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Chapter Text

"That's pretty, love. Where did you get that?" Eddard inquired upon noting the dainty charm bracelet that dangled from her wrist. The young maiden smiled a shy smile, her cheeks turning rosy, as her eyes fell to trinket she wore.

His calloused fingers lightly touched the little bird and dog charm, as he studied its design. It was hardly opulent by southern standards, yet elegant in its own sort of way. Jewellery was a rare thing to find in the North. In a world where survival took precedence over all else, such frivolous items was afforded only by the young. Even then, such trinkets were practical, simple even in design. This was not only elaborate, it was utterly symbolic. There was no ignoring the charms chosen, or the specific colours used to brighten the otherwise simple bracelet.



"It was a gift…from a suitor," his daughter quietly admitted, with another shy smile. By southren standards, Sansa was considered a woman grown at ten and four. However, in the North it would be a few more years before she would be expected to marry. No matter her age, in his heart, Sansa would always remain his little girl.

"This suitor is a questionable sort, if he cannot afford to speak to me of his intentions first," Eddard warned her with a frown.

"He's not like that father!" Sansa exclaimed, her fingers twirling the charms of her bracelet. "He's a good man, far more noble and chivalrous than any knight I know!" she added in firm tones.

"And how many knights have you known, dearest daughter?" he asked with a raised brow. Sansa held her father's gaze intently, reminding Eddard of her Mother. She could not win this battle, it did not stop her from trying; it never did.

"Once you told me that one day you would find me someone suitable for marriage; a man who was strong, brave, and gentle, and you have! He is my best friend, and I love him, and when we are of age we will marry, and I will give him many sons!" Sansa proudly announced.

Eddard tried to hide his disapproval. Sansa was a gentle soul; young and easily impressionable. Innocent and naïve of the hardships of the world; she was caught too far up in tall tales and songs. "This fine young suitor, does he have name?" Ned asked. He already knew who held Sansa's heart, the charms were evidence enough.

Sansa's blue eyes flicked back to the bracelet she wore, her cheeks now even rosier. "He is my sworn shield."

Sandor Clegane, self-sworn shield of Sansa Stark, had been a foster of their house since he was five years of age. It was a gesture of gratitude to his grandmother, the midwife responsible for saving Eddards beloved Catelyn and their eldest daughter from birthing complications.

Her grandson; a strapping young boy with severe burns on the left side of his face came into their lives a few short months after Sansa was born. Sansa had known Sandor all her young life and the two were inseparable. In Winterfell, the boy was often called 'The Hound' both for the sigil of his house, and his fierce loyalty to house Stark.

Eddard suspected such a day would come to pass. He never imagined it would happen so soon. The realization filled him with a sense of sorrow; his little lady was not so little anymore. Eddard recalled Lord Arryn's wisdom spoken once years ago. There were no such things as desperate measures, only desperate men. "Sansa you are still young. There are many years ahead of you, and many suitors to win your heart. Surely, you would rather a knight or a lord…even someone more…comely."

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, would never condone the notion of marrying a man for his titles, riches, or beauty. Ned the Father, however, wanted nothing more than to protect his little princess from the inevitable hardships such a union would create. In Winterfell, such a marriage would be regarded as a fairy tale; the sort small folk would speak of for years to come. Beyond those walls, Sansa's name would be shrouded in scandal, as would the names of her children to come. Then there was Robert Baratheon; friend turned King, who made it quite clear his hopes that his eldest son Joffrey would marry Sansa. The last time Robert could not have his way, an entire kingdom was turned on its head and countless lives paid the price, including Prince Rhaegar, his wife, and the lives of his children. Eddard did not dare consider what would become of Sandor and Sansa, much less the rest of his family, should Robert learn of this turn of events.

"Father, I don't care that he's not a knight, a lord, or that he's not handsome! I want to marry Sandor!" Sansa protested. "He has a good and noble heart. I love him, and he loves me," she added in firm tones.

"And that is why you wear this bracelet. A promise of the future," Ned concluded in soft tones. In the North, it was tradition for a young beau to present their betrothed with a single piece of jewellery. In a world where such frivolities could not be afforded such personal tokens of affection and love were especially cherished.

