The Lion's Den [Closed]

[Lucyfer]

By the time that tea had ended, Lord Tybolt was situated in his room and the maester, Clifton, forced to stay as well. Aemilia returned to the Maidenvault alone, and found the gold cloaks there, and her room an absolute mess.


The indignity of the situation was enough to earn a few choice words from the red-head, temper flaring, before she managed to get it under control and accept it. The room had been thoroughly searched, but not a soul would tell her what it had been searched for, nor was she allowed out of her own room to see Tybolt.


Her fury had boiled and grown cold. She sought clues in the mess and found the vanity had been torn through most effectively. ‘But why?’ Poison was far from her thoughts. Though it was unlikely, they dwelled on the possibility that her lineage was discovered, and some clue to it was here.


It wouldn’t be possible, of course. House Reyne was buried in Castamere, and with it any signet ring she might have once laid claim to. All that had come with her to Tybolt’s doorstep had been burned—the clothing, the plush lion—everything. ‘To think that stupid lion was what saved me.’ In its own twisted way. The jewelry she’d once worn was likely circulating somewhere, abandoned before she ever reached Tybolt’s door.


So, when the sun passed its zenith, Aemilia was still none the wiser. A guard showed up and entered without knocking. Aemilia settled her blue eyes on him in a glare. If she’d brought a dagger, she might have hurled it into his throat. Alas, such things were all left back home. “Lord Tywin wishes to see you now.”


“If I refuse?” Aemilia wouldn’t. She had Tybolt to think of, but she wanted a reaction.


“Then I’ll have to carry you there.” The guard was more stoic than the one she’d first encountered. Not nearly as fun.


“Fine, let me change.”


“What you are wearing is fine.” She had dressed down since seeing Margaery and being confined, but she wasn't indecent. The dress itself was simpler, a sheathe of red with silver decor. After he gave it a once over, though, he seemed to reconsider for he said, “Let me see the sleeves.”


With a wrinkled nose, she walked forward and offered out her hands. The guard felt the inside of the fabric, searching for pockets. He knew maesters had them in their robes. “What are you looking for?”


He didn’t say, as he let her arms go, and then looked down at the skirt for pockets. He suspected there were other places a woman could hide poison, small as poison could be. He did reach to the front of her dress, but felt the sting of her hand, one nail snagging skin and tearing it off to cause a line of blood to fall from his cheek. “If you need me searched, you will ask, and I will oblige with another present.” Not a guard.


The guard narrowed his eyes. He briefly considered it, but then shook his head and wiped the stream of blood away. A part of him hoped it would seal her fate, that she’d have something on her and be forever damned by it. “Right this way, Lady Hetherspoon,” he spoke blithely, but the push against her back spoke volumes.


She held her head high and was thankful for the lack of chains as she was escorted to the Tower of the Hand once again. ‘Now I ought to get an answer or two.’ Unless Tywin wanted to play at riddles in an effort to get an answer, too.


She was taken to a room, where a guard was already stationed, and locked behind it. She heard a brief conversation before the guard who had brought here there left, his steps no doubt taking him to Tywin to alert him that the Lady had been found. Aemilia let out a huff of air agitation and started to pace the room, too much energy flowing from adrenaline to remain in one place.

 

[Scriven]

Tyanne Hill had been born on the wrong side of the sheets, destined for a life of servitude before the cord that connected her to her wash-woman mother had even been cut. She’d come into the world squealing and crying, crowned with a mop of brown hair and marked with a stain from cheek to temple.


Opening the window, Tyanne took the flowers out of a nearby vase of roses and tossed the old water onto the street below, pouring fresh water from a pitcher into it before putting the flowers back. A small, satisfied smile was on her face.


“That woman you overheard was right. Something strange really was in Lady Amaia’s room,” another maid told her as she stripped the linens from Lady Olenna’s plush bed. “I wonder what she had that’s making such a fuss.”


Tyanne gave a little shrug, as if she had no idea. She kept her head tilted down, her long brown hair hanging down and hiding most of her face. She tried to keep the strawberry blemish on her cheek hidden, using her hair almost like a veil. She was an extraordinarily plain woman, but the birthmark on her face made people look twice, and not in a way she enjoyed. Tyanne kept her head down, working hard to be unnoticed.


“I’ll wash out the privy,” she volunteered, turning away. She was unable to hide the expression of glee on her face.


