It was a passionate duel, a dance of strength and grace that Tywin Lannister had instilled in his sons from the day they was a babe. Tybastus, the older, was a mirror of planning and accuracy, his sword cutting through the air like a dancer, while Ceryn, the younger, supplied brute force and emotion to his action, a passionate determination that could not be learned. They were two sides of the same coin, a repeat of their father's own game at the game of thrones.
"Keep at it, Tybastus," commanded Tywin Lannister, eyes narrowed, watching again the dance of steel. "Do not be swayed because of his sheer strength. Read his movements, counter them with thine own." He was firm, but with a note of pride.
The two youthful lion fighters circle each other, breathing heavily, blades clashing when they collide. Tywin stared back and forth, seeing every fall, every rise. Tybastus's footwork was perfect, a reflection of the hours he spent training with the finest swordsmen of the realm. Ceryn, however, bore a ferocity that could not be taught, a passion that could not be learned, that could not be foreseen.
"Good, Ceryn," his father said, voice carrying off the stonework of the practice yard. "But be careful, strength without discipline is a poor weapon. Use your wits, too, and your heart."
The duel was over when Tybastus pretended to withdraw, but he came back immediately at Ceryn. Steel clashed against steel, shuddering through the air, and what was left on Ceryn's chest was a streak of silver.
"Yield," he snorted, a satisfied grin playing at the edges of his mouth.
Ceryn's eyes had blazed with emotion, but he was a man that understood when he was to hold his tongue. He stepped back, sheathing his weapon, heaving on his chest. "Well done, brother," he ground out, wounded but bitterly so.
"Thanks," said Tybastus, with a polite nod, sheathing his sword with a flourish that could not quite conceal his own superior gratification. He helped him stand up, and the two brothers exchanged a moment of fraterhhood, a wordless acceptance that this was simply another day of the game of thrones for which they were bred.
Joanna observed from thesidelines, her freehand holding her pregnant belly. She was a lioness, tall, queenly, and pregnant once more. Her lips smiled from a small smile, her eyes twinkling from a woman's pride. Tywin offered his hand so that he could help her down the rocky stairs to the training yard, never once moving his eyes from the twins growing inside of her. "They'll be strong, like their brothers," he said, his voice-strongly assured.
Ceryn and Tybastus bowed before their mother, blades at their belts. Joanna's grin expanded as she took a touch of either of their foreheads, encountering the ferocity of their warmth, the promise of what they might be. "Your sisters are going to require guards," she said affectionately, her voice heavy with the gravity of a life they could not even understand. "And knowing you both, you will not disappoint."
"Twin sisters?" Ceryn repeated, scrunching up his face in a confused manner. "How can you be so confident that they'll be twins, and that they're girls?"
"Your father, dear," Joanna said, with a smile of behind-the-scenes insight, "he has a way of knowing these things."
Ceryn looked at Tywin, but he was unyielding, his face impassive. "Is that so, Father?" he shouted. "How can you be so sure?"
Not answering, Tywin spun on his heel and proceeded towards Casterly Rock's center, his heels ringing off the titanic rocky halls. The half brothers looked at each other, not quite sure whether they were dismissed or whether their father was lost in a reverie. Tybastus provided Joanna with an arm, assisting her to walk with a gracious bob of his head. She followed him, her eyes fixed on the disappearing back of Tywin.
"Mother, what was that?" Tybastus demanded, his curiosity roused. Joanna's smile was frozen. "You'll know soon enough," she said, her fingers dancing on his arm. "For now, let's leave your father to his own devices."
Tywin proceeded to his work study, the giant oak door slamming shut behind him, and to his desk. He set to his business of seeing that the kingdom was well disciplined, his quill darting back and forth rapidly through parchment as he penned orders and letters. Yet he could not eradicate a question that chewed at the back of his head. It was years before Tywin could not help but be enthralled with the unseen character development of Rhaella. Gone was the unobtrusive piece; she was now his most serious rival. A piece which can knock the board off with one move. It was an extreme character development of a woman that was before happy to be a piece for a grander scheme.
