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{ A Game Of Thrones Fanfic: 'The Fallen Stark' } × { A Song Of Ice And Fire }
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Important Characters of the following Arc, "Fostering In The West":
- Anakin Stark;
- Rodrik Cassel;
- Tywin Lannister;
- Joanna Lannister;
- Cersei Lannister;
- Jaime Lannister;
- Etc...
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| Casterly Rock, The West - Tywing Lannister Pov - 269 AC, A few moons before Rickard Stark told Eddard and Anakin of their fostering:
The lion's den sat high in the stony heart of the Rock, carved deep into the ancient mountain that had birthed House Lannister and whispered its pride through every grain of gilded stone.
Tywin's solar bore the signature of its master,— stark, grand, and precise to the point of austerity.
The chamber's walls, laced with veins of ancestral gold, caught the last light of the sun as it slipped behind the western cliffs.
Narrow windows cast bars of firelight across the flagstone, a gilded cage made not for captives, but for rulers in waiting. Pillars flanked each arch, engraved with lions not mid-roar, but mid-watch,— silent, vigilant, and eternal. Even the air seemed still here, as if taught to obey.
It was a room built to remind, not to comfort.
No tapestries softened its angles, no fragrance of perfumed oils or fruit bowls marred the clean scent of stone and parchment.
At its center, a long weirwood table stretched like a blade, bearing open scrolls, sealed letters, and a single golden quill resting upright,— ready, expectant, accusatory.
At the far end sat the man who had reforged the West in his own image.
Tywin Lannister.
He sat as he ruled, unmoved.
His back was straight, shoulders squared, fingers folded with the kind of stillness that came not from peace, but from power barely restrained.
Behind him, firelight danced across the carved hearth where a lion reared in mid-roar,— its snarl eternal in stone, its shadow writhing across the mosaic under his boots.
The only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the faint rustle of parchment disturbed by unseen drafts.
Tywin preferred it so.
No bards dared pluck strings here, no laughter found breath in these walls.
Only the scrape of a quill, the creak of leather bindings, the whisper of politics unfolding in silence.
But silence was never peace. It was the breath before a blow.
He broke the seal on a new letter with a swift, practiced motion. The direwolf of House Stark split beneath his fingers,— ripped at the neck, its black ink bleeding into pale parchment.
With a flick, he tossed the torn crest into the flames, as it curled and blackened without protest.
His eyes, that cold, Lannister green tinged with flecks of gold, scanned the first lines.
His expression remained neutral, yet his ringed fingers began a steady tap against the weirwood,— measured, controlled, betraying a pulse of irritation.
Another letter.
Another plea from Rickard Stark.
Another damned request to send his second son south.
Tywin exhaled through his nose, the breath sharp and thin. He had denied the man twice already, and that should have sufficed.
Wolves were territorial,— surely, they understood refusal.
And yet…
He was already calculating how many men it would take to burn Winterfell to its stones when the silence broke,— soft footsteps approaching the heavy oaken door.
His tapping stopped mid-beat.
A shift,— not alarm, not concern, but the adjustment of a man who knew what power walked toward him.
The door opened without announcement.
And in entered Joanna Lannister,— his wife.
She needed none, as she moved like the Rock itself had opened to let her pass,— a force not of thunder, but of gravity.
Her presence was not loud, but it was whole.
No baubles or baudy silks clung to her form either. Her gown was a river of deep crimson, tailored to cut through rooms rather than float through them. Her hair, golden as a lion's pelt, was pulled back with intention, not vanity.
To the world, she was beautiful.
To Tywin, she was order.
Her gaze, clear and calculating, fell not on him,— but on the letter beside his hand.
"I hear a Stark bird reached the Rock today," she said, voice calm as still water sliding over stone. He didn't lift his eyes. "And I take it the maester is now a gossip?"
"Don't be cruel on an innocent man. A passing seagull told me of it." she replied, gliding behind his chair. Her fingers brushed over his shoulders,— a whisper of contact that steadied more than just the leather beneath her hand.
He allowed the breath he'd been holding to release, quiet as a confession.
"I take it he repeats himself?" she asked, voice closer now, a murmur near his ear.
