Disclaimer: Game of Thrones and the characters do not belong to me.
Random author's note: I love Charles Dance as Tywin Lannister! *.*
His Lioness
The sun was the same, but the sunrise in King's Landing couldn't have been more different from dawn at Casterly Rock, or the break of day by the docks of Lannisport. In the Westerlands, a fresh autumn morning was greeted by screeching gulls and waves thundering in the caves below the castle, their crests ruffled by breaths of a sharp, salty breeze that carried the scent of woodsmoke, fish and roasted chestnuts. Sunlight would spill across the sharp line that marked the edge of the Sunset sea slowly, sweeping away the shadows that had nested among the stones and timber of the buildings and quays. The first hours of such a day were bathed in a golden light, one that equalled the colour of the roaring lion embroidered on the crimson banners snapping in the wind.
Autumn in the capital of the Seven Kingdoms, though, was foggy and moist. Most days, nary a shaft of sunlight would pierce the mists until the morning was about to pass into midday. The breezes coming off Blackwater Rush were weak, with none of the fresh saltiness one was eager to draw into their lungs while traversing the streets of Lannisport. The stench of rotten seaweed and sweat mingled freely with the smell of smoke, charred meat and freshly baked pies. Even in the early hours, the city was chaotic – baker boys and fishermen were crying out their offers, wayns and carts were rattling across the cobblestones, the Gold Cloaks' mail would clatter and the horses would occasionally shy at the traffic, their shoed hooves beating at the ground.
No, there was no peace to be found in watching the sunrise from atop Aegon's Hill; but it was not the restlessness of the city that plunged deep into Tywin Lannister's heart as he stood on a red stone balcony adjoining the Hand's solar, gazing into the swirling mists. Comparing the capital to his home served only to remind him of something else he'd left behind – and while he could always return to Casterly Rock and watch the sun creep from behind the expanse of the ocean, he could never retrieve the beautiful woman with sunlight in her hair. Without her, a pristine break of day made no sense; knowing that the times when he would watch the sunrise and then return to their bedchamber to toy with her curls, trace swirls on her skin and kiss away her sleepiness were to be no more hurt him more than he'd ever let anyone know.
Oh, Joanna.
Tywin Lannister had never bothered to deny what his family was saying of the impact her death had had on him; they told of how the best part of him had died with her, and while he never agreed openly with such statements, he let them know they were true - his eyes would lose their unflinching coldness, the lines around his mouth would soften and his hands would twitch, as if he wanted nothing more than to bury his face into them and sit in silence, letting the breeze run through his hair the way his lady wife's fingers had once done.
You are my lioness, he used to tell her, And I will let no one take you away from me. He'd been able to keep Aerys at bay, that much was true, but he could not cow the Stranger the day Tyrion was born. If only things had turned out differently that cold winter day, perhaps there would have been more sunrises like the ones they'd shared when Jaime and Cersei were just small children, and before that.
The memories came flooding back as he stood there, regal and upright, letting the outside world have no part in the storms raging through his heart. His hands rested on the red stone railing, veins sticking out of the tanned skin; the only sign of what was on his mind were the white knuckles, testimony of how tight his hold on the raspy red bricks was. The memories came and went as they always did, creeping in and flitting out until they all blended into a flurry of grief; after all those years, the pain still cut so deep.
This morning, it was a small snippet of a memory that stood out, that of a cold winter evening, much like the one Tyrion was to be born on; the sea was restless, crashing against the foundations of Casterly Rock and swirling in the caves, the wind whistling as it tore through holes in the stone. From time to time, a snowflake drifted past the window of the great hall, which was empty save for him and Joanna. He'd just arrived, and little droplets of rain and melted snow were dripping from the hem of his crimson cloak, landing on the great mosaic of a golden lion rearing proudly in the middle of a crimson shield. She was standing a few paces away from him, looking at the burning embers in the iron brazier that had been placed in the middle of the mosaic; after she'd told him about how Aerys was treating her at court, she refused to meet his eyes.
