#tywin hasn't dealt with joanna's death in twenty years and he isnt about to start now

[empressofmankind]

The Lion in Winter - Part I: Departure - 04. Tywin I

Fandom: A Song of Ice & Fire Major Character/s:  Kevan Lannister Sr, Tywin Lannister, Loren Lannister (mentioned), Cersei Lannister (mentioned) Minor Somebodies: Miana Hill, Brynmor Royan (mentioned) Location/s: Casterly Rock Premises: ...but what if I made you feel for Tywin? Mood: There were probably emotionally healthier ways to deal with things but then Tywin wouldn't be Tywin Warnings: N/A NOTE:   Part I of The Lion in Winter is set shortly before King Robert   Baratheon, Queen Cersei  Lannister and their family set out for   Winterfell. It therefore takes  place a little bit before the start of   the first book, ‘A Game of  Thrones’. The Lion In Winter - Part I: Departure - 01. Kevan I // 02. Loren I // 03. Jaime //

Lord Tywin strode out onto Casterly Rock's twilit inner bailey and into the pouring rain. Down the narrow way between the beacon and the western wall, he went, ignoring the late summer storm. The watchman sat huddled leeward of the twelve feet stack of soaked firewood. No flame but wildfire would light it now. The wind seized Tywin's thick crimson cloak as he came around the beacon, throwing the heavy damask about like a living thing. He ignored it like he ignored the rain pelting his face, seeping into his golden side-whiskers and drenching his quilted burgundy doublet. He held a square of fabric in his fist, water running in rivulets between his knuckles to soak into the faded embroidery. He went up the stone steps, worn concave down their middle from centuries of sentries doing the same. The western wall was the tallest of Casterly Rock's myriad defences, the drop down to sea-level sheer safe for a small ledge.

Tywin stood upon the western battlements and surveyed his storm-torn domain. Far below, the lighthouse of Lannisport cast its fire across the raging black sea, guiding its fishermen home. The storms were ever wild at the tail-end of summer. It would be wet, and then it would be cold. His gaze turned north, to the Iron Isles. The beacon at Faircastle was dark, even the Ironborn had deemed to stay ashore. But summer was drawing to a close, the lean months of winter approaching. They will come before long.

Lannisport huddled amid the rugged hills, shrouded in a curtain of grey. A dismal port along a desolate stretch of limestone cliffs and shingle beach, its shoulders in brooding old-growth and its toes in dark tidal waters. But Tywin knew how it could be, when the wretched weather rolled back and all glistened in the morning light. White shores, before a colourful port. And beyond, a green cloak of broadleaf forest. The limestone crest of the Rock pearlescent under a swift sunrise, setting fire to its gleaming battlements. The Westerlands were his home, and always would be.

“My Lord.”

Tywin ignored the call as his gaze wandered inland, to the mountains and the Golden Tooth, just visible behind the old quatrefoil keep. Beyond them, the deltas of the Riverlands, the forested Crownlands and the supposed jewel in Westeros' benighted crown: King's Landing. A presumptuous name for a hive of intrigue and petty crime. Yet Tywin's gaze lingered, even though he much preferred viewing Lannisport at dawn. Kevan would be a squire, soon. A boy of ten and a child not for much longer. He could remember the day he'd held his son as a mere babe as if it were yesterday. Small and blond and freckled, like his mother. Tywin smiled. He'd make a fine Lord, one day.

“Tywin.”

The rains were becoming more frequent. Tywin could smell it, the vague scent of damp never entirely leaving these days. It lingered in the wood and draperies, rotted rushes within the day. They marked the change in the season. Winter would be upon them before long. Not a cold snap, like the frost spell out of nowhere six years ago, which the smallfolk called ‘little winter’. But a real winter, one that would last years rather than nine moons. Tywin pursed his thin lips. Kevan would be fine, he was a vigorous child. Like himself, Kevan had been born towards the close of winter, braving its tail-end as a babe. Tywin clenched his fist, squeezing water from the strip of cloth he held. They'd had to bury Kevan’s baby brother together with the uncle the babe had been named for. Tywin did not miss his brother Tygett.

“Brother.”

‘Brother!’ Tywin could hear Gerion’s flippant call and laughter as if he’d never left. His gaze returned to the choppy sea and the shrouded lands beyond the horizon. Gerion was out there, somewhere. He ought to have been born a Lannisporter. ‘Look to the sea’ their words were. Tywin clenched his jaw. Gerion would return one day, laughing and swinging Brightroar in jest, mocking their concern as he swaggered down the docks. Laughing, always laughing. Tywin’s gaze lingered. Make haste, little brother. Winter will soon get into the sea.

