RICKARD | TYWIN
The warm afternoon light illuminated the guest solar in the Red Keep, where the Stark family gathered. In the corner of the room, crisp laughter broke the silence that usually enveloped the Lord of Winterfell.
Rickard Stark sat in a high-backed leather chair, a thick tome regarding the lineages of great families open on his lap, yet his eyes were not reading. His gaze was fixed on his three children who were near the window.
Brandon, his eldest son and the heir to Winterfell, stood gallantly. He was big now, ten and five namedays. His build was sturdy, his shoulders broad, and he possessed the wild handsomeness typical of a Stark: long brown hair, grey eyes that twinkled mischievously, and a smile that could melt women's hearts. He was teasing his sister, Lyanna, pulling her braid gently while Benjen laughed seeing his sister retaliate with playful punches to Brandon's arm.
The sight warmed Rickard's heart, but as a Lord Paramount, his mind could not stop working. Children were not merely beloved offspring; they were assets. They were bridges to the future of House Stark.
Lyanna was safe. She had been betrothed to Robert Baratheon, Heir to Storm's End. It was a good deal, very good. Robert was Ned's best friend, he was wealthy, strong, and had Targaryen blood from his grandmother. That connection would open doors of trade and influence for the North into the Stormlands which had been rarely touched all this time. Lyanna would not just be a lady of a vassal Lord amidst the snow; she would be a Lady Paramount in the South.
But Brandon... Brandon was an unresolved issue.
Rickard tapped his finger against the armrest of the chair. The Heir to Winterfell did not yet have a betrothed.
Rickard's mind drifted to the past, to a few years ago when he began formulating plans to integrate the North with the South. He had tried to bring Brandon closer to Catelyn Tully, Hoster Tully's eldest daughter. Letters had been sent, seeds of conversation had been planted. Rickard did not immediately ask for a formal betrothal back then because he felt it was rushed. He felt he had time.
But who would have guessed, Tywin Lannister, the Lord of Casterly Rock who was always one step ahead, had beaten him to it. Tywin moved fast and secured Catelyn for his son, Jaime.
Rickard was not angry. He was disappointed, of course; losing Catelyn meant losing the main key to the Riverlands. But he respected Tywin's game. The man was brilliant. And Rickard was not a fool; he did not cry over spilt milk. He looked for other milk.
There was still one more daughter of Hoster remaining. Lysa Tully.
She was indeed not the eldest daughter, and perhaps not as beautiful as her sister, but she was still a Tully. She bore the name Riverrun.
Rickard considered his options coldly. He could try to speak with Hoster Tully later tonight, or perhaps tomorrow morning.
Or, there was another option. Janna Tyrell.
The Tyrell family was filthy rich. Highgarden was the granary of Westeros. In terms of raw power logic, marrying Brandon to Janna was more profitable.
But marrying Brandon to Lysa Tully had strategic advantages that were subtler yet vital. The Riverlands were the North's direct neighbor. By binding the Riverlands, Rickard secured his southern border. And more importantly, Hoster Tully was currently trying hard to curry favor with Tywin Lannister. The Riverlands followed the direction of the wind from Casterly Rock.
By entering the Tully family, Rickard effectively inserted House Stark into the Lannister circle of influence, a circle that was currently rising continuously, holding control over the new King.
Rickard was not a man who liked to cause chaos or rebel without reason. He was not a bloodthirsty barbarian. He was a builder. He would participate in the power games in the capital as long as it benefited him.
He imagined the map of Westeros in his head. The vast North. The Riverlands in the center. The Vale in the east where Ned was fostered. The Stormlands in the south where Lyanna would rule. And the Westerlands in the west holding the gold.
If the North, Riverlands, Westerlands, Arryn, and Storm's End united in a web of marriages and friendship... was that not quite good? It was an unshakeable power bloc. Peace would be guaranteed. Trade would flow smoothly from Winterfell to Lannisport, from Gulltown to King's Landing.