But such a transformation left Tywin wondering where did it come from? It had been such an easy excuse at the time, of which he thought Rhaella had to take matters into her own hands sensing the threat Tywin posed to the Targaryen reign. But, with the candles running low on his study, the murmurs of disbelief gained more ground. Was that merely a question of reflex? Of self-preservation? Or was something more, a more unlikely, more grave motivation involved?
"How?" Tywin wondered outloud to himself. "How did you become such a threat? You were weak. Nothing to me before. Not even a player to be feared or respected in the grand scheme of things. And yet, now, you play your own game. You've become something..."
He might have been an isekei but even with the butterfly effect of his own actions, Tywin Lannister was still able to anticipate the movements of everyone around him like a master of chess. A momentary change of heart from Rhaella, however, arrived like a sudden storm in the summer. It was almost as if she exchanged her pawn for a queen in the middle of the game, without even a word of warning or announcement. He could see his carefully laid plans shake with the magnitude of her makeover.
He had been sent home under the guise of rest, but the reality was patent, evident even as the gold of their coat of arms. It was she, Rhaella, that had made Aerys relieve him, with the pretext of Tywin having been worked to exhaustion. But Tywin was not a fool. Tywin was well aware that he was going to be relieved of being Hand of the King, that was the only reasonable pretext that he could imagine that she'd be willing for him to be relieved from the capital. Nevertheless, his priveldges stayed. He was nevertheless still forced to keep working.
The question now was, what was she planning? There were only so many ideas that Tywin could possibly imagine, none being better than another. He was brought back from his reverie when his study was opened. Page boy, not more than a dozen, entered the room, red from exertion of climbing the stairs of the castle. He panted before he was able to speak. "My lord," he panted, "news from King's Landing."
He froze his hand on the sheet, his eyes darting towards the boy. "What news," he stated, his voice icallly calculating.
The page boy took a deep breath. "King Aerys, he's... he's passed away, my lord. Of natural causes."
Tywin's eyes went wide, and for a second, the room was spinning around him. Queen Rhaella? It was a bold move that he never would've planned for. All of his planning, all of his maneuvering, had all functioned on the assumption of the mad king on the throne, and now, like a breeze blowing through, a house of cards, all of his well-laid plans were thrown to the ground.
"What... what are you saying, boy?" Tywin was able to croak, his voice not quite steady.
"King Aerys is dead, my lord," the page reassured, his face a picture of concern. "The Queen has sent for you. She wishes for you to return to the capital at once."
The room was silent, deafening, as the weight of the situation was put on Tywin's shoulders. Queen Rhaella. What the consequences were, he could barely even understand. He felt his stomach fall, he wasn't going to be alive for long. He could instigate civil war, but even he was only putting off a certainty that was to come. No match for the rest of the world was the Lannister Force, even Dorne-aided. He had also never tested the extremities of his sorceries before and thus could not be a source of confidence that he would survive a hypothetical civil war.
Finally, Tywin got his voice back, a combination of shock, and fear. "Is it really true what you say? Has Rhaella... has she...?"
The page nodded gravely, affirming his suspicions. "Yes, my lord. The Queen Mother has taken the throne for herself, and for her son."
The room was closing in around Tywin as he was processing. He underestimated her. Way underestimated her. This was a queen herself, and now she bore the might of the Iron Throne on her back? The implications were too vast to comprehend in this moment of shock.
"Thanks," he added at last to the page boy, his voice hardly more than a whisper. He looked back at the boy, not quite knowing now what he was to do. "You can go," he said, waving curtly. The page boy took the suggestion and scurried off, the door clicking shut behind him with a noise that was like a sepulchre slamming to.
He stayed for a long time, his eyes fixed on the piece of parchment that was spread before him, his head reeling. He then, with a sudden burst of fresh resolution, shoved back his chair from the table and arose, moving rapidly but determinedly. He could not escape from this fresh reality.
