The Lion's Den [Closed]

[Lucyfer]

‘He does not dislike asking questions.’ Aemilia surmised, since Tyrion had mentioned he disliked questions. These things were not so difficult to answer. The truth was enough. “Not quite either, my lord,” she informed him, “I was not expected to be heir one day, so my upbringing was not the same as Melara’s. It was less…monitored,” that seemed the best way to put it.


She’d been able to pursue her own interests without the rigorous guidance of Shella. She had learned the womanly arts, of course, but she had not practiced them as Melara had—not until it was too late for her fingers to truly acquire the grace needed for amazing embroidery, after Melara had passed on. She knew how to stay out of sight and out of mind, and how to follow directions.


However, some habits slipped, when others were practiced more often. She could remember how to ride like a lady, but it wasn’t practiced often. Usually she’d prefer the carriage to that act. “My father believed that I would need to make my own way in the world, and as you can surmise, Shella was not the most interested in how I made my way.”

 

[Scriven]

Amaia had been extremely fortunate that her father took such a strong liking to her- enough to make her his heir and a Hetherspoon by name. If he hadn’t she would have been in a difficult position. It sounded as if her upbringing had neither prepared her to be the lady of the house nor to be a servant in someone else’s; rather, her knowledge was a mixture of both. Could she learn to be the lady of Casterly Rock? Tywin wouldn’t tolerate unseemly behavior from her. She would learn, Tywin told himself. He would make sure of it.


“I can imagine,” he told her neutrally. Tywin Lannister had no bastards, but there were as many Hills in Casterly Rock as there were in the villages around Hetherspoon, many by Lannister men. Bastards were like cockroaches: everyone knew they were there, but it was best if they just stayed hidden among the rushes.


Tywin gestured to the table of food and the two cups of wine with a strong but wizened hand. “Show me how you test for poison,” he told her. “I want to hear the process you’ve learned. Was it the maester at Hetherspoon who taught you?”

 

[Lucyfer]

Aemilia preferred the way things went from there, Tywin accepting the information and turning it to a topic she actually enjoyed. Poison.


It was a shame this hand had been played so early. It would have been nice to surprise him, in another way, but as it was it seemed he was going to find out exactly how much she knew. At least there was privacy to this meeting, and perhaps others in the future. “Very well,” she took the glass his hand had motioned towards.


Poison was usually in drinks not food. A glance at the food revealed no mushrooms. It was a decent method, mushrooms, so few even considered it, and most poisoned ones tasted just as good as any other. “I was taught by Maester Clifton. Quite a bit of it was trial and error,” no maester retained their last names. Who he’d been before, Aemilia had no idea.


Even he still had secrets from her. “History and poison both. Most will poison drinks, since managing not to cook the poison out of a food is an art,” a difficult one, at that. “Most poison can be smelled,” and indeed, as she had before, she lifted the cup to her lips, but took a sniff of it first.


It was a grape wine. There was another scent with it, and Aemilia’s lips curved in a wry smile. She made sure her words didn’t hold any note of wryness, though, “Essence of Nightshade. Best used in chocolate, tea, or bitter foods, if you’re trying to poison someone. That, or spread out through a meal,” at least, dark chocolate was rather bitter. She’d hypothesized the best way to poison someone with nightshade once, since it took so many drops, and it had a certain obvious bitterness. One drop in wine, one in a bitter glaze over the meat, more in a chocolate dessert, and then in the dessert wine.The issue was timing; one could fall asleep before eating enough.


At least, obvious to her. “Makes a good treat for sleep with chocolate, actually,” she didn’t set the wine aside quite yet, but rather, took one drink of the wine, reminding herself of the taste. She swallowed it, “There’s a tart aftertaste to it, but most will overlook that. It’s the smell one has to hide.” She could feel it just on the tip of her tongue, a not wholly unpleasant tingle.


The little she’d drunk didn’t worry her. Essence of Nightshade wasn’t an uncommon product, considering it also had medicinal purposes. It was a necessity for any healer; calming a patient was necessary. "Are you able to recognize this poison yourself, my lord, when it is served to you?" She asked, wondering then if he had chosen it because he knew it, or simply because it easily found on hand.

 

[Scriven]

Suspicion lingered at the edges of his mind, making the man ill at ease. It didn’t register on his stern features though, nor in the slightly relaxed posture he exhibited at the table that was within his tent. Suspicion was a common visitor for him, after all. Tywin rarely underestimated people. Doing so was dangerous. Constantly looking into the shadows for daggers had made him hard, but it had kept him alive. Far too many people had tried to kill him or to harm his family for him to be trusting and jovial. There were countless people who would love nothing more than seeing his grizzled head on a spike. Tywin was determined not to give them the satisfaction.


Trust was a thing not easily given, and it was never given wholeheartedly. He could think of no one he trusted implicitly, but there were matters in which a person’s allegiance was clearly steadfast. People tended to act with their own best interests in mind and he could trust that.


Now his army marched toward another dagger in the dark- the Marbrands. House Marbrand had sworn fealty to Tywin, but now when the Young Wolf approached their lands, they saw fit to honor another king. Tywin scowled, thinking about the betrayal. It had been a long time since the Reyne Rebellion. Perhaps people were beginning to forget what it meant to betray the Lannisters. He had hung the bodies of the Reynes around Casterly Rock after the rebellion. They had hung there to rot for an entire summer, which had lasted years. The skeletons of the Reynes at the gates had been a stark reminder to Tytos’s other bannermen what the reward would be for betraying and underestimating the Lannisters.


