The Lion's Den [Closed]

[Lucyfer]

“The last time I was here,” the woman with the red hair spoke, looking out the window of the carriage, “I didn’t think the smell of the dead would ever leave these streets.”


One shoulder was pressed against the wooden wall, her blue eyes staring out of the diamond-shaped window. “What was that now, fifteen years ago?” It was amazing how quickly things had changed. She’d been young, then, hopeful that in going with the Westerlands as a healer, she’d encounter Tywin. Her hope then had been that she’d find Tywin wounded.


Accidents happened in medicine.


That was not the case, of course. She had not met Tywin Lannister then. “It’s been much longer for me,” spoke the greying man with calm, brown eyes. “I was in a tourney, way back,” he’d hoped to have sons that would be in tournaments, but the Gods had seen fit to give him one true-blooded daughter, and then…this one.


A Reyne. The last, by all accounts. He wanted to doubt it still, but she stuck to her story of flames and screams. “I didn’t win,” he’d not been in the best shape then, and he certainly wasn’t any longer, now beyond 70 years. He was soft and thin, with wrinkles sagging his skin.


Still, he dressed well, the orange and black colors of his house and their diamond-shape decorating his jerkin. He wouldn’t appear weak, here.


Silence stretched between them. They were too close to the Lion’s Mouth to speak openly any longer. Tybolt leaned forward and took one of his daughter’s hands in both of his. She turned her gaze from the window and he said, “Please, don’t be rash, Ami.”


A calm smile spread across her lips and she answered him, “I wouldn’t,” she had waited this long. She could wait longer. The consequences would be dire if she were figured out. Tywin, or Jaime in his place, might seek to commit genocide of House Hetherspoon.


Aemilia wouldn’t cause another genocide. It had been tempting to think of, in her youth—to destroy House Lannister completely. Now, however, she was much calmer.


She patted Tybolt’s hand, enclosing one of his around hers, “I promise, Tybolt.” She never called him father in private, only in public. To do so would feel like a betrayal of the man who was truly her father.


She knew it hurt him. She saw it in his tired smile as he squeezed her hand, and then let her go.


The carriage came to a stop. “We’ll be staying in the Maidenvault while we’re here,” Tybolt noted. There was a bit of conversation outside, before the door was opened by their own driver. Tybolt stepped out first, and then offered his arm to Aemilia, who accepted it. Tybolt addressed the figure in gold, “I am Tybolt Hetherspoon, this is my daughter Amaia Hetherspoon.” Clad in a golden dress with red accents—he’d sighed over it, “We’re to be guests of Tywin Lannister,” normally, it would be strange that they weren’t meeting at Casterly Rock, but Tywin was Hand of the King, and this was a time of war.


“Oh!” The man in gold realized, “Yes, of course, my apologizes. You may follow me in and we’ll get you settled and have Lord Tywin alerted about your arrival.”


The man ran ahead a bit to alert others of the house staff of their arrival, and to set tasks—one was to alert Tywin, others were to help with the luggage, to help have the carriage and the horses sent away, and any other task that needed to be taken care of so that the Hetherspoons had no worries. Then their staff was to be shown where they, too, would be staying.


“Right this way!” The chipper staff member said, and led the two Hetherspoons towards the Maidenvault, chatting all the while about the Red Keep itself, since neither had been in it before.

 

[Scriven]

One month earlier


From within the cold stone walls of Harrenhall, Tywin Lannister regarded the map before him. It was spread out along the rough wooden table, weighted down on one corner by a cup of wine. A heavy knife held another end down, and on the other side was a sack of gold. Robb Stark, Lord Eddard’s son, was marching through the Westerlands, getting closer and closer to the seat of House Lannister every day. If he dared to attack Casterly Rock, the boy would surely fall. Tywin had very little doubt of that.


Tywin couldn’t take credit for the location of Casterly Rock, but if he had been one of the gods creating the seven kingdoms, he would have laid out the Westerlands similarly. There was only one path through the mountains that an army could take and it was predictable and well guarded. Robb Stark would avoid that path, staying away from the Trident. He’d try to bring his army in covertly somehow.


Tywin had been gathering his bannermen, moving forces from King’s Landing to the Westerlands to guard against attack from Rob Stark. He’d warned them to be on alert, ready for an army from the North taking an unfamiliar path. By the time Rob Stark made his way anywhere near Casterly Rock, his troops would be exhausted and whittled down to next to nothing. The Lannisters were the richest house in the seven kingdoms and what they lacked in size and manpower they more than made up for in the efficacy of their troops and the considerable advantage in equipment.


Tywin’s finger drifted over the map. He trailed it past the Ashemark and the Deep Den, over the ruins of Castamere and Hornvale. His finger stopped at the seat of House Hetherspoon, a thoughtful frown on his craggy features. His pale blue eyes became unfocused and he idly tapped the map, sitting down at the table.


Perhaps it was time to square away a few matters. More than two birds could be killed with one swift stone if he planned things right. Tywin drew parchment and ink toward him. His words to Tybolt Hetherspoon were brief and to the point. He summoned the man and his daughter to King’s Landing to discuss a possible marriage.


Present

The Hand of the King sat in the small council chamber, drafting a letter to his bannermen as Lord Varys sat further down the table, discussing with him the changes that had come about since the Battle of the Blackwater. Tyrion was apparently patiently awaiting his council, and he would go on waiting.


There was a knock on the door and Varys rose, calling for a servant to answer it. “Yes?” he asked patiently. Tywin didn’t look up. He spread sand across the parchment, blew it away, and folded the paper.


“My lord, Tybolt Hetherspoon and his daughter have arrived. They are in the Maidenvault, awaiting an audience with Lord Tywin.”


Tywin’s pale gaze only flicked up for a second, his mouth thinning into a frown.


“Tell them I will speak with them at dinner here at the Tower of the Hand,” Tywin muttered. Varys nodded to the man, who bowed and excused himself, door shutting behind him.