Two guards were posted outside of Amaia’s door, which was probably more than was necessary, but Tywin didn’t mind the extra precaution. He trusted the woman only as far as he could throw her. He gave a nod to the guards and they stepped away, opening the door to the room she had been transferred into.


He had interrupted her pacing, Tywin realized, looking into her angry face with an expression of frosty accusation. A glance over his shoulder and the door was shut behind him, putting him alone with her.


“Your treachery has been discovered,” he told her bluntly, getting right to the point.

 

[Lucyfer]

Aemilia’s pacing ceased as soon as she heard the door open, and Tywin walked in. A glance, and the door was shut, leaving them to privacy. Before so much as a word could escape her, to demand an explanation, Tywin spoke.


It explained nothing, and her confusion was all the more apparent for it. Her anger, too, flared behind her eyes. ‘This is Tywin. Don’t be stupid.’


Anger wasn’t the most logical emotions, especially paired with fear. “And what treachery would that be, my lord?” Fire met ice. Aemilia's words weren't chilly, but now held the sting of derision from a day that had changed its course far too quickly.


No, of course she couldn’t call him Lord Tywin or Lord Hand, it could only be ‘my lord’. “What have I done to offend you so greatly?” At least now she was fairly certain it was her, and not Tybolt, who was at fault. Now if she could just figure out what it was, she could see if it could be resolved. If was the Reyne matter, likely not, but that was the only thing she could think…and even then, was being a Reyne a plot? Not necessarily.

 

[Scriven]

Tywin could feel the heated anger that was just barely contained within Amaia. She kept her composure, but it seemed a brittle thing that he might easily break through. She feigned ignorance well. Perhaps her innocence was true, he conceded, but trust was dangerous. She could be a good liar. Cersei was an excellent liar; he’d seen it himself countless times. He could always tell when his daughter was lying though. It was something about the tightness of her lips, the straightness of her back and the triumph in her gleaming eyes that revealed the truth. He didn’t know this woman at all though, so it was much harder for him to judge her true character.


From his pocket, Tywin withdrew the Tears of Lys, which were now contained in a small glass vial with a cork stopper. He held the deadly poison up, showing her. “Does this look familiar?” he asked her, his eyes narrowed. “It was found in your room.”


He was interested to hear what her explanation would be. No, there would be no explanation. Whether she was guilty or innocent, this woman would deny any knowledge of the poison’s existence. He was relying far more on Varys and Littlefinger to find the truth than on the weight of her testimony, but Tywin wondered if he would see the flicker of guilt in her eyes or the fear of being discovered. He liked to look people in the eye when he wanted to know the truth. It wasn't that he had a gift for seeing into people, but rather that people seemed to crumple under the cool intensity of his gaze.

 

[Lucyfer]

The answer was given not in words, but in action. From his pocket, he took out a vial. There were two tears, and she recognized them, but the anger faded a bit from her face, replaced wholly by a mixture of curiosity and confusion. She took a deep breath, and exhaled the anger as best she could. “Well, now I understand,” she admitted. Some agitation remained. If someone brought Tears of Lys into her home, they’d be confined quickly.


She took a step back and let her knees touch the bed. She slipped into sitting, rather than remain standing. ‘This isn’t what I thought it would be. I’m certain I didn’t bring any poison with me.’ She was relieved, despite it all. Somehow this was better than the alternative. She was still certain the Tears weren't hers, though. It would have been stupid to bring them, because something like this would happen. Aemilia had no delusions that privacy existed in the Red Keep.


She lifted her blue eyes to meet his. Her hands calmly folded themselves in her lap, in plain sight. “Those are not mine, though,” not that he’d believe her, but she’d meet his eyes and tell him the truth. “All of my Tears I left back at home,” she wouldn’t deny that she owned some—of course she did. There were practical reasons for it. Most poisons were used to craft antidotes. The reason that Clifton knew, besides that, was that she practiced Mithridatism, the art of gaining immunity to poison.

 

[Scriven]

Her denial came as no surprise. She looked stunned by the poison he showed her, an excellent actress if she was one. She sat, as if her legs could no longer support her. Tywin put the vial back into the pocket of his tunic.


“You admit to practicing with poisons?” he asked her, startled by the disclosure. It did nothing to help her case, he thought. Not just any poison, either. Tears of Lys were costly, deadly, and difficult to obtain. Poison was a woman’s weapon, he’d always thought. A woman’s or a coward’s. What possible reason could this woman have for owning something so lethal?

