Chapter Text
Tywin rode through the streets of King’s Landing with his retinue of Lannister men, and beside him, Ser Barristan Selmy held steady on his reins, armor still bearing dents and stains from the siege of Duskendale. He had fought valiantly, even foolishly, as Tywin had expected. Such was the duty of the Kingsguard, and perhaps its curse. They had pulled Selmy from the heart of that nightmare, bloodied and surrounded by five dead foes. Selmy’s sworn brother, Ser Gwayne Gaunt, had not been so fortunate—one of many casualties in that bloody debacle, yet another name to replace, another fool to find for that vaunted guard.
But it was not Ser Gwayne’s death that lingered on Tywin’s mind, nor that of any of his men who had died at Duskendale. No, the greater, more distressing loss was that of Aerys himself. The king’s demise was no great tragedy for the realm, nor for Tywin himself for that matter—Aerys had long been a man Tywin could neither trust nor predict, a creature of erratic moods and petty cruelties. He had not been a king for a long time, more emblematic of a rabid cur than a monarch.
The preparations for next week’s coronation were already set in motion—it seemed as if the entire city was filled with a feverish sort of giddy, an anticipation for their new young king. Tywin had never cared much for Aerys’s son, finding the prince far too detached, lost in songs and stories as if the world of men was merely a distant echo to his own thoughts. The name still sat strangely in his mind, King Rhaegar. If it were up to Tywin, Rhaegar should have been molded early, ironed out of his whims to become something sharper and more formidable than his father. But now, here they were, with the city tolling its bells for one foolish king’s funeral and another foolish king’s birth.
The streets seemed to fill up as they approached the Red Keep—from merchant stalls to tavern steps, people buzzed with talk of the new king. The city swelled with arrivals from across Westeros, lords and ladies eager to pay homage, to win favor, and Tywin’s eyes noted the sudden burst of pennants from places he hadn’t seen in years.
At the gates, a thick-bodied man with a wine-stained tunic waited. “My Lord Hand!” Symond Staunton called out with a beaming smile that looked misplaced in this season of mourning. “A pleasure, my lord. It’s good fortune that you’ve arrived; everything is, ah, as ready as we could manage!”
“Lord Staunton.” Tywin dismounted, handing the reins of his chestnut stallion to a stable boy. He then turned to see Selmy, wounded as he was, needing the help of several men to dismount. “Get Ser Barristan to a maester,” he ordered his men, “The man’s not yet a ghost to be paraded about the city.”
The command was met with prompt obedience, leaving Tywin to focus on Staunton, who fussed and stumbled over the castle’s stone walkways beside him. “I do hope you found your return without mishap, my lord,” continued Staunton. “A fine day in the capital, if we ignore all the mourning, yes? The preparations, my lord, such work’s gone into the coronation and the tourney—there will be singers, mummers, the finest in the realm! And all at the king’s personal request. I daresay he’s making quite the impression in the capital already. Oh, and you wouldn’t believe the wine casks, my lord! The finest reds from the Arbor, and rare vintages from the Free Cities! His Grace wanted it to be a celebration fitting for all of Westeros, he said. Live peacocks have been imported from the Summer Isles! Quite a sight, I’m told.”
“Good,” replied Tywin, nodding with feigned interest, knowing the nature of these festivities well enough. “Excess always makes for good pageantry.”
“Oh, precisely, my lord, precisely! Such a celebration it shall be, my lord, that no one will be able to speak of anything else for years!”
“Though, all of this must weigh heavily on the coffers, I imagine.” It wasn’t his own gold that they lavished on such frivolities, and yet, indirectly, it was, for House Lannister’s reputation would be tied to the new king’s competence, or lack thereof.
Lord Staunton seemed to falter for a moment, his eager grin flickering like a candle by an open window. “Ah, yes, well, of course, the, uh, master of coin has looked into every necessary expense, my lord. There’s…there’s little need for alarm. The council was in agreement that everything should be as grand as possible. New reign and all that,” he added with a weak attempt at confidence.
“I trust Lord Chelsted to keep the crown solvent,” said Tywin, though he thought of the master of coin’s nervous, twitching hands and the pinched pallor of the man’s face. Chelsted was a small, fretful man, no doubt cowering under the towering sum needed for the coronation and tourney. Tywin suspected that the expenses were bringing him close to madness, if not death.
