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His mother was a beautiful woman, all cheekbones and full lips and mouse brown curls, but with a soft look and a plumpness to her that dispelled all notions of arrogance. She had a smile that rivalled that of the Mother Above, a heart purer than the Maiden.
She leant over Tywin now, a silhouette in the candlelight, buried her nose in his stomach and blew raspberries. He giggled and writhed, small hands fisting into her hair and tearing on a lock.
“Careful now,” she sang, “you’ll leave me bald.”
He stopped tugging, solemn. She pressed her face to his chest, her thick curls falling over his cheeks, and he breathed in his mother. He breathed in the smell of roses and dust, of Casterly Rock and rain.
........
This is a babe? Tywin peered closer at the mewling little creature. Father had called it his nameday present, but his nameday had been months past- and he hadn’t even asked for a babe. What was he to do with it? He prodded its cheek and watched with fascination as it turned from peach to pink to purple, mouth gaping wide with a shriek so powerful that he jumped back in surprise. The Lannister heir was a boy of 2 years now, yet this creature howled louder than he ever could. Before he could challenge the babe, however, his mother laughed and rose from her bed.
“What are you doing to your brother, my love?” She asked, soft slippers sliding against the floor as she drifted to the crib’s side, reached down and gathered her second-born. The babe quieted almost immediately, Tywin noticed. Perhaps because she rocked it like the sea would a ship: back and forth, this way, that. So he examined it just as a ship surveyor would. Wisps of golden hair, black eyes turning slowly to green- it was the Lannister look, he knew. So there could be no doubt this babe was one of them.
He sighed wistfully.
“I’m afraid you’re too young to hold him, little one.” His mother said, misunderstanding. She was careful as she replaced the babbling babe in its crib, before turning away and leaving him with his brother, her hand passed lightly through Tywin’s hair as she moved back to the bed. He sighed again, bored. What was there to do? He couldn’t play with it, apparently.
A blanket at the bottom of the crib was all that the babe needed in these summer days. Tywin supposed it would be a brotherly thing to cover him with it, but as he haphazardly tugged the blanket into place a chubby hand shot out and grasped his fingers in a vice-like grip. He’s strong, the Lannister heir thought with a smile of wonderment. That was good; he would not have liked a weak brother. The babe gurgled, wide eyes gawking up at him.
“Kevan!” Tywin whispered.
The babe burped.
........
He didn’t particularly enjoy swordplay, hadn’t yet grown used to the feel of the wooden sword in his hand, but his older cousins pushed him towards it, all but thrust the sword at him. So he took it. Not for the sake of his father’s pride but because he was heir of Casterly Rock, and they weren’t.
Their Master of Arms would hand two of them wooden swords- and Tywin was one of the two, more often than not- then stand at the side of the courtyard as they flailed at each other. He even called for the maester every now and then, as if in the hope that they might actually hit each other. But many hours of it left Tywin little taste for fighting- it seemed useless for a boy of his age, when they could do little but decrease the fly population.
But one day he overheard something, words exchanged between his cousins in a corridor.
“My brother should have gotten rid of that ape long ago!” One whispered, indignant.
“And that wife of his has nothing between her ears,” another giggled, “What have our dear cousins inherited?”
When they sparred the next day Tywin planted his feet a little firmer, held his wooden sword a little tighter. His cousin towered over him, but all it took was a well-placed swing and he was down on his knees, blood spurting from between his fingers as he clutched his broken nose.
Perhaps swords had their uses.
........
The worst thing was the look on his father’s face: that gullible, hapless face. The cheeriness. As if it were wonderful news. He’d ignored the Tarbeck woman’s laughter, as if her guffaw was of joy, smiled even after the Red Lion had stormed from the hall, as though he’d gone for a stroll. The Lord of Reyne had wanted Genna for his own son, to be sure. It would have been a good match- Genna may have been under Reyne’s thumb, but she was too much a Lannister to be collected by him. She would have been a Lady of Reyne; something honourable and worthy.