 

[Lucyfer]

Aemilia couldn’t help but look a touch amused by Tywin’s question, “Did you think I was ignorantly scenting the food and drink yesterday, my lord?” She needed to stop that. “Yes, my lord, I work with poison and I know how to detect most,” she inclined her head, “A healer is no good if they do not know poison as well as medicine. Many medicines stem from poison." Another uncomfortable truth. Poison made antidotes. Venom made antidotes. Too much of a medicine was likely to be poisonous. It was an art. "There were blades lined with poison during Robert’s Rebellion, and I needed to know how much sweetsleep to use to saw off legs without a fuss from the future amputee.”


Aemilia did not know if honesty would help or hurt, but she knew that a lie discovered would be even worse for her in the long run. The long run might not exist any longer, but for the moment, she would have to hope for it.


Her hands squeezed together briefly in her lap, “I apologize if this knowledge was not made clear to you. It is not a secret,” which caused her mind to turn. Someone who would set such a thing, might be aware of what Aemilia did.

 

[Scriven]

So she had been trying to detect poison in the meal. Why did she think he would poison her? Tywin’s suspicion rose. If Amaia Hetherspoon lived a life filled with the constant fear of being poisoned, there had to be a reason for such fear. He wasn’t aware of any scandals surrounding the woman, but something had to have happened to make her react in such a way. The innocent didn’t fear the shadows nearly so much as the guilty.


“You’re no longer a medic,” he reminded her. “After Robert’s Rebellion you were made a Hetherspoon, no longer a Hill. A maester I would understand possessing such a thing, but what reason does a noblewoman have?”

 

[Lucyfer]

Aemilia was treading a very dangerous line. She did not nod when Tywin said she was no longer a medic, for she had served in that position since learning the skills. She had served in that position when married, and moreso when divorced, when she needed a skill to remain truly relevant.


She knew that calm was necessary. A panic attack would be a flaw, but she felt her heart beating hard against her chest. “My lord, every noble has reason to fear poison, a bastard even more, and so it was imperative that I kept the art up and remained in possession of some poisons. I also dabble in mithridatism.”


She would assume Tywin knew what that was without explaining, and so she continued, “Having poison on hand is useful for maintaining my knowledge, as well as in making antidotes and medicines. Everyone has their hobbies. I was still a medic outside of the field, you can ask the smallfolk in my father's lands. I've numerous reasons to keep poisons around, my lord. Are you going to tell me honestly that no Lannister has poisons around, just in case?"


Tywin was not an honorable man, from what she knew. He had drowned innocent children in mines, mothers, old folks. She expected Lannisters to have poisons. She expected low tactics from them. It wasn't honorable, but it was safe and efficient, to kill enemies without condemning your own men to death in open combat. One could say there was honor in protecting one's own men, and Aemilia would--but it was not the sort of honor that most would happily admit to.

 

[Scriven]

She was making it out to be simpler than it really was. There were many houses more noble and more reviled than Hetherspoon, yet few of their daughters practiced the art of poison, and he knew only a few people- men or women- determined enough to endure the pain and inherent risk of mithridatism. Tywin’s mouth tightened, but he forced his voice to remain calm and steady.


Amaia wasn’t putting herself in a position that made her easy to believe. She had already behaved suspiciously around him at dinner, and now she was admitting to being a master of poisons and one trained to withstand many of them- yet she claimed the poison in her room didn’t belong to her. She admitted to the ability, but not to the possession.


“You would have me believe that while an entire village can attest to your knowledge of poisons, you came here with no intention other than being wed?” Tywin asked sharply. He stepped closer, pinning her in against the bed, looking down on her where she sat. “Tell me you have no ill intent toward myself or my family,” he challenged.

 

[Lucyfer]

Tywin stepped closer, uncomfortably so, but Aemilia forced herself to look up. She couldn’t stop herself from leaning back, to try and add distance between herself and the gold lion. Deep breaths. Adrenaline moved into her veins, but she didn't let fight or flight take over. She did untangle her fingers from each other, and she did stretch out her fingers to allow movement of some sort.


The question he asked was one she had trained herself to answer a thousand times in her head, for it was a question she always expected. It was the one lie she needed to always be able to say. ‘Start with the truth.’ That was always the way, “I have no ill intent towards your family, Lord Tywin,” for that was true, “nor do I have any ill intent towards you,” her voice carried over the same calm from the first half of the statement, and she hoped she was able to hold his gaze without so much as a twitch.