"Indeed." He lifted her hand, pressed it to his lips,— brief, absent, yet meaningful. "He still wishes to send his boy."
"Still so eager to tie his blood to ours?" He scoffed, low in his throat. "Persistent. A northern hound trying to wear a lion's pelt."
She leaned in, reading the letter over his shoulder. "What would you do, if not this?"
"Kill the man." he said without humor. "That would end the letters." Her laugh was soft, the sound rare enough that it tempered the air.
"You'd execute the Warden of the North over quill and ink? Even for you, that's excessive."
"I've turned him away three times. Does he mistake refusal for hesitation?"
"No." she murmured, "But he might be testing your pride." Tywin's jaw clenched.
A flicker of movement, barely visible,— but Joanna always noticed. "And what fool tests a lion in its den?" he asked coldly.
"One who sees more than teeth." she said, her voice dipping lower.
She withdrew, moving to the table, picking up the parchment with careful fingers. "One who smells a storm on the wind... and wants shelter." He watched her,— not the gown, not the posture, but the mind at work beneath it.
Joanna read like a commander reviewing a battle map. "We should accept." she said finally, and he turned to face her, one brow raised. "You would have our son and daughter raised beside a northern savage?"
"A second son." she corrected. "And a boy raised here becomes a man loyal to us. If the North truly listens to Jon Arryn's whisperings of rebellion…" She let the words hang.
Tywin's face tightened. "You believe these letters carry Arryn's voice."
"So do you." she said simply. "And that means they carry weight. If he plots, Rickard Stark does not send his own blood south lightly. He sends it to stake a claim."
Their eyes met,— green into green, iron into steel. "He sends the boy to you..." she said, "Because he knows you will raise him hard, but well. And when fire rises from further south… it may find wolves, trouts, falcons, stags and lions standing side by side."
Tywin leaned back in his chair, arms folding.
The fire behind him cracked, casting his profile in shifting light. "And what happens when this boy grows more lion than wolf?"
Joanna smiled faintly. "Then you've done your duty better than any father in the realm."
A silence fell,— not cold, but coiled with consideration.
Then Tywin reached for the quill. "I will write the damned letter."
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| Casterly Rock, The West - Anakin Stark - 269 AC, At the present:
The lion's maw yawned before him,— massive gates of worked bronze, etched with scenes of conquest and dominion.
Lions pounced over mountains, gold veins spidered through the stone as if the Rock itself bled wealth.
Sunlight refracted off gilded towers high above, blinding, and unforgiving.
Anakin Stark had never seen anything like it.
Winterfell was stone and smoke, quiet halls and older whispers. The West, by contrast, gleamed like a sword just drawn from the fire,— sharp, unfamiliar, and hot enough to burn.
Or so it seemed.
He shifted in the saddle, stiff in the boiled leather his father insisted he wear. His boots, too big for his feet, knocked awkwardly against the saddle's edge.
Rodrik Cassel rode beside him, silent as always, his beard, not yet peppered grey, one hand never far from the hilt of his sword.
The Stark escort numbered fourteen riders,— none more than men tasked with delivering a letter and a boy.
Anakin said nothing as the gates creaked open, revealing a stone tunnel carved through the Rock's heart,— vaulted, grand, lined with towering lion statues standing sentinel.
Cold air swept out from the dark, even as sunlight lingered behind him.
The first steps into the lion's den felt like crossing some final line.
He tried not to look overwhelmed, though he was sure he failed.
It's too bright here,— too gold,— too loud…
The sound of hooves echoed unnaturally inside the tunnels, bouncing back at them like ghost riders trailing behind.
His gaze drifted upward, to the carvings above each arch,— men with crowns, swords dripping with blood, lions devouring deer, boars, even wolves.
One depicted a lion's paw resting atop a Stark direwolf's skull. He stared at it for too long, long enough to have Rodrik nudge his elbow gently. "Don't show them fear, young lord." the old knight murmured.
And Anakin straightened, jaw set, and eyes forward.
But his knuckles whitened around the reins.
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They dismounted in a stone courtyard colder than the mountains, watched by rows of guards in crimson cloaks and golden lion helms.
Every man seemed carved from marble, unmoved, expressionless.
