THALOR
The throne room of the Red Keep shimmered with an unusual brilliance. Additional gold candelabras had been brought in for the formal audience, their flames reflecting off polished marble and the crimson-and-gold livery of House Lannister. Though court appearances were typically carefully orchestrated affairs, today's gathering had drawn substantially more spectators than normal, filling the cavernous chamber with hushed anticipation.
Thalor knew why, of course. The purpose of this audience had been the subject of whispered conversations throughout the Red Keep for days. Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, was finally making his move.
From his position to the right of the Iron Throne, Thalor had a perfect view of the entire proceedings. His father, King Aerys II Targaryen, sat rigidly among the thousand blades of his uncomfortable seat, his appearance a disturbing study in contrasts. His clothing was immaculate—formal Targaryen black adorned with rubies and gold thread—while his physical person deteriorated visibly. Hair and nails grown too long, frame too thin, eyes burning with an intensity that bordered on feverish.
To Thalor's left stood Rhaegar, resplendent in Targaryen colors, his expression carefully composed into the dignified mask he wore for all public appearances. If the crown prince had any inkling of what was about to transpire, he revealed nothing in his demeanor.
The great doors at the far end of the hall swung open, and Lord Tywin Lannister entered, his measured strides echoing on the stone floor. Though he wore the golden Hand's chain of office, today he walked not as the king's representative but as Lord of Casterly Rock, accompanied by a small retinue of Lannister guards and advisors.
What caught Thalor's attention, however, was the young woman following precisely three steps behind Lord Tywin. Cersei Lannister had dressed for impact, her gown a masterpiece of crimson silk embroidered with gold that caught the light with each graceful movement. Her golden hair was styled elaborately, adorned with rubies that matched both her house colors and, pointedly, the Targaryen aesthetic.
She was beautiful—objectively, undeniably so—but Thalor's appreciation went deeper than mere aesthetics. Over the past year, as Cersei had served as companion to Queen Rhaella, he had come to value their conversations, her keen political mind, and her genuine interest in his various projects. They had developed a rapport that, while always proper, had grown increasingly comfortable and honest.
Their eyes met briefly as she took her position beside her father, and Thalor saw beneath her perfect court mask to the tension she carried in the slight tightness around her eyes. She knew what was at stake today.
"Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King and Lord of Casterly Rock," the court herald announced formally, "seeking audience with His Grace King Aerys, Second of His Name."
"Lord Hand," King Aerys acknowledged, his voice carrying a slight edge that those familiar with his moods would recognize as dangerous. "You requested this formal audience with unusual... insistence. What matter requires such ceremony that it could not be addressed in Small Council?"
Tywin bowed, precisely the correct depth for his station—neither obsequious nor lacking proper respect. "Your Grace, I come before you today not as your Hand, but as a father and the head of House Lannister, to present a matter of great significance for both our houses."
Aerys shifted on the throne, several of the blades nearest his left arm gleaming with fresh blood where they had caught on his sleeve. Thalor noticed his mother, seated nearby, wince slightly at the sight.
"Proceed," the king commanded.
Lord Tywin straightened, projecting the absolute self-assurance that had made him the most feared and respected lord in the Seven Kingdoms. "Your Grace, House Lannister has served the crown with unwavering loyalty through prosperity and hardship alike. Today, I come to propose a union that would strengthen that bond between lion and dragon for generations to come."
A murmur rippled through the assembled courtiers, though anyone with political awareness had already anticipated what would come next.
"I formally request the betrothal of my daughter, Cersei of House Lannister, to Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, heir to the Iron Throne."
The words, finally spoken aloud in the throne room after years of speculation and political maneuvering, seemed to hang in the air. Thalor glanced at his brother, whose expression remained perfectly controlled, revealing nothing of his thoughts on the proposal.
Silence stretched for several uncomfortable heartbeats, broken only by the soft crackling of candle flames.
Court protocol dictated that the king should respond with either acceptance, a diplomatic deferral for consideration, or a gentle redirection. Any of these would preserve dignity while leaving political options open.
But as Thalor watched his father's face, he saw the familiar signs that protocol would not be followed today. A particular glitter had entered Aerys's eyes, and the corner of his mouth twitched with what could only be described as anticipatory cruelty.