Tywin had never thought he must steer their House through another winter. He’d always believed Jaime would, considered even that Tyrion might. Jaime... Tywin’s gaze found the pass across the Golden Tooth, the first rays of a watery dawn lighting the jagged peak to honour its name. In a few days, Kevan would be a squire. One more winter and Kevan will be old enough to do it in my stead, Tywin thought. He could do one more. His grip on the cloth tightened. He must. It would be his sixth winter. It would be his last.

Ser Kevan reached for his older brother’s face with both hands and turned it towards himself. “Is there any particular reason you are out here in the rain, trying to catch consumption?”

Tywin glanced at the beacon. The watchman was gone.

Kevan Lannister was a large man of modest stature with broad shoulders and a thick waist. In that, he took after their father. “He was just doing his job, Tywin.”

Tywin pursed his lips. Perhaps, not only in that. “His job is watching the beacon at Faircastle.”

Kevan sighed. “Come inside, take a hot bath. Lady Loren will have both our heads adorning these battlements if she returns home to find you bed-ridden.”

At the mention of his wife, Tywin’s gaze returned to the Golden Tooth. Kevan’s squiring was eight days hence. The ride down the gold road would take six days, even at haste. Loren wouldn’t rest beside him for another fortnight.

“Come on.” Kevan put a hand against his brother and Lord’s back, urging him towards the keep.

Tywin let him.

The venerable keep of Casterly Rock was old and known precisely so, as the ‘Old Keep’. Its correct name, if ever it had one, was lost to time. It squat on the westernmost tip of the limestone promontory, the summit forming a natural motte. Erected from pale, quarry-faced ashlar, delved right beneath its ancient feet, and crowned with smooth red shingles, the keep sat quiet and dignified in the storm. The Casterly’s had built it in the Dawn Age, but its four-leaf clover shape suited the person that had winkled it from them: Lann the Clever, not for no reason, also named Lann the Lucky. Some considered him a son of Floris the Fox, daughter of Garth Greenhand, but Tywin was not a man who put stock by tales that banked on fancy for veracity alone. For that matter, he doubted their eponymous golden-haired ancestor had existed at all.

“Why have you not left for King’s Landing?” Reproach edged Kevan’s tone.

Tywin put his hand to the pale stone as they entered, the seaward face of the Old Keep worn smooth by the unrelenting gales. It was cold and slick from the rain. “No one wants me there.”

Men-at-arms in the red cloaks of their household guard stood inside, sheltering from the dreadful weather. Tywin ran their faces past his recollection, putting names to each as he glared at them in turn. Ser Harren. Donyllo. Briella. Ser Marreo. Selvin. Young Selvin glanced away as Tywin caught her gaze, her sallow cheeks tinging red. So, you were on watch.

“I dare say your wife would like you to be there.” Kevan pulled the hood of his mantle down and ran a hand through his short, blonde hair. Water dripped from his close-cropped beard.

“Loren knows better than to wish for foolish things.” Tywin made no effort to prevent the trail of water he tracked onto the flagstones. The household guards closed the crimson doors behind them with a boom, and he dismissed them with a flick of his hand. Ser Marreo and Briella took up posts by the door while the others retreated to the guardrooms beyond.

“Don’t tell me you honestly believe she’s safer without you nearby?” Kevan pressed. He put a hand to the limestone column as they ascended the spiral stairs.

“Loren can handle herself.”  Tywin scowled. She couldn’t uncover what they needed to know with him around. The tourney of his grandson Joffrey’s name day had shown the sorry truth of that.

“I’m not suggesting she can’t.”

Tywin paused. “Then what are you suggesting?”

Kevan squared his shoulders, filling out the narrow stairwell. “Ride for King’s Landing. You can still make it.”

Tywin started back up the stairs.  “Loren can handle herself.”

“What about my little nephew? Your son? What about Kevan? You don’t think he wants you to be there on the most important day of his young life?”

Tywin’s jaw moved, but he didn’t speak. When he had left King’s Landing a fortnight past, his young son had asked if he’d make it back in time for his squiring. He’d given the boy a non-answer. His mother needed as much time as he could carve out for her.

“You can still make it,” Kevan insisted. “Ride out now. Ride fast. Send a raven ahead.”

They emerged into what had once been the Casterly’s great hall, long since turned into a solar. It was dominated by four paired limestone fireplaces, protruding proudly from the walls on either far end of the hall. The seaward side comprised seven tall archways with leonine capstones, the middle one twice the size of any of the others. They were shuttered with bloodwood from the Summer Isles now, but on fairer days they provided a view of the sunset sea like no other. Across, a semicircle dais marked where the high table had once been. The earliest Kings of the Rock had carved out the Grand Assembly, and they had moved their court there. Comfortable couches, upholstered chairs and even a claw-footed divan from far Qarth now occupied the place of honour. Among them, distinctly down-sized but equally well-made furniture. An assortment of wooden toys laid spread between them, including a gnarled, flaking dragon whose wings would flap when tugged along on its wheels. It had been a gift from King Aerys Targaryen, many years ago. The dais was flanked by a pride of true-to-life limestone lions. The roaring one had a crimson table runner thrown across its back, like a make-shift saddle.