The Golden Lion of Casterly Rock was becoming more silvered than he had been in his younger years, but he was no less cunning. He would make an example of the Marbrands, just as he had the Reynes. His distrust of those all around him was at an alltime high. He had as little faith in Amaia Hetherspoon as he did everyone else- no, less. Finding poison in her belongings and her coinciding knowledge of the deadly art seemed far too coincidental. A man had confessed, but people would confess to anything when the soles of their feet were being charred. Richter Plumm had been begging for death, according to the man who had interrogated him. He would have said anything.


Tywin would keep an eye on this woman. His future wife, he thought with a wry smile. His future wife, who wanted to know if he could recognize poison.


“That seems like a very dangerous question for me to answer,” he told her with a dark, upward twist of the lips. “The answer is no: I do not recognize the taste or smell of poison. But I’m quite good at seeing fear in a man’s eyes or hearing a lie on a woman’s lips. One talent makes up for the other, doesn’t it?”


Tywin took the cup of wine from her and dumped it out on the ground, where it quickly soaked into the withered grass. He refilled it from the pitcher and slid the cup toward her again. “Your observation was correct. I put Nightshade in that cup myself. Perhaps you do know something.”

 

[Lucyfer]

Rumor had it that smiles from Lord Tywin were rare—smiles of any sort, and so Aemilia found it impressive that he let the hint of one show in the upwards curl of his lips. To his statement, she gave a nod, “Most of the time,” she admitted. Just as her own ability worked, most of the time, in finding poisons. There were always exceptions. “Though, you may still find me useful.”


He confirmed that it was nightshade, and he poured her a fresh glass of wine, which she accepted once it was set down. “That is, if you do not already have a taster in your employ,” which, she had to imagine, he did. However, there were circumstances where a taster would not always be available, or it would seem improper to have one. Those were situations she could easily be in.


It was dangerous what he revealed, but right now it meant little. She had to bide her time, after all. She’d not have herself accused after the fact, not when it could harm Tybolt. If it was Plumm who set those Tears, she hoped he suffered greatly before facing his end. He had set her back terribly. “I can recognize most known poisons, though I’m sure if you plan to continue this, you’ll learn that on your own.” And if he wished to continue that game, she would continue to play it.


“I’m glad you did not add more,” She still sniffed the new wine before bringing it to her lips. Evidently, she wasn’t inclined to trust the wine still, nor would she trust the food even if she wasn’t sure how he’d manage to poison it and keep himself free from suffering.


The little nightshade had would help her sleep as it was. It rid one of anxiety, and hers were still high. It was a Lannister camp, after all, and some group out there by some fire was singing that victory melody she so despised. She wondered if Tywin ever got tired of it, but wouldn’t ask. It was probably offensive to imply that song could ever get old.

 

[Scriven]

“It can be difficult to find a taster,” Tywin admitted with a wry hint of amusement. “It’s a risky occupation.” Particularly for the poor soul doomed to taste his food. Tywin was winning no popularity contests. “My last taster died shortly after leaving Harrenhall. Not from poison, mind. I hear the boy wandered too far from camp and was taken by enemies. Death by poison might have been a kinder fate. The Northerners have no love for those who serve the Lannisters.”


As he spoke, Tywin served himself from the dishes laid out on the table, but he didn’t put a single bite into his mouth. He would wait to see what Amaia said about the rest of it first.


“I’m glad you did not add more,” she told him, careful even with the fresh glass he had poured. Tywin raised one brow, his forehead crinkling in well-worn lines.


“Why is that? A taste of Essence of Nightshade won’t hurt anyone. My maester used to give it to my children when they couldn’t sleep.” As for him, it was something he never consumed- at least, not knowingly. Tywin preferred to be alert at all times. Slumber induced by Sweetsleep or Essence of Nightshade was difficult to wake from and he needed to be ready to make decisions often moments after waking.

 

[Lucyfer]

There was a reason to the madness of offering to be such a thing, besides Aemilia’s pride. She had decided, when she chose to come here without question, that the best way to take Tywin by surprise in the future would be to do whatever was necessary. Ride in a dress? Be a taster? Sure. It would put her in his good graces, and further deepen the debt he’d owe her.


It might allow her a measure of his trust, too, which was necessary. The betrayal would hurt more, but then, that was icing on the cake. “That depends on the poison,” there were some poisons that were as good as torture.


Aemilia had been taught to wait until others were served, and she served herself after Twyin, and noted that he waited. It did make her wonder if the food, too, was poisoned. As before she bought it close to her lips, but sniffed it first. ‘Nothing unusual….’ Not for the meat, nor for what it was cooked around.


She took the bite, but made sure to chew it thoroughly before swallowing, “Nothing,” she deduced, and then said to his comment of Essence of Nightshade, “I do not fear being hurt by Nightshade, but it wouldn’t do to fall asleep at your table, or forget that I am in the presence of a lord. Nightshade does have the fun side-effect of relaxing someone to the point they forget their audience, the way liquor can.”


‘And in wine is truth.’ As the saying went. The same was true of nightshade, just doubly so. “I take it your maester was always accurate so you never got to watch your children make fools of themselves when under its influence?” The second bite was still taken cautiously after she asked, just in case, but she scented nothing. She tasted nothing amiss.

 

[Scriven]

There was a short, hard sound that was akin to a laugh, but it sorely lacked any kind of humor.


“You’ve met both of my sons. Do you suppose there has ever been a time in their lives when they weren’t fools?”


Tywin shook his head, more to himself than to her. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his children, at least in his way, but love was a funny thing. There were times they did things that made him proud, but far more time when he saw the choices they made and wondered how his children could be so idiotic. Jaime was headstrong and brash. Cersei was shortsighted. Tyrion was an imp and a drunk, determined to drink and whore his way to an early death. He had been firm with his children all their lives, yet still they performed these acts of defiance against him.