Despite his misgivings, Eddard was not entirely in disagreement with Sansa's assessment. Sandor was a bright young warrior; one both loyal and honest to a fault. Sandor was strong, brave, and gentle, when he thought no one was watching; everything he could want for his daughter's betrothed. Looking back, it was clear that the young man had deep feelings for his daughter. It was a truth he had denied for far too long. If only Sansa were older, if only Sandor were higher born; if only Robert could forgive, if only Catelyn could understand, if only…

"Does anyone else know of this, Sansa?" he quietly asked. His daughter shook her head, her eyes falling to her hands. Gently grasping her chin the elder lord guided her sight to meet his gaze.

"Tell me Sansa, when did he give this…bracelet?"

"Sandor presented it to me yesterday evening, after the evening dinner. It was a surprise, a gift, for my name day," Sansa admitted.

When Eddard did not immediately responded his daughter grew troubled. "Please Father, don't tell mother! She won't understand I just know it!" she pleaded grasping his calloused hands with her dainty fingers.

As touching as Sansa's plight had been. Eddard had kept enough secrets from Catelyn, he could not bear to add another. "I can't do that love. But I will speak to your mother on your behalf."

"She will never approve," Sansa said in defeated tones.

"Don't be so certain," he said with a gentle smile. "In the meantime, I would ask you to keep this matter to yourself. Speak of this to no one until I have first spoken to your mother, and then to the boy. Understand?"

With a teary-eyed smile, Sansa pulled her father into a tight embrace as she whispered words of gratitude and love. Sansa was a true gentle soul; the sort found only in lost fairy tales and forgotten legends. How fast they grow, and how short their time under our care, he sadly mused. With a silent prayer to the gods of old to have mercy on his old heart, Eddard watched on as Sansa departed for the library feeling torn between joy and sorrow at the realization that his little girl was rapidly growing into a wise young woman.

Chapter Text

‘What am I to do with this? Do you take me for my sister?’ Arya furrowed her brow, the earring’s delicately wrought chainmail twisting between her gloved fingers.

Gendry bit back a self-deprecating curse. He expected the lack of an emotional response, what he had not anticipated was Arya’s confusion. The wolf-knight not only misunderstood the significance of his finely crafted gift, she believed it to be a jape.

‘If I did I would be presenting you with ice roses and lemon cakes, not a piece fashioned out of chainmail,’ Gendry said. The knight grinned, her amusement evident, much to his relief.

‘You’re right. Sansa would never wear anything like this,’ Arya chuckled, studying the earrings in more detail. ‘There is just one problem,’ she noted, meeting his gaze. ‘I don’t have pierced ears. Surely you would have noticed that.’

Arya never did have much interest in shining bobbles or fanciful décor. Truthfully, she had little use for jewellery all together. It was out of tradition that Gendry sought to present Arya with a piece of jewellery. According to Queen Sansa, when a Northron suitor sought the hand of his or her lover in marriage they would present them with a piece of jewellery; a reflection of their lover’s personality. A suitor would seek a skilled craftsman to create the piece, often a necklace or a bracelet, but it was not unknown for one to handcraft it themselves. In a world where such frivolities were far and few between, such a personal gift held great significance; a physical symbol of one’s love and loyalty.

Gendry touched a loose strand of the young knight’s hair; it was only morning, but already her long braid was coming apart. ‘Bracelets break too easily, one could choke on a necklace, can’t wear rings with properly fitted gauntlets and hair pieces are for ladies, not warriors,’ he quoted Arya’s words verbatim. The warrior woman raised a brow; amusement evident in her eyes. ‘You never said anything about earrings,’ he added with a sheepish grin.

‘So I didn’t. You still haven’t told me what this is about?’ Arya asked. There was no point in dragging out the inevitable. Gendry knew the longer he dodged his intentions, the more difficult it would be to confess to it.

‘It was your sister’s suggestion…the earrings, not the reason behind them,’ he quickly stammered, his throat had suddenly gone dry. Running a hand through his hair the blacksmith murmured a curse. Nothing was going as planned.

