Disclaimer: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of the characters mentioned in this story.
Author's Note: My take on how Tywin asked Joanna to marry him. Small bits of this story are also included in my first Tywin/Joanna fic, 'His Lioness'.
A Lion's Protection
Night had only just fallen, but it was so dark on the cobbled streets of Lannisport it might as well have been midnight. Iron hinges creaked as bakers, fishermen, smiths and weavers were closing their shops for the night, yelling at apprentices loudly in order to be heard above the howling of a chilly wind that had come off the Sunset Sea. Singing and laughter could be heard from taverns with sodden thatched roofs, accompanied by the scents of woodsmoke, clam stew and fish baked in clay. From time to time, lone snowflakes would drift past illuminated glassed windows big and small, only to melt on stone, slate, thatch or wood. It looked like everyone was eager to get off the streets and warm themselves by the fire, and no one paid any attention to a cloaked figure atop a grey courser.
Tywin Lannister's crimson cloak was so drenched it looked black even in the glow of the sconced torches attached to the buildings and the lanterns carried by the people hurrying down the street. Water had begun to seep into the fine, brushed dark grey wool of his doublet, but he spared no thought for the chill – home was close, and after a time in the moist fogginess of King's Landing, even a lash of sleet and a breath of harsh breeze felt good on his cheeks. His horse was slowly making its way uphill, past the squares and narrow alleys of the tradesman's quarter and the whitewashed houses of the fisherfolk and sailors clustered around the broad streets leading towards the quays. Soon enough, he'd reached the foot of the stone hill rising above the harbour; a gatehouse with walls of grey slate was straddling the cobbled street, the banners hanging from the outer walls displaying a rearing golden lion amidst a field of crimson.
The clatter of his horse's hooves on stone was enough to alert one of the guards; the man rose from where he was sitting on the doorstep, clutching a spear in one hand and a slice of meat pie in the other. A strong gust of wind swept across the streets, blowing dry leaves and sleet into his face. "Who comes?" His comrade had emerged too, reaching for a spear of his own and stepping into the street to deny the newcomer passage.
Tywin let go of the reins and reached up with his hands to push back the cowl of his cloak; his golden hair was damp and the plain riding clothes may have caused someone to have to look at his face twice in order to recognize him, but as soon as one looked into the green eyes set in the middle of his stern face, no mistake could be made; he was the son of Tytos Lannister and the heir to Casterly Rock, a young man of nine-and-ten with his face aged beyond his years. The guards required no words from him - "M'lord of Lannister," they both mumbled and lowered their spears so that the leaf-shaped tips were pointing at the small puddles of rainwater between the cobblestones. Tywin nodded, reaching below the folds of his cloak to extract a few pennies from a worn leather purse graced by a lion embroidered in gold thread – had they seen him do it, they would have noticed that his fingers were numb from the cold.
But they did not, and called his thanks after him when he tossed the coppers to them and turned his horse to pass under the arch. After that, it was a steady ride up the crest of the hill, up a cobbled road just like the ones he'd followed through Lannisport. From time to time, he would pass a bare-limbed tree or a bush, but the rest was glistening brown rock, sometimes overgrown with ivy, moss, lichen or bushels of prickly, tall yellow grass. Torches lit the way, sheltered from the wind and rain in alcoves chiseled out of stone.
He could hear the waves thundering as they hit the foot of the hill, crashing into the ancient caves and swirling below the foundations of his family's fortress. He'd always welcomed the sound of the ocean, even on cold, windy nights like this – and just before he reached the portcullis, he turned the courser around to take in the sight of Lannisport below. Pillars of smoke and thousands of yellow eyes, halos cast by lanterns and torches, were the only visible signs of life below the hill, while the docks were still bustling with sailors, foreigners and Westermen come to see the ships or make a deal or two. The horn of the city watch sounded as Tywin spurred his horse on towards the gates of Casterly Rock, letting the inhabitants of the harbour city know that the gates were closing for the night.