“Your future bride. How sweet. I’ve always loved a wedding. But why now, I wonder? And why a Hetherspoon?”


Tywin dripped wax onto the folded letter and pressed his seal into it. “Lord Hetherspoon has been a loyal bannerman for years. His lands lie between Casterly Rock and the Trident. It’s advantageous to strengthen the alliance between our houses and to create a buffer between Rob Stark’s army and Casterly Rock.”


“I’m sure Lord Tyrion will be relieved to hear that this isn’t about heirs,” Varys replied, doubt in his voice


“An heir is unlikely. The woman is too old, and likely barren. She is childless from her previous marriage. Though, if she did conceive...” Tywin shook his head. That was too much to hope for. Casterly Rock would go to Tommen. Tyrion had expressed desire to be the Lord of Casterly Rock, but it didn’t make any difference what the little imp desired. Tywin would not see Casterly Rock held by his embarrassment of a son.

 

[Lucyfer]

“…was where Rhaena, Elaena, and Daena Targaryen were kept by their brother, Baelor. It is written that he kept them here because he did not want them tempting him with carnal thoughts, although he was married to Daena. They say that Daena escaped several times….” The guide spoke on about the story of Daena and Aegon.


Tybolt wasn’t listening, but was struggling with the steps and cursing softly under his breath. He wouldn’t ask for help, of course.


Aemilia knew this, and eventually slowed her own pace and offered her arm to Tybolt. ‘Come on now.’ She wasn’t sure when they’d parted. She had a feeling it was on the steps.


Their guide paused a few steps up, and looked mortified, “Oh, I’m so sorry, Lord Hetherspoon, I’d—”


“Oh, you’re fine,” though Tybolt spoke it bitterly. He’d not confess his troubles brought on by age. “Just been a while since I’ve been in a place this large.” The Hetherspoon home didn’t have so many steps, and even then Tybolt tended to avoid them. More and more, Aemilia was taking over the home. ‘But if this goes through….’ Well, then he’d have to put up with his nephew and brother moving in.


Small price to pay. He’d make sure to get a poison-taster, though, or see about Clifton returning to his service. The lad had gone on back to the Citadel a couple of years back for more chains. He was good with those things. ‘He went here, though, didn't he?’ Perhaps he’d pay Clifton a visit.


On up they went, and on reaching the main floor the three of them nearly collided with Margaery Tyrell. “Oh! Pardon me, I forgot to mention that the Tyrells are also staying in the Maidenvault.”


He wasn’t sure if the Tyrells had been informed they would be sharing, so the guide hastened to the side and motioned from Margaery to the Hetherspoons, “Your Grace, this is Tybolt Hetherspoon and his daughter, Amaia Hetherspoon. They will be sharing the Maidenvault with you and your family.”


Aemilia let her gaze fall upon the beauty in the blue, rather revealing, dress. She had been Queen Baratheon once, and was now to be it twice, married to Joffrey. Her face lit up prettily, and Aemilia found it didn’t lack in sincerity as the brunette reached her hands out for Aemilia, and she responded in kind, taking both of Margaery’s hands without much thought. “So you are Aemilia Hetherspoon. I’ve heard the whispers around.” She squeezed Aemilia’s hands and with that pressure and a pull, drew her forward, seeming to drink her in, “I think I will be most happy most happy to welcome you into the family, good-mother,” the more appropriate term would have aged Aemilia to good-grandmother, but then, Margaery was one for flattery—Cersei in her mind was good-sister, after all.


The smile became brighter, “Won’t you and your father have tea with me, tomorrow in the gardens? It is quite beautiful out there, and I can show you about King’s Landing, if you like.”


Tybolt muttered the name, “Tyrell….” If Margaery heard it, she pretended not to, her gaze focused hopefully up at Aemilia.


Aemilia met the warmth with a chill, not unkind, but wary, “I do not yet know my schedule here, but if it is feasible then I will see you tomorrow for tea, Your Grace,” it wasn’t quite the appropriate term, but she wasn’t sure what was.


Margaery’s laugh was a bell, “Please, call me Margaery!” She released Aemilia’s hands, “I am afraid I cannot linger, I am going to see my king,” she glided easily by, taking the steps two at a time.


Tybolt shook his head, and remained quiet until they were shown to their rooms, separate but next to each other. Tybolt followed Aemilia into hers and snorted at the color design, “Give’em credit, I suppose. At least they didn’t add spoon decorations. There’s probably roses all over the Tyrell area.”


Aemilia smiled a bit and glanced to him, “You don’t like the Tyrells?”


“Their words are wine,” he said, “don’t trust them for longer than a few sentences, or you’ll start to believe everything they say.” And that was always dangerous.


Soon came the men with their luggage, which were sorted into the appropriate rooms, and then a messenger with information that Tywin would see them for dinner. “More stairs,” was all Tybolt could mutter, though he was pleased that would give him time to clean up and rest from the journey. “Would you write to Clifton, Ami?” He asked once all was delivered and divvied up, causing her to cant her head. “While we’re here, it would be good to see what our old maester’s learned and see if he’s bored yet of his books and isolation.”


Aemilia chuckled at the thought, “Should I schedule it for while I visit with Margaery?”


“Please!” They both shared a laugh and Aemilia consented to write a letter to the maester, and have a courier carry it off. She had time till dinner, after all.

 

[Scriven]

The dining chamber in which they were going to be eating that night was intimate, at least as far as they went in the Red Keep. There was no table long enough to seat two hundred, just a normal wooden trestle with two benches on the long sides, chairs on either end. It was only the three of them, after all. Gods forbid Cersei be present. His daughter had never known when to hold her tongue. It was a trait shared by all his children.


Tywin sat at the head of the table, declining the wine that was offered to him. “I want it watered down,” he said sharply. When there were matters of business to discuss, Tywin kept a clear head. Watered wine was brought in just a moment later, put before him. The table was being laid as well, two servants hurriedly working. Neither met the eye of the stern man sitting there. They brought out a platter of boiled potatoes ladled with cream and sprinkled with chives. There was roast duck in a savory wine sauce and stewed parsnips. Steaming, yeasty rolls were brought out in a basket and placed beside a shallow bowl of fresh butter.