"Kevan!" he shouted down the hall, his voice being the only one that was heard. His brother, always punctual, was already standing at the door before he was done. "Get the fastest horses and a small company. One hour from now, we depart for King's Landing."
Kevan opened his eyes wide, but he did not second-guess that note of urgency which was in Tywin's voice. "As you command," he nodded, and was off almost as he arrived.
Genna Lannister beamed like a ray of sunshine, her emerald eyes sparkling with wickedness when she walked towards Tywin in his Casterly Rock room. Her hand was gracefully resting on her protruding belly, something only known to themselves. She was pregnant with Tywin's second child, a boy for the second time.
"Well, Brother," she said smilingsly with insight, "It seems our dear Rhaella most definitely has a grand aim. Who would of thought she was bold enough to do this?"
Tywin faced her, his features a picture of concentration. "Ambition is a grand whip," he said, lost, his eyes watching the candle flame dance. "But to take the throne for herself and her son? That is a grand stroke."
"True," said Genna, her smile wavering to a more serious note. "But not entirely unexpected. I mean, she is a Targaryen. And let's not forget, she has been playing her own game for quite some time."
Tywin nodded gravely. "Since the madness of Aerys became common knowledge, she was the only one, in fact, that was governing the kingdom. The lords had little love for the mad king, and they trusted her to keep things in order. They were quite willing, therefore, to give her the throne. It was a plausible course of events."
**
He could not help but admit that the throne was better suited to Rhaella than to Aerys. Queenly, she seated herself with majesty that was lost to the Mad King. Her eyes, previously so modestly cast downward, long wore the fierce determination of a dragon. He approached her slowly, not quite knowing what was to be anticipated of the woman who outran him.
"Welcome back, Tywin," stated Rhaella, her voice a cold counterpoint to the warmth of the room. She dismissed her guards, leaving them alone. "There is a lot we must discuss."
He merely demanded, slicing to the heart of the subject like a knife through the setting. "Rhaella," his voice was deep but unyielding, moving towards the Iron Throne. "Do you plan on killing me?"
They stared at each other, a flicker of something unnamable passing before her. "Why wouldst thou ask that?" she demanded, her voice the burnished, rich gold of the throne.
He didn't answer that right away, but he cast his eyes about the room, drinking in the wealth that was the throne room. It was a vast différence from cold, functional rooms of Casterly Rock, which he was more accustomed to. But this was where the power was, a place which Rhaella had claimed for her own in a fashion which he hadn't quite anticipated.
"Just say yes or no, Rhaella," prodded Tywin, sighing almost.
Rhaella stepped down from the Iron Throne, her blue dress rustling off the stonework flooring. "Can you walk with me?" she said, not raising her eyes from his. It was not a question of whether he longed to, but of walking with her to the privacy of the Red Keep gardens, where not a word of theirs was to be heard to curious eavesdroppers.
He nodded, and waited for her to come down from her intimidating height from the Iron Throne. She offered her hand, and he took it, feeling the softness of her skin and the strength of her grip. They went through the large halls of the Red Keep, and outside, to the garden.
It was a striking contrast from the black stony passages of the castle, a place where the scent of flowers that bloomed, of leaves that rustled, was a counterpoint to the harsh nature of the world that they commanded. It was a place of clean, cold smells, a breath of fresh life from the cold warmth of the throne room.
"You know, Tywin," she said slowly on the cobble street, her hand still clutched in his arm, "we are more similar than you are willing to acknowledge."
Tywin's eyebrows sprang, yet he said nothing, listening to the grind of gravel under foot. It was true, he never felt that he was on her level, of her quality. He never felt that she was anything other than a piece to be played, a woman to be manipulated for his own benefit. Yet now, walking through the vibrant, blooming garden, he could not but be conscious of the steel in her eyes, of bite.
"I suppose," said Tywin, moving through to the garden center, "that we are looking for the same: protection and might for our houses."
Rhaella halted and faced him, her eyes unyielding. "Exactly," she said, a note of satisfaction creeping into her voice. "But there's more to it than that."
She took her hand off of his, and she stood up, her movements deliberate and thoughtful. Tywin regarded her, thinking deeply. What was she going to ask of him?