And Lord Chelsted was not the only weak link among the councilmen. Pycelle, with his oily deference, was bumbling and posturing, though Tywin knew him well enough to sense the cunning behind the facade. Lord Velaryon, haughty as he was, liked to hold himself as though the sea flowed in his veins rather than blood, a man of pretensions greater than his actual achievements. And Staunton himself, for all his eager chatter, was little more than a lickspittle. Perhaps it was time for change.
They walked in silence for the last few yards, until they reached the entrance to the Tower of the Hand. Tywin stopped at the threshold, his fingers brushing over the iron latch. Staunton moved to follow, but Tywin stilled him in the door frame.
“That will be all, Lord Staunton,” Tywin said, voice steady as steel. “Arrange for a council meeting with the king by nightfall. There is much to discuss.”
Staunton blinked, clearly surprised by this dismissal. But the Hand’s gaze allowed no room for argument. “Of course, my lord, I’ll see to it personally.”
“Excellent.” Tywin inclined his head before closing the door firmly behind him. His desk lay untouched, a layer of fine dust had gathered while he was away. Good, he thought, no one other than him had business being here. He traced a finger along the grain, tapping on the armrest of his chair as if to reassure himself of its solidness.
A new age was upon them. The bells had tolled for Aerys, and in their ringing he could hear the first strains of the tune that would soon be sung for Rhaegar, whether it be a dirge or a song of triumph. Whatever the boy king wanted for his reign, Tywin intended to make certain that he would not become another Aerys—young Rhaegar could still be reasoned with. Tywin had seen a spark of intelligence in the prince’s eyes in their brief encounters, a depth of thought that could be molded, given the proper guidance. Yes, he would begin tonight by putting some sense into the boy, turning him into something useful. Great kings, after all, were never forged through idle musings but through action and shrewd counsel.
And there was still a matter of marriage to settle. No king should go unmarried, not when alliances could be brokered and bloodlines strengthened. Rhaegar would need a queen, and Tywin knew no better candidate than his daughter. He might think himself impervious to such considerations, but Tywin would make him understand. Jaime and Cersei were on their way to King’s Landing, and soon the prince would see the value of the match. The wrongs against House Lannister would be rectified—he would see to it personally.
Settling into his chair, he took his quill and pressed ink to paper, drafting tonight’s agenda for the council. The first matter of business: the crown’s coffers. They would require a stable base of revenue if Rhaegar was to begin his rule on anything close to solid ground. Tywin wrote ‘matters of coin’ at the top of the parchment, then paused, tapping his quill against his chin. There would be other topics—reinforcement of the alliances the late king had weakened, the thinning of petty sycophants from court and, of course, the matter of putting the realm at large back on track after Duskendale.
By nightfall, Tywin sat at the council table in the Great Hall, the Iron Throne looming above them in all its brutal glory. He had always preferred this setting to the Small Council’s usual chambers, with its stifling tapestries and stale air. The sight of the throne was a reminder of what they all served, what power truly entailed.
He watched the cupbearer—a chinless, sallow-skinned boy, one of Chelsted’s younger sons, though Tywin couldn’t be bothered to remember his name as he scurried about, pouring watered wine for each council member in turn. There sat four of his fellow councilmen: Lord Chelsted seemed incapable of sitting still, incessantly fidgeting with the edge of his cloak. Lord Velaryon sat straight-backed, blue eyes rolling with obvious impatience. There was also Lord Staunton, who gave a halfhearted smile whenever Tywin’s gaze flicked his way—and Grandmaester Pycelle, who was mumbling something half-audible to himself, perhaps trying to summon the image of an old sage.
Ser Gerold Hightower stood nearby, vigilant though aged. Even now, he was determined to uphold his duties—for that Tywin allowed himself a measure of respect for the man. And yet, they weren’t complete, because the seat of jagged swords looming above all of them, reserved for the most important among them, lay conspicuously empty.
Tywin felt his jaw tighten. This, then, was the sort of king he would be advising—a petulant, absent child. The young prince clearly had not yet grasped what was expected of him, what he now represented. A king’s presence, his very bearing, set the tone for his rule. Rhaegar’s absence was an ill omen.
Lord Velaryon’s patience was the first one to snap, apparently. The man shifted with a huff, his gaze flicking toward the empty seat before he spoke. “Shall we begin, or are we to wait on His Grace’s pleasure?”
“If it pleases you, my lords, I could fetch His Grace,” said Ser Gerold.