He left his horse at the timbered stables along with a couple of pennies for the stableboy, crossing the paved yard and approaching the main building. He hadn't put the cowl of his cloak back up after passing through the gatehouse at the foot of the hill, so the guard positioned at the entrance to the keep asked no questions before lowering his spear and letting him move on. Once inside, he was hit by an invisible wave of warmth coming from the great hall, and as he was removing his sword belt he was greeted by an older serving woman who'd come from the kitchens with a pitcher of steaming mint tea.
"Welcome home, M'lord," she said to him with a smile; other members of the household appeared to be intimidated by him, but Gwyn had attended to him since he'd been a small boy, and could look him in the eye without inscinctively shying back – she was the only servant to know that Tywin Lannister would ask for tea after a long ride, not ale or wine. He took the pitcher with a grateful smile and accepted a silver cup as well before turning to enter the great hall.
"Your cloak is wet, M'lord, let me help ..." He stopped her with a wave of his hand. "It will dry by the brazier." She nodded, averted her eyes and started walking back towards the kitchens before she looked in the direction of the wide main staircase instead. "Do you wish me to inform Lord Tytos of your arrival?"
Tywin hesitated for a split second before shaking his head. "Not tonight. I'll see him on the morrow." Gwyn retreated with a simple, "As you wish, M'lord," and he entered the empty great hall. It pleased him that no one was there – as much as he enjoyed being back home, the thing he needed after his journey were a few moments of silence by a brazier.
The long room was bathing in a warm, ruddy glow – there were torches in every sconce on the wall, and wood was crackling loudly in a large, ornate oval brazier positioned in the middle of the hall. The floor was light grey stone, but there were Myrish carpets beneath the wooden tables lining the sides right up to the dais, where a giant, old tapestry displaying the rampant lion of Lannister was hanging above yet another table. Usually, that wasn't so; the dais was where Lord Tytos Lannister sat in an ebon chair when receiving his lords bannermen – it appeared that he'd hosted a feast earlier that afternoon, perhaps to celebrate a betrothal, and had broken bread with some lords at the high table.
Before leaving for King's Landing, he'd caught some kitchen gossip about Genna marrying some Frey – that might have been the occasion. While he cherished his sister and thought that marrying her to a son of the Lord of the Crossing was foolish, he wished it was her feast. Not Joanna's, they couldn't possibly marry her off, not when he cared for her so much ... but he'd never let anyone know, had he? He hadn't asked for her hand, nor spoken to his father. As far as he knew, she was in King's Landing herself, attending to Princess Rhaella. She is a beautiful woman, they will not wait much longer.
The thought was a knife, twisting in his heart. He forced himself to push it away, moving towards the brazier and rubbing his hands above the flames; sleet and wind had numbed his fingers on the ride from Stoney Sept, and the rich warmth felt like a thick, fuzzy blanket. Rain and melted snow were dripping from the hem of his cloak, but he neglected to take it off; instead, he poured himself a cup of mint tea, his eyes fixed on the large mosaic he was standing on. It was yet another golden lion on crimson, done in gilded and deep red tiles. Firelight was dancing across them, highlighting the colours here and darkening them there to form a webbing of light and shadow that wouldn't have shamed a caleidoscope.
He turned around slowly at the sound of steps, only to see a few servants carrying off wicker baskets with leftovers from the meal, stained linen tablecloths and empty silver plates. Two of them were children squabbling in hushed tones, but the adults walking in front of them stopped at the sight of Tywin; he sent them on their way with a nod, only calling after them when they'd nearly exited the hall. He tried to tell himself he did it just because he was curious – but deep down, he knew it was because the thought of it being Joanna's feast had unruffled him more than he cared to admit.
"What was the occasion?"
"The Lady Genna is to wed, M'lord." The serving man who had answered him appeared to be confused at the fact that Tywin didn't know of the match, but he knew better than to ask. He also saw the muscles in his lord's back tense and relax again after he'd spoken of his sister, causing his shoulders to look as if they'd slumped out of the relief. It only took a moment for Tywin to regain his composure, though, and when he was waved on a second time the man turned with a bow.
