Tywin Lannister, Shield of Lannisport, Warden of the West, Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, and Father of House Lannister stood patiently beside the low wall on the eastern end of the curved outdoor gallery off of his private apartments - the purely business end of the gallery. From the lofty heights high up the Rock, his scrutiny saw far and wide. He often came here around this time; a regular break for his eyes from the scrolls of rulership, to stretch his legs in order to keep his middle lean, and, to ponder with only the sounds of breeze, birds, and sea as company.
Not that business did not occur on the western side of his personal galley too. Rich merchants sometimes needed to be wooed over fine wine instead of strong armed or simply dictated too. Critical banner lords on occasion must appear to be held in confidence; appreciated. Rare, powerful foreign guests shown every facet of Lannister strength as friendship was offered. These things could be better accomplished at that end, while watching over the magnificent view of his City as the sun dipped down towards the dark surging waters and salt spray of the Sunset Sea.
From where he stood now, though; Tywin could better take the pulse of his demesne's lifeblood. The two huge arteries of commerce and wealth and strength came down out of the Westerland's heights and rocky hills to merge in front of his great castle's east face, before passing on to Lannisport. The Gold Road and the River Road carried nobles, gold, guards, steel, merchants, silver, craftsman, fine goods, shepherds, livestock, farmers, wheat, laborers, sweat, hope and scum came by four feet, by two feet, and by wagon wheel. They beat a rhythm into the rock and earth that Tywin's innate senses could feel reverberating all the way up through the strong granite of Casterly Rock.
He stoically watched it all flow past as the mid-day sun warmed the exposed half of his face and the top of his shaved head. Seventeen days had passed since receiving the King's warning, causing him to spend more of his precious spare time gazing West than was his normal want. The sea and the trade that passed upon it were important too, only a fool would say otherwise. But it was not the basis of his house's great strength.
Today, however, …
"I thought I would find you here," the familiar voice announced.
"Kevan," he replied, acknowledging his brother's presence, while ignoring the implication of the comment by keeping his steely green eyes firmly set out there.
"It will be good to have Jaime home. A shame the King did not think to send Lancel or Tyrek with him."
"Casterly Rock is no longer my son's home," he declared; yet again setting the boundary for the near two decades disagreement.
"He was born here. He was raised here. This will always be his home," Kevan stated simply, with an uncle's love; not having been the father betrayed.
Tywin did not answer; as immovable on the point as the Rock was to the heavens and the tides.
Kevan having said his peace, smartly moved on. "What shall we do about Baelish?"
Tyrion. None of the fraud he claimed to have uncovered so far by the former Master of Coin had involved any of his loans to the Iron Throne. "Nothing. The King has risen this lordling to an emissary and promised him the Wardenship of the East. As yet our house has no claim of ill debt against him."
"And if the King's letter? …"
Tywin waved a hand dismissively; patience was seldom an issue for him. "I shall see what my goodson has to say to me when I hold it."
Tyrion's recent spate of ravens had been filled with news of import, nothing of wine and whores; except in mention of some of Lord Baelish's seedier financial ventures. Well known ventures for any with even a small modicum of knowledge of King's Landing's inner workings, but of the sort Tyrion no doubt took pleasure in commenting upon … and partaking of.
The Small Council was in greater upheaval than even the inevitable death of old Jon Arryn would have predicted. Surprises, good and ill. Some houses rising a bit. Some falling. A King acting with almost a hint of rulership … and then Tyrion's promotion. At least he so far had shown his duty, taking the useful lickspittle Pycelle's role of information purveyor to House Lannister.
Out of the corner of his eye he watched his brother smile slightly. He rearranged his face in response; knowing that some physical clue had given away at least part of his thoughts. The brothers knew each other well.
"He made an excellent Master of the Drains; and at only sixteen. Given a chance, Tyrion will do well on the Small Council."
Cersei. Fickle, drunk Robert Baratheon. The vicious, brilliant Olenna Tyrell. Hard, competent Stannis Baratheon. Tywin Lannister would not bet a … there! The Lannister Lion banner, promptly followed by more such of his mighty house's banners, had just become visible as the Gold Road took that last approaching turn out of the hills.
"Excellent speed Jaime made. He should have enough time to bath the grime of the road off before dinner," Kevan commented warmly at the thought of the reunion.
Tywin had expected nothing less. His and Joanna's son embodied all the martial skills that any of the great, no greatest, warriors from the Age of Heroes would envy; which included unparalleled horsemanship. And all the holdfasts, large and small, along the Gold Road within the Westerlands had obeyed his command. Ravens had updated him on Jaime's progress each day since his lost son had ridden back into the domains he should rightly one day inherit.
Jaime Lannister's arrival, now, was anything but unexpected in Tywin's mind.
"Be welcome, Lord Baelish. And partake of all Casterly Rock's hospitality," Tywin intoned formally from his throne in the Golden Gallery.
The short, slight man, the dust of the road only haphazardly sponged off his fine made clothes, bowed in return. King Robert's new emissary rose up a beat sooner than was properly respectful to a Lord Paramount. And his face bore a lazy grin that proclaimed himself unimpressed with neither Tywin nor the vast wealth displayed in his castle built into a mountain.