Overlooking the solar from that fair vantage point hung the life-size portrait of a noble lady resplendent in crimson and gold. Regal and arresting, she sat frozen in time upon a divan just like the one standing before her likeness. Her dress was of luxurious, red damask and edged with ermine, the fine needlework and delicate fur beautifully rendered in paint. A golden pendant, shaped into a stalking lioness with ruby eyes, graced the curve of her pale collar bones. And many rings, crowned with pearl and ruby and a crest of two lions entwined, sat around her long, slender fingers. Her gentle, oval face was framed by hair as burnished gold that fell well past her waist in tender waves. It seemed in paint as silken as it had been in life. Her emerald eyes smiled at him.

Joanna.  Tywin paused in front of it, as he always did. Loren had hung it here, during the Little Winter. ‘It saddens me to think that she can only ever hear our little cubs from her dark bed below,’ she had explained. ‘Now she can see them.’

“Brother?” Kevan’s hand rested on his shoulder. There was a question in his sea-green eyes, but he did not ask it.

Tywin shrugged his touch and turned abruptly from the portrait. It was paint on panel and merely shaped into the likeness of his late wife. It couldn’t see or feel any more than the old tree in the Stone Garden could. He shook his head. A streak of bear-blood ran through the Lannisport cadet branch of his House and, some times, he could feel the breath of the Old Gods roll off Loren like a half-recalled memory of the Long Night. Such as when she spoke of portraits keeping watch over their offspring. He pursed his lips and shook his head. Hrm. No.

“Kevan is the first boy to squire at nine since Aegon the Unlikely,” Tywin said, not without pride. He’d been right to decide his son page with his brother,  for his namesake had taught him well. He ought to have insisted on the same for Joffrey.

“He is eager to become a knight of great renown and live up to his Lord Father’s fame,” Kevan said as they climbed one of the twin stairs flanking the portrait.

Good, Tywin thought. His son would be Hand to a worthy King, one day. He would make it so. The tourney had been the perfect opportunity for Cersei to showcase Joffrey’s qualities to his future realm, but she hadn’t. A frown creased his brow. It wasn’t like her not to preen.

“He reminds me of you, you know, when we were younger,” Kevan added, stirring Tywin from his thoughts.

Tywin’s eyebrows rose, amused. “Does he, now?”

“Mhm. The intensity with which he sets to mastering something new.”

Tywin glanced at his brother from across his shoulder as they ascended the stairs. You don’t exactly lack in tenacity yourself, Kevan, he thought. Kevan had hounded him about King’s Landing for four days now. Genna, too. He wondered when his siblings would resolve to gang up on him.

“You remember that?” It had been a goodly while ago. He’d been twelve, or so. Maester Hrothan was no longer with them. He regretted it now, for Creylen was not nearly as competent. They ought to demand a substitute from the Citadel. Or, perhaps, Loren could winkle Maester Ainsley from Lannisport.  

“You hammered the quintain through the dead of night for a fortnight,” Kevan said as they stepped into a smaller solar, though not less sumptuously furnished than the hall below. A fireplace, its limestone arch fashioned into twin lions, protruded from the oak panelling and dominated the secluded chamber. The dawn crept in through the diamond-paned bay window, filling the room with warm, filtered light that set sparkles to the gold-thread in the red samite hangings. “I dare say we all remember.”

Tywin had met Ainsley on occasion, a diligent man and an expert on the histories of the Westerlands. Tion sorely needed a proper tutor and currently wanted nothing more than to learn the origin and purpose of every pebble and peasant in their fief.

“I am glad it healed well, in the end,” Kevan added.

Tywin crossed the solar and strode into his study, a private office where he might retire and work in peace, undisturbed by courtiers or claimants. He flexed his right arm. “I am still not as proficient dexter as I should like.”

Kevan lingered at the door, his hands behind his back and his gaze on an elegant painting he had beheld a hundred times before. It depicted Lord Tywin, standing stately complacent holding his then 2-year-old son Kevan. Lady Loren stood beside him, a delicate hand in the crook of his elbow. The finely rendered sparkle of amused satisfaction in her soft gaze betrayed that whoever had supervised the painting of her, knew her well. The same could not be said for Casterly Rock. The picturesque landscape behind them evidently meant to depict their family seat but had clearly been rendered by someone who had never seen it.

Tywin made for the cluttered, dark wooden desk dominating his study. He produced a small, bronze key from the pouch concealed at his hip, opened a drawer and took from it a bijou coffer of elegantly carved ivory. Lions danced along its finely worked panels. Before opening it, he glanced up and found his brother diligently studying the painting King Robert Baratheon had gifted him for his 50th name day. Then he pressed the concealed indents on the small strongbox. It opened with a soft click to reveal a lining of faded crimson velvet within. Tywin folded the cloth he had been holding, still damp with rain, and laid it on the velvet pillow. It was threadbare from age and handling, the neatly embroidered heraldic lions having long since lost their gold-thread lustre. The shadow of a smile flitted across his face. Their attitudes had been arranged to make it look as if they mated. After a moment, he snapped the box shut, put it back and locked the drawer.