It was only when he spoke that she looked at him with sad green eyes. "Then leave, Joanna. Leave King's Landing", he put to her calmly. Startled, she reached up with her hands to fiddle with her golden braid. "Where should I go? Ever since they told me to attend Princess Rhaella, I've been a child without a home. I could only leave the court if the Princess was displeased with me ... my brother wouldn't stomach that. He'd frown on me and marry me off to whoever would take a girl who'd displeased the future queen."
"That need not be so at all," he'd continued just as calmly, smiling thinly when he noticed that she was confused by his unruffled demeanour. Her eyes seemed to be screaming at him as she took an aimless step backward. Do you not care for me, Tywin? I thought you did, I thought you would understand. Aloud, she repeated the question he had not yet answered."Where should I go?"
Her pain and confusion tugged at his heartstrings, and he could not longer bear seeing her like this; he stepped forward to fill the empty space between them, gently taking her hands into his own. "Wed me, Joanna. I will protect you ... he won't hurt you, no one will." He paused for a moment, and when he spoke again the hard edge that had crept into his voice at the last sentence was gone, replaced with softness only she could coax out of him. "I love you, Joanna." The sentence was simple, but Joanna understood that Tywin Lannister never put his emotions into words; instead, he put them into the embrace he pulled her into as they stood by the brazier, with water still dripping from his cloak.
After that, they'd sat at one of the wooden tables lining the sides of the hall, talking and laughing and supping on fish stew served in trenchers hollowed out of loaves of black bread. I remember, Joanna. The North remembers, they say. And so do I.
He shifted his weight from one foot onto the other, leaning against the red railing and looking at the outlines of buildings, carts and people that had begun to appear from behind veils of moist fog. A fistful of dry leaves drifted by on a breeze so faint he couldn't even feel it on his face; they were golden and coppery, vivid red and dull brown.
"M'lord ... " The cupbearer was hesitant to disturb, stopping in the middle of the solar and calling out instead of crossing the room all the way to the balcony. When Tywin turned around, the young man stiffened and nearly dropped the silver plate in his hands. "The Lords Tyrell and Martell await your pleasure without, as does Queen Cersei. Should you wish to break your fast ..."
Tywin nodded and turned his back on King's Landing, walking back into the solar and picking the Hand's pin from where it rested atop a table of polished ebony. Absently, he attached it to his doublet of fine, soft grey wool, draping a crimson cloak around his shoulders afterwards. "The Lords will wait," he instructed the cupbearer, "As will Cersei." He sat down at the table and lifted the lid that covered the oval plate in front of him; there was porridge and a small loaf of bread fresh from the oven, a single poached egg and a small bowl of grapes. The young serving man positioned a cup next to his right hand, as well as flagons of watered wine and lemon water. Tywin waved away the wine – the day would be long, and the Viper and the Rose would conspire to make it even longer. And Cersei ... he'd already heard the talk of the seventy-seven dishes to be served at Joffrey's wedding.
Councils and weddings would occupy him for the nonce, and deep within Tywin Lannister they served only one purpose: to fill the yawning, black void that Joanna had left. At the end of the day, it was all for naught. The realm saw him as the king in all but name, a proven battle commander and a calculating, ruthless politician seasoned in winning wars with quills as well as swords.
But inside, the Lord of Casterly Rock, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West and Hand of the King was still bleeding.
He touched the rim of the glass to his lips, taking a sip of lemon water as he gazed into the fog. He could see her standing in the shallows, clutching fistfuls of her white linen gown in her hands in order to prevent it from getting wet. Her bride's cloak was snapping in the breeze, her golden hair hanging down her back in a delicate braid decorated with flowers. Slowly, she turned around to face him, and he could see she was smiling. There was a glint in her unblemished green eyes when she reached out with her hand, looking down and laughing sheepishly when she noticed that water had now soaked some of her skirts. She reached out towards him, inviting him to join her, still smiling.
Oh, Joanna. My lioness.