She did add on, “I have confessed my knowledge of these arts. I have confessed that I even own Tears of Lys. Why would I deny having them here if it were true? I could easily tell you I was in the midst of training my body to fight against the poison. That would be a lie, though,” she let her hands relax to rest over her thighs, “They are not mine. I did not bring them with me.” She reiterated, sticking to honesty here.


Perhaps the dangerous honesty of everything else would keep her out of trouble, if her body language dared to betray her when she stated she meant Tywin no harm.

 

[Scriven]

“‘Why’, indeed,” Tywin muttered. He wasn’t convinced, despite the steadiness of her tone and the way Amaia stood her ground. Perhaps he ought to be, but something about the situation felt wrong to him. He took a step back, turning to pace away. From across the chamber he withdrew the vial of poison once more, looking at it.


His features were worn and leathery, yet sharp and never tired. Now was no exception. He stared at the poison, willing the truth to come to him.


“If you didn’t bring this into the Red Keep, then who did?” he asked her. “Who would try to frame you, instead of taking the poison and slipping it into your glass?”

 

[Lucyfer]

“Who indeed,” Aemilia spoke it in a sigh, relaxing as Tywin stepped away from her. The storm, in a sense, had passed if he was giving her space again. The lie had worked well enough so that his hands weren’t around her throat.


She leaned forward, arms crossing on her knees, “Someone who knows there’s a decent chance I’m immune to the Tears, I’d suspect,” Aemilia didn’t confirm whether or not she was. “Ordinarily I’d suspect my uncle, Lord Tyrosh, but he’s too far away to do such a thing, and he was no where near my home when I was packing to come here.”


Aemilia shut her eyes. No, in truth, she had no idea who would frame her, “Or perhaps it is an enemy of yours seeking to weaken the alliance,” that seemed logical, though why they wouldn’t just poison Tywin was beyond her. Her eyes opened slowly, looking at the ground, thinking, but nothing came. No suspect. No one else to pin the blame on.

 

[Scriven]

Amaia Hetherspoon could name no plausible person who might have done such a deed. The investigation would have to be completed by Varys, he thought. He would be leaving at first light and couldn’t involve himself any further in the scandal. If no one was discovered, Tywin would make sure Amaia Hetherspoon would be put to death for conspiracy of treason and her father stripped of rank and lands by the King. He could not show weakness, especially at a time like this. If Varys couldn't uncover anyone who might be trying to frame Amaia, he would make an example of her and be merciless.


“Perhaps you should be spending as much time keeping track of your enemies as you do keeping track of what might be put into your cup,” he advised her. “You will remain here until the truth is discovered.”


He pocketed the Tears of Lys and went to the door, opening it without a backward glance at her. When he strode out, the door was shut tightly behind him and the guards moved into place before it once again.

 

[Lucyfer]

‘Yes.’ Aemilia silently agreed with Tywin on this much. ‘And when I find them, I assure you it won’t be Tears of Lys they drink.’ No, whoever did this to her would find themselves in agony before death greeted them. Multiple poisons came to mind, the many she’d thought to use on Tywin if subtlety wasn’t important.


Which, it would always be, until Lord Tybolt died. Aemilia did not want to be that patient, though. Tears of Lys would have, admittedly, been the best sort to use on Tywin. That or Sweetsleep, assuming it could be hidden in milk or some other beverage that took cream.


Her eyes followed him to the door, and remained there as it was shut.


One deep breath was taken, and then she fell back on the bed. “Fantastic,” she spoke to the ceiling. Confined here, unable to find out if her father was well, unable to contact Clifton, and not able to seek out who did this. Perhaps when Tywin was gone, security would become lax enough that she could find a means to put an end to this, but she would have to wait for that.


The waiting was already killing her. ‘Yet you’ve been doing it for years.’


“And not even a book to entertain me.” Perhaps she could barter for one tomorrow with the guards, as well as at least clothing from her room. Otherwise, if she didn’t die on the executioner’s block (and she'd sooner bite through her tongue than give Tywin that satisfaction), she might die of boredom. She lifted a hand to her forehead and let her fingers comb back through her red hair.


‘Think.’


Eyes shut. She would figure this out, and she would return the favor.


‘And mine are long and sharp, my lord, as long and sharp as yours….’