This style of behavior had long been anticipated. And Tywin cared little for it one way or the other. The odious worm was a royal emissary; thus certain protocols were required, regardless that both men believed the gestures of proper civility completely unnecessary ... or truly deserved.
"More pleasurable words have I seldom heard, my lord. I feared the horses would beat the life out of my poor, miserable body for the pace that your son, Ser Jaime, set. It may take a month for me to feel properly alive again."
"A week," Tywin pronounced coolly. There would be no dispute on this matter.
Petyr Baelish did not flinch. The intended to be annoying smile only grew wider. "Then a week must resuscitate me sufficiently to deal with the salt addled mouth and brain of Balon Greyjoy," he japed. "Might you oblige me with a ship or point me in the direction of one already scheduled for Pyke, Lord Tywin? I fear I would not know where best to look for one in Lannisport."
He let the inappropriate, ungranted use of his given name fall off his back. Potentially clever of Baelish to seek his aid. How precarious did the man suspect his position to be? Did the worm underestimate Tyrion? Did Tyrion over or underestimate Baelish? "As Warden of the West, it is my duty to give full aide to a royally appointed emissary seeking to maintain the King's peace. Either method is available as you wish it, Lord Baelish."
The little man smiled that fake, sycophantic smile which Tywin remembered from the dozen or so unmemorable times he had spent in the presence of the former Master of Coin during his infrequent sojourns to King's Landing. Tywin, on the other hand, while amiable enough when the situation warranted, never smiled.
"And is the peace threatened, Lord Tywin? Have you discovered any news that supports the King's … suspicions … as accurate?"
The question about the King was asked in a disparaging tone. A manner Tywin might reciprocate a loud in private to Kevan, and to no one else. "They might, Lord Baelish," he declared firmly. "Ships manifests viewed in quantity indicate the possibility of a re-arming effort. An unexpected war galley sighting here and there. A drunken ironborn claim overheard; a rumor picked up in a tavern by a loyal Westerland sailor. There is evidence that Balon Greyjoy might be showing more subtlety than one would expect from an Ironborn. More I will not say in open court."
With blatantly wide eyes, Baelish cast his vision around the moderately attended Golden Gallery, before coming back to stare at Tywin on his golden throne. "Wise, Lord Tywin. Very wise." Not meaning a word of it.
"My Steward will show you to your quarters and see after your needs. Someone will come for you later to see if you have recovered sufficiently to dine with me. Perhaps we can talk more then, Lord Baelish." The generous offer was not said generously.
The worm took his dismissal with his usual attitude of just shy of insolence.
As Baelish took his time in withdrawing, Tywin stared at his son and he stared back at his father. Silently. The Lord of Casterly Rock's face grew stiffer as Jaime's grew … amused.
Finally the silent battle of wills broke. "Lord Father, I am here as King Robert requested. How may I assist Casterly Rock and the Westerlands?"
Tywin stood up. "You have a letter for me from the King. Bring it to my quarters. I trust you remember where they are. Attend me, Kevan." Court was dismissed.
"So you saw no need to kill Lord Petyr?" Kevan asked as the three Lannisters entered Tywin's inner sanctum.
"Tyrion's been telling secrets," Jaime laughed lightly. "No, Baelish was a good little boy. Vylarr and I watched him like a hawk. Nothing. No attempts to subvert the men. Still …"
"Yes?!" Tywin snapped impatiently. For his son's careless amusement at frivolities to his duties, he did have little patience. Baelish and the worm's possible machinations were the last thing in his thoughts right then.
Jaime smirked, as ever, in response. "Vylarr got the idea that perhaps some of our men were already on Littlefinger's payroll. So he began watching for anyone who seemed to purposefully avoid contact with the little whoremaster."
Tywin grunted in surprise and appreciation. Acknowledging to himself that Vylarr was a clever and worthy captain in his Red Cloaks. As the others continued talking, he walked around his work desk and sat down, putting the hard oak between him and his still standing son and brother.
"There were four or five in total we wound up suspecting."
"I'll see that they are split up and assigned duties outside the Rock and Lannisport immediately," Kevan dutifully interjected.
"So what else did my beloved brother tell you?" Jaime asked, hiding his tension as he almost always had since a child behind a façade of easy going, droll charm.
"That you are a hero," Kevan answered generously.
"I don't know about that," Jaime admitted. To which Tywin silently agreed.
"Why did you tell no one?" his uncle asked, voice suddenly turning far far harsher and condemning than he ever used with Jaime.
"Would it have mattered? They saw what they wanted to see that day."
"My son. My son the 'Kingslayer'. Yes. Yes it would have mattered," the Father of House Lannister declared with icy hot vigor. That deed had stained his son, stained him, stained all of House Lannister.
"You wanted to see a letter, father. Here it is," Jaime stated, closing himself off to reason and duty as always.