"A most presumptuous request, Lord Tywin," Aerys finally said, his voice deceptively light. "Though I suppose we should expect nothing less from the man who has served as my Hand for so long that he appears to have forgotten which of us wears the crown."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Thalor tensed, recognizing the beginning of one of his father's increasingly frequent public humiliations.
Lord Tywin's expression remained impassive. "I make this request with the deepest respect for Your Grace's authority and wisdom in such matters."
"Respect?" Aerys laughed, a brittle sound that echoed unnervingly through the silent chamber. "Is it respect that drives you to offer your daughter as though she were some prize mare, worthy of the dragon's bloodline? Tell me, Lord Hand, is it respect for your king that has you dreaming of golden-haired grandchildren sitting the Iron Throne?"
Thalor saw Cersei's perfect composure falter for just an instant, a flash of hurt crossing her features before being swiftly suppressed. Something protective stirred in him at the sight.
"House Lannister's loyalty to the Targaryen dynasty is beyond question," Tywin replied, his voice remaining measured despite the public insult. "The match would bring considerable advantages to both our houses."
"Would it?" Aerys leaned forward, seemingly heedless of the sword points pressing into his robes. "And what advantages could House Targaryen possibly gain from diluting its sacred bloodline with that of its servants? No matter how rich those servants might be?"
The insult was deliberate and unmistakable. A collective intake of breath swept through the court, the spectators simultaneously horrified and transfixed by the king's cruelty.
"Your Grace," Tywin began, but Aerys cut him off with a sharp gesture.
"House Targaryen has wed brother to sister for centuries to maintain the purity of our line. When we must look outside our blood, we have historically chosen from houses of Valyrian descent." He smiled unpleasantly. "The Lannisters, as I recall, trace their lineage to Andal adventurers and legends of trickery, not the noble dragonlords of Old Valyria."
Thalor watched as Tywin Lannister stood perfectly still, absorbing each calculated insult without visible reaction. Only someone who knew him well would recognize the cold fury building behind his eyes.
"Furthermore," Aerys continued, clearly enjoying the spectacle he was creating, "I would remind the court that it is the king who determines suitable matches for royal princes and princesses. Not ambitious Hands who forget their place."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the Kingsguard seemed to be holding their breath.
"Prince Rhaegar's betrothal will be announced when I deem an appropriate match has been found," Aerys declared. "One worthy of the dragon's blood. Until that time, I suggest House Lannister focus on matches more... suitable to its station."
Thalor risked a glance at Cersei. She stood as still as a statue, her face a perfect courtly mask that revealed nothing of the humiliation she must be feeling. But he could see the slight tremor in her hands, clasped tightly before her.
Lord Tywin bowed, exactly as deeply as protocol required—not an inch more. "As Your Grace commands. House Lannister lives to serve the crown."
The words were correct, but the tone carried the unmistakable chill of wounded pride and carefully controlled rage. Every person in that throne room understood that a line had been crossed—that the king had not merely declined a proposal but had deliberately humiliated his most powerful lord before the entire court.
"Indeed it does," Aerys agreed, settling back against the throne. "You are dismissed, Lord Hand. Return to your duties, which I'm sure require your attention more than these... familial ambitions."
Another murmur swept through the court as Tywin turned and strode from the throne room, his daughter following with her head held high despite the public rejection. Thalor noted how the crowd parted before them, courtiers stepping back as though the Lannisters' humiliation might somehow be contagious.
The audience continued with minor matters of court business, but Thalor paid little attention, his mind working through the political ramifications of what had just transpired. His father had not merely rejected a marriage proposal; he had created a dangerous enemy in Lord Tywin Lannister—perhaps the one man in the Seven Kingdoms whose enmity should be most avoided.
---
Hours later, after the court had dispersed and the royal family had retired to their private chambers, Thalor found himself in the quiet of his workshop in the Broken Tower. The day's events had left him unsettled, his thoughts returning repeatedly to the controlled fury in Lord Tywin's eyes and the momentary flash of hurt he'd glimpsed on Cersei's face.
Nightfury watched him from his customized resting platform, the dragon's intelligent green eyes following Thalor's restless movements as he tidied tools that didn't need tidying and reorganized materials that were already in perfect order.