The sun had set outside and the curtains were drawn shut in the chamber. Candles in tall sconces cast the room in warm, flickering light. A man entered the room, bowing low.


“My Lord Hand, Lord Tybolt of House Hetherspoon, and his daughter Amaia.”

 

[Lucyfer]

The smell of roses did invade the Maidenvault, Aemilia noticed, when she went for a stroll after writing her letter. She exited her chambers to find a courier, and found one with relative ease, which gave her time to wander. She wouldn’t go far—she didn’t know the Red Keep well enough to risk getting lost before dinner.


Dinner was to take place at sundown. The pair were fetched before then to be guided to the Tower of the Hand, by the same guide as before. Aemilia got the feeling he was the one assigned to them, even if he’d started out ignorant of who they were.


That, or he really liked the sound of his own voice.


There were more stairs. This time Aemilia forced the pace to be slower, knowing Tybolt wouldn’t want to arrive with sweaty clothes and out of breath. At the top of the stairs, she silently requested a minute with a raised finger, and the guide smiled in an abashed fashion. When Tybolt returned the smile, with just as much embarrassment for his own age, the man went ahead to announce them.


Tybolt squeezed her hand. ‘Remember.’ Aemilia claimed she’d be patient, but she had more of Roger’s blood in her than she knew—than she’d ever know, sadly.


The pair walked in, and Aemilia set her gaze briefly on the Golden Lion, before deeply inclining her head to him so that she could not see him. She felt Tybolt disentangle himself from her, to approach his liege-lord on his own. She took in a deep breath and then straightened her posture up and approached the table as Tybolt spoke, “Lord Lannister,” for he didn’t feel familiar enough to use the first name, nor did he have the authority to claim that familiarity, “It is good to see you so well after all these years.”


He made a gesture back, now that Aemilia was closer, “This is Amaia, of course,” she’d been introduced before, but he offered an, “She was here back during Robert’s Rebellion, you know,” he wasn’t sure if he did or didn’t. Plenty of Hetherspoon bannermen had been present.


Aemilia didn’t yet speak, assuming it wasn’t yet her place to do so. She had a role to play, and she had to figure out just what it was. Tywin wasn’t known for chatter, and so she wouldn’t let herself be overly chatty, either.

 

[Scriven]

His only response to Tybolt Hetherspoon was a short “hmm,” of acknowledgment. His eyes traveled over the man’s daughter, but she struck no memory in him. If her time at King’s Landing had been during Robert’s Rebellion, she would have been quite young. Even if he had noted her in her youth, girls changed much at such an age. She was a girl no more, of that Tywin had no question. Amaia was past the Spring of her youth. Far younger than he, but no young woman.


He looked at her more closely, pale blue eyes slightly narrowed. No, if they had ever been present in the same room before, he didn’t remember it. Amaia Hetherspoon was a beautiful woman, though there was a glint in her eyes that made him wary. They were wise, knowing eyes, blue orbs that seemed more aware of the world around her than most. Her hair was a vibrant hue of red, her skin pale. She had a tall, slender, almost regal bearing about her.


“Sit,” he told them, reaching toward the cup of watered wine that had been placed before him. He skipped past the pleasantries, getting right to business. “Lord Tybolt, you’ve had enough time now to consider the arrangement I proposed. I would like to join our houses before my grandson marries the Tyrell girl. What is your answer?”

 

[Lucyfer]

Predator knew predator, even if they did not know whether or not they were equally worthy of fear. It was the same way prey knew prey—there was the same sense of urgent fear in their eyes. Aemilia didn’t stiffen when Tywin’s green eyes assessed her, but held herself the way she always did, with the regality learned and honed over the years, and the grace only a lady could truly have.


It was with that grace she took her seat besides her father, while he took his with some difficulty, chuckling a bit over himself. It was clear as day that the daughter must have certainly taken after the mother, even if she were some lowborn woman.


The story had never been crafted, never yet been needed.


Tybolt looked a bit surprised when Tywin dove right to the point, but he relaxed his expression into one of pleasant amusement. Though he’d not looked twice at the girl he raised, he was well aware the striking hair and vibrant eyes made her beautiful. He didn’t truly imagine Tywin was all that concerned with such things. “And before a drop of wine’s been tasted,” though Tybolt, too, liked to keep a clear head. “I hadn’t realized it was to be so soon, but my answer’s the same regardless. The arrangement is to both of our benefits, so I would like to accept it.”


Even if Aemilia didn’t have a grudge, this arrangement would have been to his benefit. Being a part of the Lannister family in any sense was an enviable position in today’s world. What Lord would be foolish enough to deny a marriage of a daughter to the patriarch?

 

[Scriven]

Surprise flickered in the eyes of his guest for the evening. Tybolt Hetherspoon had never made a strong impression on Tywin, but he had been a bannerman to his father, Tytos, and had remained loyal throughout the years. And many years he had seen; more even that Tywin, though they seemed to be having a very different effect on the two men. It was difficult not to notice the pained way the man walked about, stiff with old age.


“I’m a busy man,” he told Tybolt evenly. “Time is money and this kingdom is currently leaking it, thanks to all these kings suddenly cropping up out of nowhere.”


He took a sip of wine, setting down his cup. Tywin leaned back in his chair. “The son of Eddard Stark threatens the Westerlands. He has no true claim to the throne, but there are those in the North who support him. The seat of House Hetherspoon lies between the Trident and Casterly Rock. I will call for my bannermen in the Westerlands to occupy the region near the Red Fork to await Rob Stark and those who support him.”


His gaze shifted from Tybolt to his daughter. Though Tybolt was older and male and Amaia had yet to speak, he had a sense she was the more wiley of the two. How much had he involved his daughter in this decision? He’d certainly considered taking a younger wife, one who could give him more children and who would be more pliable. Tywin had no taste for a young woman though. There were plenty of men who enjoyed the company of women who were little more than girls, but he was not among them.