Though, of course, anything was worthier than becoming a Frey. Not even a Lady of Frey, at that.
Tywin may only have seen a decade, but a boy could be in the company of Walder Frey for barely the turn of an hourglass and walk away disgusted. Already the man had 6 children, 3 grandchildren- and the Gods only knew how many bastards- and he was not yet done with his second wife.
If I killed him now it would save the Kingdoms from the rest of his spawn. Tywin fingered the knife beside his plate; the thought was appealing. While his Father ignored Reyne’s exit, Walder Frey had licked his spittle-flecked lips and grinned a smile so bestial it reminded Tywin of the black brothers, come for the prisoners in the dungeon…
Lady Genna, she should be. She looked terrified.
Anything was worthier than a Frey.
........
The horse was a bay, 16 hands high, its coat already brushed and trimmed so thoroughly it seemed to almost shimmer in the pale light of morning. He brushed it a little more nevertheless. It didn’t matter that it was unnecessary, or that- if he’d wanted the horse to shine- he could simply call over a stableboy. Brushing his bay calmed him, and it was all he could do on the morning of his first tourney. He’d already been suited in buffed armour of Lannister crimson. His helmet was in the hands of his squire, a young Lannett boy, his shield resting against a wall. His boots were tied, his cloak clasped, his breastplate glossed. All he had was his horse to brush, and even now it was fast becoming a ridiculous task. He needed to be occupied. Not because he was nervous, never that- he was angry.
“The Reyne boy certainly has a talent for the tilt.”
Tywin barely reacted to his sister’s voice, simply glanced over his shoulder at her and resumed his grooming.
“Yes…” He twitched his nose, patted the bay’s hind and tossed the brush to the floor, “And a passion for theatrics, it seems. Perhaps he was a mummer in a past life.”
A mischievous glint flared in Genna’s eye, however small her smile. Her brother wasn’t sure whether she’d grown to hide her smile from him, or grown to be like him. She coughed lightly, eyed his squire, and then stepped closer.
“I’ve noticed many of the other knights wear favours.” She said, another smile lurking behind her mouth, “It seems bad luck for you to ride your first tourney without one.”
Tywin frowned. “Luck has nothing to do with knocking a man from his horse, Genna. It is aim.”
Genna sighed at him, but from the sleeve of her dress produced a piece of red cloth. “Even so, the Reyne has a favour. Are you not more loved than he?”
She waved the cloth and he nodded, more to himself than as consent, and held his arm out straight as his sister tied a neat bow around his bicep. The colour matched his armour, he noticed- Genna had certainly put some thought into it.
“Hit him hard, Ty.” She told him with a peck on his cheek, and then disappeared off into the hubbub.
So he did. He would never again win a tilt quite so spectacularly as the one against the Reyne boy, nor would he enjoy it quite so much.
........
In summer days the five children would spend their afternoons in the stone garden, slouching about on the rough-hewn rock, or dipping in the cool spring when the heat soared- all the while listening to the sound of the water, of the men outside the walls going about their business. And of Gerion’s gossiping.
Gerion was nothing like his brothers. Some would say the Maester had tickled him when pulling him from the womb, and so the lad hadn’t stopped laughing since. He’d learnt to talk before walk, chattering and whooping and blabbering nonsense and absurdity from winter to spring. And then, when he could walk, his mischief had begun. He would crawl through the kitchen swiping treats, then cartwheel and tumble through the halls and around the guards who’d given chase, all the while licking lemon cake from his lips.
“I hear Father’s squire is a warg.” He told them now. Gossiping was not a noble thing, more for maids and old women than Lannister-kin, but Gerion’s gossip was so ludicrous and impossible that Tywin let him have his fun.
“Clegane?” Tygett frowned. He was by no means dim, but sometimes took his brother’s talk a little too seriously. Tywin would be sure to have a word with him later.
“Aye.” Gerion pulled himself from the pool and produced another lemon cake from the crumpled form of his shirt, “I hear he’s half dog. That’s why he smells.”