"Týwin," she said at last, standing before him. "I came to talk to you about something."
He took a deep breath. Was this his feared moment, when she was going to ask for his head for his past treacheries? But her voice was not that of malice but of calculations.
"I yearn that we wed," declared Rhaella, her voice stiff like the stones of the Red Keep.
Tywin's grip on the pommel of his sword weakened, his eyes fixed on Rhaella. "Marry?" he stammered, his voice laced with disbelief.
Rhaella nodded, her face a calm visage. "It would be a Targaryen-Lannister marriage," she said, her eyes sparkling. "It would confirm Lannister rule over Westeros, and preserve the Targaryen name from being lost to nothingness."
It was a cloak of steel cast around his shoulders. It was a masterful stroke, a stroke that might bring the kingdom together beneath a flag of peace and power. But it was also one that would mean truly bending the knee to a woman he had long seen as weak.
"Your proposal... is of interest," he said calmly, still thinking. Marry Rhaella was to lose his strength, to concede that she had emerged victorious. Yet the strategic and long term gain could not be refused. He himself had successfully played the Game of Thrones, but to her he was second.
She stepped closer, her hands going to cup his cheek, a pressure gentler than that which exiled him to Casterly Rock. "This is the best deal that you could ever hope for, Tywin," she said, her voice low and earnest. "Consider: the wealth and power of House Lannister, combined with Targaryen rule. Who could stand against us?"
Her words was a shuddering reminder of his own aspirations, of the sacrifices he had endured for the sake of the Lannister cause. And she was before him now, to give him everything that he could possibly want: the Iron Throne. Pride was set against pragmatism, but the latter was victorious.
"Fine," he said slowly, scunching his eyes up together. "I'll marry you, my queen."
They paused for a moment, before they were kissing one another, lips together for a jarring, electric kiss. It was not a passionate, but a kiss of acceptance, of understanding. Tension of the years, backstabbing of politics, dissolved beneath the kiss, and Tywin felt something unfamiliar. It wasn't that he felt nothing, but that he felt something. He felt a warmth, a rightness, that he could not quite remember being absent from. It was a gentle kiss, a tender kiss, a kiss that was more of acceptance than of love.
But now, there was something else.
"But what of Joanna?" Tywin interruped, breaking away from the kiss, the word having a foul taste for him.
Rhaella pulled back, and then laid her head on his shoulder. "Who says a man can't have two wives, Tywin?" she said, her voice red with wine of the gods. "We are not under the rule of smallfolk. In the game of thrones, there are no rules but those we make."
If there was a feminine equivalent of Tywin's own cold brutality and calculating intellect, it would be Rhaella Targaryen. As he was, a man well-versed in the nature of power, a master of playing the game of thrones. He liked her, something he'd not felt since he wed Joanna.
But he could not leave behind unresolved matters. "The assassin," he said, his voice rigid as he petted her back. "The one that was supposed to kill me?"
Rhaella was seated on his shoulder, answering without looking up. "Yes, Tywin," she stated, her voice husky. "It was me who sent the assassin all those years ago."
Well, at least he was correct about that. Rhaella had, of course, dispatched that assassin to kill him, but that was yesterday. He did not feel anger or terrified, instead he felt... relief? Relief that she had finally admitted it. It was almost like something was removed from off of his shoulders, and he could breathe.
Tywin looked to the future. His struggle with Robert Baratheon's insurrection was the only thing that came between him and absolute power. He was sufficiently well-acquainted with the legend of Rhaegar Targaryen, the passion that stoked the fires of rebellition, that of Lyanna Stark. It sounded like a legend of the gods themselves, a passion so all-engaging, so fierce that only catastrophe could be its conclusion. Because of that legend, that war was one that could not be evaded unless he killed Rhaegar but now he had to protect him for his Lannister rule.
"Let us get married now," she said, not a word of a question but a statement. It was a statement only a queen can utter, and a king would-obey. Her grasp of his arm was steady as they left the garden.