 

[Scriven]

Her plot was working. Tyanne may not have had Lord Varys’s infamous network of spies, but as a servant she went all but unnoticed in the Red Keep. She discovered that her half-sister was being held high in the Tower of the Hand, suspected of conspiracy to murder one of the Lannisters, or perhaps even King Joffrey. She would be dealt with harshly and Tyanne relished the thought.


Misery and suffering of Amaia wouldn’t put Tyanne at the same table as her father, but it would make Tybolt endure some of the pain and anger she had had to face, and her half-sister, as much a bastard as she, would be stripped of the honors that she had been bestowed over Tyanne.


Tyanne, who was older, should have been made his rightful daughter after his wife’s child died. But had she? No. Tybolt had never even acknowledged her and all her life her mother had been mocked as a common slag. A beautiful, redheaded child had appeared in Tybolts life, acknowledged first as his natural daughter and then made an actual Hetherspoon, while Tyanne had grown up emptying piss pots and scrubbing floors under the bastard name Hill, Hetherspoon blood coursing through her veins.


Why had Tybolt acknowledge Amaia as his daughter but not Tyanne? Was it because she was plain? Was it because of the horrid mark on her face, or because her mother had been a servant in his house? She would probably never know, but she would sleep easier knowing there was a little more justice in the world once her sister and father were punished.


“Lord Tywin,” said Varys from the door, one hand on his rounded belly, his voice soft and sweet. “One of my little birds has heard a rumor of a man who bears ill will against Lady Amaia. I have taken the liberty of having him brought below to be questioned.”


Tywin set aside the quill in his hand, looking up. “What was the grudge he had against her?” Tywin asked. He spread sand across the letter to soak up the excess ink, then blew it away.


“The man is a small lord and tried to arrange a marriage between them earlier this year. He was after the Hetherspoon fortune, but had nothing to offer in return for her hand. His offer was never even entertained, and he apparently took great offense. He has been in King’s Landing for over a week now and was in the Red Keep yesterday, waiting to petition King Joffrey over a small land dispute. It was possible he may have known Lord Tybolt and Lady Hetherspoon were in the Maidenvault, and he may have had opportunity to go into her room unaware.”


Tywin frowned thoughtfully. “Question him and let me know what you discover,” he ordered. “Perhaps this issue can be dealt with before dawn.”

 

[Lucyfer]

Tybolt’s fist slammed one last time against the wall that should have also been Aemilia’s, but there was no response from the other side. The silence bothered him. He had heard conversation over an hour ago, but now there was nothing, and he didn’t know if she was there, if she was gone, or what was up. No one would tell him a thing.


“You need to sleep, Lord Hetherspoon.”


His maester, his old friend, had reverted to formalities in his pleas. Tybolt shot him a glare, brown eyes hardening on the maester. “How can I sleep like this? How can I sleep when she might be dead?”


“If she were dead, you would know,” Clifton offered, “For consequences would be falling upon you, as well.” And him, by association. He shook his head and looked to the window, “I knew I shouldn’t have gone with her. She’s been nothing but trouble since the day I met her.” There was bitterness. There was also a touch of admiration. A woman that troublesome deserved some touch of admiration. “I have some faith in her. Not much, but some.”


“You didn’t know her mother,” he almost said father. He managed not to as he managed to make his way to his own bed. “Hellion, that one. Temper as fierce as her hair,” though he was thinking only of Roger and not Roger’s wife. He hadn’t known the woman well enough to know if she was as troublesome as her husband.


He was so used to using the traits of Roger to describe the mother of Aemilia, though he had never named that woman, nor had he offered any other details about her profession, her name, or anything like that. “Ami’s temper won’t hold.” His faith was waning in the silence.


‘But I knew that was a gamble we had to take….’ He’d agree with Clifton on one thing—Aemilia had been nothing but trouble since the day he had met her, a child with a stuffed lion, claiming to be a Reyne. He’d always known that one day, they’d end up this far into it, and known it might be his end. Her end.


If it was to be his end, he wanted it to be her success. He wanted the lords of the Westerlands to know that they did not need to live in fear, as all of them did. All of them were tight-lipped and all walked on eggshells around Lord Tywin, not for themselves—for their families. Tywin’s destruction of the Tarbecks and Reynes showed he would destroy legacies, dreams, worlds, to maintain power.


