Chapter Text
Tywin had never enjoyed being contradicted.
His father mistook silence for obedience, as though a boy who held his tongue had surrendered rather than merely postponed the argument until a more advantageous moment. It was one of many weaknesses Lord Tytos possessed. The man had a gentle heart, and gentleness was a fine enough virtue for septons and third born sons not set to inherit. Alas, it was he who lived to become the Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West.
The Great Hall echoed with the scrape of oak chairs upon ancient stone, the crackle of hearthfires, and the low murmur of bannermen pretending not to listen. The hall itself had witnessed Lannister kings before there had been Lannisters Lords—its pillars carved directly from the living mountain, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into darkness high above. Great crimson banners embroidered with the golden lion stirred lazily in the drafts that forever wandered the Rock's endless corridors.
The lions upon those banners looked prouder than the man seated beneath them.
"My lord father," Tywin began, each word clipped and measured. He stood straight-backed with his hands folded neatly behind him, chin lifted in careful imitation of the great lords he had watched all his life.
At ten years and some months, he barely reached the height of the carved lion that adorned the arm of his father's great seat, but he refused to let that diminish him. He had spent three evenings writing this speech, crossing out sentences that sounded childish and replacing words until each carried precisely the weight he intended. Kevan had listened patiently as Tywin recited it over and over by candlelight, correcting where he stumbled and nodding solemnly whenever a phrase sounded suitably lordly.
Tywin drew a slow breath, just as he had practiced.
"House Frey is wealthy, yes. Numerous, certainly. But they are also grasping, faithless opportunists whose loyalty extends no further than their own advantage."
Lord Tytos shifted upon the carved stone seat beneath the lion banners, fingers drumming uncertainly upon the armrest. "My son," he sighed, "must we truly do this again?"
His voice carried more weariness than anger.
Kind man that he was, Tytos disliked being contradicted, his authority questioned, particularly before half the Westerlands.
Tywin almost pitied him.
Almost.
He had argued this matter privately twice before last moon.
Then three times last week.
Then so many times until he had ceased counting.
Each conversation had ended the same way—with Father promising to think upon it, smiling sadly, then doing precisely as he had intended from the beginning.
If his father refused to hear reason in private, then reason would be spoken where every lord and knight in attendance might hear it.
Tywin disliked airing House Lannister's private matters before its vassals, but he would rather do it rather than sacrifice Genna’s future.
His father had already given his word to House Frey. That, in Lord Tytos' mind, settled the matter.
To Tywin's mind, it was a foolish promise that deserved breaking. He couldn’t understand how thai matter was something that his indecisive father had suddenly decided was the time to become decisive.
Especially when it concerned his sister - his father’s one and only daughter.
House Frey had won that promise through careful flattery directed at a man who desperately wished to be liked. Instead of betrothed the sole Lannister daughter to someone of greater status or wealth, Lord Tytos wasted her potential on a small house with little to offer.
If Father would not protect Genna's future, then Tywin would at least make certain she knew someone had tried.
"On the contrary," Tywin replied evenly. "I understate."
A few men hid smiles behind jeweled cups. Others coughed into gloved hands.
Tywin noticed every one of them.
No doubt they found House Lannister entertaining these days.
The great lions had been brought low by a lord who forgave debts before they were repaid, overlooked insults because he disliked unpleasant conversations, and emptied his coffers to purchase affection from men who laughed behind his back.
They prospered under Lord Tytos and their purses grew fat from his generosity. Their respect for him grew thinner with every passing year.
Across the hall, Genna sat with folded hands. Unlike most girls her age, she neither pouted nor cried since hearing about her engagement. She sat perfectly still in a gown of crimson wool, green eyes moving thoughtfully between Father and son. There was no pleading in them for she had given up on her future.
There was only calculation.
She understood what was happening. She always did.
Tywin met her gaze for the briefest instant.
I won't let this happen.
He hoped she understood that as well.
He refused to see his sister be sentenced and imprisoned away in House Frey. She deserved better than becoming another daughter sent to the Crossing to strengthen the ambitions of Walder Frey's brood.
His eyes shifted toward the Frey representative.
The man had gone visibly pale beneath Tywin's scrutiny.
Good.
He ought to be uncomfortable.
