#legacy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

novaursa · 23 hours ago

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I firmly believe all Northeners are gossip queens. That's why Ice is so big. It's full of secrets. 😏

Legacy (by his design)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: union of fire and gold

- Next part: alliances

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The morning sun streamed through the high windows of the Great Hall, casting golden light across the breakfast table where you sat beside Tywin. The previous night’s events lingered in the minds of everyone present, each face reflecting varying shades of curiosity, jealousy, and silent calculation. Courtiers filled the hall, their attention turning occasionally to you, their whispers only barely hushed beneath the formalities of breakfast.

Across from you, Cersei sat poised, her lips curved into a small, disdainful smile as she regarded you. Her gaze was piercing, her presence radiating a tense resentment, as though she still struggled to reconcile herself to the reality of your marriage to her father.

“Sleep well, Lady Y/N?” she inquired sweetly, her voice dripping with false politeness. Her gaze didn’t leave you as she picked up her goblet, taking a leisurely sip, her eyes glinting with amusement as she waited for your reaction.

You met her gaze, entirely composed, refusing to let her bait unsettle you. “I did, Lady Cersei. Thank you,” you replied smoothly, your voice calm, betraying none of the previous night’s intimacy. “The chambers you so kindly prepared were most… accommodating.”

Cersei’s lips tightened ever so slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing her face. She forced a thin smile, tilting her head. “I’m so pleased you found them to your satisfaction,” she replied, her tone laden with unspoken meanings. “After all, we wouldn’t want you to feel out of place here, as you must have felt in the North.”

Tywin’s gaze flicked sharply to his daughter, a warning glint in his eyes. “Enough, Cersei,” he said, his voice quiet but steely, cutting through her thinly veiled hostility. “Our family is united now, and any divisiveness will only serve to weaken us.”

Cersei’s jaw tightened, but she inclined her head in acknowledgment, though her eyes still simmered with resentment. “Of course, Father,” she murmured, her tone respectful but laced with an edge she couldn’t entirely hide.

At that moment, Tyrion approached, his expression one of mild amusement as he took in the scene. He offered you a polite nod before turning his attention to his father, raising his goblet in a casual salute. “A rather lively breakfast,” he remarked, his tone light. “It seems marriage has already brought new… energy to the family.”

Tywin’s gaze shifted to Tyrion, his face unreadable. “Indeed, Tyrion. Which brings me to the matter of responsibilities.” His voice carried a note of finality that left little room for discussion. “I will be resuming my duties as Hand of the King immediately. Your own position in court, however, will change.”

Tyrion’s brows lifted, intrigued. “A change, you say? I can hardly imagine anything more… interesting than being the acting Hand, but I’m curious.”

Tywin’s gaze was cold, unyielding. “You will take on the role of Master of Coin,” he declared, each word sharp and definitive. “Your… particular skills should prove useful in managing the crown’s finances.”

Tyrion’s expression shifted, his amusement fading to something more thoughtful. “Master of Coin?” he repeated, an edge of intrigue and perhaps slight irritation coloring his tone. “Well, I suppose numbers and ledgers are better company than some of the members of this court.”

You hid a smile at Tyrion’s irreverent tone, catching his quick, mischievous glance in your direction. The humor in his eyes was unmistakable, and it was clear that, despite his apparent compliance, he saw this shift as yet another move in Tywin’s intricate web of control.

“Do you find the arrangement satisfactory, Tyrion?” Tywin asked, his tone carrying a veiled warning.

Tyrion gave a small, mock bow. “As satisfactory as any command from my dear father, of course,” he replied smoothly, though his eyes held a glint of defiance. “I shall endeavor to make the crown’s coffers flourish in ways previously unimaginable.”

Tywin’s gaze didn’t soften, but he nodded, acknowledging his son’s reluctant acceptance. “Ensure that you do. King’s Landing has become far too careless with its resources.” His gaze lingered on Tyrion a moment longer, as though daring him to argue, before shifting to you.

“You will come to understand that managing the affairs of this court requires… patience,” Tywin said, addressing you now, his voice low but intent. “Expect provocations, even from within our family.” His gaze flicked briefly to Cersei, a silent admonition that didn’t go unnoticed.

You inclined your head, meeting his gaze with calm resolve. “I understand, Lord Tywin,” you replied, letting your voice carry an edge of quiet strength. “And I am prepared to act accordingly.”

Cersei’s lips thinned, her gaze narrowing at the subtle alliance forming between you and Tywin. “A loyal wife, then,” she murmured, her tone as cold as the steel beneath her courteous facade. “How fortunate for you, Father.”

Tyrion hid a smirk behind his goblet, clearly relishing the tension sparking between you and Cersei. “Indeed, dear sister,” he quipped, his voice laced with amusement. “It seems we’re all learning the virtue of loyalty these days.”

Cersei cast a withering look at Tyrion, her patience visibly fraying. “Loyalty, Tyrion,” she replied icily, “is something neither you nor our new… stepmother would understand.”

You met her gaze without flinching, refusing to let her words unsettle you. “Loyalty, Lady Cersei,” you replied calmly, “is about dedication to the family’s strength. If that strength requires patience and endurance, then I am more than willing to provide it.”

Tywin’s eyes flashed with approval, and he gave a brief, almost imperceptible nod, as though silently affirming the truth of your words. He reached out, placing a steadying hand over yours on the table, a subtle but undeniable show of support.

“Precisely,” Tywin said, his voice cutting through the tension. “And let us not forget that unity is the foundation of our house.” His gaze swept over each of his children, lingering on Cersei before moving back to you. “We have much to accomplish. There is no room for petty rivalries.”

Cersei’s jaw clenched, but she inclined her head, hiding her frustration behind a forced smile. Tyrion, on the other hand, raised his goblet in a silent toast to you, his eyes twinkling with shared amusement. You returned his look, feeling the weight of the power dynamics in the room shifting around you, like pieces on a board carefully maneuvered.

Tywin sat in his solar, the golden afternoon light casting a warm glow over the rich furnishings as he reviewed a stack of parchment, each one detailing matters both great and small within King’s Landing and beyond. Satisfied with the steady progress of his plans and the recent events surrounding his new marriage, he leaned back in his chair, his expression one of reserved satisfaction.

A quiet knock sounded at the door, and without looking up, he spoke, his voice carrying authority. "Enter."

Petyr Baelish slipped into the room, his customary smirk in place, eyes bright with curiosity and the glint of ambition. He approached Tywin’s desk, giving a respectful bow before straightening, his fingers lightly clasped together.

“Lord Tywin,” he greeted, his tone deferential but carrying a hint of intrigue. “It seems congratulations are in order. A successful union, indeed. One that’s certainly stirred interest across the capital.”

Tywin’s gaze remained steady, unreadable, though he gave a slight nod of acknowledgment. “I trust you did not seek me out simply to offer congratulations, Lord Baelish,” he said, his tone clipped, laced with authority. “What do you wish to discuss?”

Baelish’s smirk widened a fraction as he inclined his head. “Always perceptive, my lord,” he replied smoothly. “In truth, I’ve been reflecting on this… union. I must confess, I find it a fascinating development. House Lannister uniting with the last Targaryen princess—it’s an image few would have predicted, especially given the history between your house and hers.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t waver, but a glint of satisfaction flickered in his eyes. “Curious as ever, I see, Lord Baelish,” he replied, his tone dry. “The union is advantageous to House Lannister. House Targaryen was but a shadow of itself—a name without strength. That name now serves my house.”

Littlefinger inclined his head, acknowledging Tywin’s logic. “A shadow, perhaps, but a shadow with an interesting past,” he mused. “I always found it curious how you managed to secure Lady Y/N’s safety during Robert’s Rebellion. Sending her to Winterfell of all places… an unusual choice. And yet, somehow, Lord Rickard Stark agreed to shelter a Targaryen princess amid a war he himself was embroiled in.”

Tywin’s gaze remained impassive, though his eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re not the first to wonder, Lord Baelish. However, the late Lord Stark was a man of duty. When presented with the safety of a princess, even one with Targaryen blood, he saw the importance of keeping her out of harm’s way.”

