AN:
A follow on to 'The Night Before', written when the original prompter for that story asked for a continuation. I DO NOT OWN A SONG OF ICE AND FIRE.
It was late. Or early. The sun had long since set or might soon be rising, and all was quiet in the halls of Casterly Rock. Servants had repaired to their far-off chambers, horses had been shut in their stables and the little lord and lady of the Rock had been, with the threat of their father's wrath, ensconced in one chamber with their septa.
The halls around the master chamber were completely empty, and in the master chamber itself, sat the Lord of the Rock and lay his lady wife. Joanna had been insensible when she'd birthed the child, a misshapen, half-formed creature. From what Tywin understood, his lioness had been untouched by the comings and goings of the world for hours upon hours. He knew what the people had whispered in the halls, before he'd sent them, all of them, to the furthest corners dry land offered – they said she was already dead.
They didn't know her like he did.
Tywin Lannister was no fool. He prided himself on the fact. He was ruthless, cunning and intelligent. Fierce in every aspect. And that fierceness extended to his love, though he had never named the emotion. Not to any member of his family, not to his children. Not even to Joanna. But she knew. No, he was no fool. He could see just as surely as the maester, the attendants, the septa. He had heard her screams, and he had heard her silence. Just as he now heard that telling rattle that had come in place of the heavy breath of sleep. Were his wife any ordinary woman, she would die tonight.
But how could his lioness die?
Contradictions, confusion. Anguish, pain, guilt. Hatred of himself, hatred of her, for allowing that thing to destroy her, like he'd known it would. All these emotions were strangers to Tywin Lannister, and even now he barely registered them as they flickered through his head. He gave them no heed. He just stared, cold-eyed, at where his hand had come to rest on Joanna's cold fingers.
A normal man would cry and plead and scream, fight against the oncoming defeat. This calm before his greatest storm should have knocked him to his knees already, but he was Tywin Lannister.
Lannisters don't act like fools.
He was Tywin Lannister, and nothing, not even this, would end him. Not all of him. He would not fall to memories, to reminiscing over what was or sad thoughts of what could have been.
But he would give her what she wanted, if he could. For the last time in his life, he would let someone win. She had wanted this. She had wanted it. And though some might say she was hard and cold as stone, her love for her children and for him had been hot as red Lannister flame. What it, what the child, was might have irked her at first had she been sensible to it. But he was a Lannister. She would have protected him from anyone. Even from him.
So, one last time, as was custom, he kissed her hand fervently, no tears. He lay it back at her side, and said:
'He'll be Tyrion, my wife. As you wish.'
Just moments later saw the death of Joanna Lannister. Lady of Casterly Rock, wife of Tywin, mother of Cersei and Jaime.
And Tyrion.
He's a Lannister. He might be the lowest of the Lannisters but he's one of us.