Twirling the earrings between her calloused fingers, Arya watched him closely, her grey eyes revealing nothing. With Arya, nothing ever was easy.

‘Arya, surely you know what this is about,’ Gendry muttered. Embarrassment gave way to frustration. Surely she was playing him the fool. No matter her constant claims of otherwise, it always came back to titles, rank, unspoken rules and court games. Fortunately Arya, like Sansa’s brutish husband, was entirely incapable of such ploys; neither had the patience for it.

‘If I did, would we be having this conversation?’ It was Arya’s turn to grow frustrated.

‘You sister told me it was Northern tradition to give a lady a personal gift, a piece of jewellery, as a gesture-’ Arya required no further explanation. Gendry could not say if it was relief he felt, or dread, at her startled expression.

‘You’re as stubborn as a bull, can’t leave well enough alone!’ she exclaimed in disbelief. ‘What could I possibly give you? I’m not the heir of Winterfell! I have no claim, no titles of repute, no coin!’ Arya pressed on.

‘So? What of it?’ Gendry retorted. ‘I’m a King’s bastard son if rumour is to be believed. Got no wealth, no titles, and no power to claim. That’s not why I’m here Arry.’

Her expression softened. ‘I’ve never had much use for courting. Wouldn’t even know what to do if I had a suitor.’

‘Good thing I don’t know how to court,’ the blacksmith replied.

‘You do realize what this would mean?’ The knight’s words were chosen with care. She was equally mindful to keep her features neutral. Gendry knew better; her dark eyes gave her away.

‘Yes,’ he said.

Further explanation was not needed they understood each other well enough.

Arya’s lips pursed as she briefly faltered; her fingers twitched, causing the tiny links of the chainmail earrings to sway. Their relationship had grown from an antagonistic friendship to a volatile mix of passion and something deeper than neither dared to confess. It was a unique situation, one that for years had suited them just fine.

Since their return to Winterfell, Gendry had done what he could to ensure Arya was reunited with the remaining members of her family. Through his skills he aided the wolves in reclaiming the North; a battle so great and deadly that it earned Arya her knighthood. He even stood witness to the exchange of the Northern Queen’s cloak of snow white, to that of one coloured autumn yellow. Since then Arya’s mentor, Brienne of Tarth, now served as the Queen’s personal guard alongside her husband, Ser Jaime Lannister; a scandalous situation that nearly resulted in civil war. Arya’s sister was quick to diffuse the tension. Proving the Queen to be as wise and graceful the northern legends claimed her to be.

Two years had passed since those fateful days, and life had settled for them both. Arya had earned the respect of her fellow Northmen, and even joined the ranks of her sister’s private guard. However, even this could not change her fate; she was noble born and marriage was inevitable. Ever gracious, the Winter Queen, as Sansa was commonly known, did all she could to ensure Arya’s destiny remained her own to choose. It did not stop the many highborn noblemen from attempting to court the mighty warrior. It was not her beauty they sought, though she was said to be as lovely as the legendary Lyanna Stark, nor did they appreciate her fiery spirit. For all their flowery words, their gifts, and empty promises Gendry knew they desired none of her person. It was always about titles, lands, coin and most important; power.

Arya often griped about her unwanted duty, she could not see the point of it all. Her sister was the ruling queen and it would be her heirs who would one day rule Winterfell and ultimately the North. Truthfully, Gendry could not understand it either. He may have been a dead king’s bastard, but at heart he was a blacksmith, and a man who cared nothing power, monies or elaborate court games. Only at Sansa’s polite inquiry did Gendry allow himself to consider formally courting his long-time friend and lover. Despite their relationship having blossomed years ago, neither dared to speak words of love or even discuss the future.

‘Why do you want to marry me?’ Arya asked. Her voice was quiet, just not enough to blend into the silence of the winter morning. Her refusal was inevitable; Gendry bit his lip in silence, he was a fool to believe otherwise. When he did not immediately respond, she grasped his arm forcing the young man to meet her gaze. ‘Tell me the truth,’ she demanded. ‘I know you have no interest in titles, power frightens you, and coin means nothing so long as you have a roof over your head, food on your table, and a shop to work your metal. So why would you want to marry me if not for these things?’ she pressed on.

