Work Text:
Tywin Lannister had three extremely satisfactory days after Robb Stark sped away north. The rest of the Honor Party remained, but they were a known quantity. Robb had been acting as his most effective political opponent by far. He was hardly an experienced politician, but he seemed to have an instinctive savvy, and he lacked the fear that Tywin had spent decades putting into the rest of his enemies. Inexperience, however, did have its blindspots, and now he’d made one of his rare mistakes. When his hunt for the undead came to nothing, he would have lost all of the standing he had gained with his impassioned speeches and moralizing. More than likely, once he’d come back and experienced life as the laughingstock of King’s Landing, he’d turn tail and return to the North.
He didn’t allow himself to dwell long on even more optimistic fantasy, but it did occur to him that whatever trouble was brewing in the Neck might serve to do away with the young lord. Surely there was some real–if trumped up–unrest, whether it be an uprising of smallfolk, or a plague, or an invasion of some Iron Isles pirates. It had been all Tywin could do to stop Jaime from throwing away his life in one way or another before his 20th year, and he didn’t doubt that Robb was poised to do the same, even after four winters on the wall. If Robb did get himself killed, well, that opened up plenty of possibilities.
Jaime was getting too old for them to wait for the next son to come of age, but there was still Sansa Stark, who was as of yet, unpromised. He needed the heir to the house, not a daughter to marry in, but there was some precedence–in the North at least–for the eldest daughter to inherit, if there were no sons, or the sons were too young.
The right marriage alliance could encourage such an arrangement: Sansa as head of the house, and Jaime to vote as her proxy. Caitlin Stark had scoffed at the idea of a marriage between Jaime and Robb, but she’d feel differently without a man to take charge of her house and protect the interests of her children. He’d suggest ending trade with the slave cities in Robb’s honor, and even throw in more funding for the Night’s Watch. He could afford those concessions if he had the Stark heir.
And then Jaime would lead her out to dance, be the charming knight that so many women thought they could tame…
Admittedly, that was where the fantasy fell apart. Jaime had never shown any inclination to court anyone but his sword. Even explaining to him the grim necessity would likely only be sufficient to drag him unwilling to the altar. He could not imagine anything that would compel Jaime to make nice and seduce any girl, not even a girl they would need for their house’s survival.
He wished then, as he had unwillingly wished many times in the last months, that it was Tyrion he had to marry off, rather than his brother. It felt like an unloyal thought, like he was admitting something against great internal resistance, that Jaime could not be his true heir to power. That it was Tyrion whom he could trust to do what the family needed, though he bleated his own objections.
But overall, these still were pleasant thoughts, though he made sure not to let them grow into expectations.
And then the ravens arrived, one from Ryger, and one from a Frey retainer, and he could have cursed himself for his own smugness.
It was a terrible moment, when he had to let Jaime go. All he could do was hope: that there would be enough men; that Jaime would get there in time; that his son wouldn’t do anything more imprudent than usual.
***
“I’m still not going to marry you!” Jaime said, after their third round that night.
Robb gave him a muleish look. “The only good reason you’ve given me is that you don’t want to face your father!”
“That’s reason enough, if you know Tywin Lannister!”
Robb snorted. “I’m not afraid to face your father! What can he do–shoot me?”
Jaime groaned into his hands. “Fine. If you do get his permission, I’ll marry you. But I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”
It didn’t seem to be much of a risk. He had seen his father’s simmering rage after each of Robb’s loud, moralizing speeches. To then give Robb his son, in Robb Stark’s moment of victory, would feed the amused gossips of the realm for a decade.
“Fine,” said Robb, like he was accepting a challenge.
***
Tywin was deep in discussions with Varys and Tyrion about how to manage the fallout of Robb Stark’s disastrous success, when his man Belrey interrupted, though in a strangely tentative way.
Tywin frowned. The man had never before been prone to cringing, and should know well after all these years that Tywin never punished a man whose only crime was to bear ill tidings. He knew many men of power indulged in such petty fits of temper when the world did not bend to their whims, but such excesses led to nothing except concealment and ill service from their underlings.