Baelish’s smile grew sly, his tone as smooth as ever. “No doubt, Lord Tywin. Though I can’t help but wonder what words you might have used to persuade him. After all, this was no ordinary princess… and it was hardly a time for compassion toward Targaryens, not after Prince Rhaegar… complicated things with Lyanna Stark.”

Tywin’s mouth tightened ever so slightly, though he maintained his composure. “Lord Rickard understood that politics and personal vendettas were separate matters. I simply reminded him of his duty as a nobleman—to protect those who could not protect themselves, even if they bore a name considered… unfavorable.”

Littlefinger chuckled softly, as though Tywin’s answer amused him. “Duty,” he murmured, as if tasting the word. “Ah, but I suspect your persuasion was… more nuanced than that, my lord. A quiet reminder, perhaps, that while Robert and the other rebels were keen on Targaryen blood, Lord Rickard’s house had enough to concern itself with. And that keeping Lady Y/N out of the capital may have served his own interests as well.”

Tywin’s gaze hardened, a flicker of irritation beneath his steady composure. “You seem very interested in matters long settled, Lord Baelish. Rickard Stark knew the costs and made his decision. I hardly expect to justify it now to those who had no hand in it.”

Baelish raised his hands in mock surrender, his smirk never fading. “Of course, of course. Merely curious, my lord. It’s rare to see such… foresight, after all, in dealing with such matters. Though I must admit, I find it impressive that you anticipated this marriage so far in advance. It seems the former princess has always been in your sights.”

Tywin’s eyes remained cold, though a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Anticipation is key to securing power, Lord Baelish. Only a fool waits for opportunity to knock on his door.”

Baelish tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with interest. “And yet, here she is, no longer a princess, but Lady Y/N Lannister. A fascinating journey for her, wouldn’t you agree? From Winterfell’s ward to your bride… one might say she’s found herself at the center of power once again.”

“Her place was determined the moment she entered House Lannister,” Tywin replied, his voice carrying a finality that suggested he would entertain no further inquiry on the matter. “And she has taken to it with dignity and purpose, as I expected.”

Baelish smiled, dipping his head. “Well, Lord Tywin, I wish you all the best in your endeavors with Lady Y/N. It seems you’ve woven yet another thread into the ever-complex tapestry of this realm.”

Tywin regarded him coolly, his gaze penetrating. “See that you remember that this tapestry, as you call it, is mine to shape. And that includes any… threads of your own devising, Lord Baelish.”

Baelish inclined his head, his expression as smooth as ever, though a flicker of something unreadable flashed in his eyes. “Naturally, my lord,” he replied, his tone deferential. “I am, as always, at your service.”

With a final nod, Baelish turned and departed, leaving Tywin to his thoughts, a faint shadow of satisfaction lingering on the older man’s face. Tywin knew his plans were progressing as intended, and with each move, his power only solidified. One of the last Targaryens was now a Lannister, bound by marriage and duty—and the realm, whether they understood it or not, would soon feel the impact of his carefully crafted plans.

The memory came unbidden, rising to the surface of Tywin’s mind with the vivid clarity of a scene replayed countless times. He could feel the cold bite of the northern air, the damp chill settling into his bones even as he stood stoic, unmoved by the elements, on that neutral stretch of land between Riverrun and the Riverlands. Across from him, Lord Rickard Stark stood tall and silent, his eyes as sharp as the wind that whipped around them. His guards flanked him, their expressions impassive, yet Tywin could see the flickers of curiosity and wariness in their eyes.

Rickard’s gaze held a glint of suspicion as he studied Tywin, his lips pressing into a tight line. He’d been silent for some time, weighing the implications of Tywin’s request—the proposal that he take Princess Y/N as his ward in Winterfell, far from the tumult of King’s Landing and the wrath of Aerys II.

After a prolonged silence, Rickard finally spoke, his voice low and cautious. “I can understand why you’d seek to remove her from the Red Keep, given… recent events. But forgive my bluntness, Lord Tywin. Why Winterfell? Why me?”

Tywin’s face remained impassive, his gaze steady as he regarded the northern lord. “Because Winterfell is far from the reach of the Mad King,” he replied, his tone calm, each word deliberate. “And because you, Lord Stark, are a man of honor. I trust you to protect her without question.”

Rickard’s eyes narrowed, studying Tywin carefully, searching for the motives behind the Lannister’s practiced facade. “You speak of trust, Lord Tywin, but we both know there is little of that in the capital these days. And we both know your… proposal was once rebuffed by Aerys himself.”

A flicker of irritation crossed Tywin’s face, though he masked it quickly. “You are correct,” he admitted, his tone clipped. “Aerys, in his madness, saw fit to mock the prospect of a union between my family and his. He believed my ambition too great, and my family unworthy of House Targaryen’s blood. But his refusal only served to highlight his foolishness.”

Rickard arched an eyebrow, his expression skeptical. “So this is about vengeance, then? To deny Aerys something he could never foresee? To preserve what remains of his bloodline under your protection?”

Tywin’s gaze hardened, though he remained composed. “This is not about vengeance, Lord Stark. It is about survival. Aerys’s instability grows by the day, and I have no intention of allowing him to drag my family—or the realm—down with him. Princess Y/N deserves a chance at life beyond the twisted court of King’s Landing.”

Rickard considered this, but there was a glint in his eyes, a shrewdness that Tywin hadn’t expected. “And yet,” Rickard said slowly, “it seems to me that this is not merely about preserving her life. There’s more at play here, isn’t there, Lord Tywin?”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his face an unreadable mask as he held Rickard’s gaze. “If you’re suggesting that I harbor… personal motivations, Lord Stark, then you are mistaken.”

Rickard’s lips curled into a faint smile, his eyes narrowing with a knowing look. “I’m not suggesting, Lord Tywin. I’m observing. This is no ordinary act of duty; there’s a fire in your eyes when you speak of her, even now. It is as though you would burn King’s Landing to ashes just to ensure her safety.”

Tywin remained silent, his gaze icy as he considered his response. He prided himself on his restraint, his ability to control both his emotions and his ambitions with an iron will. And yet, Rickard Stark had seen through him, glimpsed a part of him he kept hidden from all but the most guarded corners of his mind.

Rickard continued, his tone softened, but his gaze unwavering. “The Mad King’s rejection of your proposal wounded you more deeply than you admit, Tywin. Perhaps it’s pride, or perhaps… something more.”

Tywin’s silence spoke volumes, and Rickard watched him, waiting for a response. When Tywin finally spoke, his voice was steady, though his words carried a barely restrained edge. “Aerys’s refusal did not wound me, Stark. It only served to remind me of his unfitness to rule.” He paused, his gaze sharpening. “But yes, perhaps there is more to this than duty. Princess Y/N is… exceptional, and she deserves a place where she can flourish. If that place cannot be with me, then I would see her placed somewhere worthy of her.”

Rickard inclined his head, his expression softening slightly. “Then why send her to Winterfell, Tywin? Why choose isolation over influence? Surely, there are others who would shelter her—houses closer to the capital, houses with less… strained histories.”

“Because Winterfell is where she will be safest,” Tywin replied, his tone final. “The North may be isolated, but it is also steadfast. It stands as a bastion against the chaos spreading from the South, a place where loyalty and honor still hold meaning. I know she will be protected here, away from the eyes of those who would seek to use her for their own ends.”

Rickard was silent for a moment, absorbing Tywin’s words, a hint of respect flickering in his gaze. “Very well,” he said quietly. “I’ll take her as my ward. She will be as one of my own, safe within the walls of Winterfell.”

Tywin nodded, his relief hidden behind a stoic mask. “Then I will ensure her safe passage. She’ll travel under the protection of my men and reach you by the end of the month. Varys has assured me that he can facilitate her discreet departure.”

Rickard’s brow furrowed slightly. “And what of her future, Lord Tywin? What do you envision for her after her time in the North?”

Tywin’s gaze turned contemplative, his voice softening for a moment. “The future… is uncertain. But she will have one, thanks to your willingness to protect her.” He hesitated, a rare moment of vulnerability surfacing as he continued, “And perhaps, one day, our paths will cross again.”

Rickard watched him closely, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Perhaps,” he replied, his voice carrying a note of understanding. “Though I suspect, Lord Tywin, that she’ll never truly be far from your thoughts.”