Arya was a knight, a princess, and a wolf maid, but she was first and foremost, a survivor. Sometimes Gendry would forget the warrior woman was anything other than his best friend and lover. Then the young woman would say something profound and he catch sight of the troubled girl he first met so many years ago.

‘Arry, I have loved you since you were a homeless orphan pretending to be a boy. Have things between us changed so much since then?’ It had, but much had also remained the same even with Arya’s return to Winterfell. He could only hope that it would be enough for her.

Her dark eyes grew distant as she glanced away; her thoughts were her own. Gendry had far too much respect for the knight to interfere. So he stood, silently watching, waiting with baited breath for her response. After an eternity, so it felt to the young blacksmith, Arya returned to the present. Meeting his gaze she gave a nod, a hint of a smile on her lips before turning back towards the stony walls of Winterfell.

Gendry returned to his duties feeling resigned to his fate. If he could not win her heart, he could only hope that he had not lost her friendship as well.

It would be two days before the blacksmith set eyes upon the warrior princess once more. No longer was Arya dressed in garbs better suited for sparring in a mud filled practice yard. Instead she stood clad in her finest armour, which he had crafted at her behest, alongside her fellow brethren of the Queen’s personal guard, as her sister, the Winter Queen, held court. It was not her armour, shining and clean that caught his attention, rather her newly pierced ears. For dangling from her lobes were the delicate strands of chainmail and metal he had spent many a long night on.

When it came to Arya, words were always overrated; for the first time Gendry could not have been happier for it.

Chapter Text

The hour was late when Myrcella arrived to the Water Gardens where she found Prince Trystane waiting for her beneath one of the many Blood Orange trees. He had insisted they meet here and while it left Myrcella wary she could not refuse her best friend’s adamant request. Where once the sound of boisterous laughter and splashing could be readily heard by day, now only a peaceful quiet remained; save for the rustling of the orange trees and the occasional sound of a bird or crickets singing its night song in the distance.

‘My sister told me it was tradition in your kingdom for a man to give a lady a treasured piece crafted by his own hands.’ The prince began by way of greeting. In his hand he held an ornate wooden box. Offering it to her he continued. ‘That it was meant be a symbol of--’ Trystane’s voice then trailed off. His boyish smile could not hide the growing blush of his cheeks. It was not like the Dornish prince to be shy, or uncertain, certainly not around her.

‘Their eternal union,’ Myrcella softly answered, graciously accepting the small carved wooden box from the Dornish prince who bowed deeply in response. Had her mother been there she would have encouraged her to seduce the young prince, to wrap him around her little finger and secure her hold in his house. ‘Everyone who is not us is our enemy’ she would have said, as she so often did. Her queen mother always did love playing the game of thrones. Myrcella was not Cersei.

She could not say where Arianne heard of this practice but she knew it was not in Kingslanding. Truthfully, it seemed more a tradition of the North, or rather the sort of tale Lady Sansa would have told. Myrcella wondered if the Dornish princess had spoken with the wolf maiden. The thought quickly passed, such a notion was too absurd to consider further.

‘We are betrothed,’ Trystane noted, his smile growing sheepish. It was her turn to blush. He was her best friend and closest confident. She had yet to regard him as anything more.

With great care Myrcella opened the finely crafted wooden box, gazing at the contents within. The bracelet was a simple design, bearing orange polished stones and fine strands of metal carefully crafted into little balls.

It was hardly the opulent, expensive sort of jewellery her mother often fancied. Knowing it had been handcrafted by her best friend made it far more precious.

‘It is most beautiful,’ she breathed. To Myrcella it was a truly exquisite gift. It was also too large for her dainty wrists. Noting the obvious relief in Trystane’s dark eyes the princess briefly hesitated. Not wishing to offend or hurt her friend she graciously slipped the delicate oversized bracelet over her left wrist, as a smile played on her lips. Surely her handmaiden could find someone to trim a little of the extra chain so she could wear it as it was meant to be worn.