“Well out with it,” he said, gone impatient.
Belrey straightened and with a swallow said, “My lord, would you see Lord Stark?” With creditable evenness.
His expression did betray a lingering anxiety, which was well explained. He was probably wondering if he hadn’t better have refused him straight away, even if that would have been an unpardonable way to treat a man of Robb Stark’s station. Tywin himself felt the urge to refuse him–the temptation of using what power he could for some petty humiliation. But such urges were better restrained. Instead he said, “I will see him. And have Merton bring wine and coffee.”
It was just past midday, so either might serve, and a good host might offer both. There was no need for rudeness now, when it would serve just as well later if called for.
“Perhaps, I’ll take my leave,” said Varys, and Tywin nodded. The spymaster’s presence was unlikely to improve the tone of this meeting, though Tywin was sure he would find a way to listen in through the door, if he didn’t have someone to do that for him. He made a habit of never underestimating Varys’s persistence in gathering information.
Tyrion stayed, and Tywin didn’t try to dissuade him. He knew that his younger son was friendly with the man, and he himself didn’t know if he could bring himself to be, even if it was required.
Robb Stark was shown in. He took coffee, not wine–more the pity. Tyrion restrained himself for once, and took coffee as well. Tywin sipped a goblet of wine, heavily watered.
“Lord Tywin,” said Robb Stark, “Lord Tyrion. I beg your pardon for calling on you without warning or invitation.”
“I admit I'm surprised you found time away from your well-wishers,” said Tyrion, saving Tywin from the need to make a polite response.
Robb Stark snorted, “If the noblemen of King’s Landing exhibited as much care in the funding of the Night’s Watch as they do in congratulating me now, we would never have been in this situation to begin with.”
Then he seemed to remember exactly who he was talking to, and cut himself off. “My lords, I did not come to discuss politics. I am aware of our differences.”
He paused for long enough that Tywin was almost tempted to prompt him to continue. He didn’t though, letting the silence grow long.
Robb Stark looked anxious, a state in which Tywin had never seen him before. Was he here to ask a favor of some kind? Surely he couldn’t think that there was anything that he wanted that Tywin would grant him. But there would, for Tywin, be some pleasure in the refusal. He kept his face in a neutral mein.
“Lord Tywin, I know there is great ill-will between us, and yet both duty and my heart command that I ask you this–will you give your son Jaime to me in marriage? I know I may not be all you wish for in a son-in-law, but I truly believe our houses can be stronger together if you would bless such a union.”
Tywin stared at him blankly. All his gentle malicious words of refusal fell away, and he said…nothing.
Tyrion shot him a look, and then was taken aback a little, like he’d read something on his father’s face. He smoothly broke in, “I’m sure at least some common ground can be found…say, some political compromises.”
As if he’d somehow guessed, from Tywin’s expression, how desperately they needed this marriage. That must have been what Robb had meant, hadn’t it? His mother must have mentioned that Gemma had suggested the match. And hadn’t Robb said he would do whatever it took to end the trade with Slaver’s Bay?
Finally he found himself able to respond, “We mustn’t let political differences get in the way of the prosperous future of our houses,” by which he meant he was willing to make several political concessions to obtain access to the great natural resources of House Stark. He continued, “Such negotiations should not marr the sanctity of this moment though. Allow my butler to show you to the drawing room while I speak to my son, and then we will join you there so that he can give you his answer.”
It was unfortunate, but he feared he needed this time to bring his offspring into line.
“I’ll go with you,” said Tyrion, and followed Robb out.
Jaime looked strangely disheveled when Merton showed him in. He mustn’t have been dressed when he’d been summoned, even though it was past midday. Inwardly, Tywin sighed. At the moment, his son hardly looked to be a matrimonial prize. Then again, Jaime’s reputation as a wastrel was well-known. Robb, with his rigid northern morals, could hardly be offering on the basis of shared worldview.
Tywin looked at him for a long moment without saying anything.