“A fine gift, this painting,” Kevan said, as ever.

Tywin straightened and pocketed the key. “I am fond of it.”

Only after Tywin had spoken did Kevan turn to him. “Our King is generous.”

Tywin pursed his lips. With my coin.

A girl with thick curly black hair, no older than eight, in the ruby livery of their House, entered with a pitcher of wine. She made a curtsy, holding the pitcher perfectly straight, her pinky lifting free off the handle as she did so. The dainty obeisance made Tywin think of Helaina mimicking her older sister and Queen. “Milords Lannister.”

“Only water,” Tywin said.

Kevan smiled at her. “We would break our fast with warm toast and egg, boiled well, Miana.”

Tywin paused. Joanna liked runny eggs. ‘I want it to bleed when I stick it with my knife,’ she’d joke. Gerion would invariably make a rejoinder unsuited to the dinner table, as to why she preferred her egg so.

“Straight away, milords.” Miana left as swiftly as the full pitcher allowed her, to arrange the command.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Joy’s friend, isn’t she?” Kevan said, ignoring his comment. Tywin suspected his wife had instructed Kevan to hound him over it if need be.

Tywin frowned. Joy was a pale, sallow-faced girl whose light hair was akin to straw more than spun gold. She was his little brother Gerion’s natural daughter. Loren had all but adopted the girl, diligently heeling her into the lady she might have been had his brother bothered to wed first. Tywin had seen the two girls play on occasion. They would go to the stables and braid the manes of every horse in sight, and of every young man that didn’t flee fast enough. “I’ve seen them at play, yes.”

“I wasn’t aware Ser Brynmor had wed,” Kevan said. Miana’s resemblance was more than passing and not purely because of her warm brown skin which seemed to hold the sunshine of the Summer Isles. She had the same, soft, round features. Her small, broad nose and high cheekbones framing bright, intelligent eyes the stormy grey of her father’s.

Tywin’s frown creased with disapproval. “He hasn’t.”

Kevan’s expression fell. “Oh, I see.”

A few years ago, Lord Gawen Westerling had sold the deed to the hamlet of Westerbridge title-and-all to the Royans, in an attempt to bind one of his last remaining banners to him. Like so many things Lord Gawen undertook, it had fallen sorely flat.  Lord Lloyd Royan, the newly minted petty Lord of Westerbridge, had sent his sibling to Casterly Rock faster than a dead-whipped runner boy. He’d charged Ser Brynmor with swearing fealty directly to Lord Tywin himself instead of Lord Gawen. Tywin had accepted and formalised the penny-sized fief. Ser Brynmor had chosen to stay as part of their Household guard.

Tywin entered his bedchambers to find a bath had already been drawn. He had no doubt the temperature of the water would be as he preferred it. The corner of his lips twitched as he entertained the notion of his wife drawing up precise instructions for his siblings and their staff alike before they left.

“Loren noticed when she saw her as a toddler,” Tywin said as he undressed. His wife was prudent in her caution towards strangers. Ser Brynmor had still been a new face among their guard at the time. She had kept the girl at hand, should anything unfortunate occur. Though these days, Miana’s uncle was a fixture among their vassals and her father had been commended by the assiduous Ser Gnaeus.

“You don’t approve of her friendship to Joy?”

Tywin pursed his lips. Even trueborn daughters of their respective Houses would not be friends for much longer. “Not all bastards are begotten equal.”

Tywin reached for the golden bowl and rinsed himself shoulders to toes. The plink of water drops falling from his limbs carried Tywin’s thoughts to the balnea, where bronze pipes brought water up to patter down from the ceiling like salty summer rain. They plinked just so on the warm ceramic tiles of the bathing hall. It was a feat in engineering. Tywin’s grandfather had built it for his Lady Alysanne, who had been of delicate health. It was well-loved by all the women of his family, and plenty of the men besides. After Joanna had… After she had gone, he had not used it in near two decades. Until he’d wed Loren. She loved it there, too.

“They grow fast,” Tywin said as he rinsed himself. Though the water was a pleasant temperature, it failed to soothe the cold that had seeped into his thoughts. “Before long, Kevan will be a knight and a man grown.”

“Aye, time used to seem so slow, didn’t it?” Kevan agreed. “It feels like yester morn that I held my Lancel as a swaddled babe. I remember it so well.”