‘My prince, I thank you for this truly thoughtful gift. You are as talented, as you are generous,’ Myrcella said remembering her manners not a moment too late. They may have been childhood friends, standing alone in the water gardens at the dead of night, but Myrcella knew this gesture was no less politically important than if he had presented his gift to her in the main court for all to witness.

‘Cella-,’ Trystane began, faltering as he fell back to formalities. ‘Princess, forgive me, I mean no offense. But—please allow me.’

Before Myrcella could respond, the Dornish prince had deftly removed the bracelet she wore. His fingers were cool to the touch, gentle, yet calloused from hours of weapon training under the guidance of his uncle Oberyn Martell. The feel of his hands against her wrist filled her stomach with butterflies; a not entirely unwelcomed feeling. Feeling his eyes watching her intently, she readily met Trystane’s gaze.

‘May I?’ he whispered. In his dark eyes Myrcella saw a mixture of anticipation, nervous joy, and even a little fear. Holding his gaze, she nodded.

With a deep bow the noble prince stooped to one knee, as with great care he gently wrapped the delicate chain around her exposed ankle. Clasping the anklet to her leg, his fingers for the briefest moment, lingered against her flesh before he quietly withdrew his touch. The significance of the prince’s gesture had left the young maiden immensely aware that they were on the cusp of something very important, something greater than she had ever known in her young life. It would be some time before Myrcella would truly comprehend its full meaning.

Feeling as though she were in a fairy tale or a dream the young princess extended her hand, which Trystane readily took. As he rose to his feet, his dark eyes and chiselled features revealed none of his thoughts. Suddenly, her friend looked far older than his ten and six years.

‘I need you to know that I respect you Myrcella. Not for your house, your titles, or your royal blood. You are not like the rest of your family. You are better than them.’

The sincerity of Trystane’s words startled and deeply moved the young princess. Myrcella did not dare speak for fear they would catch in her throat, and release the unshed tears trapped in her eyes. A greater compliment she could not have desired. With a shaky breath, she regained her composure; it was not comely for a princess to break down in tears, even if they were of joy. Glancing down at their fingers that were now intertwined the young princess smiled; it was a perfect fit. Squeezing his hand, she met Trystane’s and was rewarded with a shy, if not sincere, smile of his own.

Myrcella knew not if she truly loved Trystane, for at ten and three such emotions were entirely new to her. The princess however, was confident that one day she would. When, the Dornish prince squeezed her hand back the young princess knew he too felt the same way.

Chapter Text

Cersei stared in quiet disgust at the earrings of wood. They were hardly the opulent jewels she had expected from a Targaryen Prince. It was simplistic, almost tribal in its design. Badly carved, polished pieces of wood strung together on a strand of metal with two beads of metal to complete the piece. It reminded her of something the mountain tribes would wear.

‘What is this?’ she asked, certain it was some sort of jape.

‘What do you believe it is?’ Rhaegar queried; a mysterious smile playing on his lips. Cersei furrowed her brow debating the answer he wanted to hear.

‘It is-’ Cersei hesitated, recalling the manners she was taught to express; the court games that she sought to master. ‘Natural, my prince, almost-’

‘Wild? Perhaps,’ Rhaegar intoned. ‘Unprofessional and childish might be a more accurate statement. Certainly not worth the attention of a highborn lady,’ he concluded. Cersei could feel his violet eyes watching her intently. Two predators pacing, she mused. Her cheeks warmed to the accusation. ‘I made it for you my Lady. A symbol of our courtship and our betrothal,’ Prince Rhaegar continued, a genuine smile playing on his lips. It was a rare sight to behold, and it left her at a loss. ‘I have read that it is a Northern tradition for suitors to offer a handmade trinket to their betrothed. It is believed that it should represent the one who receives it,’ he explained.

Cersei opened her mouth to speak but the words would not come. She knew not whether to be disgusted, insulted, or furious at Rhaegar’s blatant lack of respect. ‘My prince, I am only worth a few pieces carved, polish wood to you?’ she stammered clearly offended.

