Casterly Rock – 252 AC
Tywin Lannister
Tywin Lannister watched Lord Frey exit his father's solar, the older man's wide, oily smile curling from ear to ear. Disgusting, Tywin thought, his jaw tight. He could not fathom why his father would associate himself with such a man.
If he had to describe Lord Tytos in a single sentence, it would be: weak-willed, eager to please, slow to anger, quick to forgive, and far too trusting. His father saw good in everyone, whether lord or lowborn, but that trust often left House Lannister vulnerable.
"Lord Tywin, Lord Tytos is ready to see you," a guard announced, pulling him from his thoughts and opening the door. Tywin inclined his head and stepped inside.
"You summoned me, Father," he said, his voice flat.
"Tywin, yes," Tytos replied, glancing down at a letter lying on his desk. "Prince Daeron is to be a ward at Castamere. He will pass through Casterly Rock, and his arrival will coincide with his Nameday. I intend to hold a grand feast and a simple tourney to welcome him."
Tywin clicked his tongue. "A waste of money, Father. He is a guest of House Reyne, not Lannister."
"No, no," Tytos said hurriedly. "It is fitting. We will honor the royal family—and make a special announcement on that day as well."
Tywin's eyes narrowed. "And what is this announcement, Father?" His voice carried a hard edge.
"You will have to wait, like everyone else," Tytos replied, handing him a parchment. "Give this to the Maester. He will know what to do."
Tywin left the solar with a storm behind him, muttering under his breath, Blind old fool. He unfolded the parchment once out of sight. An invitation, he read. He handed it promptly to the Maester, whose expression was polite but unknowing, then strode toward the gardens, anger coiling tightly in his chest.
As Tywin rounded a bend in the gardens, he spotted his siblings—Kevan, Genna, Tygett, and their cousin Joanna—seated together, laughing quietly and enjoying the morning air.
"Tywin," Kevan greeted, giving a small nod before returning his attention to two-year-old Tygett, who squealed with delight as Kevan tickled him.
"You seem angry, Tywin," Genna said, her tone teasing but curious. "Did Father do something?"
Tywin's lips pressed into a thin line. "Father summoned me to his solar," he replied, his voice clipped. "Prince Daeron will be passing through Casterly Rock on his way to Castamere. Father wants a grand feast and a tourney to honor him… and apparently, to make some announcement at the same time."
Joanna arched a brow, intrigued. "And that bothers you because…?"
Tywin's jaw tightened. "Because it is a waste. The Reynes are hosting him. This… spectacle is for Father's vanity, not the good of the house."
Kevan's hands stilled on Tygett's tiny shoulders, his face thoughtful. "Father does like to show off. But you… you always see the dangers in such things before anyone else."
Genna smiled faintly. "So, as usual, the world conspires to annoy Tywin Lannister."
Tywin gave a short, humorless laugh, then turned his gaze toward the distant towers of Casterly Rock. "Annoyance is one thing. I intend to end up with us not becoming fools again."
Last time when a Feast was held, the Reynes and Tarbecks trading jibes at his father's expense. "If I were Lord Lannister, I'd wipe them from the map", he had thought then, and the memory left a bitter taste now.
Joanna laughed, bright and careless, and the sound did something to loosen the knot in his chest. "Calm down, Tywin. It's not so bad," she said, twirling her golden hair between her fingers. "The prince is a year younger than me. I might make him fall for me." Her voice went light and dreamy. "Imagine—Targaryen silver hair and green eyes. Our children would be perfect."
Something in Tywin's jaw tightened.
"I heard he's a sweet boy," Genna said, preening. "Princess Genna has a nice ring to it."
Tywin could not keep the edge out of his words. "He's not a crown prince," he said flatly. "He's a spare. A useful spare perhaps, but not the sort to secure the future of House Lannister."