Tywin and Amaia ate their meal in relative quiet after that. Never a fan of smalltalk, Tywin didn’t bother with pleasantries. His mind was on the battles ahead. When the scouts returned with the location of the Marbrands he would send Jaime ahead. The rest of the troops would be close at his heels. Jaime had a knack for boosting morale with his men. There were those who distrusted him, still referring to him as Kingslayer, but most men acknowledged the prowess Jaime possessed in battle. With a sword he was unmatched, and he rode fearlessly toward his enemies. Strength in the vanguard set the tone for the rest of the battle.

 

[Lucyfer]

‘Have you met Tyrion? Jaime?’


Not that Aemilia would say as much. The food was enjoyed, and she allow a couple other topics to come up, but mostly she ate in silence. The tests were over, and silence was strangely pleasant with Tywin. Actions, more than words, spoke of what he was.


He was cautious about himself, but not with his actions. Decisiveness made caution a visible weakness in a man such as that, and Tywin was ever-decisive.


When the meal was done, Aemilia did retire to her tent and wished Twyin hadn’t dumped out the essence of nightshade. With her eyes shut, it was hard not to hear the Rains of Castamere. It was hard not to wonder if waiting was really going to pay off. ‘It must.’ Even if Jaime was on her side, others weren’t so trusting. Even if she might be able to kill him over a month of illness, she couldn’t risk it now.


The Marbrand forces were located by scouts soon. Aemilia would not join combat, nor would she be near enough to it to truly be a ‘field’ medic, but she would be at the camp and prepared to handle any wounded that returned. She’d managed to see what the maester had on hand, and raided the general supplies for anything else she might need, while grumbling over the lack of ointments and other such things to herself.


Well, that, and grumbling over the layered skirts she now wore atop her horse, Geminus, who she was certain mocked her. She only let Jaime hear the grumbling, though. She couldn’t prove it, but the red stallion seemed to adopt a new gait, and liked to move just a little when she was dismounting. So far, she hadn’t tripped over her own skirts, but Geminus was trying to make it happen. Ami was certain of it.

 

[Scriven]

It was several days into the long march through the Westerlands. Scouts reported troops gathering on the Tumblestone River near Ashemark. The Lannister and Tyrell forces would intercept them between Casterly Rock and Ashemark, but they had a way to go. Travel through the mountains was difficult and slow and they were transporting sixty thousand people, not to mention the supplies for all of them.


Each evening Tywin shared supper with Amaia, each night hiding a different poison in a different dish. She had not only detected them, but had been able to correctly identify them. Tywin felt a growing respect for her, though it was balanced by a healthy dose of wariness. He felt as if he was holding a beautiful but poisonous spider in the palm of his hand that might choose to bite at any time. As an ally she was invaluable, but what if she became his foe? What if she was already his foe?


Riding up beside him, Jaime was dressed for battle. He had donned leather armor and chainmail, his eyes on the hill in the distance where Marbrand and Stark forces were gathered. It was their first encounter, but surely not the last. “Ser Addam Marbrand sent a messenger who begs a meeting with you.”


Tywin could hear to skepticism in Jaime’s voice. It was far too late to be having meetings. This spoke of some kind of deceit. Was it a distraction or an attempt to lure him into their camp? Perhaps they thought if they could cut off the head the body would die. It wouldn’t, of course. His death, if it were to happen in such a manner, would further divide the kingdom and make the Marbrands the enemy to many great houses. By the same token, it would gain them allies. The enemy of my enemy, as the saying went, and the Lannisters had many who would like to see them fall.


“Who is the messenger?” Tywin asked from atop his courser.


“A cousin to Ser Addam.”


Tywin nodded. “Good. Take him hostage for now. We may have need of a bargaining chip later.”


Jaime snorted, smiling. “Already done.” He'd correctly anticipated his father's orders.


As their forces drew closer, Tywin saw that though the Marbrands had asked for a meeting, they were more than ready for a battle. Their first wave rode forward on horseback, led by Jaime. A second wave followed on foot. Much of their force was still far back on the hill, protecting the supplies and those who weren’t soldiers, like Amaia. They outnumbered the army before them almost two-to-one it seemed, which didn’t seem right to Tywin. This accounted for the Marbrands, but if they had given their loyalty to Robb Stark, where were the rest of the men from the North? It was Marbrand banners he saw flapping in the wind: trees on fire against a fog of grey. Where was the direwolf sigil?


Despite the overwhelming disparity in numbers, the Marbrands were doing well. They held the line for quite a while and Tywin could see a group fighting their way closer. To him, he realized. If the Marbrands couldn’t get Tywin Lannister into their camp, they would try to surround him on the field. Tywin drew his sword, his pale eyes narrowed into a deep frown.


His icy gaze was fixated on the approaching forces, the thunder of hooves filling his ears. It took his mind a moment to register the searing, white-hot pain of an arrow punching through his chainmail. It grazed the bottom of his collarbone and slid into his chest, piercing a lung but missing the heart. Tywin lurched in the saddle, seeking out the man who had shot him. How? They were too far away.


Their camp, Tywin saw, had been infiltrated. The man who shot him was one of several. It was a suicide mission though and the man was quickly cut down, as were the others, but they had done a fine job of seeking out leaders. His body sagged and he felt the warm dribble of blood down his chest. He inhaled and felt the blood filling one of his lungs. He tried to breath but the wound felt like fire spreading through him. It made his hands seize into fists and his legs become stiff. His fingers were locked around the reins of his horse, but he tipped out of the saddle and fell to the ground.


