

Cubs and Lions

Barely three name days old, and the two twin cubs were fierce at play, the dark haired one swiping at his brother as they rolled. The golden haired one laughed, jumping up, and ran behind a nearby couch. His brow half crawled, half ran after him, giggling in the late afternoon sun that streamed through the windows. Their sister lay, swaddled in her crib, five months old, but already peering out at the world. She'd been alerted by her brother's play, though had not truly roused from her slumber, emerald orbs barely cracked open.

The nurse maid watched, keen and attentive, as the two lads dodged and weaved around corners. They were little darlings, and she did not know if she could allow the Lord to cast them out so quickly. They were dressed finely for his impending visit, dark silk to match the eldest one's unruly mane (which no comb could truly tame), and satin for the one whose golden curls were that of the lion banner - fluttering in the breeze outside.

The girl began to squirm, barely able to contain herself suddenly, wrapped in elegant and rich cotton. A pale fist reached out, a whine echoing from her, and the maid almost ran to fetch her before she could cry. "Hush, hush you two," she chastised softly, as she rocked the poor dear. They stopped almost immediately, gazing at her with their wide, pensive gazes.

Bright green gems with splinters of gold, and misty grey, so pretty and sparkling with true innocence. "Come close and I'll tell you a story, hm?" They did, ever attentive, and sat before her. Such good behavior! Such marvelous children, she began to whisper for them gently, a song of crows and dragons. Beasts and myth of Wildlings beyond the Wall. Her animation enraptured them, though she swore they could nearly understand her - the way they gasped and jumped at all the right moments. That was, till she heard the click of leather upon the stone, and rose to greet -

"Lord Tywin." She bowed, still holding the babe to her.

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Snowsong

A blade of black and crimson, swirling and forlorn along the midnight edge, plumes of what looked like blood - deeper than even dragon's fire. Tywin stared at the frame, letting his emerald, golden carved gaze rove it from tip to hilt. Perfect, a work of art.

Then how had it ended up in the hands of his bastard all the way from Braavos? The sheathe in which it had been carried was ludicrous: leather, and barely stitched together. Worn, scuffed, no embossments to foretell the treasure inside. The pommel was simple, lame copper, and the grip was made of wood! He sneered at it in disgust, lifting it nonetheless, and stared upon the magnificence. Slowly, he sat, eyeing the rusted piece his spies had found in his whore's old abode. Bright, ugly orange flecks peeled from the all over it, covered in rust - nearly unidentifiable. But, there could be no doubt, by the strange intricacy of the craftsmanship that had been worn away by mud and damp, it was a hilt... Made of gold and rubies, if the cracked, fouled gems that still sparkled from the slant of afternoon sun were anything to go by.

He stared at it, uneasy at his own apprehension, and drummed his fingers upon the grip of his chair... The door opened. He raised his head, greeted by dark curls, and owlish, misty irises. Though there was no denying the rise of his cheekbones and the curve of his jaw, Northern colors, but with his looks.

"Lord Tywin," the boy gave a short, curt bow.

"Do you know this blade?" He gestured to the masterpiece upon his desk. The lad looked at it, a spark of recognition barely concealed in his orbs. They rose to him, honed, and curious.

"I do." His tone was clipped, giving nothing away. Tywin rolled his jaw.

"Do you know where your brother obtained it?" Gerion paused, his eyes falling to the side, and he sighed, in a slow, dejected manner. "Do you know where he obtained it?" Tywin asked again, irked by the other's obvious knowledge, but refusal to admit.

"Adela and I bought it for him."

"Where?" Tywin doubted it, any man worth his salt knew what lay before him.

"An old man..." The Old Lion's brow furrowed. Gerion's gaze turned on him once more. "Eamon's sword was starting to break, so I scrounged, I... I did what was necessary," he murmured. He stole. Tywin swallowed the grit in his throat at the thought. "Adela sold every scrap of art she could, and after some time, we'd scraped together enough." He continued, though his eyes had started to wander away once more as he lost himself in the tale. "None of the decent blacksmiths would speak to us, they knew where the coin had come from, and... We were running out of options. On our way back, we decided to try the other side of town, but... We got lost. That's the thing about Braavos, one moment you think you know where you are, and the next you're ten streets over and more turned around than before...