"It was unnecessary cruelty," Thalor said eventually, giving voice to the thoughts that had been troubling him. "Father could have declined politely, preserved dignity on both sides. Instead, he chose deliberate humiliation."
Nightfury rumbled in what sounded like agreement.
"And for what purpose?" Thalor continued, running a hand through his silver-gold hair in frustration. "To remind Lord Tywin of his place? To assert royal prerogative? Whatever the goal, the cost was too high. Tywin Lannister is not a man who forgives insults."
A sharp knock at the workshop door interrupted his musings. At this hour, visitors were unusual—most of the craftsmen and apprentices had long since departed for their homes or quarters.
"Enter," Thalor called, straightening and composing himself.
The door swung open to reveal Maester Gyldayn, his expression grave. "Prince Thalor, forgive the late intrusion, but Lord Tywin Lannister requests a private audience."
Surprise momentarily displaced Thalor's composure. "Lord Tywin? Here?"
"He awaits in the small antechamber at the base of the tower," the maester confirmed. "He was most insistent on discretion."
Nightfury stirred, suddenly more alert. The dragon had developed an uncanny sense for political intrigue over the years, seeming to recognize when conversations carried particular significance.
"Tell Lord Tywin I'll receive him immediately," Thalor decided. "And ensure we're not disturbed, Maester."
After Gyldayn departed, Thalor quickly assessed his appearance. He was dressed simply in the clothes he wore for workshop activities—practical garments of quality material but lacking the formal embellishments expected at court. There was no time to change, however, and perhaps the informality might actually serve the conversation better.
"Stay alert, but remain non-threatening," he murmured to Nightfury, who blinked in acknowledgment. The dragon understood the delicate balance required—to be present as a reminder of Thalor's unique position, but not as an implied threat.
Minutes later, Lord Tywin Lannister ascended the spiral staircase into the workshop, his imposing presence filling the space despite his characteristically controlled demeanor. He had changed from the formal attire of the afternoon's audience into more subdued clothing, though still of evident quality. Most notably, he had removed the Hand's chain of office—a significant detail that was not lost on Thalor.
"Prince Thalor," he greeted with a precise bow. "I appreciate your willingness to receive me at this unusual hour."
"Lord Tywin," Thalor returned, offering the seated hospitality that courtesy demanded. "This is an unexpected honor."
As they settled into chairs near the warmth of the workshop's hearth, Thalor noted that the Lord of Casterly Rock seemed to be taking in the details of the space with interest—the organized workbenches, the half-completed projects, the evidence of serious innovation and labor so atypical for a prince of the blood.
"Your reputation for industriousness is well-earned, it seems," Tywin observed. "Few princes would dirty their hands with practical matters."
"I find practical matters often yield more tangible results than court intrigues," Thalor replied carefully.
A ghost of what might have been a smile touched Tywin's lips. "Indeed. Though court intrigues cannot always be avoided, as today's events demonstrated."
They had reached the purpose of the visit more quickly than Thalor had expected. He decided to match Tywin's directness.
"What happened in the throne room today was inexcusable," he said quietly. "Had I been forewarned of my father's intentions, I would have advocated for a more... diplomatic response to your proposal."
Tywin studied him for a long moment, his green eyes, flecked with gold, revealing nothing of his thoughts. "Your father has grown increasingly... unpredictable in recent years."
The statement was dangerously close to treason, yet delivered so matter-of-factly that it could not be easily construed as such. It was also, Thalor knew, entirely accurate.
"The pressures of kingship weigh heavily," Thalor replied, the diplomatic non-answer expected of a loyal son, though his tone conveyed his true understanding.
"Indeed." Tywin leaned forward slightly. "Prince Thalor, I did not come here to complain about the king's treatment of my proposal. What's done is done. I came to discuss a different possibility—one that may prove advantageous to both our houses despite today's... setback."
Thalor felt a momentary tension in his shoulders, sensing the significance of what would come next. "I'm listening, my lord."
"My daughter has spoken highly of you," Tywin said, watching Thalor's reaction carefully. "She mentions your conversations frequently in her letters, and seems to find your practical approach to governance... refreshing compared to the more traditional perspectives at court."