Men were surrounding him, pulling him up. The screams of pain were silent, but they echoed inside of him. “Quick! Take him to Lady Amaia’s tent!” someone yelled, and Tywin felt himself being half-dragged by two men before the world seemed to fade around him.

 

[Lucyfer]

War was chaos, and lesser maesters and supposed medics were scrambling, but Aemilia was humming. It wasn’t the Rains of Castamere, but a softer melody made for calming. Fallen Leaves was the name of it, and it kept Aemilia calm as she moved through and assessed what tasks she could pass to others, and what tasks needed her own hand.


Sweetsleep and Milk of the Poppy were on hand, and she had more being made, since they were easy enough to make and did not require a cooling off period.


She was in the midst of tending to some blonde Lannister when there was a shout for her, and a rough hand pulled her from the work by the shoulder. Aemilia had managed to lift the knife quick enough that the Lannister was unharmed, but her glare on the soldier was unkind, and she put the blade to his chest.


Perhaps he didn’t feel it, or didn’t notice. Lucky her. “Lord Tywin needs tending to.”


It was in her throat to ask if there was not some man better suited for the task, but she pushed his hand off of her instead. “Is he poisoned?” She asked as she set the knife aside and snapped for the medic who was washing wash clothes to take her place. He jumped at the wordless command.


“We think so.”


‘Oh.’


Before she could ask where he was, her arm was grabbed and she was pulled along. One hand grasped at her skirts to lift them, and she was taken to her own tent, where the wounded man was lain out on her own bed, staining it with blood, but not much. ‘The arrow is preventing that.’ Such was her initial idea, and she glared at the chainmail. The arrow didn’t go all the way through, so she broke the shaft. No one here knew what arrow pierced him, and she’d not make the wound worse by pulling it out until she had some idea.


Her hands were quick in stripping Tywin of the armor and cloth that covered his torso, and she had to snap at the soldier to ensure he wouldn’t run off. “I may have need of you yet.”


If it meant saving his liege lord, he wouldn’t run.


When Aemilia took in a sharp breath, he asked, “What is it? What’s wrong?”


There was a moment where Aemilia knew the malice couldn’t have been masked. Perhaps it could be mistaken as malice towards the shooter of the arrow, but it was plain as day. The way her lids hooded themselves over her eyes, and the thin line that her mouth became, said it all. The gods, if they truly were in existence, were not kind. In the moment she had to decide if she let him die, or if she saved him, she cursed them.


There was only one option, after all. “Manticore. Thickened. Smart,” that’s why the blood was clotting. Tywin would have been dead already if the poison hadn’t been thickened. Whoever shot him, hated him as much as she did.


“Are you praisin—”


“Get me plenty of wet clothes, and dry ones,” she interrupted, not wanting to hear it. “I can get everything else.” A new knife to cut out the arrow and to stitch the internal damage. The antidote—she couldn’t give that too him immediately, the clotting was going to make getting the poison out of his system a bit more difficult, but if she thinned the blood too soon she’d kill him. Blood thinners, too, would be necessary. ‘And Sweetsleep.’ He seemed out of it right now, but the last thing she needed was him reacting to the pain of the poison when he came to. “I’ll be right back.”


She left her tent to fetch the items, and hoped the soldier would do as asked. Those items weren’t terribly difficult to find.


‘Damn it. Damn him. Damn it all!’


This would have been the way she’d want Tywin to go. In agony, from a thickened manticore poison. That was certainly why she was able to recognize it so easily.


The humming resumed, once she’d fetched what she needed from the supplies of a maester, and she re-entered her own tent.

 

[Scriven]

His eyes were closed, the world black and blinding flashes of red behind his eyelids. He was in agony, every breath an effort. It felt like molten gold was creeping through his veins, paralyzing him with pain. Tywin was aware of being half-dragged, half-carried. He heard Amaia’s voice.


“Manticore. Thickened. Smart.”


She sounded impressed, Tywin thought as he was lowered onto a bed, his tunic cut away. Still he couldn’t seem to open his eyes. Why wouldn’t they open? Why couldn’t he force his hands to unclench? He knew now he had been poisoned by manticore venom, but it wasn’t the poison that was making him immobile; it was the pain. Every muscle in his body was clenched and frozen in place, his teeth gnashed together so tightly it was a wonder they didn’t crack.


The Marbrands wanted him to die a slow, agonizing death. To spite them, he would make sure he lived. He would fight this pain and he would refuse to die. He knew death was an impossible thing to cheat, but if any man could do it, it was him. At the least he’d give Amaia as much time as possible. He wouldn’t give in easily. Tywin never had.


While he laid there in the muted quiet of the tent, alone now save for the chorus of pain, he forced his mind to focus on his revenge. Better to think on that than the way it felt like his chest was filling with blood and the way his insides felt like they were burning, stretching apart, tearing. He would capture Lord Damon and Ser Addam Marbrand and tie them to trees outside their castle where he would make them watch as the castle was closed off with their family inside and set aflame. When the screaming stopped and the smoke had killed everyone in Ashemark, he would set the forest aflame where Damon and Addam were bound. He would make sure the flames devoured them and not the smoke.


Tywin’s excruciating pain and terrible, vivid fantasy were interrupted by the soft sound of humming. For just a moment his attention was focused on that and he was able to wrench his eyes open. Amaia had returned, supplies in her arms.


“The Gods must have known I would need you,” he said tightly, quietly. Every word was difficult, but this was important to say. “The poison in your room... If it hadn’t been put there... I wouldn’t have known you had this knowledge... I wouldn’t have brought you along... I would die here...”