It was his first time actually setting eyes on Amaia Hetherspoon. It wouldn’t have mattered to him if she had been plain; this wasn’t a marriage of romance or passion. That she was attractive was merely a bonus. He was not the sort of man who disdained the company of a beautiful woman. An attractive wife to warm his bed at night was a bonus, but it was the position of her father’s lands that made this a favorable alliance for Tywin.


Between Littlefinger and Varys, Tywin had been able to get a good picture of the story behind the woman. Tybolt had once had a daughter, though she had apparently died. Amaia was his bastard, naturalized after the death of his other daughter. With no brothers, the title of Lady Hetherspoon went to her, as would the Hetherspoon lands.


Apparently Tybolt had seen fit to send his bastard to court, Tywin mused. “Is this the first time you’ve been back to King’s Landing since House Baratheon took the throne?”

 

[Lucyfer]

Lord Tybolt knew there was more than what was on the surface, and he gave a little smile as Tywin made it even plainer, “Of course,” Tybolt nodded, “I can raise a force to meet Robb. He’ll never so much as see the gates of Casterly Rock,” Tybolt promised. Though he knew Aemilia wouldn’t mind if Casterly Rock were decimated, Tybolt did.


Much as he was troubled by all the kings that kept rising up in general. He accepted Joffrey, though he’d heard the dark rumors. Joffrey couldn’t be worse than the Mad King. No one could be.


While he had been speaking, Aemilia reached across for her cup of wine and held it under her nose for a moment, testing its scent. Not all poison was so easy to discern. A sip told more. The wine was watered down, but she didn’t think poison had also tampered with the flavor. Since Tywin had already drunk, she found it appropriate to do so herself.


“I’ll see your bannermen and those who join them are well taken care of, too,” an army marched on its stomach, they said. Tybolt had food enough to go around, and rooms enough for the Lords that would accompany the rank-and-file soldiers. Morale wouldn’t decrease in his hall. If he was able to get maester Clifton back in his employ, then they’d be well taken care of medically while Aemilia was away.


Tywin’s attention left Tybolt and his promises, and fell upon the Reyne. That was when Tybolt finally, also, had a drink of his wine, draining nearly half the cup when he found it watered down.


Aemilia answered simply, “Yes, it is, Lord Tywin,” the cup remained in her hand, “I had no time for pleasure trips to the Capital,” even now, were it not for Tywin’s summons, she’d likely be dealing with her father’s own bannermen. The Hetherspoon would rise for Tywin no matter arrangements, for they were required to. Perhaps Tywin was looking to make sure they didn’t give up too easily?


Time was money, as he said. “When is His Grace Joffrey’s wedding to be?” That would give her an estimate of how soon this arrangement was going to be officially made.

 

[Scriven]

“Arrangements with the Tyrells haven’t been concluded yet,” Tywin told Amaia, lips pulled into a thin frown, a vague expression of annoyance on his leathery face. “But Lady Olenna and Cersei are discussing the details of the wedding. I don’t wish to take attention away from the marriage of my grandson. Ours will be a quiet matter. The ceremony can take place tomorrow,” he told Tybolt with the slightest lift of one shoulder, a barely caring shrug.


He and Lord Hetherspoon’s daughter had both been married before and it was, as far as Tywin was concerned, a very minor political move. In the scheme of things this move barely made a ripple in the lake, but small advantages had a way of adding up.


Tywin didn’t ask whether it was amenable to Amaia. Her opinion on the matter made no difference. Besides, she stood to gain much by becoming his wife and the grandmother to the king. Grandmother, he mused, looking at Amaia. She didn’t even have children, yet she was about to become a grandmother, and an extremely young one at that. The arrangement was far from unusual though. If a woman passed before her husband, it was common for the man to take a younger woman to wife.


Tywin leaned forward, cutting a piece of duck from the platter and moving it onto his plate. They passed the dishes between them so each could serve themselves. It was a modest affair, their supper, but they were both wealthy men. Neither needed to impress the other.

 

[Lucyfer]

Aemilia had forgotten, in all the stories and rumors, that Tywin was not as lavish as most with his wealth would be. He could be called a minimalist, as extravagant as necessary to do what was necessary. In that, she hadn’t considered the marriage would occur this quickly. Poisons were hardly prepared, not that such things couldn’t be finished.


No, the real problem was in time itself. There was little time to learn the staff, learn who would be there, and figure out the best way to set such poison so that no one else suffered it.


Despite this, she smiled, as if put at ease by this haste, and she tilted her eyes down into her cup before taking another sip. It was Tybolt who found himself blustering, “So soon?” And then he laughed a bit, “Well! I hadn’t the slightest,” for he truly hadn’t. He was rather impressed at how well Aemilia was responding. “I suppose it is best for you both to hasten such things,” he imagined he’d get away with a joke about age, considering he was the eldest, but he refrained and cut himself off a bit of the duck, following after the host.


Aemilia followed him, and he added to the silence, “I didn’t even think to bring a gift, or a dress for her.”


Aemilia just shook her head at the fussing, again tested the food with a sniff, and then a small bite. No, no poison lacing the silverware, no poison lacing the plate that could be tasted. Paranoia was a bitter friend. “It is no matter. I believe Lord Tywin and I both know how these things work,” a wry smile pulled at the corner of her lips, but she didn’t let it fully manifest. ‘And I suppose I can’t just cut his throat in the marriage bed, can I?’ No, that would make things too obvious.


‘Just a few days longer. Just a few days.’ It wouldn’t be so bad. At least Tywin was not an unpleasant person. Manners didn’t pardon him, but it would make it easier to tolerate him.

 

[Scriven]

The expression of calm complacency slowly transformed into a bemused frown. He watched Tybolt’s daughter as she brought the food on her fork near her nose and sniffed it before eating it. There was a moment of indecision there too, he could read it in her eyes. He had seen her do the same with the wine, but had attributed it to the beverage being watered down. Now Tywin was not so sure.