"We happened upon an alley, all wet with dew covered moss, and hidden in a niche behind a garden. There was a man there, so old... He looked older than his bones, than the stones around us, and he bade us to come with him into a shop. I had a knife in my boot, I knew how to use it, I was not afraid. Adela and I followed him... Because... Because I felt like I had to. His fingernails were long and yellow, his eyes the color of curdled milk. I thought him blind, though he never once reached out to feel the walls, or count the stones. He took us into a place that was dark and cold, yet the sun shone through the ceiling, and bathed a room full of strange things...

"Instruments, broken weapons, and shields littered the walls, but then he pulled that out." He nodded towards the blade. "He pulled it out and handed it to us, said for us to take it, and refused any coin we tried to give him. When we left the shop... Well, I never found my way back there, no matter how hard I tried." Gerion shook his head, as if clearing away a haze. "There was a small forge in the back of our old home, never used except to heat us when it became too cold, and we could afford enough wood... Mother, she looked at the sword, and broke off the handle. Adela and I helped, because she was still sick, and we made the hilt. Eamon... He's never needed another sword, or to sharpen that one." Gerion paused, his eyes finding and holding Tywin's.

"It's Valyrian steel, isn't it?" The Old Lion didn't reply, unsure if the boy was telling him the truth, but... He was not the sort to lie. His jaw worked, head tilting back.

"Yes, it is."

Gerion reached forward rapidly, hand curling around the hilt, and Tywin lurched forward. His hand was so small, yet so strong in his own, pale and cold... Just like his mother's.

"What do you think you are doing?!" He snapped, glaring down at the child. Surely he knew what this was? This was the very sword he had been searching for, for decades!

"Adela and I bought and paid for this!" Tywin pulled back slightly, having never heard his voice that loud before. Gerion coughed in his chest, a dull sound full of pain, but did not relinquish his hold. "We starved ourselves for nigh two days! This is ours, our family sword!" He jerked, pulling it from his grasp, and sent his ink well flying. It shattered, bleeding black upon the ground, but all he did was snarl at the boy. But he was moving, fast for the door -

"Gerion!"

He stopped, frozen upon the threshold, but lashed around fast enough to face him, with tears misting his silvery orbs. "And it has a new name: Snowsong!" The door cracked like thunder behind him.

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He realized it now, looking upon the boy - no - a man grown, with his mother’s raven hair, and yet his eyes. They stared back at him, a perfect mirror, in more ways than he would dare admit to. Surely the gods were tormenting him? Had they not had their fill of his misery? Must they drink so greedily all the malice, frustration, and sorrow he had? It surprised him there was still so much, he thought he’d been left only a husk, but no… Who knew there was so much left to take?

The son he could not have, but the one he needed. Both of them - one to take the Rock, and the other to sit by the King’s side, a true king but in name. Tywin could already see him, a paragon amongst the blades, and they had never looked so tamed. The mere aura that secreted from the throne that no man could control, but he was not. He was a lion and this child, born of him, was no different, despite the lay of his black hair. Then there was the other, with the true look of their colors, if not for his irises… Which bloomed like his mother’s, though there was a cheerfulness there born of sorrow. Deeper, like a wound that had been long since poisoned, and the venom would not so easily be plucked. If he could erase that doubt, those demons, what could he become?

The girl… A clever daughter to build relations, be an ambassador, and to cross the threshold where even men could not. And she would do it with all the grace his whore had bestowed upon her. From the sweep of her gown, to the flow of silk, and the curls of her hair. She would command with beauty and wit, she would not stoop low, and forget - lose her balance and fall so easily into the trap of spite. No, this lioness would feast and roar, and truly stand with all the radiance her power could bestow her.

Then the last… A genius to lead them into a new age, to set the foundation of his great dynasty. He had already done so much, with his wide, pensive eyes. Tywin had not known, had not realized, but when he had - he had been angry, he realized. This child had been fouled in his tender years, left no more than a hiss, but that did nothing to him… Not truly. The cub may never roar, but he would be heard, and they would remember what he said.