No one wanted to take that risk. One might risk their own life, but no one would risk their family’s. Tybolt had despised living in that fear, despised it then as it gripped his heart. Tywin was a menace to the Westerlands, only holding them through fear. He knew that soon it would be over, though. How it was to end had not yet been determined. “Let me know if you hear any running. I want to be awake when they come for me.” He would try to die with dignity.


He pulled the covers over himself and snuggled into the bed. Clifton nodded a mute agreement, and then looked to the floor that he had as a bed. ‘Can’t even get a pillow.’


~***~


The ceiling wouldn’t let Aemilia sleep. In fact, she was well aware that sleep wouldn’t be had for hours. The adrenaline was wearing off in shakes and trembling gestures. The woman eventually rose from the bed to pace again, to try and think. Her hand constantly pulled through her own hair, but nothing came to mind.


Nothing at all.


Even among Tywin’s enemies, she wasn’t sure who would care enough to set this up, and who would know her well enough to just leave poison in her room.


‘What would you think now, father?’


Roger Reyne would never end up in a cell, no matter how gilded. The red lion wasn’t made to endure them, and Aemilia acknowledged that was the reason he was dead. He had made his intentions against Tywin too obvious, thinking Tywin no better than Tytos. ‘Were you blind?’ Possible. He’d dared to insult Tywin to his face.


Reynard had been the sane one of the two Reyne men. It was to Reynard she thought instead, and it was easier to imagine him pacing a cell, jaw tight, fists clenched, but there—waiting. ‘They both died.’ Had Reynard been in charge, Aemilia wondered if things would have been different. ‘No.’ No, because their sweet sister Ellyn thought to play the game, and play it poorly by trying to make a fool of Tywin’s mother.


She came from a very foolish bloodline, but they still hadn’t deserved the fate Tywin bestowed upon them.


In all her wanderings about, she ended up at the window, and found herself looking down to see a man clad in white below. ‘There’s one of two hopes of getting a book or revenge.’ And it was walking away.


Well, Aemilia couldn’t allow that. She turned back into the room and her eyes flickered over the objects there. They settled on a gold and red throw pillow, which she swiftly snatched up, and then threw down to hit Jaime. It wouldn’t hurt, of course, but she thought it should hit him—heavy enough not to be blown by the wind.


Where else would a pillow come from but up? Even if it missed him, he’d certainly notice the fall of the strange object, and she would try to wave him up. Shouting would be heard by the guards. ‘Someone is getting me a book, and you might be able to get word to Tyrion and my father….’ She was not about to be some helpless damsel in a tower.

 

[Scriven]

It was a day that had gone from bad to worse after the meeting with the small council. Joffrey, in one of his brighter moods, was more than happy to give his blessing that Jaime leave the Kingsguard to protect their home. Joff played the part magnanimously, but Jaime had a feeling the blessing he’d received had more to do with Joffrey wanting to stretch his wings a little. With his grandfather as the Hand and his uncle as the head of the Kingsguard, Joffrey no doubt felt a little restricted.


Which he should. The boy needed to be reigned in. And now who would do it? All but his family lived in terror of him. It would be up to the Tyrells to keep things in order, and wasn’t that a terrifying notion?


The scandal of poison found in Lady Amaia’s room had reached Jaime that afternoon. It was an accusation he found himself having a hard time believing. Why would she bring poison to King’s Landing? She was set to marry Tywin, and she at least seemed to be willing. No one was forcing her to marry his father and she and her family stood much to gain. Plus, the poison in question had been found by Olenna Tyrell, who had apparently been innocently snooping around and just so happened to find it. What her motive was for setting up Amaia, Jaime had no idea. Perhaps she had a relative tucked away somewhere that she wanted Tywin to wed. Maybe she wanted Tywin for herself. No, that was unlikely, but amusing to imagine. Amaia, in the short time he’d spoken to her, just didn’t seem like the type to plot to murder someone. It was a gut feeling, more than anything.


He’d been thinking about her as he crossed the Keep, on his way to the Holdfast. He saw a flash of red from the corner of his eye and began to turn as a pillow knocked against his arm. Jaime caught it before it fell into the mud, his eyes seeking the source. Where had it come from? He scanned the windows of the tower, his curious gaze finally lighting on none other than Amaia herself, leaning out of a window near the top. Jaime raised his eyebrows, looking down at the pillow again.