With that, the two men exchanged a final nod, sealing the agreement. Tywin turned, his expression hardening once more as he prepared to depart, but Rickard’s words lingered in his mind, echoing in the quiet spaces of his thoughts.

The Mad King’s rejection had stung, that much was true. But it was more than pride that drove him to protect Princess Y/N—it was a feeling he dared not name, a rare softness he kept buried, even as it quietly shaped his every decision. And so, with the cold northern wind at his back, Tywin returned to King’s Landing, knowing that one day, he would bring her back—and that nothing, not even a king’s madness, would prevent it.

The garden was quiet, a rare sanctuary within the walls of the Red Keep. The morning sun filtered softly through the canopy of branches overhead, casting dappled light over the winding paths lined with flowering bushes and ivy-covered stone. You found yourself breathing a little easier here, away from the prying eyes and the weight of expectation that seemed to follow you in every hall and corridor. It was a place where you could almost forget the politics and games, where you could meet Sansa as her family had once met you—as a friend and confidant, not as the Lady of House Lannister.

By your side stood Ser Barristan Selmy, his white cloak draped over his armor, his presence a reassuring strength as he watched over you. Tywin had personally appointed him to serve as your guard, an act that had stirred whispers throughout the court. But Barristan had accepted the duty with a solemn grace, his loyalty as strong now as it had been in the days when he served your family.

The old knight turned to you, his gaze softening with a hint of nostalgia. "You look at ease here, my lady," he observed quietly, his voice warm with something akin to affection. “The gardens… remind me of your mother. She would often seek out quiet places like this.”

You smiled, touched by his words. "Thank you, Ser Barristan. I find it hard to feel truly at ease within these walls, but here… it feels a bit closer to home." You paused, glancing around at the greenery that softened the stone fortress. “It’s peaceful. It makes the past seem… not so distant.”

Barristan nodded, his eyes growing distant as he reminisced. “Your mother, your brother… they both had a way of bringing light wherever they went, even in the darkest of places.” He met your gaze, his expression serious. “I swore an oath to protect you all those years ago. And though the world has changed, I intend to keep that oath. Your father would be proud of you, my lady.”

A warmth filled your heart at his words, and you reached out to gently touch his arm. “Thank you, Ser Barristan. Knowing you’re here brings me comfort. My family is gone, but you… you keep their memory alive.”

Before Barristan could respond, a soft voice called your name. You turned to see Sansa approaching, her steps tentative but her eyes bright with a mixture of hope and relief. She wore a simple gown of pale blue, her red hair catching the sunlight as she moved, a fragile beauty tempered by the shadows of what she’d endured.

"Sansa," you greeted warmly, opening your arms as she reached you. She stepped forward, allowing you to embrace her, her arms wrapping around you tightly, as if seeking solace in your presence.

“It’s so good to see you,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

You held her for a moment longer, a quiet strength passing between you before you stepped back, keeping her hands in yours. “I thought we might speak more openly here,” you said softly, gesturing to the secluded spot beneath a flowering tree. “Away from prying ears.”

Sansa nodded, casting a cautious glance around the garden, and you guided her to a stone bench, gesturing for Barristan to give you some distance. He took a respectful step back, his presence still within sight, yet far enough to allow for a private conversation.

Settling onto the bench beside her, you looked into Sansa’s eyes, your gaze warm and steady. “Tell me, Sansa… how are you, truly?”

Her composure wavered, and she lowered her gaze, her fingers fidgeting with a loose thread on her dress. For a moment, she was silent, gathering her thoughts, and when she finally spoke, her voice trembled with a mixture of pain and weariness.

“I… I don’t know how to answer that,” she admitted, her voice barely audible. “Every day feels like… like I’m holding my breath, waiting for something to go wrong.” She glanced up at you, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “It feels like I’m trapped, like there’s no way out.”

You reached over, gently placing a hand over hers, giving her a silent reassurance that you were listening, that you understood.

“There are times,” she continued, her voice breaking slightly, “when I think of home… of Winterfell. I close my eyes, and I can almost feel the snow, hear the sounds of the wolves. But then I open them, and I’m back here… alone, surrounded by people who see me as… as nothing more than a pawn.”

Her words hung in the air, a painful truth spoken with quiet resignation. You could see the toll it had taken on her, the way she seemed smaller, more fragile, as though the weight of her circumstances had pressed down upon her spirit.

“Sansa,” you said softly, squeezing her hand. “You’re not alone. I’m here, and I will do everything in my power to protect you. You are not just a pawn to me… you’re family. And family means something.”

A tear slipped down her cheek, and she brushed it away quickly, her gaze filled with a flicker of hope. “Thank you,” she whispered. “But… I don’t know how much longer I can endure this. Joffrey… he’s… cruel. I thought I knew what cruelty was, but he—” She broke off, her voice trembling with fear and anger. “Every moment I’m near him, I feel like a lamb before a lion.”

You felt a surge of anger on her behalf, a fire kindling within you as you looked at her. “Joffrey is a monster,” you said quietly, your voice filled with conviction. “And he’ll answer for his actions, one way or another. I will see to that.”

Sansa’s eyes widened, a mixture of hope and uncertainty flickering within them. “Do you really believe that?”

You nodded, your gaze steady. “Yes. He is not untouchable, Sansa. Remember that. And until then, you must hold onto your strength, even if it feels impossible. Your family is known for its resilience, its loyalty. You carry Winterfell with you, even here in King’s Landing.”

She managed a faint smile, a glimmer of the strength that lay dormant within her. “I want to believe that… to believe that there’s a part of me that’s still strong, still a Stark.”

You reached up, gently brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “You are a Stark, Sansa. You may not feel it now, but the blood of your family runs through you, fierce and unbreakable. And one day, you will find yourself again. Until then, lean on those who care for you. You’re not alone.”

Sansa suddenly lowered her gaze, a faint blush coloring her cheeks as she let out a soft sigh. “I’m sorry… here I am, pouring my heart out, when you’re the one married to Tywin Lannister,” she murmured, her voice laced with guilt. She glanced up, her blue eyes wide with concern. “Has he… has he hurt you?”

You felt the weight of her worry and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, offering a small, reassuring smile. “Sansa, don’t worry about me. I know how to handle Lord Tywin,” you replied softly, your voice steady. “It’s not easy, no. He’s a difficult man, but he’s… fair, in his own way. He values strength and purpose. He’s not cruel like Joffrey.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed, her fingers twisting the fabric of her dress. “I just can’t help but worry. You’ve always been so kind, so gentle. And Tywin… he’s…” She trailed off, as if struggling to find the right words.

You chuckled lightly, brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. “I assure you, Sansa, I am not as helpless as I may seem. The North taught me resilience, and that is something even Lord Tywin respects. He knows I’m not someone who can be easily broken or swayed.”

A small, grateful smile touched her lips, but her expression turned pensive, her gaze drifting as though lost in thought. “I think… I think Jon will be angry,” she murmured, her voice soft, almost wistful. “Once he hears what the Lannisters have done to us—to you.”

The mention of Jon stirred something deep within you, a warmth mixed with a pang of longing. Memories of Winterfell, of Jon as a small boy with wide, curious eyes, came rushing back to you—the boy you had taken under your wing, who looked up to you with trust and affection. You had been more than a guardian to him; you had been a mother, a protector.

“Jon…” you echoed, a faint smile crossing your lips. “He would be furious, wouldn’t he?” You could almost picture it: Jon’s jaw set in that stubborn way of his, his eyes dark with determination. “He has always been fiercely protective.”

Sansa nodded, her expression softening with a hint of fondness. “He adored you. You were the one who took him in when no one else would… When Father brought him home, Mother was… angry, but you didn’t hesitate. You cared for him as though he was your own.”

You met her gaze, a touch of sadness in your smile. “Jon was never a stranger to me, Sansa. I didn’t see a bastard or a complication. I saw a child, one who needed love and guidance. Winterfell taught us loyalty, honor, and kindness. He deserved that, no matter what anyone else thought.”

Sansa’s eyes shimmered with emotion, and she reached for your hand, squeezing it gently. “He’ll be forever grateful for that. I think… I think he misses you as much as he misses Winterfell.”