 

[Lucyfer]

Aemilia clung to the song as Tywin spoke words that pierced her like the arrow pierced him. ‘The Gods favor you, my lord.’ Her throat was too tight to speak. She could only hum, and she could only nod her agreement with his sentiments.


‘The debt you will owe me….’


Tywin would never pay it. He was living when he could be dead, if she were not here. If she were not here! She would happily trade places with Plumm, to hear of Tywin’s death before her execution, and the pain of that thought almost had her scream.


Her back was to him during this, laying out the supplies in a fashion that would make accessing them easy the second she needed them. A deep breath wiped her face of expression. She cut the humming off and turned to face Tywin, holding Milk of the Poppy, “A maester would have had enough time to figure this out, I am certain,” she wasn’t at all, and the dullness of her tone indicated her lack of faith in them. The words were simply what she was supposed to say. Thickened manticore venom took an expert’s hand, and most maesters dealt in healing, not poison. They wouldn’t think of this for a while. They were taught that manticore killed quickly, and never mind what the Dornish did to it. Idiots. They'd forgotten the art of manufacturing poisons, as if man's mind couldn't make things worse for others.


She approached the bed, said, “I know you will not like it, but I have to put you to sleep, my lord. The pain is holding you tight now, but as I start to treat you it will lessen to a point where you may start to move, and this is delicate work,” she doubted he would be pleased with this, “I am sure you will do as you like when you wake, if you are still angry with me.”


For he would wake. Aemilia would see to it that he woke, if it meant others out there had to die, so be it. This one would wake again, because her own fate was too entwined with his to have him die right now. “So will you take it easily?” Willingly. She could give it to him easily enough through his eyes. It would sting, but what was stinging pain to him right now, really?

 

[Scriven]

The already pronounced lines that aged Tywin’s proud features became deeper at Amaia’s question. His head shook just slightly, just a hair to the left. It was all he could manage.


“No,” he told her firmly. “I will not be put to sleep. Do what-” he gasped in a breath, feeling his knuckles crack as his fist further tightened. “-what you must. I will not move.”


He would never willingly let her or anyone else administer something to him that would put him to sleep. He didn’t trust such drugs and considered himself above them. He would rather bare the pain- even this pain- and keep his wits about him than be lying there defenseless at someone’s hands.

 

[Lucyfer]

‘As I suspected.’ When Tywin woke, he’d be wroth with her, but Aemilia was not about to put her life on the line for his pride. ‘I’ve had to swallow mine. It is time to swallow yours.’


“Please forgive me, my lord. I was not asking permission.”


Her hand touched his forehead, cool to his feverish flesh, and she tipped the mixture over an eye to let it fall into the vulnerable opening to put him to sleep. No doubt, he’d close it, but the liquid would slip through the crack, and it was easily absorbed this way. Not as much would be needed. “I’m not going to let your pride be your death today.” He wouldn't dare to kill her for this--what message would that send to others, that he killed someone who saved his life? She'd see consequences, but not death.


She had measured it carefully, and stepped back once the task was done. A cloth was taken away to wipe at what dared to spill, and Aemilia moved as if she’d not done something to greatly offend the man. He’d be asleep soon, and she needed to tend the wound.


The first bit was opening him up more, and knowing he couldn’t move now, though he was awake, she took the knife to his flesh and resumed humming, this time a new melody, though just as sad as the other. It would bite into his chest, but she would work around the arrow to find it, see the shape, and see the best way to remove it. ‘Not barbed.’


She wasn’t sure when Tywin passed out, but at some point she noticed his breathing had slowed dramatically, and so, too, his heartbeats. The slower his heart moved, the better, at this point. Aemilia diligently worked to remove the arrow tip so that no more muscle or organ was torn. The lung was damaged, but not as badly as she thought.


Hands expertly stitched the lung back up, after she spread the antidote around the injury to kill the source of the poison. She watched it burn away beneath the antidote.


She would need to cut him open again in the future to remove the stitches. ‘You can be conscious for that.’ Her hands didn’t shake. When he was beneath her in this way, she forgot his face. He became another injured man, with blood clotting and frustrating her with each minor emergency that had to be tended to because of that.


The blood thinner was used in small doses, in individualized places, before she was finally able to turn herself to the issue of the poison itself. ‘It’s spread.’ She expected it. It traveled in the blood.


Another deep breath. She took the antidote container, and bit the inside of her lip. She needed to thin the blood to get the antidote to travel, but she also needed to make sure the poison didn’t get to his heart. Once it was thinned, it would kill him. The antidote would struggle against that thickening agent, though.


This was her plan! So, naturally, she had a few ideas on how to combat it.


‘Antidote should be combined with the thinning agent. Travel at the same time.’ Some modifications would be necessary to both, but it would work.


She turned away from Tywin and looked back at all she had brought with her. There would be no need to yell at anyone—she’d grabbed raw ingredients, particularly turmeric and willow sap. The willow sap would help the binding process. In a bowl she combined the items, careful with measuring, her mind running through the properties of the raw ingredients so she didn’t make a poison in place of an antidote. A few glances were cast to Tywin’s prone form to guess at how much would be necessary based on his own figure.


She might have been amused that this was the first time she’d seen him even partially unclothed, considering they were meant to be wed before this point.


It would be an amusement for later.


Once finished, she nearly held her breath as she applied it to the open wound and let it sink in, let it move through him.


She waited. ‘Ten minutes will tell.’


It was told sooner than that, but she did not wish to act too soon. The clots were broken up before they could kill Tywin on their own. The poison released with their breaking up was destroyed by the antidote. The antidote flowed freely, acting in tangent with the thinning agent.