“I assure you it’s not poisoned,” he told her flatly, one brow raised. The comment cut more to the truth than he knew; when he said it, the jibe was meant in jest at her queer behavior. She was an odd woman, Tywin decided, studying her over the rim of his cup.


“There’s no need to put the matter off. It’s not as if I proposed the idea to you yesterday, Lord Tybolt. Many messages have passed between our hands regarding the joining of our houses.”


Amaia offered him a wry, knowledgeable smile. “Indeed,” he concurred. “It’s for convenience that I have no interest in a lengthy engagement. I’m not looking to try and sire an heir within the next year.” If that had been his interest, Amaia Hetherspoon certainly would not have been his first choice. She wouldn’t have placed at all. It was entirely possible that her lack of children had more to do with her late husband than with her, but he wasn’t a gambling man. Whether it was her womb or his seed didn’t matter; his odds would have been better with a young woman.


Tywin’s attention was drawn up by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. It sounded as if someone was jogging up the stairs toward the dining chamber, the dull metallic rattle of a sword accompanying each step. The door to the chamber was already open, and through it came Jaime, words already pouring out of his mouth before he’d even crossed the threshold.


“Father, you know I’ve been think-”


Jaime Lannister stopped short, surprised by the sight of his father at supper with guests. He clearly had not known that the Hetherspoons had arrived. No, it was more likely that he didn’t even know they had been summoned. His son could be single minded.


“Oh, I see you have guests,” Jaime noted with a nod toward Amaia and Tybolt. Tywin gestured for him to sit, and after a pause he did so.


“Jaime, this is your future mother in law, Amaia Hetherspoon, and our bannerman and her father, Tybolt Hetherspoon.”


“Future mother in law?” Jaime repeated with raised eyebrows, then chuckled, drawing a cup toward him and pouring a goblet of wine. He took a sip, frowning at the contents. “I hadn’t realized you were marrying.” Jaime smiled at Amaia, clearly not sure what to make of the arrangement. He cleared his throat, his eyes roaming the room as he searched for a way to broach the topic. Failing, he lifted his cup of wine toward Tywin, then Amaia. “Well, then congratulations.”

 

[Lucyfer]

Aemilia was the picture of calm. It made Tybolt wonder at the old debate of nature versus nurture. By now, Roger, Ellyn, or Reynard would have made an impudent jab at Tywin. ‘Of course, that’s why they’re dead and….’ He’d think buried, but he corrected himself. None of them had been buried, unless the mines of Castamere were now a tomb.


Which, well, they may be.


Tywin’s comment about poison wasn’t answered, nor did Aemilia confirm that such was her concern. He had placed it, and she’d not rise to defend herself. ‘Quick.’ Though she suspected he was familiar with the behavior. Had he poisoned anyone, before? Aemilia wouldn’t believe he was above the low tactic. He had drown infants, after all.


“You must forgive me, I’m used to the pomp and ceremony of these things. I didn’t marry twice, never learned the, ah…customs of a second wedding,” Tybolt finished lamely, hearing the feet rushing to join them. All eyes in the room moved to take in the one who, truly, ought to be marrying. Not to Aemilia, but to anyone.


He had chosen to take the White, though, and become a Kingsguard. It must have devastated Tywin, but if so, he had certainly never made it known publicly. Aemilia gave Jaime a smile, and then continued eating as Tywin offered introductions. Tybolt gave a nod in return to Jaime’s, a broad smile stretching his lips at the man’s surprise. He wasn’t sure what to make of it all, either, and Tybolt was glad not to be alone in that confusing space of uncertainty.


Aemilia rose with her own cup as Jaime offered his congratulations, and she tilted hers towards him, “I thank you, Ser Jaime,” there was temptation to ask Tywin if Cersei was aware, or how the Tyrells knew more than his own children, but she suspected it unimportant, “If you need Lord Tywin for a moment, we can step out,” if he had words that were of an immediate and private nature, she’d oblige him. Tybolt nodded along, agreeing, if it were necessary. He didn’t want to get up just yet, but he would.


Though she’d once humored killing Jaime and the others with Tywin, she had no such designs now. No animosity towards the children. When she’d reconciled with herself that genocide was the crime she despised, she found she wished not to commit genocide herself, and found she could forgive the three children for existing. They’d done her no personal wrong.

 

[Scriven]

Tywin turned expectant eyes on his son. Jaime had a habit of showing up either when he wanted something or when Tyrion had managed to really outdo himself. This visit, Tywin expected, had to do with both.


“I wouldn’t dare ask my future mother in law to leave,” Jaime told Amaia with a broad smile that didn’t lack in irony. He scratched the stubble across his chin, glancing toward Tywin for only a second and then settling his eyes instead on a tapestry across the room. “Actually, it has to do with your future...” he paused, trying to make sure he was certain of the relationship. “... son in law,” he finally filled in. “So by all means, stay.”


Tywin gritted his teeth, sharply setting down his cup. “Don’t beat a dead horse, Jaime.”


“I’m only fulfilling an obligation to my baby brother. He asked me to kindly remind you that he still exists, so here I am. Task complete.” Jaime could tell that Tywin was about to tell him to leave, so he plodded forward determinedly, leaning back on the bench with cup in hand, looking intently at Amaia. “Has the story of how my brother Tyrion played an unquestionable role in the Battle of the Blackwater reached the Westerlands yet?”

 

[Lucyfer]

It was her own feelings of animosity towards Tywin that allowed her to find Jaime’s mannerisms nearly hilarious. She didn’t dare to laugh aloud, but a twitch of the lips betrayed her feelings as he insisted on referring to people by their relationship to those in the room. ‘Tyrion.’ Aemilia had heard much of the imp.


If there was a Lannister she was actually going to like, it was him.


If there was a Lannister likely to figure her out before Tywin, it was also, him. That made getting on well with Tyrion too risky.