“You ought to know, Gerion, sniffing him all the time.” Genna sat beside Kevan on a rock by the spring, their bare feet dangling in the cool water, “Leave the poor lad alone.”
The youngest Lannister laughed at this, yanking her half into the water as she shrieked, “GERION!” and clutched at her elder brother. Kevan muttered disapprovingly as he pulled Genna back onto the rock, but Gerion threw himself backwards into the pool and continued his kitchen talk the moment he surfaced.
“Did you know that Starks can never die? They just turn into plants. That’s why they pray to trees.”
Tywin snorted, unable to contain himself. “Everyone dies, Gerion.”
He picked a flower growing from a crack between the stone and tore it apart, petal-by-petal, shredding even the stem, feeling the others’ eyes on him. But Gerion just giggled, and showed them how he could wiggle his ears.
........
They circled each other in the mud of the courtyard, the rain beating down on them as they watched for a line. Their audience was small. Two boys, one younger and one older, stood in the shelter of the empty stables, with crossed arms and faces pruned from the heat of summer and damp of autumn. Their sister watched also, but she was bound by gender and prudence to peer from a window above rather than with her brothers below. She gave a disapproving frown as one swordsman dropped his guard to bull into the other, and like a pet to a bell her husband materialised beside her, weaselly face squinting down at the two sparring brothers.
Tygett had grown into a large and brawny lad, his strength shown in the thick bands of muscle circling his arms, his power evident in the whoosh of his longsword. But Tywin was older and- as yet- far more skilled a swordsman. For every blow Tygett dealt, he parried two more. He swung only to meet air, thrust only to slip. To his credit, he never failed to push himself from the ground and meet Tywin’s blade again, and again, and again. Whether it was his determination, his hot-headedness, or his desire to outdo Tywin… It was better not to speculate.
Either way, he wasn’t yet good enough. Tywin lunged, the flat of his blade striking Tygett’s hand and sending his sword to the mud. Anger flashed through his younger brother’s eyes. He leapt back from Tywin’s reach and stooped, seizing a handful of mud and flinging it at his brother’s face. The elder dodged and thrust, the younger teetered and threw his bulk forward, taking them both to the ground with a deep squelch. As Tygett’s heavy fist smashed into Tywin’s jaw, Kevan uncrossed his arms, stepped out from under the stable.
“That’s enough!” He called.
Tywin twisted from under Tygett, elbow cracking back and sending the younger lad rolling away with a grunt. For a second the two brothers lay still in the mud, panting with exhaustion under their siblings’ silent gaze. Tygett sat up. His nose was broken, the blood streaming down with the dirt and rain onto his shirt.
“Sorry, brother.” He said, mildly.
Emmon Frey turned from the window, bored. Genna narrowed her eyes but stayed at her place. Kevan stepped back under the stable. Gerion chortled.
Tywin grit his teeth and pushed himself to his feet, jaw sore and aching. He sheathed his blunt training sword, handed Tygett his.
“Keep your blade raised, Tygett. You were too quick to drop your guard.”
........
He stood in the courtyard saddling his horse, his squire by his side, his knights milling around him, his bannermen in the fields outside mustering into formation under Kevan’s- or rather, Tywin’s- direction. The Lord of Casterly Rock stood on a balcony above, a strange expression of both hope and uncertainty on his face. He would not be riding with them. He hadn’t even wanted this, his father. Ever the meek man, he’d wanted it settled with spoken words, lettered words, buttered words that held no meaning but plenty of promise. Of course, when a meek man was persuaded by all five of his children, it would end in nothing but subjection to their will. It was done in the privacy of the Lord’s study, however, so as to seem as though it were his own plan.
Look stern, Father. Not worried. Tywin twitched his nose, jerked tight a buckle.
“Tighten it any more and you’re like to suffocate the horse, brother.”
His sister looked a beauty, grown into the spit of their mother despite her colouring. The dress was her favourite, he remembered; a pretty crimson colour, with golden embroidery across the chest and at the hem and cuffs. Aloof as he was, he missed nothing- certainly not when it came to his sister.