Anakin searched for a familiar face, instinctively, and found none. Even the air smelled foreign,— less of pine and smoke, more of oil and polish and something sharp underneath.
He stepped down from the horse with awkward haste, nearly stumbling. Rodrik's hand caught his arm before he fell.
A quiet gesture, unnoticed by most.
But not by Tywin Lannister.
The Lord of Casterly Rock stood at the far end of the courtyard, beneath a banner the size of a ship's sail.
His golden clothes gleamed dully in the shadow of the archway behind him, crimson cloak unmoving in the windless air.
Beside him stood his wife, Lady of the Rock, Joanna Lannister, every bit as poised, and twice as unreadable.
Anakin met Tywin's gaze and felt it,— like being weighed on a scale too precise to deceive. Those cold green eyes bore down like spears.
He didn't flinch, when faced with it, he wouldn't give the man that his father 'sold' him to, that satisfaction. But his hands curled into fists behind his back without him even noticing.
Anger issues that started to show too soon.
"Lord Lannister." Rodrik said, bowing low. "I present my Liege Lord Rickard Stark's second son,— Anakin of House Stark."
Tywin said nothing for a long moment, as his gaze swept over Anakin as one might examine a warhorse for defects. Not cruel, not curious,— simply... assessing.
And then he nodded. "A Stark in the West, even for me that's new." he said at last, voice like gravel over gold. "Let us see if your blood carries more than ice, boy."
Anakin didn't react, not at first. He just stared, for he knew better than that,— he was teached better than that.
A child of seven, with the weight of Winterfell in his spine, looking up at the lion who ruled this golden mountain.
And for the first time since leaving home, he spoke without even thinking. "I assure you that I do not melt, Lord Tywin."
A pause. Rodrik's breath caught, as did every northmen. Joanna blinked, then, faintly,— barely there,— Joanna's lips curved in amusement.
Tywin's didn't.
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The halls swallowed him whole, every step into Casterly Rock was a step into something older and deeper than he'd imagined.
Stairways spiraled without end, corridors twisted like veins through stone.
Anakin walked in silence beside Joanna, who led the way with cool grace, Tywin, surprisingly, following behind.
Servants bowed and vanished like shadows, silent and efficient, and he felt lost within a few turns.
The ceilings arched high above his head, too tall for comfort. Tapestries hung like silent witnesses,— depictions of battles and kings he did not know.
Everything here was polished, severe, and ordered.
Winterfell was grey, the Rock was gold,— but he assumed he should've expected that.
Gold everywhere, he thought, squinting against the light. But the gold here didn't shine with warmth.
It glared at him, at the outsider...
He was shown his room then, a chamber of cold stone and lion motifs, with red drapery and floors that echoed when he stepped.
Rodrik left him there with a nod and a murmur that no one else heard. "Be mindfull, and be strong, Anakin. I'm sure you will find your place here sooner than later, lad."
Anakin sat on the edge of the bed, now truly alone.
The door shut, and the silence pressed in.
Later, a knock came.
A servant entered with food,— stew and crusty bread, fresh pears, and sweet tea.
He said nothing as he placed the tray and retreated, gaze never meeting the boy's.
Anakin stared at the meal, but he knew damn well that he wasn't hungry.
He walked instead to the window,— a narrow slit of stone,— and stared out at the mountains, red with sunset, distant and terrible.
A falcon wheeled through the sky.
He thought of home then, of snow in his hair, of Brandon and Benjen's laughter, of his sister's voice, or his mother's humming low in the godswood, and Eddard's stares.
And then he thought of his father's face,— the still, yet emotional hard look as he'd sent him off.
"This is your duty, Anakin. You will learn to be more than a boy there, and I'm sure you will somehow enjoy your days there. Your life's starting now son, enjoy it to the fullest."
He clenched his fists.
I'll be more than that,— I'll be more than all of them together...
He stood there a long while, as the sun dipped lower, and the golden halls of the Rock cast longer shadows.
In the quiet, a strange feeling coiled in his chest,— not fear, not grief, but something heavier.
Resolve.
He would not be consumed by this place,— not the lions, and not the light of their gold.
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{ A Game Of Thrones Fanfic: 'The Fallen Stark' } × { A Song Of Ice And Fire }
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