Tywin did, too. When the twins had been born, Maester Hrothan had given him his little girl. So small and quiet, she’d been. Unmoving as she laid in his arms. Until she took in a breath and came alive, opening her emerald eyes for the very first time to see him. The maesters said life resided fully formed in the seed, but he didn't think so. He had seen life come into his firstborn when he held her. Joanna had said the same about Cersei’s twin. Two children in one, they’d never dared hope. But then his thoughts clouded, and he frowned. Thrice-ten-and-two this year. A knight and a Queen they had become. Yet Cersei hadn’t been herself when they arrived for Joffrey’s name day.

“Kevan will need a suitable match soon.”

Kevan’s voice broke through Tywin’s pensive mood. He focused his gaze on his brother, who held out scrub and cloth. He took them, belatedly. “We have spent some thought on it.”

“Banners?” Kevan said as Tywin had known he would. Tywin had never meant to remarry. He knew there were, and no doubt are, those among his banners who were peeved he wed the daughter of a second cousin, rather than one of theirs.

“Perhaps a Kenning of Kayce, or a Farman of Faircastle,” Kevan suggested. “It can never hurt to strengthen those ties.” His brother was shrewd, for these matches would please Loren too. The two fortresses stood vigilant between the Iron Isles and Lannisport. They formed the first line of defence against the Ironborn.

“A Marbrand,” Tywin said as he cleansed himself. The Marbrands of Ashemark were an ancient and powerful family, and their allegiance went back centuries before Aegon’s conquest. Lady Jeyne, their own Lady Mother, had been a Marbrand. As was Darlessa, the wife of his late brother. “Its been long enough that they’ve suffered our brother as their last tie to us.”

Kevan frowned at his words.  “Longer for the Farmans. And Lady Alysanne is great mother to none of us.”

Tywin pursed his lips. They were not shy for choice. “Has Loren said anything to you on the matter?”

“No, she has not.” Kevan shook his head. “And even if she had, neither of us is served with her feeling she cannot tell me something, you will not hear of too.”

Tywin frowned. He didn’t like the notion of either of them withholding information.

Kevan handed him a heated cloth. “What do you think she would want for your boy?”

“What does every woman want?” Tywin said as he climbed out of the bath and took it. “He’s her firstborn. She’s ambitious. She’ll want a dynastic marriage.”

Kevan stared at him for a long moment. Amusement flitted across Tywin’s face as he dried himself.

“That’s why you came home.”

There were various reasons he’d come home. Tywin frowned and reached for clean garments: a long, black tunic of finely tanned leather with a subtle pattern of lions embossed across the shoulders, and dark braies and chausses to match. Loren needed more time. Cersei hadn’t been herself. Her poise had been fragile, her willingness to demonstrate Joffrey’s capabilities hesitant, and that was nothing like her.

Kevan squinted, though amusement crept onto his round face. “You didn’t accompany Loren so she might mingle at court. True, enquiries such as these are more becoming for women to make.”

“I came home because Tion is too young to stay at court.” Tywin pursed his lips. Too young and too troublesome, for now. It was offensive enough Tyrion had insisted on staying.

Kevan’s expression turned thoughtful. “The Tyrells, the Starks… even the Martells, they all have girls in the right age range. Stannis Baratheon, too.”

“Shireen? Cersei is wed to Robert.” Tywin said as he dressed. He doubted Loren would double up ties. He knew her well enough to know she’d want to forge her own path, iron out a new alliance. To show that she could.

“The Martells? That’ll turn the court on its head.” Kevan’s smile turned wry. “Though not unthinkable.”

No son of mine will be a hostage to Dorne. Tywin fixed his brother a look. “I’d sooner perish.”

Kevan chuckled, though there was no genuine mirth in it. “Oberyn will be happy to oblige, I imagine.”

“The red viper is mad, and welcome to try,” Tywin said. The comment made Kevan frown, but he said nothing about it.

“What about the Starks?” Kevan said instead, shifting the topic away from Dorne. “There’s precedent.”

“Arsa Stark?” Tywin frowned. She’d been sister to Lord Beron Stark and had wed their grandfather, after their grandmother had disappeared. No children had come of it.

“Yes. And Lord Tion was betrothed to one of her brother’s daughters.” Kevan’s expression darkened, for their uncle had broken the betrothal. “Though that ended poorly.”

Tywin shrugged on his tunic. “Poorer for the Reynes.”

“It would be good to re-acquaint those ties,” Kevan said. “The North is a powerful ally in trade, politics and defence against the Ironborn.”

Tywin’s frown deepened. He’d heard that argument before and, at the time, it had made him consider agreeing to wedding Jaime to Lysa Tully or Lyanna Stark. “The Starks never come to court.”

“Which is a shame. Last they came south, they had two fine girls,” Kevan said. “One of them is around Kevan’s age if I am not mistaken. The other is only a little older, though she may already be betrothed.”