The thought of Jon, alone somewhere in the world, perhaps at the Wall as Eddard had once intended, filled you with a longing you had long buried. “I hope he knows he was always loved,” you murmured, your voice thick with unspoken memories. “That no matter where he goes or who he becomes, he’ll always be a part of me… a part of our family.”

Sansa nodded, her expression softened by understanding. “If there’s anyone who taught him love and loyalty, it was you. He’s stronger because of it. And I think… one day, he’ll find his way back to us, somehow.”

The two of you sat in a comfortable silence, the sounds of the garden enveloping you, as the unspoken connection between you—your shared love for the family you’d left behind—settled between you. You felt a renewed sense of purpose, a reminder that despite the path your life had taken, you still held onto the values of the North, onto the bond with those you loved.

Squeezing her hand, you offered her a small, reassuring smile. “We’ll hold onto that hope, Sansa. We’ll carry Winterfell with us, even here in King’s Landing. And together, we’ll survive whatever comes our way.”

Sansa’s smile held a glimmer of strength, her eyes bright with the quiet resilience she was beginning to rediscover. “Yes�� we will.”

Jaime found Tyrion lounging comfortably in one of the lesser-used rooms of the Red Keep, a glass of wine in his hand and an amused expression on his face as he looked up, noting his brother’s approach.

“Tyrion,” Jaime greeted, taking a seat opposite him and reaching for a goblet of his own. He poured himself a drink, his gaze thoughtful as he swirled the wine. “You seem particularly cheerful today.”

Tyrion grinned, raising his goblet in a mock toast. “How can I not be? The prospect of our father producing little silver-haired Lannisters, complete with violet eyes, is amusing beyond measure.” He took a sip, smirking as he watched Jaime’s reaction. “Imagine—our own half-siblings, Targaryens by blood, yet Lannisters by name.”

Jaime chuckled, though there was a hint of unease beneath his mirth. “The image is almost absurd, isn’t it? To think of Father raising a child who resembles a Targaryen rather than himself.” He shook his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “But honestly, I’m more curious about how we managed to bring her here in the first place.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, his interest piqued. “Oh? I thought she’d been brought directly to Harrenhal.”

Jaime leaned back, folding his arms as he watched Tyrion carefully. “Not exactly. According to the reports, she was intercepted by our men as she traveled south, near High Heart.”

Tyrion’s eyes sharpened, his gaze turning contemplative. “High Heart? That’s an unusual route… Avoiding the main roads, no doubt, to keep a low profile.” He took another sip of wine, his expression thoughtful. “Why would she be traveling alone, and so far from any known strongholds?”

Jaime shrugged, though his expression betrayed his curiosity. “That’s precisely what I was wondering. She’d been staying far from the usual paths, as though she knew someone might be tracking her. It was only a stroke of luck that our men happened upon her party in the first place.”

Tyrion tapped his fingers thoughtfully against his goblet, his mind working through the implications. “She must have known, then. Known that someone—either Father or one of his allies—would be looking for her. Perhaps she thought she could outrun us or evade our scouts by staying off the roads.”

Jaime tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “Or perhaps she had her own purpose. High Heart is a place of old magic, or so the tales say. There’s talk of visions, of those who are touched by prophecy.” He paused, his voice dropping slightly. “Why would she go there?”

Tyrion’s smirk faded, replaced by genuine intrigue. “Perhaps she sought counsel,” he murmured, his voice almost to himself. “Some advice from those who can see beyond what the rest of us can.” He looked up, meeting Jaime’s gaze with newfound interest. “If she’s spent time at High Heart, she’s no mere play peace being moved at our father’s discretion. She’s gathering knowledge, perhaps even positioning herself.”

Jaime’s gaze was steady, contemplative. “If that’s the case, then Father might be in for more than he bargained for.” He looked down at his wine, his expression thoughtful. “She could be a more complex player in this game than he realizes.”

Tyrion chuckled softly, though there was an edge to his laughter. “It seems our new stepmother might have ambitions of her own, ones that extend beyond being Lady of House Lannister. Father may think he has her in hand, but the blood of House Targaryen is not easily tempered.”

Jaime nodded, his expression solemn. “True enough. But there’s something about this that doesn’t sit right with me, Tyrion. Father’s convinced that she’ll submit, that she’s a pawn willing to play her part. But if she was willing to risk the dangers of High Heart, of traveling alone… then perhaps she’s not as willing to be controlled as he believes.”

Tyrion’s smile returned, a touch of admiration flickering in his eyes. “Perhaps she has her own plans, then. Plans that might even rival Father’s. I must say, I find the idea rather… refreshing.” He tilted his goblet in Jaime’s direction. “To a stepmother who might keep even our dear father on his toes.”

Jaime raised his own goblet, a shadow of doubt lingering in his gaze. “To our Lady Y/N Lannister. May she prove as unpredictable as the storm she’s brought into our family.”

They clinked their goblets, the quiet clinking of glass a subtle acknowledgment of the complexity that had settled into their family, brought about by the union their father had so carefully engineered.

At Castle Black, the cold wind swept through the narrow corridors as Jon Snow made his way to Maester Aemon’s chambers, the sealed raven scroll clutched in his hand. The morning had dawned gray and bleak, and the chill in the air seemed sharper than usual, biting into his skin even through his cloak.

When he entered, he found Maester Aemon seated by the fire, his milky, sightless eyes gazing into the flames, as though he could see something far beyond them. Despite his blindness and frailty, the old maester held a dignity and presence that commanded respect. Jon cleared his throat gently, announcing his arrival.

“Jon,” Maester Aemon greeted, a soft smile creasing his ancient face. “Come, sit with me. I sense you have news from the realm.”

Jon approached, pulling out the small stool beside the maester and handing him the sealed scroll. “A raven came from the capital,” he said, his voice low, the words heavy in his mouth. “It’s… recent news.”

Aemon turned his head slightly toward him, reaching out his frail hand. “Good. Open it, if you will, and read it to me,” he instructed, his voice calm but eager.

Jon broke the seal, his eyes scanning the contents of the letter quickly, but the moment he reached the heart of the message, his breath caught. His eyes widened in disbelief, his heart pounding as he read and re-read the words before him. “No… it can’t be,” he murmured, anger and shock simmering beneath the surface.

“Jon?” Maester Aemon prompted gently, his brow creased in concern. “What is it? What news from King’s Landing?”

Jon’s voice was thick with restrained fury as he continued, his hands shaking slightly. “It says… that Lady Y/N Targaryen has been wed to Tywin Lannister.” He forced the words out, his voice tight. “She… she married him.”

Aemon was silent for a moment, his sightless eyes reflecting the light of the fire. Finally, he sighed, a sound laced with an old sorrow and a weary understanding. “Continue, Jon. There may be more,” he urged softly, though he clearly sensed the gravity of the news already.

Jon swallowed hard, glancing back at the letter, his anger simmering with each word. He continued, voice taut, “It says she was received in King’s Landing as Lady Y/N Lannister, to be seated beside Tywin at the high table. The realm… they call it a powerful alliance, one that will ensure House Lannister’s influence.” He nearly spat the words, his jaw clenched. “It’s… it’s disgusting.”

Maester Aemon sat in silence, absorbing Jon’s words, his face unreadable. After a long pause, he spoke, his voice heavy with understanding but also sadness. “Her destiny has been twisted to serve another’s ambition,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “But… I cannot say I am surprised.”

Jon looked up, frowning. “What do you mean, Maester?”

Aemon’s sightless eyes were distant, as though looking back through the years. “This… marriage is not the first time Tywin Lannister sought a union with her bloodline.” He sighed, his frail hand resting on the arm of his chair. “Many years ago, before Robert’s Rebellion, Tywin asked for her hand from King Aerys—to bring their houses together in alliance. Tywin saw strength, ambition, in her blood… but Aerys, in his madness, mocked the offer.”

Jon’s fists clenched, his voice tight with anger. “So that’s why she was sent away? Why she had to grow up in Winterfell, with no family of her own?” He shook his head, struggling to contain his rage. “And now they’ve… forced her into this. She doesn’t belong with them, with those—those Lannisters.” His voice was thick, barely restrained, a mixture of fury and protectiveness.