He gazed upon his eldest and knew, for though the boy doubted, he would be remembered. And he himself, might only be remembered for this boy. His son.

Eamon.

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“You have your father’s roar...”

“Sending a sweet Raven to collect the ashes and bone...”

“Her golden son...”

“I will not bow for them...”

“He may never roar...”

[snowing-willow-archived]

"You have your father's roar." She always told him, his mother, a beautiful raven from the north. Lost upon a stray draft that whisked her up, dropped her upon a tower; she tumbled and fell, straight into a lion's maw.

He knew, because he saw his eyes every time he looked upon the reflection of the cool water. The sea that spread from the crumbling abode that was there home, where a tarp fluttered in the chilly breeze of dusk, and the salt lick of the ocean far beyond, ruffled his mane. He scrubbed a hand through it, cursing, lamenting the man he'd never know.

The one he'd never become.

He saw him too, when he looked upon his brother's fair, golden locks, and the strong cut of his shaven jaw. In the sharp cut of his sister's irises, when she got what she wanted, when she would float with all the grace that would never be given to her in name. And in his brother's soft, but noble, and pensive stare. Ghostly grey, like their mother, but so much more than that.

"I once read," his littlest brother had whispered, "that the darker a lion's mane, the stronger he is." He stood, slowly, rocking forth on his heels, to stare out - far beyond the giant's ankles, to the endless span that separated them from their true born roots.

But he turned, the hiss of his feet on the stone grounding him there, and walked back into the tiny, cramped, pokey cob structure that was their home. No mountain nor keep, not a castle as they had pretended long ago, but a place all its own. In a city that was more maze than kingdom, more animal than stone, was where he'd live for the rest of his days. But with war came coin, blood for precious gold, gold...

His nails bit into his palm, watching his mother sew the sole of his smallest brother's shoe back in place, mending what should have been replaced long ago. Fury roiled within, at her shaky palms, and weak fingers, the dark half-moons under her eyes a testament to her anguish. He turned his head to gaze towards that distant shore, hair whipping about his brow in the early evening, and the last strand of sun lashed out, caught it's brethren in his eyes -

His father's emeralds, and he swore: He'd pay his debt.

[snowing-willow-archived]

“Though he may never truly roar, make no mistake, this cub is quickly becoming a lion.”

Gerion Snow, Son of Willow Snow, Bastard of Tywin Lannister.

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“Her golden son, always mindful, knew where home and hearth were, and always kept his pride within his thoughts.”

Ser Ronin Snow, Knight of House Tyrell, Bastard of Tywin Lannister.

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Silent Lion

"Do you know what it's called?" A voice, in the distance, an echo among the hallowed stones beneath Winterfell. He raised his head, felt the grind of the chains that rooted him to the floor, and hissed in pain that swiftly became rage. It stank of mold and iron, the smoke of fire, and the chill of the north. All normal, but so out of place...

"Who do you think you are, you little bastard?!" He could see him now, the cut of his deep grey, and the fall of his curled, dark locks. Just barely... His ivory skin, like newly fallen snow, how he wanted to dapple and cover it in red. He'd break this thing, this doll that stared at him with the face of a child, but gazed upon him with the same disgust and impatience of his father.

Three candles flickered, exactly in the middle of the divide that separated them, melding together on a fat tuft of milky wax. But the boy continued to stare, acting as if he had not heard Ramsey, with those same eyes - he hated them! He'd seen them, in his bitch mother's face, (and he'd enjoy carving her to ribbons after he finished with her child!) but their look - they mirrored that of everyone who'd ever looked down on him. But he was a bastard! Ramsey had been made heir!

"You're nothing but a filthy little bastard." He spat, straining against his bonds, but still the boy stared at him.

"Do you know what it's called?" Same question, same voice, so low and flat - bored. As if it were a chore to speak to him, as if dragging him down here, and binding him had been a waste of time.

"What, what's called?!" Ramsey finally snapped, face twisted into a snarl, and the little bastard tilted his head.