Tywin straightened his tunic before fastening his sword belt. “That leaves the Tyrells, and they’re kin through her brother’s wife. Aliyah is sister to Lord Paxter.” Brokken and Aliyah’s eldest daughter, Lynara, had become one of Loren’s ladies-in-waiting the previous year. “Margaery? How old is she now, five-and-ten?”

“I believe so. You think Loren will sue for an older maid?”

Tywin crooked an eyebrow as he finished dressing. “Maybe. Lady Rowenna was twice-ten when she wed Lord Gerald. Loren herself three-and-twenty when she was betrothed to the Greyjoy boy by them.”

“Unhappy unions, both,” Kevan reminded him as he followed Tywin from his bedchamber.

“Indeed.” Tywin crossed his study, back to the small solar. Perhaps not Margaery, then.

“A banner marriage would be wise,” Kevan said as they descended the stairs once more. The sweet scents of toast and sugar drifted up to them.

Tywin’s hand trailed the limestone column, absently counting the terminal rondels as they went. He wondered who Loren would set her sights on. No doubt, he’d hear before long. A smile tugged at his thin lips. They’d argue about it, but he didn’t mind. He hadn’t wed her for her placable nature.

“Unless she can convince you otherwise,” Kevan added as they reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into the grand solar once more. He turned to Tywin and gave him a searching look. “Can she?”

Tywin pursed his lips, but it could not hide his amusement. “Maybe.”

Warm morning light flooded the erstwhile great hall, revealing flecks of gold in the pride of limestone lions. The one in repose had a crimson table runner thrown across its back like a make-shift saddle. Tywin crooked an eyebrow. It was the roaring lion that was the children's favourite to play knight-of-mine with. It's concave back and scuffed flanks were a testament to its suffering. When Cersei had been little, she would perch sideways on it, brushing her long golden hair and waving daintily at imaginary crowds. Tywin remembered how she had sat sideways on Robert’s warhorse at their wedding, waving just so at the gathered smallfolk, and he almost smiled.

The round, oaken table near the furthest of the archways, and pleasantly close to one set of fireplaces, had been laid. The shutter beside it had been opened, a isinglass pane replacing the red wood. It allowed the soft, orange light of dawn to filter through but kept the rain at bay. The petulant patter against the mica the only sound on this quiet morning. Fresh rushes had been spread, here and their, the last scents of summer trying to chase the damp reek away. Tywin eyed the flaking wooden dragon toy sitting among horses and knights. The mark of a friendship he had thought would last his entire life. Every time he saw it, the urge to throw it out the nearest archway was real. Tion would be inconsolable.

“Have you decided for Lancel?” Tywin took the place he always sat when breaking his fast, his back to the wall and the sea to his right. His nephew would come of age soon.

“No, wish that I had," Kevan admitted as he seated himself on Loren's place, nearest the lions and toys.

“What did Lord Emmerick say?” Tywin studied his brother as Miana poured each of them a glass of water. Had the seat been an idle choice?

“He was civil but ultimately declined.” Lord Emmerick Prester was the widowed Lord of Feastfires, his only child and heir his daughter Alynne. “Dorna was disappointed. The Presters are kin to her through her nephew Jared.”

The Presters are kin, to us, too, Tywin thought. Through Joanna’s mother. Kevan never spoke of her. And so, neither did he.

"Boiled well, milord," Miana said as she moved to serve Kevan.

"No, no," Kevan said and placed his hand across his platter, before indicating Tywin.

The girl flinched but recovered admirably. She swiftly moved around the table towards him. "Apologies, milord."

Tywin inclined his head a fraction. After serving him, she returned to Kevan.

“Lord Emmerick has only one match. No doubt he means to make the most of it,” Tywin said. Whomever wed Alynne would be the next Lord of Feastfires. Tion was only three, but he committed the footnote to memory, regardless.

“Lord Gawen approached me, regarding Jeyne, his eldest daughter.”

Tywin cut his toast in precise squares, revealing the hard-boiled egg inside. It stayed where it’d been put, as it well should.  "Reject him."

Kevan looked up. “Gawen is a good man and the Westerlings have always been loyal to us.”

"And he had a good wife in Rona of Lannisport." Tywin pointed at Kevan with his knife, a square of toast pricked on it. "But no children came of that."

“Lady Sybell was very courteous." Kevan spread his runny egg across his toast. Tywin glanced away from it. ‘I want it to bleed when I stick it!’

"Of course she was courteous," Tywin said as he caught his brother’s gaze. "If she isn't even that, she has nothing at all." House Westerling was not what it had once been, and it had been a poor match for Loren's aunt, even then.

"I said I would give it thought."

“Don’t." Tywin said. "Sybell Spicer is the daughter of a commoner. And any betrothal to those baseborn children of theirs is an insult to the name Lannister." Tywin held his brother's gaze. He wouldn't allow his young children's prospects to be tarnished by a poorly wed cousin.

Kevan glanced away. "I will write them."