"Lady Cersei has a remarkably keen political mind," Thalor acknowledged, genuinely meaning the compliment. "Her insights have proven valuable on several occasions."
Tywin nodded, as if confirming something to himself. "House Lannister still seeks an alliance with House Targaryen. While your father has rejected a match with the crown prince, there are other possibilities that might prove equally beneficial in the long term."
Though Thalor had anticipated this direction, hearing it stated so directly still sent a jolt of surprise through him. "You're suggesting a betrothal between Lady Cersei and myself."
"I am." Tywin's gaze was steady, evaluating. "You are a prince of the blood, brother to the future king, rider of the only living dragon in the world. Your influence grows daily, both with the smallfolk who benefit from your innovations and with the more practical-minded nobles who recognize their value."
The assessment was accurate, if somewhat calculating in its framing. Yet Thalor could not deny the logic of the proposal—or his own interest in it, which went beyond mere political considerations.
"Such an arrangement would require the king's approval," Thalor pointed out, though he suspected Tywin had already considered this obstacle.
"Eventually, yes," Tywin agreed. "But your father's moods are... changeable. What he rejects with scorn today, he might embrace enthusiastically tomorrow, given the right presentation and timing."
The implication was clear: with Thalor's support, Tywin believed they could eventually secure the king's approval, despite today's rejection of a Lannister match for Rhaegar.
"And what of Lady Cersei's wishes?" Thalor asked, genuinely concerned. "She has spent years being groomed as a potential queen. Would she not consider a match with the second son... a disappointment?"
Something like respect flickered briefly in Tywin's expression at the question. "My daughter understands that queenship is merely one path to influence. A partnership with a prince who commands both a dragon and the loyalty of the common people offers different but equally significant opportunities."
Thalor considered this carefully. He had indeed grown fond of Cersei over the past years—admiring her intelligence, enjoying their conversations, appreciating her willingness to engage with his ideas when many at court dismissed them as eccentric preoccupations. The prospect of a formal alliance with her was not unwelcome on a personal level.
Yet he could not ignore the political dimensions. Supporting this proposal would place him in a complex position between his increasingly unstable father, his brother the crown prince, and the most powerful lord in the Seven Kingdoms.
"I would need to speak with Lady Cersei directly," Thalor said finally. "If she finds the prospect agreeable, then I would be willing to support such an arrangement and advocate for it with my father when the timing is appropriate."
Tywin nodded, satisfaction evident despite his controlled demeanor. "A reasonable condition. I shall arrange an opportunity for you to speak privately in the coming days."
As Lord Tywin rose to depart, Thalor was struck by the realization that this conversation represented a significant turning point—not just for him personally, but potentially for the realm. A Targaryen-Lannister alliance through him rather than Rhaegar would reshape political alignments throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
"My lord," Thalor said as Tywin prepared to leave, "regardless of what comes of this discussion, I want to express my personal regret for your treatment in court today. It was neither deserved nor wise."
Tywin paused, studying the young prince with that penetrating gaze. "In my experience, Prince Thalor, wisdom is rarely found on the Iron Throne. But perhaps it may yet find its way to the Small Council through other avenues."
With that cryptic statement hanging in the air, Lord Tywin departed, leaving Thalor to contemplate the implications of their conversation as Nightfury watched with knowing eyes from his corner of the workshop.
The dragon rumbled softly, a sound that Thalor had long since learned to interpret as questioning.
"Yes," he answered quietly. "I do like her, beyond political considerations." He moved to Nightfury's side, placing a hand on the warm scales of his neck. "And yes, I understand the complexities this creates. But maybe this is an opportunity—not just for a personal connection, but for building the alliances we'll need when winter truly comes."
Nightfury blinked his emerald eyes in understanding. Dragon and rider had long shared the knowledge of the threat from the North, the preparations required, the necessity of uniting the realm before the true enemy arrived.
If an alliance with House Lannister—and with Cersei specifically—could serve both personal happiness and that greater purpose, perhaps it was worth the political complications it would inevitably create.
With that thought, Thalor turned his attention back to his workbench, but his mind remained fixed on golden hair and sharp green eyes, and the possibilities that now lay before him.