Aemilia was so relieved she nearly laughed over the unconscious man, but instead she went about stitching him up, finishing the job by wrapping the wound, and then cleansing her hands of the blood and concoctions. “There,” she told the sleeping man as she tossed the dirty cloth aside. She went to pick up her supplies, to carry them out with her, to where they would be needed.


Her job was far from done. “The slowed heart rate is what really saved you, my lord. You’d thank me if you understood.” Would he understand if she explained it, or would he imagine he could have kept his breathing slow, and his heart rate slow, under the stress of the situation?


Likely the latter. “I’ll see that you are well guarded.” A parting promise, as her hand moved absentmindedly over his forehead again. She shook her head, and turned from him to exit the tent.


Her tent was well-guarded when she exited, but not by men of golden hair. The sounds of the camp that now rushed to her ears indicated the host had returned, victorious. There was an anxious energy in the air that indicated everyone knew that their liege lord was not well. The eyes of the guards shot to her, looking for an answer, but she gave them none. Instead, she sought gold in the sea of red tents.


It was found easily enough. “Ser Willem!” Willem Lannister, a son of Kevan who she expected would be dutiful for love of his father, and love of his uncle. He was barely a man, the scruff of a beard marring his face, but he turned on a dime.


“Lady Hetherspoon. What news—”


“Go to the tent, and stand guard. Let only Jaime or myself in. No one else until Tywin wakes. Lord Tywin needs his rest.” Then it would be whoever Tywin wanted to see.


The relief that spread over his face was beautiful to behold, and it reminded Aemilia of why she’d taken to this job so easily during Robert’s Rebellion. There was the future, of poisoning Tywin, but there had been the immediate gratification, as well. “I will, my lady. Thank you!” And he was off at a jog to her tent, where he took a position before the flap.


Aemilia wandered away from it, looking for Jaime in part to make sure he had returned alive and well, and also to let him know his father’s state, in case he was not informed. Somehow, she doubted he wasn’t informed, but he hadn’t known of his father’s engagement. She wouldn’t let Jaime find out too late.


Then, it would be back to work. The injured and wounded didn’t stop being that way because their lord was going to live.

 

[Scriven]

Indignation flashed in Tywin’s eyes, but only for a second as he shut them tightly, managing to turn his head a little. The drop of liquid she had been holding above him dropped onto his eyelid, seeping into his tear duct. It burned for a few seconds before his eye became numb. He had only minutes before the opioid dimness took hold of him. He had to get up and wash the blasted milk from his eye, lest someone find him prone. He tried to sit up, but made only a gurgled cry of agony that he tried to choke back.


“Damn you, woman!” he cursed, accusation in his glare even as his lids grew heavy. “When I wake up... I’m going to... I’ll...”


Tywin felt like the world was shifting under him. He closed his eyes against the feeling of disorientation, but he was still aware of the world around him. He fought the effects of the drug fiercely, desperately trying to cling to consciousness.


“I’m not going to let your pride be your death today,” he heard Amaia tell him, unable to respond. His pride wouldn’t kill him, but her negligence might. The camp had been full of spies and turncloaks, men pretending to be fighting on the side of the king who were ready to kill him. If they found him like this, lying on a cot not only injured but unable to rouse, finishing the job would be like spearing a caged animal.


He was only certain it was her knife slicing into his flesh because he heard the sweet melody of her voice, a gentle song that seemed so horribly misaligned with what he felt and what she was doing. His short nails dug into his palms, creating eight tiny half-moon gashes. Still, the feeling of her knife spreading his wound was no worse than the agony of the poison that he could feel moving through his veins. It was terrible, but he couldn’t even scream out. Now he was truly paralyzed, completely still under Amaia’s cruel blade. He focused on her song and knew the melody would always haunt him from that day on. Whenever he heard the sad, sweet tune he would recall the anger and the horrible, horrible pain.


Blood covered Jaime, but none of it was his own. He had torn through the enemy, not like a madman, but with carefully calculated grace. He had seen the man who had shot his father and had seen Tywin sag in his saddle, falling to the ground even as his fingers tried to grip the reins to hold himself up.


Jaime had been across the field when it happened. In all actuality the distance hadn’t been great, but it had felt like leagues to cross. His sword had cut down man after man. Jaime had moved with calm purpose, trying to reach his father. The battle ended before he got back to the camp though, the hills strewn with corpses. Lying there as they were, it was hard to tell Marbrand from Lannister from Tyrell, but the golden lion sigil still flapped in the wind, while the orange, burning trees were now littering the ground, covered in blood and mud.


“Where is my father?” Jaime had demanded, moving recklessly through the camp. Blood covered his clothes, his light leather armor. It was smeared across his tanned face, droplets congealing in his fine golden hair.


“He is being tended by Lady Amaia,” Ser Faas had told him, holding a dirty scrap of cloth to his steadily bleeding side to try and staunch the wound. Jaime paused, looking at Faas with a gaze that turned from cold fury to gentle concern.


“That injury needs to be tended to. Find a medic.”


But Faas only shook his head. “The maesters and medics are busy with much worse than me,” he said, regret in his voice. The battle that day had been hard.


Was his father one of those? He needed to find him. Jaime put his hand on Faas’ shoulder, thanking him before heading off again. When he reached Amaia’s tent, he was told by those waiting outside that she was tending to his father. He didn’t want to interrupt her concentration, so Jaime forced himself to distance himself slightly from the space.


It was a short time later that he spotted her speaking to his cousin. “Amaia!” he called over the din of noise. He hurried toward her, brows furrowed together. “What news of my father? I saw him fall from across the field.”