The Freys had smelled weakness the way wolves scented blood. They had approached Father with smiles, compliments, and honeyed words until the old lion had practically offered Genna's hand himself.
Tywin wondered if the envoy understood that every pleasant word spoken today only confirmed House Frey's nature.
"The Crossing is valuable," Lord Tytos insisted, though the conviction in his voice had begun to fray.
"The Crossing remains where it has always been," Tywin replied. "It need not become our kin."
His father frowned. "The North—"
"Is not our principal trading partner."
Several merchants exchanged glances.
Tywin pressed on before Father could interrupt.
"Our gold flows south through Lannisport, east toward the Riverlands nearest our borders, and across the Sunset Sea. We do not require House Frey's bridge to enrich ourselves."
He had spent hours in the accounting rooms with the stewards. Father assumed young boys cared only for swords and stories, but Tywin had seen the slow decline of their House and knew he needed to dedicate himself to ledgers over fun.
Numbers lied less often than men as well.
"You presume to lecture your lord father?"
"I presume," Tywin answered, "to protect this house from decisions born of irrational emotions rather than reason."
The words landed like stones dropped into still water. The ripples spread through the hall.
Even Genna flinched for everyone present knew the truth in his words.
Lord Tytos opened his mouth, but the great doors thundered open before he could speak. The sound echoed through the cavernous hall.
A guardsman stumbled inside so quickly he nearly tripped over his own boots, catching himself against one of the carved pillars with an undignified grunt.
Tywin's jaw tightened. And here was another example of his father’s disastrous rule.
The household guards had grown softer and more lax the past years. Drills shortened as men arrived late to early morning training. Punishments withered down to simple lectures that failed to teach a lesson. Standards slipped one unnoticed inch at a time until seasoned men rushed into their lord's hall looking like frightened stableboys.
"My lord!"
Every head turned.
The guard's face had gone the color of sour milk. Sweat drenched his brow despite the cool mountain air.
"My lord..." He fought to steady his breathing. "The Stranger is here!"
Tywin closed his eyes for half a heartbeat.
Wonderful.
Now the guards drank on duty as well for what other explanation could there be?
Perhaps some foreign traveler had announced himself with an unfortunate turn of phrase or perhaps some wandering holy fool claimed divine visions again.
Either possibility reflected poorly upon the discipline of the Rock.
If Father could not even rely upon sober sentries… How safe were Kevan? Genna? Little Tygett? Would he need to begin barricading his siblings into his bedchambers to be assured of their safety at night?
Silence settled over the hall, then confusion.
"A stranger?"
"What stranger?"
"Some merchant?"
"One from the Free Cities?"
"A hedge knight?"
“The Seven perhaps have come down to bless us!” Someone chuckled and made a toast in jest.
"For the love of—" The words died in Tywin's throat when half the torches lining the hall guttered at once.
One moment the torches burned bright. The next they vanished, leaving only thin trails of gray smoke twisting upward into the darkness of the vaulted ceiling.
The remaining flames flickered wildly as though caught in a wind no one could feel.
Sunlight speared through the narrow windows high overhead, pale shafts piercing the gathering gloom. They cast long bars across the stone floor, but the light seemed strangely weak, swallowed by shadows that had grown deeper than they ought to be.
Darkness spilled outward.
It was not the ordinary darkness left behind when fire failed; these moved. It flowed over the ancient stone like ink poured from an invisible hand, creeping between the rushes, climbing the dais, and slipping beneath tables and benches with deliberate purpose.
The air turned cold with the damp stillness of forgotten crypts buried deep beneath the Rock.
The smell of smoke gave way to fresh earth, rain-soaked stone. It reminded Tywin of his grandmother’s grave. The thought alone made the hairs of his neck rise.
Someone screamed before another joined in. And then another. It could had been a group of court ladies or mayhaps the cowardly knights of the Rock or even both, for it all merged together as just one sharp, involuntary cry before terror before the rest of the crowd descended into fright. Around the hall, steel whispered from scabbards as knights reached instinctively for swords that suddenly felt very small.
The laughter and amusement that had painted the Great Hall had vanished. Lady Ellyn Tarbeck certainly was no longer laughing.
Tywin did not move.
His pulse quickened.
But his eyes remained fixed upon the living darkness spreading across the floor.
For the first time in his young life, he found himself staring at something for which reason offered no explanation.