"I would tell you the name in its native tongue, High Valyrian, but I'm afraid you would not appreciate its beauty. So I will simply tell you what it means: 'Lover's Quarrel'. Quite romantic, though sadly inaccurate, but rather perfect for right now." He stepped forward, slow, sliding paces that appeared more a dance than movement. Till Ramsey realized - he was moving without sound, not even the slightest hiss of his heels over the damp stone. He wasn't wearing any shoes, of course not, they would hinder him.

"What are you talking about?" Gerion sighed at his growl, looking down, into the candles on their island of quickly dying wax. A sinking ship within their own bodies, as the flames flickered once more.

"I'm talking about the poison inside of you."

"What?" He felt the panic rise, his temples throbbing, and he finally realized the trickle of sweat upon his brow. The room had grown darker, and it was not just due to the lack of light.

"It won't kill you quickly. It will guarantee you just enough time to realize why you're here, and just how stupid you really are." Ramsey pulled, more desperately than before, practically broke one of his own arms in his plight.

"I noticed, from the way you spoke, the way you walked and talked, you were nothing more than a bastard. I envied you, in a way, a father all to yourself, but you squandered what he tried to give you. Then I started to loathe you," Gerion sighed, unable to deny, "simply, spiteful jealousy. So I stayed away from you, but the more I looked, the more I despised. Because, you know, you're no different than those dogs. Poor creatures, they've so much more to offer. Theon did too... You take away everything with potential, and ruin it because you yourself have nothing to give. And that's sadder than even the most pitiful existence."

The boy shook his head, and as he did, one of the candles hissed, it's silence only won when it drowned in its own body. Ramsey started to shake, felt his collar itch, and his tongue grow fat. Did he always look like that? This boy, with his fearsome grey eyes? He always thought they looked so empty...

"You're nothing like anyone I've ever met, lower than even a beast, not fit to lick the mud off a man's boots." His nose wrinkled. "An ugly term, but one I find fitting for you. Though... Just because you aren't fit to even clean them, doesn't mean you can't rot beneath them." Gerion paced once more, and the second candle fell with a great splash, so small, yet so loud in the nigh darkness. It rolled away, the light snuffed out by a stray draft, that rustled his hair and made his teeth chatter.

"Did you know? She said I could be older brother to her son, with ruddy cheeks, and small, chubby fingers. I read to him the night he was born, because she said I could, but... He'll not see the sun again." Gerion paused, rolling his neck to stare straight at him, and the look in those mists terrified him.

For he saw his own father in them...

"And neither will you."

Ramsey stared, continued too, virtually sliding out of his chair. His limbs felt heavy, weak, and his hands shook in their binds. Wait... When had he released him? Gerion had paced back around the candles, surely he could..? Snatch the knife from his belt, ram it in his throat, call for help? But where were they? Would anyone hear him? Would anyone care?

"You're... But you're...like me... a bastard..." He tried to reason, to implore, but the boy simply looked at him with those deep grey eyes, as the last candle began to flicker rapidly. It cast strange shades upon his pale face, half monster, half child, fangs here, and amber eyes there. Haunches and claws, fangs and tail -

"No. I'm a lion." The shadows came, a moment, a second too long. "And I don't need a knife to flay you." A growl sounded, deep from the belly of the dungeon, deeper still, and right where he was standing. Ramsey screeched, as the beast bounded over the candle, and sunk its claws into his shoulders. His fingers caught, broke nail, and flesh upon it's great mane - not gold, nor even brown, but black - blacker than even the darkest night. The chair toppled backwards, his arms lashing out in a frenzy, as sharp canines and razor talons ripped into him, tore him, and speared right through his throat.

He kicked out, screamed, gurgled on his own blood, and arched - convulsed in the darkness, in the weeping embrace of death, down, down to this nightmare that would never end. He broke his back, his neck, everything at once, gave a last screech before...

"I wonder what he saw," Gerion whispered in the gloom, watching by the stray slant of moonlight from the grate above, the violent end, and tilted his head. "What creature could terrify you so, hm..?"

[snowing-willow-archived]

“I’ve never heard of a black lion, have you?”

Ser Eamon Snow, Knight of House Tyrell, Bastard of Tywin Lannister.