Aemilia took her seat once more and sipped the wine as Jaime was ushered to the point. A question was put to her, the Lannister green eyes as determinedly set as his own father’s set, even if they were not so cold. It was for her to answer rather than Tybolt, though she took a glance to him anyway.


Tybolt looked confused, as expected. No such word had reached the Westerlands.


Aemilia looked back to Jaime, “Such news has at least not reached our location, Ser Jaime,” he was still ‘ser’, even if they would become more closely related in the near future, “All that has reached us was word of Tywin’s forces, paired with the Tyrells’ forces, arriving just before King’s Landing fell to Stannis.”


Naturally, Tywin was the hero of every story about him. Victors wrote history. She ventured to ask, “What role did Lord Tyrion play?” If only because she knew it was not a topic Tywin wanted to hear repeated, and Jaime most certainly wanted to say.She could feign ignorant of those details, though. It wasn't as if she was supposed to know the family dynamics just yet, and this promised to reveal much she didn't know.

 

[Scriven]

Jaime laughed, finishing his cup of wine and reaching toward the silver pitcher to pour another. His grin reached his eyes, not dulled in the slightest by the chilly look Tywin was giving him.


“Funny how the story people know of the Battle of Blackwater Bay is the one where my father is the saviour of this city, along with the help of Ser Loras, isn’t it? Ah well, such is life.”


His father tapped his fingers impatiently against the arm of his chair, but Jaime settled in, pulling the leg off the roasted duck and taking a bite. “You see, Tyrion was managing quite well as Hand-” at this Tywin made a sound that was a bit like a short laugh, but far more scathing. “He knew it was likely that Stannis would invade with his fleet and had the incredible foresight not only to gather an impressive amount of wildfire, but also to have an immense chain created, which was run through the bay. When Stannis’s fleet crossed into the bay, Tyrion’s chain was raised, effectively trapping him in.”


Jaime tilted his cup toward Tywin in deference. “Thank the gods father showed up with the Tyrells, but I think Tyrion played a much bigger part than some are willing to admit.”


“Are we finished with story time?” Tywin asked his son, moving the pitcher away from Jaime’s reach as Jaime leaned toward it again. Jaime, not to be deterred, stood and snatched the pitcher up, filling his cup again.


“That all depends on my sweet future mother, I suppose.” The look his father gave him was sharp enough even to make a grown man cower though, and Jaime finally conceded. “Actually, I just realized I have something to attend to. Lady Amaia, Lord Hetherspoon,” he said, nodding to both as he stood from the table. “Oh, when is the wedding to take place?”


Tywin looked at his son, then to Amaia for a moment. “Tomorrow.”


Jaime gaped in surprise but quickly gathered his wits. “Tomorrow?” He was tempted to make a joke about eager young love, but neither looked eager and neither was particularly young, so he passed. “Does Cersei know?”


“Your sister knows what it is pertinent for her to know.” Which meant no, Jaime knew. His mouth formed a thin grimace and he backed toward the door, bending in an abbreviated bow to his father’s guests. He offered them both a grim smile, then shook his head at his father and left.

 

[Lucyfer]

Jaime told, and Aemilia listened, eating more since she could be silent while he spoke. She kept her gaze mostly on Jaime, but her position allowed her to see Tywin’s reaction out of the corner of her eye. That, and Tybolt didn’t hide his own anxiety about the tension well. ‘I wonder who you favor more.’ Aemilia could not imagine the stern man before her being so impudent, so was it Joanna?


Did his twin favor Joanna, too?


Poor Tywin. At least the gods had shown their disfavor towards him with children like these.


Admittedly, Tyrion’s strategy was brilliant. She allowed those thoughts to be betrayed on her face, though she dared not commend Tyrion with words. It was the kind of thing she’d expect to hear of Tywin when it came to battle strategy, not the well-read Tyrion.


Tywin, of course, made Jaime wrap things up quickly and left her no say in the matter. Every father had a look that could silence their children—even Tybolt—so Aemilia understood the expression that crossed Jaime’s face when it was given. She lifted her own cup, briefly, in farewell, and tilted the wine back when Tywin mentioned how little knowledge Cersei had. She drained the cup and set it aside, not desiring a refill, watered down or not.


‘Well, this is going to be an interesting tomorrow.’


Tybolt dared to say, when Jaime was gone, “Your children don’t know?” Aghast, not quite offended, but there was an indication of judgment there not at all appropriate for a liege lord. He couldn’t imagine not telling his children if he was going to remarry, and he found it terribly strange, despite how Jaime had just acted.


“I believe,” Aemilia spoke calmly, “they’re all going to know within the hour.” Jaime would tell Cersei, and likely, Tyrion. If not, news was simply going to reach him once Cersei knew. If she knew how sarcasm would be treated, she might have called Jaime ‘charming’ aloud. Many comments were on just the tip of her tongue, but Tybolt was testing the mood of the lion enough for both of them.


Tybolt still seemed a bit ruffled by the utter lack of sharing from father to child.

 

[Scriven]

There was an icy moment where Tywin held Tybolt’s disbelieving gaze. He was unflinching and absolutely unapologetic. He had forced himself to be everything his father was not and the result was a man who had an iron will and unyielding opinion.


“I don’t find it necessary to seek the permission or approval of my children, Lord Tybolt. This is a matter that doesn’t concern them. Those that it does concern have been kept well abreast. As it was, I would have had very little to report before this evening.”


Tywin picked up his knife and cut through the potato, bringing a bite to his mouth. He considered the redhead that sat across from him, nodding in agreement to her statement. “You’re correct. I know my son- Jaime’s errand that suddenly needed tending to is no doubt to spread the news of our short engagement.”


He’d probably go find Cersei first, who would likely be relieved that the wedding arrangements he had made were for himself instead of her. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what her response to him would be though. She was unpredictable, unlike Jaime. She liked to make an embarrassment of herself in public, but Tywin Lannister did his best to limit how much she could embarrass him. The small ceremony would handle most of the foreseeable problems.