 

[Lucyfer]

Jaime Lannister found her first, still covered in blood. Her eyes looked him over, checking to see if any of it was from a wound that needed immediate attention. Of course, his concern was not for himself. His concern was for Tywin. It pulled at a heartstring.


When her job was done, Jaime would hate her, and she’d not grudge him that at all.


Aemilia remained where she was to let Jaime catch her.


“Your father will live, Jaime,” Aemilia answered him, speaking with certainty so that no doubt would taint her tone. She wouldn’t have Jaime fretting needlessly. “He was shot by an arrow coated in a thickened variant of manticore venom. The venom is out of him now, and he will recover. He is resting now,” she motioned to her own tent, “He may be out for a little while longer, but he should be awake by nightfall at the latest. I had to put him to sleep.” She admitted to that. Best if Jaime knew now, she thought. He could use that information as he desired. “Something I do not think he’ll understand when he wakes.” His last words had been the trailing end of a threat.


If she was bothered by it, it didn’t show on her features at all.


Her eyes went over Jaime again, and she asked, “Are you well enough?” She would tend Jaime first, but if he was fine, she would go to others. She’d reported to him as she wanted to, and he would know that his father would live.

 

[Scriven]

His father’s own sworn bannermen had poisoned him. There was no such thing as honor anymore, not anywhere. “Thank the gods you were here.”


He should have known it would take more than an arrow to kill his father. Even in his late years, Tywin was a formidable man. Still, Manticore poison... What a terrible way that would have been to die. “You did what you had to. He understands acting out of necessity.”


Amaia inspected him but Jaime smiled. “None of this is mine,” he assured her, referring to the blood that now soaked him. “Go tend to the others. Ser Faas was looking quite weak when I saw him last, nursing a wound to the side.”

 

[Lucyfer]

Her lips twisted a bit at the mention of the gods again. It seemed she would be the only one cursing them today. Well, besides the Marbrands.


Aemilia was not expecting Tywin would have a change of heart since he had carried his rage with him to sleep. He might understand necessity, but he had his own ideas of what was necessary. ‘We’ll see.’ She’d allow, but not hope. "You may see your father if you like. Willem should not give you any trouble." She'd specified Jaime, after all, though she doubted Willem would have kept Jaime out anyway.


Jaime assured her the blood was not his, and she allowed relief to show, though it would be short-lived. “Ser Faas?” She did not know him, but that did not mean he would be difficult to find. Aemilia had no problems asking others, and if he was that weak, he likely wasn’t moving too quick. “I’ll find him immediately,” she took the hint. If Jaime mentioned him, he was important enough to tend to now. “Where did you see him last?”


She would follow what instructions Jaime could give, and take others as necessary to find this knight, and see to it that his wounds were tended.

 

[Scriven]

“Thank you. I think he might be hurt worse than he’s letting on.”


Jaime looked over the heads of the people around them, trying to spot the man he had seen before. “Ah- over there. He’s by the maester’s tent, sitting on that log. He’s the one wearing the sigil of the blue bantam cock for the Swifts.”


He left Amaia after that, heading toward her tent so he could see his father. He moved past Willem, who was watching the entrance, and went to kneel beside his father’s cot. Tywin looked pale and still, almost as if he were dead, but his chest slowly rose and fell. It was strange, but Jaime couldn’t recall having ever seen his father sleep. He knew the man must, but he had never witnessed it. He had seen his father unkempt from sleep, yet he’d always been alert and awake. He’d surely be snarling and mad as a dog when he awoke.


Jaime found a chair and pulled it beside his father’s bed, then used the pitcher and basin to wash his hands and face of Marbrand blood. He removed his blood-spattered doublet and soaked the cloth, using it to clean his sword. He would sit there and wait for his father to wake, and until Tywin Lannister opened his steely blue eyes Jaime would guard him.


It wasn’t love he acted out of, but rather a sense of duty. He had sworn an oath not only to protect and obey the king, but also his father.


It was early that evening when Tywin awoke. He looked at Jaime in displeased surprise, his expression sour enough to curdle cream.


“I couldn’t stand to wake you,” Jaime told his father with a smile that pulled up one side of his mouth in a crooked grin. “You looked so... peaceful.”


Tywin glowered at him, sitting up in bed, holding back the grimace that threatened. He looked around them at the familiar tent. “We’re not prisoner, so I assume we won. Good. Did we capture Addam Marbrand?”


“No,” Jaime told his father. “I’m afraid not. There are reports saying he’s hiding at Ashemark.”


Tywin thought about that for a moment, then nodded slightly. “Where is Amaia?”


“I believe she’s still tending the wounded.”


“Find her and put her in irons. I want her taken to Casterly Rock and thrown in the dungeon.”


“Father, come now. The woman saved your life! If not for her you would be dead now, exactly as the Marbrands hoped.” And half the Seven Kingdoms, but that was beside the point.


“Do this deed or find someone who will,” Tywin ordered. Jaime stood, jaw clenched.


“You’re really doing this? After what she did for you? Why?”


“Do not question me, Jaime. I want her in irons. Bring her in here, then I’m sending her to Casterly Rock.”


Jaime didn’t move immediately, but finally he turned and with an angry expression he left the tent. He needed to find Amaia, yet he was in no hurry to do so.

 

[Lucyfer]

Ser Faas was located, and Aemilia talked the man into letting himself be seen, though he clearly wanted others worse off than him to be seen. It was as Jaime thought, though—he was worse off than he’d admit. Aemilia did not put him to sleep, but talked with him calmly all through the work, and made sure he kept drinking throughout the process. Even then, when the wound was closed, when it was treated, and Aemilia directed Faas to sleep, she was not positive he would survive.