Aemon’s face softened, a trace of empathy crossing his ancient features. “Yes, Jon. That rejection sent ripples through the years. And now, fate has come full circle in a twisted way. Tywin has finally achieved what he sought back then, though in different form.”

Jon shook his head, his voice breaking slightly. “She was… she was like a mother to me, Maester. When no one else would, she cared for me, treated me like family. And now they’ve made her… into this.”

Aemon reached out, his hand trembling as he placed it over Jon’s clenched fist, his touch gentle, his voice filled with quiet strength. “Jon, remember… she is strong. Her blood is ancient, powerful. The blood of Old Valyria, of dragons. She has endured much already. Do not underestimate her strength, even in this.”

Jon’s gaze dropped, his voice barely above a whisper. “But it doesn’t feel right. She shouldn’t be forced to endure… to be bound to someone like him. After all she’s done for me, for all of us.”

Aemon nodded slowly, his expression resigned but compassionate. “Life often forces us into roles we do not choose, Jon. It’s a truth I have learned over many long years.” He took a deep breath, his tone laced with sadness. “Perhaps this marriage is a fate she did not want, but remember this—she is more than that. Her strength is her own. She will endure, as she always has.”

Jon closed his eyes, his mind racing with memories of you, the woman who had shown him kindness when he’d been a child alone in Winterfell, the one who had offered him understanding when he felt like an outsider. The thought of you in King’s Landing, surrounded by the Lannisters, weighed on him like a stone.

After a long silence, he finally spoke, his voice hoarse. “If they hurt her… if they make her suffer…”

Maester Aemon’s hand tightened slightly on his. “Jon, you must let her walk her own path. She has made her choices, and we can only hope she finds peace within them. Our duty here… remains with the Night’s Watch.”

Jon nodded slowly, the anger still simmering beneath the surface, but he forced himself to accept the old maester’s words. “I know, Maester,” he whispered, his voice thick. “I know.”

And as he rose to leave, he couldn’t shake the image of you—strong, resilient, and yet so far from the place where you belonged. The thought stayed with him, a heavy burden he carried silently, as he walked back through the cold halls of Castle Black

#game of thrones #got #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #x reader #tywin lannister #tywin x reader #legacy

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novaursa · 2 days ago

Text

And the lion waited, but he never forgot the slight. 😉

Legacy (homecoming)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Just a reminder how some events may differ from the canon.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (rating will go up in the next chapter)

- Previous part: at the gates

- Next part: union of fire and gold

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The gates of King’s Landing yawned wide, the distant hum of the city swelling as Tywin’s procession made its way through the crowded streets, each step bringing you closer to the towering silhouette of the Red Keep. The city itself hummed with anticipation, citizens craning their necks and whispering as they caught sight of the crimson and gold banners, and you—an unexpected figure in the sea of Lannister colors, the silver gleam of your hair unmistakable in the sunlight.

Tywin rode with unyielding purpose, his gaze set firmly ahead, unaffected by the stares and murmurs that followed in your wake. To him, this moment was simply the next step in a carefully orchestrated plan, a display of strength and purpose. But for you, the weight of returning to King’s Landing—the city you had once called home—settled over you like an iron mantle, heavy and cold.

The Red Keep’s gates loomed ahead, the courtyard within brimming with lords, knights, and courtiers, all waiting to witness the arrival of Tywin Lannister’s procession—and more importantly, the return of the Targaryen princess. The horses clopped over the cobblestones, hooves echoing against the high stone walls, and as you entered the courtyard, you felt the weight of countless eyes upon you.

Standing near the front was Cersei, her face an unreadable mask, her posture regal as she observed the procession with a cold, assessing gaze. Beside her stood Joffrey, his eyes bright with a mixture of curiosity and disdain, a twisted smirk tugging at his lips as he watched. In the background, partially hidden behind the guards, you could see Sansa, her face alight with something close to hope as she strained to catch a glimpse of you.

To Cersei’s left stood Myrcella and Tommen, their expressions a blend of innocence and curiosity, their eyes wide as they took in the sight of you—a figure from stories and whispered rumors, now standing before them. Myrcella’s gaze held a quiet, cautious awe, while Tommen fidgeted nervously, his hand clinging to his sister’s sleeve.

Further back, Tyrion observed the scene with a wry smile, his gaze flickering between you and his family, a glint of amusement in his eyes. Pycelle stood nearby, his usual simpering expression firmly in place, though his gaze was sharp as he took in the proceedings. Littlefinger’s expression, however, was unreadable, a slight smile playing at his lips as he watched with calculating interest, his eyes glinting with the promise of future schemes.

The Hound stood near the edge of the gathering, his gaze narrowed and suspicious as he observed the procession, while Varys watched with a serene smile, his fingers steepled before him as he took in every detail with his usual, unsettling calm.

Standing beside the Kingsguard, Jaime’s gaze was unwavering, his expression a mixture of mild intrigue and something else—a flicker of unspoken unease, perhaps. By his side stood Barristan Selmy, the old knight’s eyes softening just slightly as he caught sight of you. He was the only familiar face in the sea of strangers, and a brief, quiet warmth flickered in his gaze—a silent acknowledgment of the child he had once watched grow, now returned to the city that had once been her home.

As the horses came to a halt, Tywin dismounted with practiced ease, turning to offer you a hand as you followed suit. You accepted, maintaining your composure as you dismounted, feeling the weight of every gaze upon you. Tywin’s grip was firm, a silent reminder of the role you were now expected to play. He turned to the gathered crowd, his voice calm yet carrying an unmistakable authority.

“Ladies and lords of King’s Landing,” he began, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, “today, we welcome a woman of both legacy and loyalty. Lady Y/N, of House Targaryen, who has agreed to join with House Lannister.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd, some surprised, others curious, and a few outright displeased, though none dared speak openly against Tywin’s declaration. Cersei’s eyes narrowed, her gaze flicking to you with a thinly veiled contempt, though her expression remained composed. Joffrey’s smirk widened, his gaze alight with a cruel amusement, as though he were witnessing some private joke.

At Tywin’s signal, you stepped forward, feeling the weight of the silence that had settled over the courtyard. Every face was fixed upon you, each expression a mixture of curiosity, expectation, and judgment. You met their gazes with quiet strength, refusing to let the weight of the moment unsettle you.

Jaime stepped forward, his voice laced with a touch of sarcasm as he addressed Tywin. “An interesting addition to the family, Father. I imagine King’s Landing will have plenty to say about it.”

Tywin’s gaze flicked to Jaime, his expression impassive. “Let them say what they will. What matters is strength, not opinion.”

Jaime’s smirk faded, and he gave a slight, almost mocking bow. “Of course, strength above all.”

Barristan’s gaze lingered on you, a quiet pride evident in his eyes, though he offered nothing but a respectful nod, a silent acknowledgment of the history you shared. He understood, perhaps better than any here, the significance of your return, the journey that had brought you to this point.

Cersei stepped forward, her tone laced with icy formality. “Welcome to the capital, Lady Y/N. I trust you’ll find the Red Keep… accommodating.”

You met her gaze, keeping your expression composed. “Thank you, Queen Regent. I look forward to becoming reacquainted with the city.”

Joffrey let out a short, mocking laugh, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of disdain and curiosity. “You look… different than I imagined, Targaryen,” he sneered. “But I suppose time in the North changes people.”

You held his gaze, refusing to rise to his bait. “Perhaps,” you replied calmly. “But some things remain constant.”

Tyrion cleared his throat, stepping forward with a half-smile. “And who can truly say that’s a bad thing, Joffrey? The court has been dreadfully dull in recent months. I daresay Lady Y/N’s presence will be a refreshing change.”

Joffrey shot Tyrion a glare, but before he could respond, Cersei placed a hand on his shoulder, her expression a warning to hold his tongue.

Pycelle shuffled forward, his voice a soft murmur as he addressed Tywin. “A most… impressive addition, Lord Tywin. The city is honored to welcome back Lady Y/N.”

Tywin gave a curt nod, his attention already turning toward the Red Keep’s entrance. “Lady Y/N is to be treated with the respect due to her station,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I expect each of you to remember that.”