Tywin finished his dinner and gestured with one hand for a servant to come forward and clear his plate from the table. He used the napkin on his lap to wipe his hands clean and stood, placing the cloth on top of the table. “I have business to attend to this evening, Lord Hetherspoon. I am glad we’ve reached an agreement.” He looked to Aemia and nodded his head in acknowledgment of her. “My lady. Good evening to you both.”

 

[Lucyfer]

Tybolt might have argued with Tywin on another day about the pros and cons of having strong familial relations. He’d established a relationship with an adopted daughter, after all, through openness, and he knew too well she’d take a fall long before she’d let anything bad happen to him.


Would Tywin’s children do the same? Tybolt didn’t think so.


However, Tybolt didn’t get words out before Tywin addressed Aemilia, and so he swallowed his anger with duck. A hard breath escaped through his nose, his only huff of annoyance with the situation, and he caught Aemilia’s smile. It wasn’t for Tywin’s words, but his own agitation. “It’ll be fine,” she said, “they’re grown,” she said to Tybolt, as a reason for why it was excusable, as a way Tybolt could pretend to understand.


Tywin finished first, for Tybolt never could eat fast anymore and Aemilia’s appetite had simply slowed—she never did eat as much as she thought she would. A servant came forward on Tywin’s gesture, and he cleaned the plate off quickly. Aemilia rose, a gesture of respect and signal Tybolt, as well.


He heard in the words, “My lord,” a subtle lilt. The words couldn’t be said any other way to Tywin Lannister, after hearing the Rains of Castamere a thousand times, and memorizing the arrogant way the ‘Reyne’ was meant to speak. “Good evening as well,” she inclined her head, and her hand would then touch Tybolt’s back.


He rose without her assistance, something she knew he would want to do in his huffy mood. They’d leave Tywin in peace in the Tower of the Hand, and return to the Maidenvault, mostly in silence. Though they were open with each other, they knew that they couldn’t say anything they’d like at that moment. Actions would speak louder. At the stairs, Aemilia would offer Tybolt her arm once again, and he would take it.


“Do you think the Wine Queen will crash the party?” Tybolt asked once they had left the tower.


“Tybolt!” But a laugh followed the accusing, mock-indignant tone.

 

[Scriven]

The scar was quite ghastly, he was positively certain of it now. Tyrion could see it reflected back at him in the eyes of the people around him. Even his favorite kind of people- whores- were unable to hide their revulsion when they looked at him, and if ever there was a group of people accustomed to revolting things, it was whores.


He wasn’t so revolting that they wouldn’t take his coin and suck his cock though, so the scar across his face was really just one more insult to add to the injury that was the life of a dwarf. The small statured man left the rather small establishment, his heart and his pockets lighter. At least here, in this place, there was some sense of safety for him, which was truly ironic. Safety at the hands of those who sold themselves? What a precarious position to be in. Yet he felt far more secure outside of the Red Keep than he did within it.


Did enemies lurk nearby, waiting to finish what they had started? Tyrion found himself always looking over his shoulder, never taking a sip of wine till the one who poured it had already taken a drink first for fear that it was poisoned. Even his own father didn’t acknowledge him. He was unsurprised by Joffrey’s actions, but the injustice of his father’s disdain stung. If Jaime had done what Tyrion had, things would be completely different.


He walked the street with his head held high, ignoring those who stopped to stare. People tended to have a mixed reaction to him, but now more than ever they wanted to stop and gawk at the ‘halfman’. His face was a gruesome testament to what he had done to protect the city from Stannis, yet still he was reviled. As the Hand of the King, he had been the only thing keeping his nephew from completely destroying the city, yet there were many who believed he had been the one pulling Joffrey's strings and adding to their woes. Now that he had been robbed of his position by his own father, that hadn't changed. The people around him still stared at him with near-rabid hostility.

 

[Lucyfer]

There was a message waiting for Tybolt when they returned to the Maidenvault, already opened, already re-sealed. Tybolt’s fingers grazed over the wound to the seal, then shook his head and broke it again to read. He didn’t expect privacy here. Not really. Aemilia read it over his shoulder. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to rearrange this meeting now, won’t we?”


Maester Clifton had written with eagerness to see them again, and had wanted to meet them in the afternoon on the morrow. That, of course, would no longer work out. “The ink’s barely dry,” Aemilia spoke more to herself, “I imagine he’s still awake.” She took a step away from Tybolt, “I’ll go see him.”


Tybolt arched an eyebrow, “At this hour?”


A thousand rumors could spread, and certainly now was the time to be avoiding such things. Aemilia only smiled and reached out to Tybolt. She took that step back to him, and kissed his forehead, “Your health is my utmost concern. We need to employ that maester again.”


“Oh?” He knew her mannerisms in a half-truth. “My health?”


She smiled. “Yes. I’ll be back before morning, don’t worry. You rest. I won’t disappoint you.” With that, she stepped into her own room. She heard Tybolt go into his, heard the door shut, but she paid little attention beyond that. Off went the dress of gold with its red accents, and on went one of dark blue. It wasn’t to hide, but it was to not draw unnecessary attention. She put her hair up, the red subdued when it wasn’t a wave down her back.


Beyond that, she’d do no hiding. She’d speak always that it was for Tybolt and his health—a dutiful daughter setting all things up.


The problem was that once she’d left the Red Keep, King’s Landing was confusing. She hadn’t known much about it when she first arrived, and knew even less about it when it wasn’t full of the dead. She asked strangers on her route to point her towards the Citadel that resided in King’s Landing, but was certain after a few turns took her to a neighborhood of carousing and song, that she’d listened to someone who was drunk.


It was in the midst of that crowd that she noticed someone who stood out, not by being tall, but by his short stature. Still, he cleared a space when he moved, people naturally parting for him despite their intoxication. Many did so in order to gawk, and Aemilia did pause at the sight of him. It wasn’t revulsion that came to her face, though.


‘The savior, Tyrion.’ She could see Jaime’s exuberant expression, could see Jaime’s love of him so clearly, again.