Rhaegar furrowed his brow, his perfect features distorted by his obvious distress. ‘My Lady, I certainly meant to cause no offense.’

‘Then what did you intend my prince?’ Cersei retorted in icy tones. Her betrothed may have been a dragon, but she was every bit a lioness in her own right. If she was to be his bride she would do it as his equal, just as her beloved mother had been with father.

‘I sought to create something that reflected your true nature,’ Rhaegar said. Cersei had about enough of his vague, empty explanations and was about to say as much when the Dragon Prince took her free hand into his own.

‘You are nothing like the women of court. You act the perfect lady, but you have a warrior’s heart and spirit that cannot be tamed,’ he explained. ‘So I chose to craft you earrings after the fashion of the Mountain Clans. For in their women are regarded as equal in all matters. I have been told that it is not uncommon for a woman to lead and rule their people as chieftain.’ The prince took pause, clearly permitting Cersei the opportunity to digest the weight and meaning of his words. The young lioness knew not what to make of the revelation.

‘Once you told me that you believed you would have fared better as a man,’ he continued in quiet tones. Cersei almost winced. She had hoped Rhaegar forgot her furious outburst, from a fortnight prior. The words were not meant for his ears, and had been directed at her twin brother Jaime. Nonetheless, the Dragon Prince had been witness to it all, much to her chagrin.

‘So I must ask if you were given all the opportunities that your brother has been given, what would you choose to do.’ It was a question Cersei had spent far too much time dwelling on.

‘I do not wish to trouble you with such trivial matters my Prince,’ she politely said. It was the answer she knew her Father would have expected her to give. Cersei knew she could not afford to ruin this betrothal no matter the cost. However, it was not the answer the prince sought.

‘If you are to be my Queen I will need your utmost honesty, even if it is not the answer I desire. I have no interest in a woman who will not be honest with me,’ Rhaegar said in plaintive tones.

Startled by his blunt answer Cersei fell silent, as she determined a reply that was both honest and would not incur her Father’s wrath. Her doubts soon gave way to brazen courage. If the truth was what the prince sought, then he would have it. Meeting his gaze she answered, ‘I would be a knight, my voice would be heard. I would marry whom I choose, should I even choose to wed. I would be free to do all the things men can do only I would do it better. They would fear and respect me for my might and my mind.’

Rhaegar looked thoughtful, his silence oddly comfortable to Cersei. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost shy. ‘I too have been denied the path I wish to follow. A prince who wishes to be a grand maester, absurd I know,’ he said with a heavy sigh. ‘My Father would have none of it. No son of a dragon will ever wear the grand maester’s’ chain,’ he added mimicking his Father’s raspy voice.

Cersei was startled not by his proclamation, for she knew the prince was a bookish sort, well-educated beyond his years, rather his honesty and the absurdity of it all. ‘You’re a prince, with the seven kingdoms under your heel, why would you wish to throw it all away?’ she balked.

‘You are a highborn noblewoman, with a chance to one day become queen. Why would you wish to throw it all away?’ he replied with a chuckle. Cersei decided she rather liked the musical sound of his laughter.

‘Because I would be free to choose the life I want to live,’ she replied. It was the truth. Jaime was free to do as he wanted but Cersei was to become a perfect little lady. A lady, or so she believed, was little more than a thoroughbred sow who would be sold in marriage to the highest bidder.

‘And that is why I fought Father for your hand in marriage. I want a queen who will look me in the eye, and say what is on her mind. A lady who knows what she wants, and is not afraid to get it,’ Rhaegar answered. It was an unexpected revelation, one that greatly pleased her. Rhaegar understood what even Jaime could not. For the first time she truly felt that she was not alone.

‘The dragon maester prince,’ she mused with a hint of a smile. Despite her best attempts, Cersei could not envision the beautiful dragon prince wearing a maester’s cloak and chain.

‘The lioness knight,’ he retorted, raising a brow his smile turning wry. In his violet eyes, she could see he too struggled to envision her readily clad in armour with a sword on her hip.