The sun was nearly down and the Keep was shadowy. It was hard to make out her face, but he thought he saw her waving him up. Jaime didn’t even try to fight his curiosity- he changed directions and headed toward the entrance of the tower. Jogging the stairs, it wasn’t long before Jaime reached the top. The pillow was still in his hands, but he tossed it aside into a dark corner when he saw that Amaia’s room was guarded. It would seem odd for a Lannister to bring her a pillow, he reasoned.


He nodded to the two men that stood on either side of the door and they stepped back to let him through. Jaime opened the door and let himself inside, then shut it behind him. He looked at Amaia curiously, a small smile on his lips. “You dropped something, you know. But I’m not the sort to play fetch, so I didn’t bring it back.” His smile softened. “I’ve heard about what happened, Amaia. If you tell me it wasn’t yours I’ll believe you.”

 

[Lucyfer]

Aemilia had to put a hand to cover her lips as she drew herself back into the tower. The speed at which Jaime had turned to run when he looked up was appreciated. It was not long before she heard those steps outside her door, and she stood near enough to hear the guards step back. No conversation, no arguing. Jaime was simply allowed in, easier than she expected.


She had to step back to offer a bit of space when Jaime did enter, realizing she’d been too close to the door. A smirk touched her lips at his comment, “No, I should have known—cats are no good at fetch,” she played along with the joke. There were enough pillows anyway, she could even do to part with a few more if she got bored and wanted to annoy a knight or two.


As quick as the joke had come, so the conversation turned somber, though Jaime kept a smile on his lips. “Well, I’m glad someone will. The poison isn’t mine,” she told Jaime, “Someone is setting me up, and I’m not sure if it is my own enemy, or one of your family’s.” How many enemies did the Lannisters have now? Likely too many to bother counting, and too many to pin down who would want to disrupt a marriage. “I suppose the silver lining is that there was no cake and no party for you to miss.”


There probably wouldn’t even be cake for the wedding anyway. Shame.

 

[Scriven]

Amaia’s joke about him not missing the party fell flat, but he kept his smile in place even as he softly sighed. “I don’t know how to help you,” he admitted. “There are people saying you meant to poison the king, others saying you would have killed my father if you’d had the opportunity.”


Jaime walked into the room, looking around. “At least they haven’t thrown you into the dungeon,” he commented. There was a plush feather mattress on the ornate bed, tapestries on the walls, a collection of silver goblets and a pitcher of water arranged on a table. Tywin had put her in a room where she would be comfortable. “He must at least think there’s a possibility you’re innocent, if he put you here.”

 

[Lucyfer]

Aemilia could see the joke didn’t have humor in it today, and was pleased Jaime instead pressed on to the point of the matter—her imprisonment.


She shook her head at all Jaime said, about her so-called plans. Obviously, she didn’t have any plans against the king, and this poison, at least, hadn’t been meant for Tywin. “I’ll trust your knowledge of your father,” her own mind didn’t work in such kind ways, though her mind did not work the way Tywin’s did.


Tywin wasn’t known for kindness when angered. She knew that much, and accepted what Jaime had to say. “I was hoping, perhaps, you could speak with Tyrion, and keep your own ears open for any talk. I do not know my own enemies as well as I’d like, and certainly not those in the Red Keep.” She wasn’t exactly a native here, “Your brother seems clever, and I hear he got out of a mess with Lady Catelyn. If he could be my eyes and ears while I’m in here, I’d owe him a debt,” more of one, really.


Thoughts of asking for a book, too, faded. Jaime didn’t fetch, it might be difficult for him to bring such a thing in here with a reasonable explanation. “I’d also like to know if my father is well, but I understand if you cannot return with that information tonight,” two visits might be suspicious.

 

[Scriven]

Jaime sat on the mattress, which sagged a little under his weight, apparently more worn than he’d been expecting. It could do with a few more feathers, he thought vaguely, but the thought left as quickly as it came, his attention turning back to Amaia's plight.


“You know Tyrion?” Jaime asked in surprise. He hadn’t realized the two had met. Since the battle of the Blackwater, Tyrion had been far less visible. Partly it was because he’d taken a pretty serious injury and needed time to hal, but Jaime suspected there was more to it than that. It wasn’t like Tyrion to sulk about and keep himself hidden. The old Tyrion would have been flaunting the ghastly scar across his face, practically showing off the chip in his nose where an axe had hit him. He’d want everyone to see what a monster he was so everyone would get over their shock as quickly as possible.