The bundled parchment was thick. Seal intact. Tywin broke the heavy wax stamp. Immediately four smaller letters fell out; labelled: #1 - Ser Jaime, #2 – Lord Tywin, #3 – Ser Jaime, and #4 – Lord Tywin. There was writing on the inside of the packet.
Lord Tywin, I hope this packet of letters finds you hale and in good spirits. Please forgive the odd nature of my correspondence. Some of it pertains directly to your son, Ser Jaime; who I hope has arrived safely at Casterly Rock. Please open the numbered and named letters within in the order identified and in each other's presence. Robert Baratheon.
It appears our King wishes to play a game," Tywin announced. He handed the number one noted letter over to Jaime.
He smirked in accepting it and demolishing the wax; followed by a sarcastic snort of "Ha!" and Jaime flinging the brief missive down on the table in front of Tywin. The father picked up that which had not amused his son.
Ser Jaime Lannister,
I, Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Grand Master of the Order of the Crowned Stag, in recognition of valiant deeds performed in the defense of the Iron Throne and the Realm at great risk to yourself, do make, create, and appoint you, oh honorable knight, for installation to the Order of the Crowned Stag.
Should you accept and attend investiture to this brotherhood, you will be required to make the following oath: "I swear to uphold the Realm and faithfully observe the statutes of this honorable Order."
In the Seven's light of your actions in saving the City of King's Landing from utter destruction, I can think of no knight more deserving of being this new Order's first, honorable member.
Respectfully,
Ser Robert Baratheon
Tywin perused the words, noting the potential trap inherent in the phrase 'observe the statutes of this honorable Order' when this non-existent Stag's club could not possible have any so called statutes yet. Though signing the letter as Ser instead of as King had been an unexpectedly deft touch. "Not a game, my goodson is looking for a new toy."
He sighed and then opened up the letter numbered two and addressed to him.
Lord Tywin Lannister,
I, Robert Baratheon, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and Grand Master of the Order of the Crowned Stag, in recognition of your long, arduous, and successful succor of the Iron Throne and the Realm as Hand of the King, do make, create, and appoint you, oh honorable lord and knight, for installation to the Order of the Crowned Stag.
Should you accept and attend investiture to this brotherhood, you will be required to make the following oath: "I swear to uphold the Realm and faithfully observe the statutes of this honorable Order."
For your many years of dutiful service, I can think of no better gift than uniting honorable father and son in brotherhood.
Respectfully,
Ser Robert Baratheon
"What did it say, Tywin?" Kevan asked cautiously, after his older brother did nothing visible for more than a minute – a normally dangerous sign.
It took another moment for Tywin to feel assured of himself. "The King provides a gesture that he hopes will rend the rift within our house," he said rigidly, as to not reveal the depths of his anger.
"Oh?" Jaime asked uncaringly.
"I am to become a member of Robert's drinking and whoring club as well."
"Hahahahahaha," burst Jaime. "Surely Tyrion will be asked next. Hahahahaha."
Tywin's fist slammed on the table. "Open your letter!" The Lion roared.
His son obliged, without quite Petyr Baelish level of impudence.
Then.
CRASH!
The desk split nearly in twain as two exceptionally strong arms powered down into the oak, shattering it.
"Fuck him! I'll kill him. He can't do this to me. That wretch! I'll split his fat belly and crush his pea skull! GODSDAMNIT! NO! I WON'T ALLOW IT! NEVER!" Jaime raged. His tantrum threw him about the room like a hurricane. No piece of furniture was safe. He eventually stopped articulating words and simply screamed nonsensically to accompany the path of destruction.
Kevan quickly backed up into an unlit hearth, to put distance and hopefully enough safe room between himself and his beloved nephew.
Tywin hardly moved, observing his son act on as pure a selfish hatred as any tantrum the boy had ever thrown as a child. When the violence moved sufficiently away, he leaned forward just enough to pick up the crumbled letter off the detritus strewn floor.
Ser Jaime,
You are a great knight. You had the moral courage to do what I dare say no other knight in the entire Seven Kingdoms would have, should have done, were they in your boots. You took the words of your oath as a knight over the words you swore to become a Kingsguard.
I salute you with the utmost respect.
However, I must sadly point out to you that in a different regard, you failed your oath as a Kingsguard. For sixteen years I have mostly breathed, walked, and slept within King's Landing and the Red Keep. Not once, as was your duty, did you ever warn me that large quantities of wildfire lay sitting about, waiting just one minor accident, to break open and threaten my life, your King's life, with green fiery death.
The good you have given to the realm is greater than the possible evil that might have erupted, so I will neither condemn you nor seek to punish you except in the following two minor regards.
As of this moment, you are hereto removed as a member of the Kingsguard. Please dispose of your white cloak with the honor it deserves.
And second, for the remainder of your life, you are no longer allowed purchase within the walls of King's Landing.
Please do not take this badly. I believe my judgment fair. And hope that in time you see it that way too.
Live a long and prosperous life, Jaime Lannister, as heir and future lord of Casterly Rock.
Proclaimed in the year 298, by Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm
For perhaps the first time since his beloved Joanna was alive, Tywin Lannister genuinely smiled.