Unless there was an internal problem where someone caused big trouble and required Rickard to choose a side opposite to the mainstream current. Which, according to Rickard's calculations, seemed to have a very slim chance.
Tywin had been friends with Steffon Baratheon since childhood, that was no secret. Everyone knew it. Steffon was loyal to the King, and Tywin controlled the King, or at least tried to. The Baratheons were always busy with themselves in their territory lately, but they would not go against the current if their friends held the reins. Meanwhile, the Riverlands looked like they would follow whatever the Lannisters wanted for economic gain; that paper had captivated Hoster. And Arryn? Jon Arryn was an honorable man who had good relations with Rickard through Ned.
So yes, logically, it was impossible for anything to happen at least for the next few decades, right? King Rhaegar was young and seemingly sane. The foundation of the realm was strong.
And if eventually in the future trouble occurred... the North would already have enough advantages gained from this alliance to strengthen themselves. Rickard was building a diplomatic fortress, not just stone walls.
"Brandon," called Rickard, his voice heavy and authoritative, cutting through the laughter across the room.
The laughter stopped instantly. Brandon, Lyanna, and Benjen turned. Brandon released his sister's hair, straightened his body, and walked towards his father. There was a hint of wariness in his eyes; he knew that tone of voice. That was not the tone of a father inviting for a hunt, that was the tone of Lord Stark.
"Yes, Father?" asked Brandon.
Rickard closed his book. He stared at his son, assessing. Brandon had a great fire inside him, the 'wolf blood' the old people often talked about. That was good for courage, but bad for politics.
"In your opinion, what about Lysa Tully?" Rickard asked directly, without pleasantries.
Brandon blinked, surprised by the sudden question. He shrugged, a movement slightly indifferent.
"I saw her from a distance a few times, Father. At the welcoming feast," answered Brandon honestly yet flatly. "She... she looks like most Southern girls. Small, polite, maybe a little shy."
"In a good or bad sense?" Rickard frowned slightly at his son's attitude. Indifference was the enemy of ambition.
"Does it matter?" Brandon snorted softly, then realized his father's sharp gaze and immediately corrected himself. "Yes, of course in a good sense. She is noble, not a commoner. She is Hoster Tully's daughter. She is pretty enough, I suppose, though not as beautiful as her sister."
Rickard ignored the last comment. Catelyn was gone, there was no point comparing.
"I am thinking of betrothing you to her," said Rickard.
The sentence fell like a hammer on an anvil.
Brandon frowned deeply. His jaw hardened. Rickard knew exactly what was in his son's mind. Brandon surely wanted to refuse. Rickard knew the rumors that his son had a 'woman' he already had his eyes on in the North, Lord Ryswell's daughter, Barbrey. That girl was wild and spirited, suited for Brandon.
But Brandon was a nobleman. He was the Heir to Winterfell. He was not a farmer who could marry a girl he met in a cornfield just because he fell in love. He had a duty. He had the burden of the Stark name on his shoulders.
He had to follow what his father said. For the good of the North.
A Lord had to think of many things before love. Love was a luxury for poets and smallfolk. They had responsibilities. Marriage was about land, about armies, about security guarantees for their people.
After all, love was about togetherness. Not about first sight. The longer one spent time with his wife, the more he knew her, the more likely love would bloom.
"When?" whispered Brandon finally. His voice sounded resigned, the fire of his resistance extinguished by reality.
Rickard nodded, satisfied. His son knew his place.
"This is just one of my thoughts, I have a few more considerations," said Rickard, though in his heart he had decided eighty percent. "But I will speak with Hoster Tully soon. Perhaps it will be settled soon before we return to Winterfell. I want you to return to the North bringing a promise of the future, not just empty hands."
Rickard opened his book again, signaling the conversation was over. Yet his eyes kept watching Brandon who walked back to the window with steps heavier than before.
...
The candlelight inside the Hand of the King's private solar swayed gently, creating shadows that danced on the cold stone walls.
"Seriously, Tywin. You must smile more, you know?"