Tyrion also had an insatiable appetite for the fairer sex and a great appreciation of beautiful things. In the past if he had heard his father was going to be marrying a beautiful woman, it would have been a short matter of time before he discovered her whereabouts. Maybe Tyrion was getting past his suspicious melancholy, thought Jaime, because he had indeed found Amaia and made her acquaintance.


If he hadn’t been leaving for Casterly Rock in the morning, Jaime would have made a joke about her preferring his shorter but admittedly more clever brother. He may have gotten the looks and the height, but Tyrion had gotten the brains.


“I will ask him to discover what he can and try to aid you,” Jaime promised, though he considered Amaia’s situation dire. It would take pretty damning evidence to make Tywin believe that the poison found in her belongings had been planted there by another. “And I will send word of your father.”

 

[Lucyfer]

Aemilia gave a short nod to Jaime’s question about Tyrion, and explained, “I met him briefly by chance. We shared a drink in the library, a delicious pear brandy,” perhaps she couldn’t say she knew Tyrion, but she thought she knew enough to see how Tywin had been split between his sons. Jaime likely held the looks Tywin once had when he was young, and the physical capabilities, while Tyrion had gained Tywin’s intelligence and cunning.


There always seemed to be a joke glimmering in Jaime’s eyes, but it seemed he didn’t always speak it. Instead, he agreed to do as asked, and Aemilia inclined her head in a deep nod, “Thank you,” for she knew how dire her own situation was. Having Jaime on her side was useful, though she didn’t think Tywin would care too much what his eldest son wanted, or believed.


When she lifted her head, she gave him a curious look. She asked, “Why do you believe I’m innocent, Ser?” For like Tyrion, she barely knew Jaime. If Tywin was surprised at her knowledge of poisons, Jaime would be doubly so.


Even so, she wasn’t sure what he thought he knew, that made him trust her so.

 

[Scriven]

“Books and brandy- you know my brother better than you realize. You’ve cut right to the heart of two things he loves most in this world. After me, of course.”


The conversation became more serious, Amaia asking him why he believed her. Jaime shifted on the too-soft mattress, sinking further till the bottoms of his thighs hit the wooden frame. He considered her question with a frown, his eyes cast toward the floor. “I’m not really sure,” he admitted. “Maybe because I lack Tyrion’s wit or my father’s knack for intense scrutiny. I’d rather see the good in people, which often works against me. But maybe it’s mostly because, as children-” and as adults, “- I saw my dear sister put so many of our peers into these terrible positions. She was a horrid little girl,” he told Amaia with a smile, clearly fond of Cersei despite everything. “She would frame innocent children for her own amusement and gain. I suppose I saw often enough how one looks and acts when they’ve been falsely accused of something but have little chance of defending themselves.”


Jaime pushed himself up off the bed, crossing over to where Amaia was standing. “Plus, anyone with half a brain would know better than to leave Tears of Lys where Olenna Tyrell and her lot could so easily find them. If it was your intention to poison someone here, I think you’d make it a little more difficult for anyone to find out.”

 

[Lucyfer]

“Of course,” the red-head echoed the golden one.


Siblings. Aemilia wished she could remember hers a little better, wished she knew how they would have turned out. There had been a brother, of course. Roger had an heir. Older than her, yet she remembered so little about him. They must not have been close. Had he pulled her to the mines, kicking and screaming? She thought so.


No, the only sibling she had known was Melara, and her thoughts darkened as Jaime mentioned what Cersei used to do. ‘What did she do to mine?’ But Jaime spoke of her with love. Perhaps it was Cersei who inherited Tywin’s cruelty, but Aemilia would spare her, in the end. She’d call it the debt she owed Jaime for his assistance, now, if she ever found out Cersei did something to Melara.


Aemilia wouldn’t ask. Ignorance was bliss, in this case. “I thank you for believing I have at least half a brain,” she would indeed hide such a thing much better, closer to heart. Jaime could have been more of a younger brother than a son, though she was older—not by the lie that was told, but in reality. The thought of taking a liberty and hugging him crossed her mind, but instead her hand gestured towards the door, “Lest we tempt fate too long, I suspect I should be asking you to leave,” at least now, she felt tired, and her smile showed some of the weariness of the day that brought her here.


That was progress, in this situation. “I’ve allowed your brother, so if you like, Ser, you may call me Ami.” ‘Assuming I live long….’ But the thought trailed off.


For the moment, she’d allow hope to delude her, and in the morning she’d return to plotting. Tywin would be gone to his war then, and she was going to believe that would make things easier.