Genna's smile faltered; Joanna only smiled more brightly, undeterred. "Then I'll try harder," she said, self-satisfied. "I'll wear the finest gowns to the feast. He'll have no choice."
Tywin looked at them both, saw the vanity and the wishful thinking, and found it intolerable. "You should be seeking matches that matter," he said, cold and precise. "A daughter should bring allies, not daydreams. The Reynes and Tarbecks are glad-handing for the moment; a marriage to a spare buys flatterers, not strength. Think bigger."
Kevan glanced up but said nothing; Tygett's laughter filled the small space where a wiser answer might have been given.
Joanna pouted, then laughed it off. "Always so serious, Tywin. You make it sound like war."
"Perhaps I speak of things you have never had to think of," Tywin replied. "This feast is not a pageant for dressing and sighing. Father may be foolish enough to do something like this, but I will make sure whatever is done in that hall does not weaken us. If the Reynes think to mock us, we will not be left without an answer."
He left the garden then, his stride long and steady, the plan for the feast already forming in his mind—not a vanity for Tytos, but an opportunity to show Casterly Rock, and through it House Lannister.
========================================
Deepden – 252 AC
Ser Gerold Hightower had seen this play before—too many times to count. Lords eager for royal favor rarely came themselves; they sent their daughters, hoping charm and flesh would succeed where words could not. Lady Lira Lydden was no different.
"I have a message for the prince, Ser Gerold," she had said, dipping into a bow that left little to the imagination. He had granted her request, though his thoughts were sour. All the same. Always pushing daughters first.
At the door of the guest chamber, he rapped his knuckles lightly. "My prince, Lady Lira Lydden is here to see you."
"Come in, both of you," Daeron answered. He was sprawled on his bed, nose buried in The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms. His silver hair caught the candlelight, his eyes bright with a curiosity rare in boys his age.
"What can I do for you so late at night, my lady?" he asked politely.
Lira leaned forward, fingers lingering on the laces of her gown, letting them fall open a touch more before perching beside him. She bent over his book, her bosom all but pressed into his line of sight. Gerold watched from the doorframe, jaw set. He's seven. Gods, woman, have you no shame?
"I see you enjoy reading of noble houses, my prince," she purred. "A letter came from Casterly Rock. Lord Lannister intends a tourney in your honor, on the day of your name day."
She took his hand, guiding it boldly to her chest. Gerold's fingers itched toward his sword hilt, but he waited. This was a test of the boy more than of the woman.
Daeron's brows furrowed. "He need not have done so… and he knows I am here, in Deepden?" He pulled his hand back with quiet firmness.
"Yes, my prince," she insisted sweetly. "My father sent word as soon as you arrived. House Lydden has been charged with escorting you to Casterly Rock. All the lords of the west will gather there in a week."
Again she caught his arm, this time pressing it perilously close to the hem of her gown. Gerold felt his blood rise. How far will she go?
Daeron shook his head. "I see." His eyes returned to the page. "Tell me—may I keep this book?"
"Of course," she said, shifting nearer, lips parting in a practiced smile. "Though I hadn't taken you for such a reader. I thought perhaps… other interests would call to you."
Daeron only smiled faintly, flipping a page. "Not a reader, no. I only pick up books I find worth the time. Ancient civilizations interest me. This one I read so I may know more of the lords I'm soon to meet in the Westerlands. Since I must put in the work, I'd best begin now." He glanced up, grin boyish and guileless. "Otherwise, I prefer to laze about when I'm not training."
He slipped his hand free once more, and the matter was closed.
Gerold stepped forward at last, voice stern. "My lady, I believe you've finished with the prince."
The color drained from Lira's face. She rose in haste, dipped a shallow curtsy, and hurried from the chamber.
Gerold lingered by the door, studying Daeron as the boy turned another page as though nothing had happened. Inwardly, the White Bull allowed himself the smallest measure of pride. Seven name days, and already he carries himself better than many grown men. Perhaps this boy is worth all the praise.