Steffon Baratheon poured wine from a silver flagon into his own goblet with a relaxed movement, slightly careless until a drop of wine spilled on the table. The Lord of Storm's End did not care; he just wiped the droplet with his thumb, then pointed at Tywin's face with the goblet in his hand. His bright blue eyes twinkled mischievously, the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes deepening.
"I can see there is a line between your lips because they are never moved," continued Steffon, chuckling at his own joke. "Those muscles will go numb if you don't use them occasionally. You will scare your grandchildren later. They will think their grandfather is a living lion statue."
Tywin Lannister did not budge an inch. He sat leaning back on the velvet sofa. He held a glass and stared at his friend with a flat gaze that could freeze a waterfall.
"I will smile if something truly catches my attention," snorted Tywin, his voice dry like old paper rubbing together. "Or if there is something funny. The stupidity of the people in this court is rarely funny, Steffon. It is merely exhausting and a waste of time."
"So meeting an old friend brings up nothing in your heart?" Steffon raised his eyebrows. "I am hurt, Ty. You know that? This soft heart of mine is shattered into pieces."
The corner of Tywin's lip twitched slightly, a small movement that for others might not be visible, but for those who knew him, it was a sign of victory. That was Tywin Lannister's smile.
Tywin sighed softly, ignoring the provocation but not chasing his guest away. "Save your drama for your wife or the girls at Storm's End and perhaps street singers. So, what have you been doing there lately? Besides honing your talent to be a mummer?"
Steffon grinned broadly, sipping his wine with relish. He rested his head against the back of the sofa, staring at the ceiling, looking very comfortable in a room that usually made other Lords tremble in fear.
"I can sense that you missed me behind that stone face," teased Steffon again before answering seriously. "Me? I do ordinary things not far different from you here, Tywin. Only smaller in terms of scale, and certainly less troublesome because I don't have to handle complaints from seven kingdoms at once."
Steffon swirled the wine in his glass, looking at the red vortex. "Harvest taxes, land disputes between stubborn bannermen, boring things that keep the world turning. There are times when I am bored to death and plan to take a break for a while."
Steffon's face turned a little melancholic. "I want to go hunting, feel the forest wind on my face, chasing boars alone or just with a few friends. But..."
He snorted, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "Even that time I have to plan from far in advance! I have to arrange who guards the castle, who signs letters, ensuring no ambassadors from other regions arrive suddenly. Freedom is a high price to pay now, Ty."
Steffon leaned forward, elbows resting on knees, staring at Tywin with a gaze that was suddenly serious and full of nostalgia.
"You understand that, don't you, Ty?" he asked softly. "We used to... the three of us... we could do what we wanted without thinking about many things. We could sneak out, steal horses, and ride until the sunset looking for stupid adventures. While now? Everything must have attention. Everything has consequences. Luckily I am a capable man, so I can do everything easily, but still... it feels like wearing armor that is too tight."
Tywin fell silent for a moment. He swirled his water goblet, watching the reflection of candlelight on the water's surface.
"I always considered playing around as the thing that makes humans most unproductive, Steffon," said Tywin finally, his voice calm. "Youth is a time to learn, not just for futile pleasure. Sure, you can enjoy it once in a while, but for me, the present time is the most ideal. We have the power to shape the world according to our will. That is more satisfying than hunting in the woods."
Steffon chuckled, shaking his head with admiration mixed with amusement. "Yes, you are the most obsessed with that among the three of us. Always serious. Always wanting to be a builder."
'The three of us'.
The words hung in the air, heavy and unspoken, yet present as clearly as the furniture in the room. Aerys.
Tywin stared at Steffon. This man before him never changed. His black hair might have started to have grey, and his body was a little heavier, but his soul was still the same. Steffon was a little like Gerion, in terms of nature, loved to laugh, loved adventure, and couldn't sit still.
But strangely, Tywin tolerated Steffon far more than his own younger brother. Gerion often felt annoying, his laughter sounding like mockery towards the seriousness of House Lannister, a rebellion against the order Tywin built. But Steffon... perhaps it was because they were peers. Or perhaps because of the nostalgia Tywin rarely allowed into his heart.