With a sincere smile the lioness removed her elegant ruby earrings, replacing them with the prince’s crude creations. She could not help but marvel how something so small, and so simplistic could make her feel strangely powerful. Meeting his gaze she politely bowed, an unspoken means of gratitude. To her astonishment, the prince gently cupped her cheek with a hand, and leaned in to whisper ‘thank you’ in Cersei’s ear. Before quietly turning away without another word spoken. Leaving her to wonder if his gratitude was birthed from their shared understanding, or the fact she now held the secret of his dreams.

Chapter Text

‘You say these things now,’ said Joanna, with a wry smile and shake of her head. The delicate chainmail of her favourite earrings chimed, dancing within their elegant cage of filigree. ‘But will you still mean your sweet words when my hair has turned to snow, my belly remains swollen from years of childbirth or when my breasts no longer have the firmness of my youth.’

Tywin was no poet, nor was he a man who bothered with empty flatteries. He had spoken true. Joanna Lannister was more than a stunning beauty she was smart, witty, and clever. The lioness may not have been of royal blood, yet she commanded respect in way that would make even the Targaryen’s envious. The young lion had little use for the gods, and even less for their pious demands. Yet when he looked into her eyes, Tywin realized even he would be willing to acknowledge their presence if only they would permit him to call Joanna his wife.

‘I am not a man who jests,’ he replied. ‘Nor would I ever dare patronize your intelligence with empty fool-headed words.’ With a sincere smile, her delicate fingers slipped into his hand; his answer had satisfied her.

The gods, cruel as they could be, chose to fulfil his wish and for a time everything was right in his world.

Tywin promised Joanna the kingdom, all the monies she could desire, and power for their descendants to come. In turn, the lioness promised him loyalty, love, and an heir worthy of his pride. Both were true to their word. However, some promises have a life of their own, and come at a price too high for any mortal to pay. Had Tywin been a lesser man, a sheep not a lion, he would have sold his very soul to the Stranger in exchange for the life of his beloved. The young man was no fool, the gods if they were ever real, cared little for the wishes and longings of fallible mortals.

It was during the hour of the wolf that Joanna left his life. Even in death, her green eyes held such vibrancy and life. Only her porcelain skin, now an ashen shade of white revealed the young woman had truly departed from his world. His heart torn with sorrow and bitterness, the young lion silently swore he would never love the babe who stole her away from him. The beast may have been born a Lannister, but he would never be their son, not truly. With a face as set as stone, he kissed Joanna’s cold sweaty brow and closed her eyes one last time.

Joanna was not the only one who died that day.

At Tywin’s command, everything Joanna owned was destroyed, consumed by the flames. Only her favourite pair of earrings remained untouched by the fires that had devoured her lingering memory. The jewellery had been a family heirloom on her mother’s side. When Cersei came of age it had been Joanna’s intention to pass them onto her. For her mother had done the same, as did her mother’s mother for it a tradition that dated back to the beginnings of house Prester, so she had once explained. For Tywin it was a silent tribute to her memory and the life they should have shared. He carried the earrings with him at all times, tucked away within the hidden pockets of his tunic.

Tywin’s grief became sorrow, and sorrow turned to rage, a rage that festered into hatred. A promise once spoken in a moment love had become an obsession bound by vengeance; one that would be paid with the blood of hundreds of thousands of innocent lives.

‘Return to me.’ Joanna’s voice would whisper in the dark during those long nights when rain pounded against the stone walls of Casterly Rock and thunder threatened to tear apart its very foundations. With her earrings in hand, the lion would stare beyond the glass windows of his private chambers searching for a phantom he never believed in, but desperately wished he could.

Victory, power, and respect followed Tywin wherever he went, unspoken assurance that his promise and destiny was his to claim; gods be dammed. When Robert Baratheon, a naïve brute of a man took the iron throne the lion stood before him as all of his royal court watched on. His hands filled with the cloaked forms of two very small corpses.

‘Come back to me,’ Joanna’s voice whispered for Tywin’s ears alone to hear.