It wasn’t smart, but Aemilia called to him, “Hail there, Lord Tyrion!” There could be no mistaking him, and as she approached him in the crowd she dropped her voice to say, “Your brother Jaime was just telling me about Blackwater.” Jaime had no reason to talk to her, even if Tyrion knew who she was--which she doubted. He couldn't have every noble of the Westerlands and their children memorized. If he did, he might wonder what the Hetherspoons were even in doing in King's Landing.


To make sure she wouldn’t be ignored, she added an offer, “I'd like to get a drink with you. I'll pay.” After all, didn't Lannisters pay their debts? She ought to get used to that, and she was likely going to be making his night take a turn for the worst. That was a debt best paid with a drink.

 

[Scriven]

The street smelled of smoke from the torches and candles burning, piss (which seemed a constant with King’s Landing, no matter the street one was on), roasting meat, and the sweet perfume of a whore. No, that was him, he realized, sniffing his collar. Well, there were much worse things in life than to smell like the whore he had just left.


“Hail there, Lord Tyrion!”


It was funny how his head turned of its own volition at the sound of his name. He hadn’t even meant to look, but he was like a dog responding to a call word. He looked up at the woman who had addressed him, going from confused to completely perplexed. Jaime? The Blackwater? Tyrion squinted, just slightly drunk. Definitely not drunk enough to be confusing people like this though. No, he had no idea who she was. Other than, apparently, a woman who wanted to buy him a drink.


Buy a Lannister a drink? Tyrion relished spending gold in the Lannister name, just to spite his father and pull one more coin from the pile he sat on. Money was hardly a thing he lacked for. He looked more closely at the woman. Had someone sent her? Was this some sort of ruse? Perhaps this was the way he would go, Tyrion thought. A woman and a drink his downfall- it was almost poetically ironic. Or maybe it wasn’t, since that sort of was what people expected. Though the woman he gazed up at questioningly seemed innocuous, it didn’t mean she was incapable of slipping poison into his drink.


“Do I know you?” Tyrion pausingly inquired.

 

[Lucyfer]

The confusion on Tyrion’s face was worth relishing for a moment. Aemilia imagined quite a bit about the situation was confusing. Who bought a Lannister anything? ‘Roger.’ There was a joke in her childhood of him buying things for Tytos, always something different, always something mocking. Of course, Roger also talked of buying Casterly Rock from underneath Tytos, rather than waging war with him. He’d done quite a bit to show off. Gold was nothing to him. Red was so much more precious. Given time to develop his arrogance apart from his sister Ellyn, he might have tried all his jokes, too. He would have thought nothing of buying Tyrion a drink, certainly, nor Tywin for that matter, just to show he could.Alas, Tywin had cut short all of that.


This offer was not made from Reyne arrogance, though.


Aemilia let Tyrion have the moments to consider it all, and when he questioned her, she knelt down. She preferred all introductions at eye-level, so she hoped that Tyrion wouldn’t take offense as she offered her hand to him and met his heterochromatic eyes, one now carrying a terrible scar. “Amaia Hetherspoon,” she informed him.


There were a few people now eying her with suspicion, finding the action she was taking to be queer. “Only for one more night, though. It seems I’m to be married tomorrow, and that makes it a bit important we know each other as I’m to be a Lannister tomorrow. Sooner than I thought.” Her attitude around Tyrion and Tywin would, likely, always be different. This was more akin to the one she bore at home, where she’d been raised in a household that only knew daughters, and so came to value them like sons.


The question was, would Tyrion believe her? Would he guess who the intended was meant to be? How long would it take him to figure it out? “I think that I owe you a drink.” Ah, what strange words for a Reyne, but she enjoyed the twistedness of it.She'd tell him eventually, of course, and he'd know for certain soon, when Jaime found him.

 

[Scriven]

This evening had just become a lot more interesting, thought Tyrion as the woman knelt there on the street, holding out her hand to him. He hesitated for only a moment, his blonde brows raised, before putting his malformed hand toward her in greeting. She ignored the curious looks of those passing by, looking at him steadily.


So this was the woman doomed to marry his father. Varys had spoken with him about the union that would no doubt take place between the daughter of Lord Hetherspoon and his father, Tywin. He hadn’t realized she had arrived though, nor that negotiations had been completed.


“You poor woman,” he said with a shake of his head. “Stand, please. You’ll find I’m much easier to maintain a level conversation with across a table from. Yes, let’s have that drink. You’re going to need it- and many more to come.”


Tyrion leaned forward, taking Amaia’s elbow and helping her back to her feet. “Are you on your way back to the Keep? I was just heading back, and I happen to know there’s a plentiful supply of ale and wine on hand there.”


He was curious as to why Amaia Hetherspoon, whom he had never met before, owed him a drink, but that was perhaps a question better asked when they weren’t standing on the Street of Sisters with dozens of pairs of inquisitive eyes fixed on them.

 

[Lucyfer]

‘Yes.’ Aemilia determined as Tyrion did reach to shake her hand and spoke to her. She held his hand firmly in her own as they shook. ‘I would have liked him.’ Not that she would say that she did not like him, but like Jaime, there would only be so much either of them would ever know of her. No friendship could be sincere shrouded in lies.


She smiled at his comment, finding she wanted to laugh, to agree openly in the sound, but she couldn’t go that far. She wouldn’t be terrible and lie, though. Just omit. “It cannot be that bad,” she did say that to his comment about how many drinks she was going to need.


Then again, look at him—the clever one, drinking himself to an early grave. She rose with his help, and kept his elbow as he asked where she was going, “Mm, the business I have can wait till morning now, I think. I’ll follow your lead back to the Red Keep.” Finding Clifton would clearly be easier to do when the sun was shining, and people were sober. Clifton would hate her more. He was never a morning person.


“I trust you know where the liquor is that isn’t watered down?” He likely knew where there were things besides wine and ale alone, but Aemilia wouldn’t indulge much. She couldn’t be waking up hung over, after all. She had to still be decent in the morning, especially if she was going to meet Clifton.