Tywin spent more time with Steffon in his youth than with Gerion. They grew up together on the battlefields of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, seeing their first blood together, watching each other's backs.
Tywin remembered the old times. Times where Steffon was the noisiest among them. The most enthusiastic with crazy ideas like infiltrating the enemy camp or hunting boars with only wooden spears. Back then, Steffon's eyes would sparkle every time they were about to do exhausting physical things. Aerys would join in laughing with his signature laugh that wasn't broken yet, and Tywin... Tywin would stand there, crossing his arms, criticizing their plans, yet still participating to ensure they didn't die foolishly.
Tywin liked that sparkle in Steffon's eyes. He would never admit it, but he considered it entertainment, a necessary pause amidst exhausting and stressful situations. Steffon was the fire that warmed, while Tywin was the stone wall protecting that fire so it wouldn't be extinguished by the wind.
Aerys was the wind. And that wind eventually extinguished itself, leaving ashes they now had to clean up.
Tywin banished that shadow of the past with a firm blink of his eyes. The past was dead. Aerys was history. What remained was the future, and how to secure it so it wouldn't collapse again.
"What about your son, Robert?" Tywin asked suddenly, changing the topic sharply. He looked for a topic more relevant to the future. "I saw him at the feast. He grew big. Very big."
Steffon smiled proudly, the type of fatherly smile blind to his child's flaws but proud of his merits.
"Ah, Robert. He is a giant, isn't he?" Steffon laughed, refilling his glass. "He possesses true Baratheon strength. He can swing a warhammer that even my adult soldiers struggle to lift. He is talented, Tywin. Very talented in combat. And he has charisma... people like him. He can walk into a room full of strangers and walk out with ten new friends."
"Talent in combat and finding drinking buddies does not make someone a good Lord," interrupted Tywin coldly, cutting Steffon with the knife of reality. "What about his studies? Politics? Economics? Does he know how to calculate taxes or only how to calculate how many girls he smiled at?"
Steffon's smile wavered slightly, then turned into a sour grin.
"You always stab straight to the bone, Ty," complained Steffon. "Robert... he has spirit. But yes, he has... challenges in terms of academics. He gets bored quickly. Maester Cressen often complains to me that Robert prefers watching birds fly in the window or sparring in the yard rather than reading history or laws."
Steffon sighed. "He is impulsive. He lives for the moment. He doesn't like thinking about long-term consequences."
"He needs discipline," said Tywin flatly. "Charisma can win followers, but discipline maintains a kingdom."
"That is what Robert needs," Steffon laughed again, trying to be optimistic.
"Huh," snorted Tywin. "And Stannis? He looks... different from his brother."
"Stannis is Stannis," Steffon's face softened, but there was a different note of worry there. "He is serious. Too serious for a child his age. Sometimes I think he is more like you than me, Tywin. He is stiff, obedient to rules to a painful point, and rarely smiles. He feels overshadowed by Robert, I know that. But he is loyal. He is strong iron, though brittle if bent too hard."
Tywin nodded slowly. He liked what he saw in Stannis that night. The boy understood duty. The boy understood order.
"Robert needs Stannis," analyzed Tywin. "Just as Aerys needed us back then. One to charm the crowds, one to do the boring dirty work and keep everything running."
Steffon fell silent for a moment, staring at his rippling wine. "Perhaps you are right. I just hope... I hope they can get along. Sometimes they are like oil and water. Robert doesn't understand Stannis, and Stannis cannot tolerate Robert."
"Blood binds stronger than water," said Tywin, raising his water glass as if toasting. "As long as you educate them correctly about the meaning of family. Family is the only thing that is eternal, Steffon. Friendships can fade, kings can die, but the family name remains."
"Family," repeated Steffon softly, raising his goblet. "Yes. That is the most important thing."
They sat in silence for a moment, two old friends who had become pillars of the realm, drinking their drinks, thinking of their sons, and the burdens of the past and future intertwining.
...
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