It wasn't Joanna tonight, but if I don't act ... it might be her soon, and it won't be me they'll wed her to. Tywin knew Lord Tytos had been scheming to arrange a betothal of his son to some girl from the Stormlands of the Reach. May it be that, the Crownlands or the Riverlands, Tywin was prepared to oppose any such in favour of Joanna; he would need to tell her that they'd kept a secret for long enough. Her father would have no cause to object, if only for the fact that Tywin was a Lannister of Casterly Rock and heir to the Westerlands.
Once again, he heard steps on the stone floor, the sound fading when the approaching person stepped on one of the Myrish carpets. At first he thought it was the servants again and didn't even turn around, but when he heard a hesitating female voice, he craned his neck – he couldn't trust his ears. "Tywin?"
It was her. Joanna, the beautiful golden-haired woman he'd called his own so many times when they embraced. You are my lioness, he'd told her once, before she left to go to court, and her blushing cheeks had been on his mind when he was riding to King's Landing himself. She wore a gown of mossy green wool, the hem and sleeves decorated with swirls done in golden thread. Her hair was falling down her back in a delicate braid; it was as golden as his own in the sun, but in the firelight it looked like pure wildflower honey. Her eyes were as green as his, too, and always sparkling – but when he stepped forward to embrace her, he noticed that there was no glint in them tonight, and when he bent down to kiss her cheek, he could feel her trembling in his arms.
"Joanna, is aught amiss? Why aren't you in King's Landing?"
"I ... asked the Princess if I might go home. It's ... Tywin, I couldn't stand it any longer. I love you ... and Aerys ... Aerys, he ..." She fell silent, not looking into his eyes. After he'd held her for a few moments, listening to the crackling of the wood in the brazier, he took her hands into his own and prompted gently. "What of him?"
The sound that came from Joanna's mouth was a whimper, a strangled sob – it was a far cry from her clear, strong voice. "He ... treats me ill. He follows me around the Red Keep, he takes ... liberties ... he addresses me as the second head of his dragon. He desires me, Tywin. I dare not turn him away, so I fled ... that's what I did, aye. I said I wanted to go home, to see Genna on the day she was betrothed, but it was a lie. It was a lie, and he knows it was. He knows he is free to do what he wishes with me ... I fear he will."
Tywin lifted his head from where it was resting on Joanna's shoulder, trying to find her eyes with his own; but she kept them focused on the ground, looking at the mosaic as if she were seeing it for the first time. His heart filled with contempt for Aerys as he embraced her gently once more, rubbing her back and whispering words of comfort into her ear. "You are my lioness," he told her softly once again, "Aerys can't have you. I won't let him."
"How?" Joanna was still sobbing into his woolen doublet. "You will stay here, and I have to go back ... if he asks for me ... he said ... he said he would cast the Princess aside for me ... Tywin, I'm so afraid ... I hoped you would come tonight ... keep me safe, Tywin, please ..."
Joanna had been strong even as a girl, he'd never seen her beg before – imagining just what Aerys had done to cause her inner walls to smash like this made him cringe inwardly. His chest was full of cold anger, of the sort that would erupt in an impulse that would have caused him to challenge the Targaryen prince to take up tourney weapons if he'd been in the room with them. But he was long leagues away, and he had to keep his calm for Joanna.
"Then leave, Joanna," he put to her with clear determination in his voice. "Leave King's Landing." Startled, she let go of one of his hands and reached up to fiddle with her braid, twisting some golden locks around her finger. "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 continued just as calmly as he had spoken before, 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 reached for the hand she was holding her braid with, gently enclasping it with both of 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. I have for a long time. But now, I mean to tell everyone else so."
He watched with barely restrained delight as a variety of emotions passed across her face – first, there was surprise, followed by relief, then there was tender happiness; last of all came joy, so strong and beautiful that her eyes lit up with a glow and she threw her arms around his neck with a wide smile. But there were tears in the corners of her eyes too, and when Tywin gently brushed the tips of his fingers against her unblemished skin to wipe them away, she reached up with her hands to place her fingers into the gaps between his own. "I never dared to believe that you felt like this too ... you were to be betrothed to something else, I'd heard Lord Tytos say so. And I ... you really meant it that day, didn't you? When you called me your lioness. I was hoping you did, daydreamed that you did all the way to King's Landing. But I thought it was just that, a dream. That you and I would never belong to each other."
