When Tywin Lannister opened his eyes, he saw Rhaella Targaryen's bare shoulder, her silver-gold hair spilling across his arm. The high windows of the Tower of the Hand admitted the first light of dawn, a glow of rose and gold. He lay still, unwilling to disturb her, his hand feeling for patterns on her skin as he thought.
Rhaella moved, sighing against him. Her breath was warm, her body softer than he recalled from the previous night's ravishing. She had been a starved thing, hungry for him with a passion almost akin to despair. And yet now, in the stillness of the morning, she seemed… calm. Tywin smiled to himself. If Aerys could see this. Childish, perhaps. But comforting.
He adjusted his position, trying not to disturb her, and gazed up at the ceiling. At first, all Tywin could think about was the sound of Rhaella's steady breath. Then he started counting. He had the support of Casterly Rock, he had remade the Small Council to suit his needs, and now… now he had the trust of the Queen, her body, and her confidences. It was almost… too simple. They had brought peace and prosperity to the realm not seen since the days of Jaehaerys. But peace and prosperity were worthless if the Night King was still sitting beyond the Wall, whetting his knives while Westeros sat in golden ignorance.
Rhaella moved against him, digging her fingernails into the bed. Tywin blew air through his nose. He couldn't convince her that the Long Night was coming anymore than he could convince a medieval peasant that nuclear fission was real. He could show her, rip open the sky with a green laser beam, summon metal from thin air. But he knew that would shatter the delicate illusion of control he'd spent years crafting. Westeros wasn't ready for gods yet.
Her eyelids quivered. "You're awake early," Rhaella whispered sleepily. Tywin said nothing, only gazed at the way her neck sloped as she drank, at the beat within her neck. He could snap her neck now. It would take one molybdenum-tinged squeeze, and the Targaryen bloodline would shudder. Instead, he raked his knuckles along her back, slow enough to chill her.
"You were talking in your sleep," he lied smoothly. "Something about dragons."
Rhaella tensed. She rolled over, her violet eyes narrowing. "What did I say?"
"Nothing that makes sense." Tywin twisted a lock of her hair around his finger. He could smell her, smoke and salt, sweat and fear. "You know me better than to think I'd tell a child's tale."
She blew out her breath, having a fierce grip on the fabric. "You will not harm Rhaegar." Not a question, a command. A ripple of fear went through her lower lip, though, and in the morning light it was visible. He stroked it with his thumb, smiling at how easily that queenly demeanor cracked when it came to her son.
"I don't kill children," he said. He could, of course. Easily. A vial of molybdenum or a hunting mishap… but Rhaegar was more valuable to him alive. He was a dreamer, soft, easy to mold. "Except when they are insolent." His fingers moved from her mouth to stroke her jaw.
Rhaella pushed his hand away, scrambling to her feet, the bedding gathered at her waist. "You must swear it." Her breasts lifted and fell, the nipples drawn up in hard little points from last night's caresses. The sight of them nearly took his attention away from the urgent need in her tone. Nearly.
"I swear it," Tywin said, his hands quivering with dishonesty. Vows were the most prominent trade in Westeros, and Tywin used them lavishly. Rhaella's posture relaxed, relief written across her slumped back, her released fists. Tywin nearly laughed.
Rhaella slipped from the bed with the quiet ease of a woman who had long since learned how to slip out of bed without showing the bruises beneath her clothing. The air was crisp on Tywin's skin as he saw her pick up her discarded gown, sliding it over her thighs. "You're staring," she said, not looking. But there was a smile playing on the edge of her lips. Tywin stretched, the muscles in his back rippling as he reached for his own garments, their fine linen and leather still faintly tinged with last night's wine and her perfume.
"You'd be insulted if I didn't," he said, buckling up. Rhaella cast him a look over her shoulder, equal parts irritation and amusement, then began working at the laces of her bodice. Tywin saw her struggle for a moment before moving to stand behind her, his hands covering hers. He pulled them tight, making her squeak, then tied them up with quick skill. "There. Presentable enough for court."
She spun around, her hand grazing his chest. "And where will you be when I must sit through another day of petitions and fawning lords?"
Tywin's grip on her wrist tightened, his thumb digging hard into the small bones. "The North."
"Why?" Rhaella asked, startled.
He might have said, Beyond the Wall, something dead and hungry was sharpening its claws. But he only smiled. "The Starks are storing up a deal of lumber, I hear. I aim to remind them who controls the ports." That was a lie, or half a lie; it would be believed, though, and the small council would nod wisely and speak of trade disputes when he set out to save the realm.
Her face creased into a frown. "You don't have to go yourself. Send a—"
"I don't trust anyone else to be frightening in my stread." He let go of her wrist to brush a lock of hair behind her ear, he felt her skin long enough to feel her swallow a breath. "Besides, the realm is secure. You don't need a Hand."
Rhaella sneered. "What if the lords begin to intrigue?"
"Let them." Tywin shrugged into his cloak, the golden lions on its shoulders seeming to shimmer in the pale light of the morning. "You are a Targaryen. If they give you trouble, burn them."
She pressed her lips together, but did not dispute the decision. That was Rhaella's great virtue; she knew how to wield power, even when she did not care for it. Tywin settled his cuffs, observing her under his lids. "You will suffice," he said, more gently than he meant to.
Rhaella picked at her skirts. "And when will you return?"
"When the North remembers its place." He pushed at the door, turned to look at her. "Miss me."
Her laughter was felt behind him as he stepped out into the hall. "Conceited bastard."
Tywin smiled. He felt her words vibrate in his chest. Then the door closed, and he was alone.
Except for a couple of guards who wisely kept their eyes averted from their lord's nocturnal wanderings, the hall was deserted; Tywin nodded to the men as he went by and passed them, his boot heels ringing against the stone flags. He was already thinking about provisions, about his westermen, how to strengthen the Wall . . .