“The women usually wait on the balconies, fretting for their men.” He told her, but she only smiled.
“Father is fretting enough for the both of us.” She replied, eyes flitting up to their Lord on the balcony, and then back down to Tywin, “My men will come back to me.”
Tywin considered her for a moment, the straight back and lifted chin, the laughing eyes and severe mouth; lesser men would undress her with wandering eyes, see the full body, but he saw only a Lannister woman, hardly a soft-headed maid, even less a Frey.
He nodded and pulled on his gloves as he waited for the rest. Genna hesitated, a strange thing considering the boisterous young woman she’d become, but he kept silent. Finally, she reached into her sleeve and pulled out a simple, red cloth- he recognised it, dimly, from a tourney years ago, on a crimson boy’s arm. Tywin wasn’t a sentimental man; he’d put the cloth aside and soon forgotten it. But his sister… her heart was not so hard.
“Hold out your arm.” She ordered, and Tywin obliged.
“This is war, Genna, not a tourney.” He frowned down at her as she tied, “A favour will not keep me from dying.”
“It’s not a favour.” She finished the knot and looked up at him with serious eyes, “It’s Westeros. And also Casterly Rock. And Mother and Father. And me, Kevan, Tygett, Gerion, even our countless number of bloody cousins. It ties us together.”
“Superstitions.” He stated, blunt. This time it was Genna’s turn to frown back at him.
“You didn’t hesitate to hold out your arm when I asked, Tywin.” She reminded, straightening the cloth around his arm, “It’s not much, only one cloth for so many, but I could hardly go around tying them to everyone.” Gerion would have laughed and thrown a jest back, but Tywin regarded her silently, eyes narrowed. She sighed. “The Gods saw fit to put a needle in my hand rather than a sword… allow me this small effort of bringing my brothers home.”
“It seems you should be on the balcony with father.” She swatted him lightly on the arm for that and he allowed himself a smile, small and private- just between them, “Your brothers will return to you when the job is done.”
She grinned, a wide one of pride and pure joy, before she kissed both of his cheeks and disappeared off into the hubbub. Tywin watched her go, familiarity stirring within him. It did comfort him to remember the tourney, and the Reyne boy looking up from the dirt with red cheeks and red eyes. He remembered the cheers and the satisfaction. And most of all he remembered the contentment on his father’s face, could picture it in his mind as though it were yesterday.
Tywin glanced up at the Lord of Casterly Rock, then turned and leapt onto his horse, spurring his men through the gates. He didn’t look back
........
The letter was short. There really wasn’t much to write, not when you were king. The words of a King were always obeyed, however few, and so not two days later Tywin Lannister found himself on the Kingsroad.
He was to be Hand of the King, a powerful man.
There truly wasn’t much to take with him; an entourage, the men he’d picked for his guard, suitable clothes, his sword and armour, his seal, his family name, his reputation and abilities. Tywin was never a sentimental man but his sister’s crimson cloth was with him, packed away in his chest somewhere. He hadn’t been the one to pack it. He’d put it aside after Castamere, so how it got there he couldn’t say, but he hadn’t taken it out.
That cloth… He may not be a sentimental man, but it was strangely comforting to think his family, his home, and all of Westeros were with him.
........
When the raven arrived on that dark morning, Genna felt nothing but emptiness.
She rose from her chair, bid the Maester her thanks, and walked the corridors as if in a dream, passing servants and knights and others without a word. She smiled at them of course. A Lady must remember her courtesies.
And when she came to her room, she sat down at the window. She began to read, but the words became foreign to her. She began stitching, but the needle snapped. She even began a letter, but the ink blotted and turned the page black. So instead she gazed out, out of the window, into the hills, at the darkening clouds.
And she cried.
She cried because all of her prayers and charms and childish words had been for naught; because she was born with teets instead of stones; because her brothers were dead and she was alone.
Because Winter had come and the Lannisters would not endure.
.