He was just about to tell her that he'd harboured the same doubts, that he'd thought the kisses she'd given him was as far as she was prepared to go. He'd been foolish, too – Joanna clearly wasn't the kind of woman to toy with feelings. He wanted to assure her just how really he'd meant it that day, but decided that more words were unneccessary; she'd always been able to see past his emotionless face and spare words anyway.
"We will, Joanna," he whispered softly into her ear, "We will, my lioness."
He embraced her once again and couldn't have said how long they stood there, motionless upon the lion mosaic. He only knew that when he looked up at the sound of steps, the third time he'd done so that night, the logs in the brazier had turned to glowing embers. Some torches on the walls had been snuffed out as well, and the large room was considerably darker than it had been when he arrived. Gwyn was standing in the entrance to the great hall with a few fresh logs in her hands, trying to conceal a knowing smile; upon seeing it, Joanna blushed and started moving away from him, but Tywin's hands refused to let go.
"I will not disturb you long, M'lord, M'lady," Gwyn said calmly, making for the brazier with her head bowed so as not to make eye contact. She threw the logs into the oval as quickly as she could, poking at them with a pointed, sooted iron stick before turning and heading back towards the entrance. Tywin's gaze followed her, and as half her figure had nearly disappeared behind the wall, she craned her neck in response to an incomprehensible yell coming from the direction of the kitchens and halted in the middle of a step, looking back at them.
"The cooks bid me to say there's fish stew, should M'lord and M'lady wish for some."
"Very well," Tywin replied with a quick nod, placing one of his hands on the small of Joanna's back in order to lead her towards one of the tables. The warmth from the brazier and her lithe body had driven the chill from his hands, but he hadn't had anything to eat since he'd broken his fast at Stoney Sept. They sat down on the benches, opposite each other, and awaited their meal in pleasant silence. Gwyn returned before long with two trenchers on a silver plate, and spoons wrapped in rectangulars of white cloth.
Both the trenchers had been hollowed out of loaves of black bread, and the stew inside was a creamy white. It had been made with leeks, carrots, barley, turnips white and yellow, clams and chunks of cod that had come to Lannisport from the North, seasoned with salt, black pepper and saffron. It introduced an long evening of talk and laughter – Gwyn came twice more to feed the brazier, and left unnoticed. Tywin's cloak dried, and mint tea ran out as they sat looking at the snowstorm that had begun to rage outside.
When Joanna fell asleep against his shoulder, he carried her to her bedchamber; her rooms had a balcony opening out onto the dark sea, and the thundering of the waves below the hill was a lot louder than in his own solar. It appeared the handmaiden had been anxious because her lady had not retired before midnight, and started fussing about the dress when Tywin gently laid Joanna onto the massive wooden bed decorated with intricate carvings and covered with feather-stuffed white linen bedding. Leaving her to her tasks, Tywin stepped out onto the balcony and rested his hands on the wet, raspy stone railing.
The snowstorm had ceased and now it was sleet that was whipping his face, gusts of wind tearing through his golden hair. He took a deep breath, taking in the sharp, salty scent of the ocean that mingled with the smells of tar, wet canvas, seaweed and fish from the quays of Lannisport. The night was cold, but Tywin Lannister felt none of it – blood was singing in his veins, his chest awash in a warmth so gentle it surprised him; he'd always heard talk of passion being like tall flames - scorching hot, hungry and rash, like to set a man's blood to boiling. Then again, hungry flames would always be the first to go out, and he was certain that the same could never be said of what he felt for Joanna. Because of this, the steady warmth inside him seemed more apt; it would warm him for a long time, and if his lioness wished, her as well.
I will protect you, Joanna. No one will take you away from me.