With that, he inclined his head toward you, a silent command to follow him into the castle. You cast one final glance over the gathered faces, catching Sansa’s wide-eyed gaze as she watched you from the edge of the crowd, hope and longing evident in her expression. You allowed yourself a small, reassuring smile, a silent promise that you would remember her, that she wasn’t alone in this city.

As you turned to follow Tywin, the murmurs resumed, the lords and ladies of King’s Landing falling into hushed speculation as they watched you enter the Red Keep beside the lord who had both taken you and brought you back to this place.

As you step into the Red Keep, the familiar scent of stone and iron fills the air, bringing back memories of a different time, a different life. The halls, once alive with your family’s history, seem colder now, stripped bare of the relics that once honored your bloodline. Every step echoes in the vastness, bouncing off walls that used to be adorned with banners of Targaryen black and red, with dragon heraldry that had been synonymous with the strength of your house.

The skulls of dragons once hung from these walls, each one a reminder of the legacy your ancestors had built through fire and blood. Now, they are gone, their absence a glaring silence, an erasure of everything your family once represented. Robert Baratheon’s influence lingers here, like a shadow, each vanished skull and stripped banner a testament to his efforts to erase the Targaryen legacy from these walls.

As you continue through the echoing corridors, Tywin moves beside you, his gait steady, his face impassive. His eyes flick toward you every now and then, observing, but he says nothing, his silence both oppressive and dismissive, a silent reminder that this is now his domain. But you don’t need his words to feel the weight of his authority here. It emanates from every corner, from every guard who nods in deference as he passes.

Then, you reach the Great Hall, and your eyes land upon it—the Iron Throne, looming at the far end of the room like a dark shadow, forged from a thousand swords taken in conquest. The sharp, unforgiving angles of the throne gleam in the dim light, each twisted blade and jagged edge a reminder of the blood that had been shed for it.

The sight of it sends a chill through you, your mind flooding with memories of your father. You can almost see him sitting there, the Mad King himself, his presence once a dark and foreboding force in this hall. The throne had seemed a throne of power then, of invincibility. But now, standing before it again, you see it for what it truly is—a twisted seat of ambition and madness, a cage disguised as a throne.

Your expression must betray something of what you’re feeling because Tywin’s gaze sharpens, his voice breaking the heavy silence. “A particular look in your eye, Lady Y/N,” he remarks, his tone measured. “The Iron Throne holds some… personal significance, does it not?”

You keep your gaze on the throne, but the faintest trace of a bitter smile tugs at your lips. “Significance?” You consider the word, rolling it over in your mind. “Perhaps. But not in the way you think, Lord Tywin.”

He watches you, his expression unreadable, waiting for you to continue.

You take a breath, your voice low and calm, though each word carries the weight of years of contemplation. “That throne is cursed,” you say, your gaze unwavering as you take in its sharp, merciless shape. “It’s brought only ruin to those who’ve sought to claim it. My father, Rhaegar… so many before them. It promises power, but it takes far more than it gives.”

Tywin’s expression remains impassive, though his eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of curiosity beneath his steely gaze. “A pragmatic view,” he replies, his tone smooth, neutral. “And yet, there are those who would see it as the pinnacle of ambition, the ultimate prize.”

You glance at him, unflinching. “The ultimate prize, perhaps, but at what cost? I pity anyone who sits upon it, thinking it will bring them peace. The throne’s iron edges do not forgive, and its curse spares no one, no matter their strength or resolve.”

For a moment, Tywin is silent, his gaze shifting from you to the throne, a faint glint of something inscrutable in his eyes. “Peace is a luxury for those who lack ambition,” he says, his voice low, carrying an edge of steel. “But you may be right, Lady Y/N. That throne demands much from those who sit upon it… as do all seats of power.”

You allow yourself a small, ironic smile. “Power can be a burden, Lord Tywin. I imagine you understand that better than most.”

A ghost of a smile flickers on his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “A burden, yes. But one I bear willingly, because it is necessary. The Iron Throne requires control, discipline… traits your father sorely lacked.”

You say nothing, feeling the weight of his words settle over you. He’s right, in his way; your father’s madness had been as much a product of his ambition as it was of the throne’s dark allure. But you can’t ignore the bitter truth of it either—the throne had twisted him, consumed him, just as it had done to so many before him.

Tywin studies your face, perhaps gauging your reaction, before he continues, his voice softened but still laced with authority. “It is wise of you to understand the nature of power, Lady Y/N. It will serve you well, especially here.”

You meet his gaze, the unspoken challenge clear in his eyes. “I intend to make it serve me, Lord Tywin,” you reply, each word deliberate, a quiet promise to yourself. “But not at the expense of my own soul.”

He holds your gaze for a moment longer, something close to approval flickering in his eyes before he turns away, gesturing toward the throne as though dismissing its shadow. “Come. There is much to be done. You’ll find that in this place, survival is as much about perception as it is about action.”

As you follow him, you cast one last look at the Iron Throne, the twisted monument to ambition and ruin, and a quiet resolve settles within you. Tywin may seek to shape your future here, to use you as a piece in his plans, but you will not be a pawn. You’ve seen what power can do, the cost it demands—and you intend to pay only what you’re willing to lose.

The procession that had gathered to witness the arrival of Tywin and Lady Y/N lingered in the courtyard, slowly filtering into the Red Keep. The crowd thickened as lords, knights, and courtiers pressed forward, eager to gossip about the spectacle they had just witnessed. Amid the murmurs and whispers, Cersei led her children through the throng, her posture stiff, her eyes narrowed as she absorbed the scene. Her lips pressed into a thin line, the tightness around her mouth betraying her displeasure.

Tyrion trailed behind her, a bemused smile tugging at his lips as he surveyed the retreating backs of his father and Lady Y/N, disappearing into the shadows of the Red Keep. He turned to Cersei, his tone light and conversational, though there was a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“Well, I must say, I already like the princess,” he said, his voice carrying just enough for Cersei to hear over the noise.

Cersei’s gaze snapped to him, her expression icily dismissive. “Like her? She’s no longer a princess, Tyrion. Whatever claim she once had died with her family.”

Tyrion raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Perhaps,” he allowed, tilting his head. “But she’ll soon be Lady Lannister, won’t she? Our dear father’s intended.” He gestured ahead, where Tywin and Lady Y/N had disappeared inside. “That gives her quite a bit of significance, whether you care for it or not.”

Cersei’s expression darkened, her jaw clenched as she continued to push forward through the crowd. “The title means nothing,” she snapped, her tone laced with venom. “It’s a convenience for Father, nothing more. A Targaryen with a different name is still a Targaryen.”

Tyrion’s smile widened, his gaze dancing with mischief as he pressed on. “Oh, I don’t know, dear sister. Father looked upon her rather… softly, wouldn’t you say? It’s rare to see such tenderness from him.”

Cersei’s eyes flashed, her steps slowing as she turned to face him fully, her face a mask of tightly controlled fury. “Softly?” she repeated, her voice low but sharp. “Don’t be absurd, Tyrion. Our father sees only what’s useful. If he’s brought her here, it’s because he can wield her like any other weapon.”

Tyrion feigned a look of consideration, tapping a finger against his chin. “Maybe. But one does wonder, doesn’t one? A young Targaryen princess spirited away before Robert’s armies could reach her… kept safely hidden in the North all these years, only for our father to bring her back to his side now.” He paused, letting the implications settle in, before adding, “One might think he’s been holding onto more than just a strategic asset.”

Cersei’s eyes blazed with fury, her knuckles white as her grip tightened around Myrcella’s hand. “You’re suggesting that Father… that he feels something for her? Tyrion, that’s ridiculous. She’s a Targaryen.”

“Ah, yes,” Tyrion replied, his tone thoughtful. “A Targaryen indeed. But beautiful, poised, intelligent… I daresay she’s aged remarkably well, wouldn’t you agree?” He paused, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “It does make one wonder if his sentiments toward her survived from… a time long past. A time when she still called King’s Landing her home.”

Cersei’s expression twisted in revulsion, her fury simmering just beneath the surface as Tyrion’s insinuations hit their mark. “Enough,” she hissed, her voice low and seething. “Our father would never—”

Tyrion raised his hands in mock surrender, his expression innocent. “Of course, of course. It’s all simply conjecture, Cersei. But… Father’s affection for her does seem oddly persistent. After all, he could have let her fate fall to Robert, like the rest of her family. But he didn’t.”