No poison, but the damage and the blood loss might end him. She had hoped to counter one by making Faas drink water mixed with molasses, a dark substance some would never believe medicinal. It tainted the water red like blood, though, and she’d learned it worked quite like it—restoring blood quicker than water alone, and staving off the feeling of faintness. It was a woman's trick, the lady Hetherspoon had told her, for when the monthly bleeding was too much.


Faas was not the only one to be seen, and even at evening Aemilia continued her work.


It had not been with fear that the Reynes had threatened to reign. It had been with generosity. It was why they’d gotten into such debt with the Lannisters, too, before they were able to carve their own way. It was wrong of them to do so, in that fashion, but Aemilia would never admit the Reyne were evil, nor that the family as a whole deserved what befell them.


Most of the seriously injured had been seen by night—or else they passed into death. Aemilia was tending to a Doggett, and speaking of their arms (which had no dog!) when she caught sight of Jaime moving through the crowd. “Ah dear,” she found herself saying to the lad, “it seems the lion has woken again.” She shared a smile with him before turning it up to Jaime.


His body language said it all, but she’d not assume, “Good evening, Jaime.” Her eyes went back to the clothes still in her hand, “I’ll be with you in a minute.” She would at least finish making this tight around the lad’s upper arm.

 

[Scriven]

There was recognition in her eyes even before Jaime dropped the heavy irons onto the grass and took a seat near where she tended a young man with an injured arm. He didn’t have to explain, and he wouldn’t, not here. He also wouldn’t put her in chains in the middle of camp and parade her through the sea of tents like a criminal, though his father surely would have.


“I can wait,” he told her, none of the usual humor in his eyes.


He couldn't say for certain, but he had a feeling Amaia wasn't going to put up a struggle when it came to this issue- not with him, anyway. Maybe she'd spare the messenger. If he could, he'd walk with her calmly through camp and bring her to her tent, which his father had temporarily taken residence in. Only once the tent flap was down and they were alone would he put her wrists in shackles.

 

[Lucyfer]

The boy’s eyes followed the shackles when they hit the grass, and Aemilia saw the question in them, but she didn’t answer the unasked. Rumor would spread.


If Tywin went through with this as more than a scare tactic, he’d find few medics willing to help him. That would be its own sort of solace. Tywin would reap what he sowed. If he continued to sow only fear, it was only fear he would find at every turn.


And fear made people freeze. Fear turned them to animals.


“Thank you,” she told Jaime, before finishing up the wrappings. “Off you go now,” she patted the boy on the unwounded side, and he hopped off the stool, glanced again at the irons, and then ran off.


Aemilia turned to Jaime then, a bitter smile gracing her lips, “I knew he’d still be angry,” necessity or no. “Let’s not get you in trouble as well,” she offered her hand for him to stand, knowing she’d be offering both of her arms to him soon enough so he could put those shackles on her. Funny, Tywin had been kinder when he suspected her of plotting murder. Now that she’d put him to sleep, and saved his life, he wanted her shackled.


‘Let it spread.’


Let it poison morale.


She was allowed to hope, wasn't she?

 

[Scriven]

“You were right,” Jaime said, the regret clear in his tone. He took Amaia’s hand and stood, then reached down and picked up the shackles. “No need for these right here. I’ll wait till half the camp isn’t watching.”


He gestured in the direction of her tent and started walking with her. “Strange kind of gratitude he’s showing you, huh?”


Around them, some people noticed the grim expression Jaime bore. They’d probably attribute it to his father’s poisoning, he told himself. They reached Amaia’s tent and he let her in, then waited till the flap was shut behind them. Tywin had obviously sent someone to fetch clothing from his belongings, because he was dressed and looking as formidable as ever in his charcoal colored tunic. He moved more stiffly than usual though.


Tywin barely looked at Amaia. “I told you to deliver her here in chains,” he reminded his son.


“Never was good at following instructions,” Jaime answered with a forced smile, and he took the shackles and put them onto Amaia’s wrists in front of her. “There.”


“Now you may leave us.”


“Father-”


“Go,” Tywin said shortly. Jaime held in a breath, slowly releasing it. He looked at Amaia apologetically, then turned and left. Tywin looked at Amaia for the first time since she had entered his tent. “You disobeyed me. I gave you a direct order.”

 

[Lucyfer]

“Isn’t it?” Aemilia agreed with what Jaime had to say as they walked, but wouldn’t press for conversation. At least they were in agreement on this much. She made no struggles, but walked in peace while eyes followed the pair of them. She wondered how many might be upset, later, when they heard of what was occurring. Any?


‘Certainly a few.’


All because Tywin had to be petty.


Aemilia was led into the tent without the irons on her wrists. It wasn’t until she was inside it, and Jaime forced a smile to his lips, that the irons were slapped on. Cold, brittle. There was metal inside them that hadn’t been cleanly shaved off. It pricked at her wrists, but she let them rest in front of her and bore the weight as she let her eyes move to Tywin after catching Jaime's apologetic expression.


Tywin was dressed now, standing, though clearly not yet in perfect condition. Dark hues, now. That didn't bode well. ‘Are you afraid of me?’ She wondered, considering she was in chains. Did he now register her as a threat to him? Or was this simply his own version of ‘necessity’?


“Yes, I did disobey you, my lord,” she couldn’t plead innocent. She wouldn't, either. “You also told me to do what I must. I did.” The orders contradicted each other. Aemilia had chosen the latter order, to do what she must.