"Gawen should never have married her." Tywin pursed his lips. "The Westerlings always did have more honour than sense."

Kevan gave a dejected nod.

Tywin poured Kevan and himself another glass of water. It had been some time since one of them wed a Crakehall. A maternal grandfather of Loren, if memory served him. “Lizl Crakehall, daughter of Ser Tybolt. She’d be a good match for Lancel."

Kevan looked up and smiled. “I shall write them, too.”

Maester Creylen appeared with young Tion at his side. The three-year-old boy never failed to conjure up memories of Tywin’s father, Lord Tytos: short, soft, round, with a head of golden curls and those ever-smiling eyes. Tywin pursed his lips. The boy wore a red samite tunic that reached near his ankles. It was trimmed with soft squirrel because fabric edges bothered him. A fine little belt that matched his small boots gathered it around his waist. His hair was tied into thin helmet braids like his favourite knight, ever willing to let him ride his high shoulders or yeet him into the nearest hay bale, much to Tion's delight.

"Lord Tywin, Ser Kevan," Maester Creylen said with a bow. Creylen was a gaunt young man, a peer to Loren and the twins. A stark contrast with ancient Maester Hrothan.

"Lord Papa, Ser Uncle." Though only three, Tion's speech was clear and precise. And not remotely like the terrifying mess his brother had made of talking until he was nearly five.

"Good morning, Tion," Tywin said as he put his knife down. "How was your lesson?"

"Boring."

Tywin looked at Maester Creylen. "Is that so?"

"He is a smart boy. A very smart boy, my Lord." Maester Creylen clasped his hands and dodged his gaze.

Tywin made a dismissive gesture with two fingers and a flick of his hand. He would speak with Loren regarding Ainsley. "Leave us."

"As you wish, my Lord."

Tion climbed onto the dais and plopped down amid his toys. He picked up the flaking dragon and made it fly around him.

“I am told the Spicers are wealthy but the Crag remains a ruin,” Tywin said, picking up their conversation.

“Deeds to the eastern copper mines have been written while you were away.” Kevan picked up the glass and drank from it. “Envoys are en-route to pledge fealty.”

“Who were they sold to?” Tywin said as he resumed eating his breakfast. The copper mines were some of House Westerling's oldest and most profitable holdings.

“Ser Teron Worting,” Kevan said. “And Dame Miriam Hill, now of House Worting of Silverbrook.”

"Daughter of Ser Gerrit Closter, is she not?" Tywin shook his head. The old tourney knight had too many children and none of them by his wife.

“Aye, one of the elder ones, I think.”

“The northern shores are splintering among a dozen petty Lords while the Crag lays a ruin.” Tywin scowled. Something had to be done. And soon. “They’ll squabble before long, and the moment they do the ironborn will stir. Those sea rats smell weakness like a shark does blood in a pond.”

“One of them will prevail over the others,” Kevan said. “And if not, a cadet branch could marshal them.”

Tywin frowned. Little Tygett would have been the right age in a few short years. “It’ll be two-and-ten long years before Tion is old enough.”

“You have another son.”

Tywin's scowl deepened. And none did ever let him forget it for very long.

“Why not give this task to Tyrion? Let him stand on his own two feet.”

Tywin looked up to find his brother studying him. There was tension in his shoulders.

“Perhaps.” Tyrion was cunning enough, Tywin didn’t doubt that. He frowned as he observed his brother. Loren had suggested something rather similar, not too long ago.

“If little Kevan is to be the one to follow in your footsteps, you will need his older brother settled before long.” Kevan choose his words carefully. “He may be younger than the twins but not by that much, and not for very long. He’s five-and-twenty, its not too belated to wed yet.”

“It’s past time.” Tywin rubbed his fingers past his lips, considering it. But to who? Perhaps Loren had an idea. It was as his brother had said: enquiries such as these were easier for women to make. Kevan shifted in his seat, drawing Tywin’s attention. What are you two up to?

"Lord Papa?" Tion stood beside him, that benighted dragon under his arm.

"Yes, Tion?" Tywin said.

Tion reached out his small arms to him, dragon-and-all. Tywin shifted his chair back and picked the boy up, sitting him on his lap. "Are you hungry?"

Tion eyed his father's near finished breakfast. There were still some choice bits left.

"Do you want the yolk?"

Tion turned away from the table, his nose against his father's tunic. His eyes never left the plate, though.

"Here," Tywin said as he picked up his knife and pricked a bit of the hardboiled yolk to it and held it near his boy's lips.

Tion took the bite, smacking a little and snuggling closer against him. Tywin shifted, removing the dragon’s wooden wing from between his ribs. Tion’s grip on it tightened as soon as he touched it and Tywin ground his teeth as the thing was squeezed against his side once more.

"Studying is hungry work," Kevan said.

“Indeed.” Tywin pricked another morsel on his knife and fed it to Tion.