Cersei’s face was a mask of barely contained rage, her voice a dangerous whisper. “Father has no affection for her,” she spat, though her words seemed more for herself than for Tyrion. “He saved her because it suited his plans. That’s all it’s ever been.”

“Oh, of course,” Tyrion replied, his voice a blend of amusement and feigned understanding. “Though it is interesting, isn’t it? The lengths he went to secure her safety. One might almost call it… care.” He gave her a pointed look, the corner of his mouth quirking. “But as you say, it’s all for convenience. Nothing more.”

Cersei’s nostrils flared, her face white with fury as she clutched Myrcella’s hand more tightly, her gaze filled with an icy wrath that could have frozen steel. “If you think for one moment that she has any place here, that she’ll ever truly belong—”

Tyrion interrupted, his voice suddenly colder, cutting through her rant. “You can rage all you like, dear sister, but the fact remains. She’s here. She’s his choice. And you’ll have to contend with that, whether you want to or not.”

Cersei bristled as she turned sharply away from him, leading her children forward through the crowded entry. Tyrion watched her go, a small, satisfied smile playing on his lips, his gaze lingering as she stormed ahead, her regal composure now cracked.

As the procession continued to disperse and people funneled into the Red Keep, Sansa lingered at the edge of the crowd, her eyes fixed on Lady Y/N as she moved with Tywin into the keep. Her heart felt like it was caught between hope and disbelief, watching her old friend—someone she’d thought she might never see again—now returning under such strange circumstances.

Next to her, Sandor Clegane, the Hound, shifted, his gravelly voice cutting through her thoughts. “Never thought I’d see one of the silver-haired shits back in these walls,” he muttered, his tone laced with disdain. His scarred face twisted into a scowl as he watched the procession fade from view.

Sansa bristled, turning to him with a hint of defiance in her blue eyes. “She’s not like that,” she said firmly. “Lady Y/N isn’t anything like… like the others.”

Sandor gave her a sideways look, a snort escaping him. “Oh? And what makes this one so different, little bird?”

Sansa lifted her chin, meeting his skeptical gaze. “She’s kind, and she’s smart. She always looked out for us in Winterfell.” Her voice softened as she recalled the memories, her mind drifting back to the long winters, the quiet conversations by the fire, and the gentle way Lady Y/N had treated everyone, even those who were often overlooked.

“She taught me how to read better,” Sansa continued, a small, wistful smile touching her lips. “And how to use a needle. She always said it was important to have skills of our own, even if we were highborn.” She glanced back toward the doors, hoping for one more glimpse of her friend. “She was patient… with all of us. Even Jon.”

Sandor raised an eyebrow at that, crossing his arms as he looked her over. “The bastard, too, eh?”

“Yes,” Sansa replied, nodding. “Lady Y/N treated him with respect. She never looked down on him for being born… differently.” Her voice softened with a note of pride, remembering how Lady Y/N had been a friend to Jon, treating him as an equal when so many others had cast him aside. “She made him feel like he belonged, like he was part of our family, just like the rest of us.”

Sandor watched her, his gaze narrowing slightly as he took in her words, a faint flicker of something softer in his otherwise hardened expression. “Doesn’t sound much like the Targaryens I’ve heard of,” he admitted gruffly.

Sansa looked up at him, her voice soft but unwavering. “She’s different. She’s not like her father or any of the others. She’s good, and she’s brave.” She paused, glancing back at the keep’s entrance. “I know she’ll try to make things better here. Somehow.”

Sandor snorted again, though his tone held a trace of grudging respect. “Good intentions don’t mean much in a place like this. This keep eats ‘good’ and spits it back out. And if she’s fool enough to let her guard down, the snakes’ll get her like they do everyone else.”

Sansa’s lips pressed into a determined line. “She knows what she’s walking into,” she insisted. “She grew up here. She’s strong. She has to be.” Her voice wavered slightly, her worry leaking through, though she tried to hide it.

Sandor observed her for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. “Strong or not, little bird,” he muttered, his tone almost a warning, “the Red Keep isn’t the same as it was back then. It’s full of monsters now. And it’s got a way of taking even the strongest and tearing them down.”

Sansa’s gaze hardened, a rare flicker of defiance in her eyes. “Then I’ll help her,” she said quietly. “If anyone deserves a friend here, it’s her.”

Sandor looked away, his mouth pulling into a bitter line. “Friend or no, it’s not kindness that keeps you alive in this place, girl. Best keep that in mind.”

But Sansa’s mind was made up, and as she stood there, watching the doors of the Red Keep close behind her friend, she felt a surge of quiet resolve. She would stand by Lady Y/N, as Lady Y/N had once stood by her.

As the last of the crowd filtered into the Red Keep, three figures lingered by the entrance, watching the procession with expressions as varied as the roles they played in the court. Grand Maester Pycelle, stooped and slow, adjusted his robe with one hand, his gaze fixed on the distant figures of Tywin and Lady Y/N as they disappeared into the inner corridors.

“She’s changed,” Pycelle murmured, his voice low and reflective, his fingers stroking his beard thoughtfully. “I remember her as a child, one of the last from that silver-haired line… She was softer then, gentler.” His tone held a trace of nostalgia, though his eyes betrayed his underlying suspicion.

Beside him, Littlefinger tilted his head, a faint smirk playing at his lips. “And yet she returns to us now, poised, perhaps even sharpened by her time in the North,” he mused, his gaze keen as he studied the entrance where she had vanished. “Not entirely surprising, is it, to see a Targaryen rise from the ashes?” He chuckled, glancing sideways at Varys. “Some things never quite stay buried.”

Varys, ever watchful, allowed himself a small, enigmatic smile. “Indeed, Lord Baelish. The North has a way of… tempering those it holds in its embrace. Fire needs only the faintest spark to reignite.” His gaze was distant, thoughtful, but his tone carried a note of something else, as if he knew more than he would ever say aloud.

Pycelle’s lips pressed together in a thin line, his fingers twitching at his side. “One can only wonder at Lord Tywin’s decision to bring her here… after so long,” he said, glancing between the two men. “And at her readiness to return, given… everything.”

Varys’s smile didn’t waver, though his eyes glinted with something sharper. “Perhaps that readiness is precisely what makes her interesting, Grand Maester,” he replied smoothly. “Change, after all, is a curious thing. It brings opportunities, and dangers, often in equal measure.” He adjusted his robes, casting one last, thoughtful look toward the halls before nodding to himself.

Without another word, Varys moved forward, his soft steps carrying him toward the path Tywin and Lady Y/N had taken. The shadow of his form slipped into the corridor, his presence as unobtrusive as the whispers that had followed the princess’s arrival.

Littlefinger watched him go, his smirk lingering as he leaned closer to Pycelle. “Never one to miss an entrance, is he?” he murmured, his tone dripping with amusement. “The Spider is drawn to threads of power like a moth to flame.”

Pycelle grunted, his gaze drifting to where Lady Y/N had vanished. “Perhaps… but she is no longer the child I once knew. That much is clear.”

Littlefinger’s eyes gleamed, a calculating light flickering behind them. “Then we’ll just have to see how much fire she brings with her, won’t we?”

As they turned and followed the last of the crowd into the depths of the keep, each man wore his own expression—a smirk, a frown, a hidden smile—as they silently prepared themselves for the shifting tides that Lady Y/N’s return would surely bring.

Tywin walked beside you, his steps steady and his expression as severe as ever, though there was a certain satisfaction glinting in his eyes as he escorted you to the chambers that had once been yours. The old stones of the keep seemed to resonate with memories of another time—a time when you were younger, before your life had taken the turn that led you North.

As you approached the familiar door, Tywin paused, gesturing toward it with a nod. “Your chambers,” he said, his tone neutral but laden with finality. “I instructed the servants to keep them as they were. I trust you’ll find them… adequate.”

You met his gaze, a mixture of gratitude and wariness in your expression. “Thank you, Lord Tywin.” You opened the door, casting one last look at him as he continued, his voice softer, but no less commanding.