But Tywin raised a hand. “No need, Ser Gerold. His Grace, it appears, has more pressing matters. We shall proceed as planned.” He cleared his throat and shuffled his notes in front of him. “We have many concerns to address in the coming days. These celebrations, though important, must not eclipse the priorities of the realm. Lord Chelsted, you will provide a thorough account of the crown’s coffers tonight. The king’s reign is young, but we cannot afford extravagance while the crown is in debt.”
Chelsted nodded, though the pallor in his face had deepened. Tywin turned his gaze to Velaryon, continuing. “The stability of our alliances must be assessed, as well. We will discuss further trade agreements with the Free Cities and the state of our naval defenses.” He allowed himself the faintest of smiles as Velaryon’s face tightened—he had missed this.
Hours later, the meeting concluded with Tywin issuing his final orders. As the councilmen rose, Tywin inclined his head, formal and composed, bidding them a brief, “Thank you, my lords.”
He was halfway down the corridor back to the Hand’s Tower when he heard the clumsy shuffle of footsteps. Tywin exhaled, schooling his expression into one of restrained patience, but a flash of annoyance lingered just beneath his placid exterior as he turned to see Lord Staunton lumbering toward him, his face red and shiny.
“My lord! My lord Hand!” Staunton called, struggling to catch his breath. When he finally managed to stop in front of Tywin, he bent over, clutching his knees as he gasped, then straightened with a strained smile.
“Yes, Lord Staunton? What is it?”
“It is, ah, most unfortunate that His Grace could not attend tonight,” he began, a touch too loudly. “You see, my lord, I personally asked him to join us. A direct invitation! But he’s—well, he’s being fitted into his ceremonial cloak, my lord. Surely you understand the importance of the garments.”
Tywin felt his jaw clench. “Ah, yes. It is only fitting, after all, that His Grace should prioritize the cut of his cloak over the matters of his kingdom.”
Staunton hesitated, blinking at the remark as though unsure whether to agree or to be offended. Finally, he seemed to choose agreement. “Yes, my lord, of course. I quite understand. But, you see, if there are matters you would still like to discuss with His Grace, I believe he can still be found in his chambers. I—I’m quite sure he’s still there, standing in for the fitting,” he added, nodding as if his own words needed his approval.
Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly, appraising Staunton, who continued to look up at him with a hopeful, sycophantic smile. The man has all the subtlety of a wild boar, Tywin thought grimly, though he might have a point. The sooner he got his hands on young Rhaegar the better, perhaps a less formal approach was needed.
"Yes, well,” replied Tywin. “Let us waste no further time.”
Staunton gave a satisfied nod, leading the way through the corridors toward the royal chambers. As they reached the grand doors leading to the king’s chambers, Tywin did not wait for an invitation. He pushed them open, striding in and surveying the scene before him. Prince— King —Rhaegar had wasted no time making the chambers his own. Colorful tapestries hung where there had once been naked walls, flowers arranged in high vases, the faint scent of myrrh lingered in the air. Tywin noted the attendants milling about, dressed in rich silks, along with the various faces surrounding the young king.
Ser Lewyn Martell of the Kingsguard stood vigilant nearby, watching as a short, balding tailor with thick spectacles measured the prince’s shoulders with all the solemnity of a holy ritual. Beside him was Ser Arthur Dayne, always close as Rhaegar’s sworn shield, though Tywin noticed how his eyes followed his sister, the young Lady Ashara, who was holding a small child on her lap—a boy, babbling happily and gnawing on a wooden dragon toy. Prince Viserys, Tywin presumed, though the boy had grown considerably since the last time he had seen him.
The young knight Ser Oswell Whent was lounging on a set of cushions, even Rhaegar’s young squires, Myles Mooton and Richard Lonmouth, hovered nearby with a red-haired youth Tywin did not recognize—a friend of Rhaegar’s, most likely, as drawn to the prince as the others. Yes, there was something about Rhaegar Targaryen that lured people, like moths to a flame. Or lambs to the slaughter.
Rhaegar turned from his fitting, a bright smile cutting across his face as he saw the two men enter. The smile was perhaps a touch too easy, noted Tywin, but the Hand inclined his head in a graceful bow all the same. “Your Grace.”