Stepping forward the lion placed the lifeless bodies of Rhaenys and Aegon Targaryen cloaked in Lannister red at the King’s feet. He had made his decision. Joanna’s phantom sobs echoed in his mind as he took his place amongst the nobles of court. Not once had Tywin ever witnessed his lioness weep.

His loyalty now proven, the great Lion sought to fulfil the second half of his promise to his beloved. With fingers tightly wrapped around the ancient earrings Tywin watched on as his only daughter was married and coroneted in a single afternoon. Joanna was not present in the flesh, she was there in spirit. He could hear the familiar tinkle of chainmail bound in filigree, and smell her faint perfume on the gentle breeze that blew around them. He knew better than to acknowledge the phantom sense of foreboding that came with it. Only fools turned prey to their doubts.

For years he carried the elegant filigree of silver and the delicate lengths of finely crafted chainmail, safe within the hidden pockets of his tunics. What once had been a loving means of honouring his beloved, had become little more than a symbol of his ambition. In his lust for power, Tywin forgot the true memory of Joanna’s person. So her voice remained silent and her presence was never again felt, until the death of their eldest grandson, and the eve of their youngest son’s execution.

‘What has become of you, my love?’ Joanna whispered from the shadows. ‘Where is the great lion who promised me all that my heart desired?’ Beyond the four walls of his bedchambers, the full moon stood watch while autumn winds blustered and blew foreshadowing winter’s impending arrival.

Tywin’s fingers slipped to the hidden filigree earrings as confusion, transformed to frustration. Everything he did, everything he had ever done was for their family and for her! ‘A Lannister always pays their debts,’ he hissed through clenched teeth. Beyond the stone walls the winds grow steadily stronger causing the fine glass panes of his windows to rattle and shake. Though his bedchamber was well warmed by hearth fires he could feel the chill of night set deep into his aged bones, just he felt the ice of phantom fingers caressing his hands.

‘Return to me,’ Joanna’s pressed on her whispers carried by the whistling winds, along with the tinkle of her earrings. But Tywin was not the young man he had once been. He knew there was no life beyond the veil, there was only death. In agitation, he ignored her phantom voice, certain it was little more than certain by-product of his already exhausted mind.

‘Please do not do this, he is our son! It is not too late to turn back!’ The lioness pressed on, her whispered pleas for mercy growing stronger, demanding his attention. Tywin’s grip tightened around the earrings, crushing the delicate metal cones. Only a mother could love the very child that murders her, the old lion bitterly mused. Soon he would avenge Joanna’s passing, and right the grave wrong that had transpired on that fateful night twenty-five years ago.

‘Return to me!’ The spirit of his beloved pleaded once more as her eyes of jade watched him from beyond his sight. ‘We are the pride. We must stand together or we will all be lost!’

With Joanna’s warning came a sense of foreboding Tywin had not felt since Cersei’s coronation. Only this time there were no doubts, no fear, only a sense of clarity. Standing before the fiery hearth the old lion considered the turn of events all that had brought him to this point. Tyrion would face justice; Cersei would remarry thus securing further alliances, and Jaime would step down from the Kingsguard to reclaim his birth right of Casterly Rock. A new era was on the horizon and their family would emerge stronger for it. No longer would the Lannister name be slandered, mocked or ridiculed. His legacy would live on just as he had planned, and their reign would last a thousand years. Tywin’s fingers uncurled as his eyes fell to the mangled remains of Joanna’s delicate earrings. This was not the ending she would have desired. It was no longer her decision to make.

Self-assured, the old lion threw the earrings he had once cherished into the hearth’s hungry fires. The flames eagerly licked at the fragile filigree blackening the once polished silver until it was unrecognizable.

‘All you have fought and toiled so hard for shall turn to ashes.’ Joanna whispered her final warning in his thoughts; his heart heard nothing. Her memory had since been forgotten. Turning away from the hearth, Tywin called for a servant; there remained one last thing that required his attention before the night was through.

He never heard Joanna’s voice ever again, as his own soon fell silent at the unexpected hands of justice.