“Be prepared, Lady Y/N. The ceremony will be held tomorrow, without further delay. I expect everything to be in order.” His words hung in the air, and with a slight bow of your head, you stepped into your chambers, leaving him in the corridor.

The door closed behind you, and Tywin took a moment to collect his thoughts, turning away only to find himself face-to-face with Varys, who seemed to have materialized from the shadows like a wisp of smoke. Varys offered a polite, knowing smile, his hands folded serenely in front of him as he inclined his head in silent greeting.

“Lord Tywin,” Varys began, his tone light yet holding a hint of something sharper. “It seems you’re finally seeing to the business you began all those years ago.”

Tywin raised an eyebrow, acknowledging Varys with the barest nod, a flicker of recognition passing between them. He allowed himself the faintest hint of a smile, a rare gesture from him. “You’ve been helpful, Varys,” Tywin replied, his voice low and deliberate. “It was thanks to your… discretion that she reached the North unharmed. And now, here she is, as she should be.”

Varys’s gaze sharpened, his smile widening ever so slightly. “I suppose all things have a way of coming full circle, don’t they, my lord?” he murmured, his tone laced with something unreadable. “One might even say it was… destined.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, his expression remaining cold and impassive. “Destiny has little to do with it. This was carefully planned,” he said, a touch of irritation coloring his tone. “Plans that would have reached fruition long ago, if not for… the late king’s foolishness.”

Varys inclined his head, his gaze fixed on Tywin as though studying him. “Ah, yes. I remember that fateful moment. When you approached His Grace with an offer—your daughter Cersei for Prince Rhaegar, and the hand of your intended bride-to-be, Lady Y/N, for yourself.” He paused, letting the words linger. “A proposal fit for uniting two great houses.”

Tywin’s expression hardened, his mouth pulling into a thin line as the memory resurfaced. “Aerys scoffed at it,” he replied, bitterness seeping into his tone. “Dismissed it as though I were some minor lord begging favors. He lacked the foresight to understand the power that would have brought to the realm.”

Varys’s smile softened, though his eyes remained sharp, a glint of intrigue dancing within them. “I was there, Lord Tywin,” he reminded, his tone gentle but pointed. “I recall how he laughed. Called it… presumptuous, if I remember correctly. ‘The lions do not deserve the company of dragons,’ he said, or something along those lines.”

A muscle in Tywin’s jaw clenched, though he maintained his steely composure. “Aerys’s madness blinded him to reason, to the strength and stability that alliance would have offered. His own ruin was the inevitable result.” His gaze darkened, his voice dropping to a cold murmur. “But the years have passed, and now that alliance will be forged regardless.”

Varys regarded him carefully, his expression thoughtful. “It’s interesting, isn’t it? How the years shift things, bring them back into one’s grasp when least expected.” He paused, letting his words sink in before continuing, his voice almost a whisper. “And yet, one wonders… is it only alliance that drives this union, Lord Tywin?”

Tywin’s gaze hardened, his eyes narrowing as he looked down at Varys, catching the insinuation in the Spider’s words. “Be careful with your words, Varys,” he warned, his tone a low growl. “I am not one to be trifled with, especially on matters as… personal as this.”

Varys raised his hands, a placating smile on his lips. “Of course, my lord. It was merely an observation.” His voice softened, almost sympathetic. “A man like you—a man of ambition, discipline, control. And yet… she was the one thing you desired that Aerys denied you.”

Tywin’s gaze remained cold, his jaw tightening, but he did not speak. The silence was enough, however, a telling pause that did not escape Varys’s notice.

The Spider inclined his head, his voice barely above a murmur. “Well, the past is just that—past. And tomorrow, the Seven Kingdoms will witness the union you once sought, and they’ll see the power that House Lannister wields.” He offered a small, deferential bow. “I only wished to… congratulate you on the achievement, Lord Tywin. Few would have waited as long.”

Tywin’s eyes flicked over Varys, a flicker of guarded satisfaction glinting in his gaze. “Then you understand that loyalty to me now is… essential,” he said, his voice steely and unwavering. “Remember that, Varys.”

Varys met Tywin’s gaze with an unreadable smile, the faintest hint of something calculative in his eyes. “Loyalty, my lord, is always my pleasure.”

With a final, respectful bow, Varys stepped back into the shadows, his form blending seamlessly into the dimness of the corridor, leaving Tywin alone in the cold, echoing halls of the Red Keep—a place that was once a part of his ambition, and would soon become the legacy he’d crafted with ruthless determination.

The familiar scent of old stone and lingering traces of incense filled your old chambers as you stepped inside, closing the door softly behind you. The room was untouched, eerily preserved as though it had waited all these years, as though time itself had stalled, frozen in the hopes that you would one day return. The faint light filtering through the high, narrow windows cast a muted glow over the furniture, your bed, the silken tapestries—details you remembered from a lifetime ago, details that now seemed like relics from someone else’s past.

Your fingers trailed along the edge of the bedpost as you moved further into the room, touching the soft fabric of a tapestry depicting a scene of dragonfire and ancient Targaryen battles, the reds and blacks faded but still vivid. This was your heritage, woven into every inch of the room, a reminder of everything you had lost and everything you had once been.

You sank down onto the edge of the bed, and in the silence, the memories flooded back, unbidden and sharp. The room held traces of your mother’s gentle voice, whispering lullabies to soothe you when you were small; the ghost of Rhaegar’s presence, always calm, always watching over you like a quiet storm; and even little Viserys, running through the corridors with a child’s wild energy, his laughter echoing off the stone walls. Memories of them filled the room like apparitions, haunting and fragile.

A sob caught in your throat, breaking the silence as the weight of it all settled heavily upon you. You hadn’t let yourself feel this way in years—had forced yourself to be strong, to push down the grief and the loss, to survive in the North as someone who could endure. But here, in this room that had once been yours, the walls held every moment you had loved and lost, and the defenses you’d built began to crumble.

You let the tears fall, hot and silent, streaming down your face as you sat on the edge of the bed, clutching the fabric of your skirts. This place—this room, this keep—was supposed to have been your home. It was here you’d learned to walk, to speak, to laugh. It was here you’d heard your mother’s soft voice, comforting you in the dead of night. Here, where Rhaegar had sung you songs, his quiet voice carrying a warmth and love you’d thought would last forever.

“Oh, Rhaegar,” you whispered, your voice trembling as you spoke his name. “How different things might have been.”

You thought of his soft, contemplative gaze, the weight of his hopes for the future, his belief in prophecy and destiny. You had been so young, so hopeful, and he had shared that hope with you, filling your heart with dreams of what the Targaryens could still be, what they could achieve. And yet, like everything else, those dreams had vanished, consumed by fire and blood, leaving you adrift in the wake of destruction.

And Viserys… sweet, spirited Viserys. You could almost hear his laughter, the way he’d cling to you, babbling on about how one day, he’d be king and you his most trusted advisor. You’d promised him you would stand by his side, that he would never be alone. But you’d left, sent away to the North, where you couldn’t protect him, couldn’t guide him as the world shattered around him. He’d been only a boy, barely old enough to understand the weight of his name, yet the world had crushed him beneath it.

A fresh wave of grief overcame you, the memories too painful to bear, too vivid to ignore. You buried your face in your hands, allowing yourself to mourn—mourn for your family, for the future that had been stolen from you, for the home that no longer felt like yours. The walls that once offered safety now felt like a tomb, filled with the ghosts of those you’d loved and lost.

In a moment of pure vulnerability, you whispered to the empty room, a question that had haunted you for years. “Why?” Your voice was barely a whisper, choked with tears. “Why did it all have to end like this?”

But the silence that answered you was deafening, heavy with the weight of all that had been lost.

After a time, you forced yourself to breathe, steadying your hands as you wiped your tears away. You knew Tywin would not tolerate any show of weakness, and tomorrow—tomorrow, you would marry the man who had orchestrated your survival and, in a way, your return. You would face the future with all the strength you could muster, because there was no other choice.

But here, for just a moment, you allowed yourself to grieve. To honor the lives and memories of those you’d left behind, and to let the walls of this room bear witness to the heartache of a Targaryen who had come home, only to find it hollow.

#game of thrones #got #got/asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #legacy #tywin x reader #tywin x you #tywin lannister x reader #tywin lannister x you

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