Kevan smiled as he watched the boy, then turned to Tywin. “Castamere could be rebuild and used as a cadet seat, it’s stood empty—”

“And so it will remain,” Tywin interrupted. Castamere served a purpose and it would remain as it was: a shell of the proud fortress it had been.

“The woodlands surrounding it could provide the boost in charcoal we need,” Kevan pointed out. “And the silver mines may not be depleted even if the gold mines are.”

“They are, they loaned heavily from our Father.”

“Debts he always cleared. They lend because they could, we don’t know that they needed to.”

Tywin’s frown creased deeper.  

“Tailyn wishes to lead a prospecting expedition to the old mines.” Kevan laced his fingers. “She is confident that if there’s still silver there, she can find it.”

“Out of the question.” Castamere had stood crumbling for soon twice-twenty years. For all they knew what was left of it would collapse as soon as it was disturbed.

"Can I see the mines?" Tion sat up, putting his dragon on his own lap. He was a curious boy, and an intelligent one too. He already knew his letters.

"Absolutely not."

Tion looked up at his father, his bottom lip trembling.

Tywin crooked an eyebrow.

Tion scowled. "Down."

Tywin obliged and put his son back down on the ground. Having finished their breakfast, Kevan and he rose as well and moved to the dais.

“She’s very adamant that there might be silver yet,” Kevan said.

“Loren's sister is adamant about everything.” Tywin sat down on the divan beneath Joanna's portrait. Tailyn was as stubborn as she was skilled. He frowned. She’d been skipping dinner of late, taking her food with to the forges. So, that was what she was up to.

“She seemed certain, Tywin.” Kevan sat in a chair at his side and leaned forward as he spoke.

“You’re fond of her.” Tywin followed Tion from the corner of his eyes as the boy moved around the solar. He knew Kevan was wont to humour Tailyn's outlandish ideas. It made him suspect his brother missed having a daughter to dote on.

“As are you of Loren. Does that cloud your ability to gauge the merit of her words?”

Tywin’s scowl returned. Think carefully before you go there, brother.

Kevan sighed in response.

They sat in silence, for a while, watching the boy play.

“I go outside,” Tion announced.

“No, you will not,” Tywin said.

Tion turned, regarding his father. He took a step towards the shuttered archways.

Tywin’s eyes widened in warning.

Little Tion pouted, a crease wrinkling his button nose and his small chin jutting forward as he squinted at his father in defiance.

“No.”

Tion's bottom lip trembled but this time, it was real. Tywin could tell. "The weather is poor, you'll be swept off the balcony."

The fascinated look the boy gave the shutters was precisely the opposite of Tywin's intent. "Come here, " he said, beckoning him.

Tion picked up his dragon, and a lion for good measure, before going to his father. "For you, " he said as he held out the lion.

"Thank you, Tion." Tywin accepted the lion, which had once been a stair baluster top. Its gilding had long since flaked and it's garnet eyes had been removed for safety.

“Up?” Tion stretched out his arms.

“You’re a big boy, come climb on here yourself,” Tywin said. The divan was low enough. Tion scowled, his little nose wrinkling. Then threw the toy-shaped block of wood into his father's lap.

“Tion.” Tywin scowled as the dragon struck him square in the stomach.

“King Dragon is bad at flying,” Tion said before clambering onto the couch.

Tywin could scarcely wait for the day Tion would bore of the toy. He’d have it fly right out the window.

Tion snuggled against him, the dragon lodged between them. Tywin picked up the lion. It had less pointy parts. He shifted, intending to swap it with the dragon. However, as soon as he placed it between them, Tion latched onto it. The boy wrapped his arms around the wooden toys and curled closer, now nestling both hard objects into his father's ribs. Tywin sighed. It wasn't worth the tantrum. He was still so small, even though he sounded wise. He had risen very early for his lesson about the night sky and it had disappointed him, which angered Tywin. His bright little boy deserved the best tutor they could find.

"You can still make it in time, " Kevan said.

Tywin glanced up.

"To King's Landing, " Kevan added.

"Yes."

Tywin’s thoughts drifted back to the tourney. His daughter was scheming, he could tell. He’d always been able to tell. What are you up to, Cersei, he thought, for the first time in a long while.

Kevan smiled and nodded. “Good. I am glad.”

The rain pattered against the isinglass as the morning light crept across the solar. Tion's eyelids fluttered. He tethered on the edge of sleep, his thumb in his mouth and faint suckling noises escaping him. Can you see them? Tywin's gaze found Joanna's face, her emerald eyes smiling at him. He is as clever as his mother. Only three and he already knows his letters. Tywin stroke Tion’s curls, golden as the sun in the filtered morning light. Loren is proud of him. I am, too.  He gathered the dozing boy closer and hummed the dulcet tones of a song he’d once danced to. Its words came to him despite himself, and he sang them softly to his sleeping son: “I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunshine in her hair.”

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