“Lord Tywin, Lord Staunton!” Rhaegar greeted them, gesturing to the servant girl nearby to fetch wine. “We have Arbor Red and Gold, as well as some sweet apricot wine from Pentos, if that would be more to your tastes.”
“Arbor Red will do just fine. Thank you, Your Grace,” Tywin replied.
Lord Staunton, of course, wasn’t one to reject something as fanciful as foreign wine. “Sweet apricot wine, Your Grace. Nothing quite like it."
As the serving girl departed to fetch their wine, Rhaegar gestured for them to take seats, indicating a row of chairs arranged near a polished walnut table set with crystal bowls of fruit and a few untouched rolls of bread. Tywin nodded his thanks and sat, glancing at Lady Ashara, who still held young Viserys in her lap. The babe babbled on, drooling and blissfully oblivious to everything around him.
Soon, he was handed his goblet of wine—Tywin took a measured sip, his face carefully neutral as the sweetness of the wine filled his mouth, while Staunton took a much larger swig, smacking his lips loudly. “Ah, excellent, Your Grace,” Staunton praised, swirling the wine. “An exquisite find indeed. Just like the celebration you’re planning. I hear the best knights are coming from all across the realm to participate in the tourney.”
“Yes, there should be spectacle and music enough to chase away even the memory of darker days,” Rhaegar replied lightly, lifting his own goblet in a slight toast.
“A grand thought, Your Grace.” Staunton was clearly pleased to be so openly welcomed into the new king’s confidences. The sight of such unchecked eagerness was distasteful for Tywin, it reeked of desperation. Staunton went on about the plans for the coronation: the musicians from Oldtown, the rare spices from Qarth, the oranges from Dorne. As Staunton droned on, Tywin’s mind wandered. It was a habit he permitted only when surrounded by fools. His thoughts drifted to the matters they had yet to discuss, the stability of the crown, the realm’s neglected alliances. But just as he began to consider how to steer the conversation back toward useful topics, Rhaegar’s voice broke through.
“I am glad we had this chance to speak, Lord Hand.” The prince’s words were measured, well-selected. “I am sure you must be weary from the road. I appreciate your visit.”
Tywin offered a faint, controlled smile. “That is the duty of the Hand, Your Grace. To serve, however wearisome the path.”
Rhaegar nodded slowly, taking a sip of his apricot wine. “Remind me, how long have you served my father?”
“Five-and-ten years, Your Grace. Since the day your late father took the throne.”
The prince inclined his head, seemingly deep in thought. “You have served him well, my lord. And by extension, you have served the realm well. The realm owes you its… stability.” He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “You looked after his rule, ensured its foundations. Few could manage such a feat.”
Tywin felt his jaw tense slightly. Where is he going with this? he thought, but outwardly his expression was measured, as always. “I serve, Your Grace,” he said.
A slight smirk tugged at the corner of Rhaegar’s mouth, one that faded almost as quickly as it had appeared. “Yes, you serve… and I trust you will continue to do so.”
The words were innocuous enough, but things like this were never this simple. For all the prince’s courtesy, his carefully chosen words held an undertone that Tywin recognized— something subtly testing, a challenge that he could not yet place.
Rhaegar stood abruptly, his crimson cloak billowing behind him as he turned back to the tailor, who had been waiting at the fringes of the room. He addressed the two men without so much as a glance back. “My lords, do get comfortable or leave as you see fit.”
The tailor resumed his work as if Tywin and Staunton were no longer present. Staunton looked both flustered and reluctant to leave, his eyes darting between the prince and the door. Tywin, however, merely looked down at his goblet of wine, the amber liquid swirling in it suddenly unappealing as he set it back on the table.
The silence was pierced by a wail—Prince Viserys began to fuss. Tywin cast a sidelong glance at the boy and then rose to leave, if Rhaegar wished to play the game in his own quiet, inscrutable way, Tywin would be ready. The prince was clever, yes, but too young to know fully what he gambled with—a boy who had inherited the crown but had not yet felt the iron of it. Rhaegar was green, green as spring but even he knew he needed Tywin. For all his songs and frivolity, Rhaegar knew enough to recognize the hand that held this kingdom steady.
He reached the doorway, casting one last glance at the young king wrapped in his ceremonial finery. He might yet try to make himself into the hero of some grand tale, some legacy of dragons and valiance, but Tywin’s patience, he knew, was long. And when Rhaegar finally saw through the illusions of his songs, Tywin would be waiting.
Because this time, the song would be his.