And underneath it all, the silent power of his system, ready.
###
The sounds of hooves clashing and swords scraping echoed in the yard of the Red Keep as Tywin's men gathered. He stood at the top of the steps, his arms folded, his eyes fixed on the flapping golden pennants bearing the Lannister crest. The men were quick and efficient, but there was no wasted time, no idle conversation. They knew better. His eyes darted to the letter still clenched in his hand. The paper was rough against his skin. Joanna's writing was as beautiful as ever, but the words had struck him like a spear of molybdenum to the abdomen: twins. Two girls. She had named them Sersei and Serelle. He had known this was coming. He had planned for this. He had arranged for this. But to actually read it in the written word was something else entirely. Something inside him churned.
Ser Kevan moved closer, his helm under his arm. "The men are ready, my lord. We ride within the hour." His brother's tone was neutral enough, but Tywin could see the curiosity in his eyes. Kevan had always been too curious for his own good.
Tywin folded the letter up and tucked it into his doublet. "Good. Make sure the supply wagons are well provisioned. We will not be able to forage where we are going." That was all the explanation Kevan needed; he nodded and was about to take his leave when he spoke up. "Brother?"
"What about the queen? Is she okay with this little... field trip?"
Tywin's lip twisted. She thinks I'm going to intimidate the Starks into lowering the wood taxes. "The queen has better things to do than arbitrate a tariff war." He descended from the dais, his boots crunching in the gravel as he walked to his destrier. The horse champing at the bit threw its ears forward as Tywin stroked his neck. He could feel Kevan staring at him, but he didn't turn. Let him guess.
As he mounted up, the saddle creaked. The leather had been molded to him over years. The column stirred, a little. Horses shying and snorting, armor chinking. Tywin straightened his gloves, working his fingers. The rings sewn into the leather were molybdenum. They felt cool on his skin. A conceit.
"On," he said, his voice sounding like a gunshot. The column began to move, the horses' hooves clattering on the cobbles. Lord Tywin did not look back at the Red Keep—didn't spare a thought for Rhaella's sharp tongue or the way her thighs had been wrapped around his hips last night. There was only the road ahead, winding north like a pale scar across the land. "See that you keep a better pace than usual," he said. "We have a long way to go, and I will not be late."
The city gates were ahead, the iron portcullis rattling upward. Tywin put his spurs to his horse and rode off at a trot, his cloak flowing behind him. The morning sun cast long shadows behind them. The Keep dwindled to a freckle.
Kevan reined up beside him, his horse moving pace for pace with his brother's. "You are very quiet," he said when a mile had passed in silence.
Tywin clenched his jaw. He could feel the letter pressed against his side, the words pounding in his mind, Sersei. Serelle. Joanna's dream given substance. His hands clenched around the reins. "I am considering a battle plan."
"Of course." Kevan snorted.
All at once the black destrier gave a shudder and his muscles bunched beneath his sleek black coat. His back went stiff, his neck bulged, and for an instant it seemed as though he might rear. Tywin's knuckles were white on the reins as the horse's hooves crashed against the stones. The breath went out of him in a snort, and a wreath of mist marked his exhalation. Kevan's courser shied away, frightened by the black's fury. "Gods," his brother muttered. Tywin smiled.
Good, he thought, stroking the warhorse's newly shining coat. The Anything System purred in his blood, in silent agreement. The horse threw its head back, defiantly neighing at the sky. No common animal was this, but a war-beast forged for war, its sinews trained for slaughter. Tywin hunched, speaking low into the twitching ear: "Strider." The word seemed to clench into his very marrow.
They had been recognized by the time they forsook the Neck. Wherever they came the smallfolk fled, and the sellswords looked at them with a mixture of curiosity and fear. Strider was a frightening spectacle, even for men who had fought in battles. But Lord Tywin never paid them much mind, focusing on the grey wisp of smoke that rose in the distance, where the towers of Winterfell could be glimpsed. It was already fall in the North, the air had grown to be very sharp.
The Starks were waiting for them at the crossroads. Brandon Stark rode a shaggy garron, with the direwolf sigil on his cloak; he grinned as he looked at them, the wild wolf's head emblazoned there seeming to match his wild grin. Beside him stood young Eddard and his sister Lyanna. A boy and a girl, young enough to still be in their teens; the girl had a look of the wild wolf too, though the boy looked more serious and stiff-backed. Lord Rickard was not with them; no doubt he was in his solar, going over accounts.
"Lannister," Brandon said, drawing his horse up sharply. He reined his horse around in a circle, exhibiting his horsemanship. The animal was nervous, snorting when Strider drew near. "Here to teach us how to cut down trees?"
Tywin didn't even flinch. "I have more important things to do than educate woodcutters." There was just enough bite in his tone to make Brandon lose the smile. Ned clenched his jaw, but Lyanna… Lyanna looked up at him full of amusement.
"Your horse is ugly," she said.
Kevan choked. Tywin simply raised an eyebrow. Strider picked that moment to chomp his teeth near Lyanna's garron, making the poor thing dance backwards. She laughed, undaunted, holding her reins with wild elegance.
"Lyanna," Ned whispered.
Brandon's hand went to the hilt of his sword. "Control your animal, Lannister."
Tywin clenched his hand, the molybdenum rings sewn into his glove biting deep into his palm. He could break Brandon's throat before the boy ever freed his sword. But instead he simply turned Strider's head, urging the Starks apart like a river around a rock. "At Winterfell." he said without turning back.
"He is!" Lyanna called out after him, remaining irritatingly defiant. "He is ugly!"
"Well that went well," Kevan snorted.
Tywin's mouth held a faint smile. How he would relish crushing these wolves if things were different.