Jaime eventually broke the silence. “Father?” He said. There was something strange–nervous–in his voice.
Tywin readied himself for the battle ahead of him, “Lord Stark has offered to marry you in exchange for some political concessions. You will go with me into the drawing room and tell him you accept.”
“For political concessions?” He seemed confused rather than angry.
“Yes, yes, we’ll throw him enough in the way of political compromise that he’ll go away north again. You’ll go with him and sink some oil wells in the North and ensure the financial future of our house.”
Jaime was silent for a moment, as if he was taking it all in. “So this is what you’ve been waiting for?”
“Yes,” said Tywin.
Jaime was still just looking at him, a pleasant expression on his face. There was a temper tantrum coming, Tywin was sure of it—the requisite yelling and sulking and pointless threats before he eventually gave in to the inevitable, but for some reason it hadn’t started yet.
And then…Jaime smiled, but there was something mean in it too, and he said, “After you give Tyrion your seat in the House.”
“Excuse me?”
“You need me to marry Robb Stark. And I will. Once you give Tyrion your seat.”
“Do you think this is a negotiation? Do you think you have any power you can hold over me? Your horses, your weapons, your tourneys…even your playacting at being a warrior. I can take all of that away.”
Jaime swallowed, “you can do all that, and maybe you will. But you need me to marry Robb Stark, and you can’t make me do that.”
Tywin snorted. “As if I can’t have you dragged to the sept–or the tree, if he insists on northern ways.”
But Jaime wasn’t cowed. “But Robb wouldn’t marry me if you did. I know that, and you do too. So what’s it going to be? Are you going to cast me off and make Tyrion your heir, or are you going to see me settled in marriage, and Tyrion settled into politics before you take a well deserved retirement to Casterly Rock?”
***
Tyrion handed Robb a glass of brandy without even asking, and mechanically, Robb drew it to his lips. He was still surprised that Tywin acquiesced so easily. As for what Jaime would say…
Robb had cleared the bar that Jaime had set, but he hardly felt that victory was assured. He suspected Jaime had set that condition precisely because he believed it to be unachievable.
But Robb had done what honor and his heart had demanded. Jaime’s response was his own, and Robb would bear the rejection if he must.
Tyrion drew him out of his thoughts by clearing his throat slightly. “Now make sure you hold out until he offers to ban trade with Meereen and the other slave cities entirely, and whatever Night’s Watch funding improvements you want, at the very least. Or else you’ll be undoing all my good work in there.”
Robb looked up at him, startled. “I would not offer to marry Jaime for politics.”
“But my father doesn’t know that!”
The door opened and Jaime walked in, followed by Tywin. Robb and Tyrion both fell abruptly silent.
Jaime’s face was strangely blank, and a deep pit formed in Robb’s stomach, even as Jaime said in an even and somber tone, “Lord Stark, I accept your offer of marriage.” Then he turned to his brother, “Tyrion, may I congratulate you on your ascension to the House of Law?”
And Tyrion’s hands seemed to shake a bit as he put down his brandy. “You’re…retiring, Father?”
There was a deep scowl on Tywin’s face, but he said, “Yes, it is high time I return to Casterly Rock. After I’ve seen my heir well-married of course,” strong emphasis put on that second part.
Robb was looking at Jaime again, trying to decide how he could object to this–this farce. He’d imagined Jaime might accept for love of him, or at least for desire, or–more likely–that he would refuse, as he’d been doing all along. He’d never imagined such cold acceptance, Tywin’s price from Jaime in an exchange of favors. But could Robb object? When Jaime had clearly used what little leverage he had to win this concession from his father?
But now that his father wasn’t looking at him, a wide smile came across Jaime’s face. A smile just for Robb, one he recognized intimately from their stolen moments together. That smile that Robb loved.
Then Jaime winked. It seemed to say, Trust me. I know what I’m doing.
And Robb did trust him, so he just said, “I look forward to our negotiations, my lord, and to the future union of our houses,” like he was dispassionately discussing a political compromise, rather than marriage to the man he loved.