...
..
.
Tywin told himself he would sleep on the journey, but there he was rocking in time to the sway and pull of the waves that were cutting past the bow of his ship, awake and aching, thinking of his wife.
His vessel was the lead cog of thirty that departed from King's Landing, each with just over a hundred soldiers and filled to the brim with negotiated stores and provisions from the South. This was followed by another thirty ships bearing tradesmen and supplies required for both mending the North and the battle ahead. Behind those boats sailed twenty large carracks; broader ships farther out to sea, and though their chartered plot was the same direction their eventual destination differed.
Sansa had been palpably livid because he would not make her privy to his plans; although he did enjoy the creative methods she employed in her attempts to discern the information she wanted. In his stately aft quarters, lying in a bunk equal to his rightful bed in both size and luxuriousness, the old lion had to adjust his breeches, and himself, at those particular thoughts.
Lord Tywin left Casterly Rock for King's Landing without fanfare, without daylight even. Accompanied by his personal troop of fifty men, plus fifty to support and serve. His only farewells were the ones Sansa bestowed upon him in the nights leading up to his departure.
Again he adjusted.
When he had taken his wife and sons to Casterly Rock, near the end of their travel, he had stopped the entire caravan and personally retrieved Sansa from the litter she was travelling in with their children. She had left the boys in the care of their nurses, donned boots, and accepted his arm and direction as he lead her to the front of the caravan. They'd been traveling the Gold Road exclusively up through the mountains where it still snowed in the evenings, then down again, and on the skirt of the rocky outcrops he assisted his wife in climbing stony natural stairs then stood with her on the flat jut that allowed view of the land expanse before them.
First the grey rocks and ground dotted then faded into weathered greens and a smattering of forest. Their perch offered a view above the treetops, where the forest became thick. Past the far edge of it a quilt of fields were burgeoning in vibrant colours.
But beyond that was evidence of life; of population and movement.
At the northern edge of that population, as though it had been carved from a punch of mountain itself, was the castle Lord Tywin was born in. The castle where he knew happiness as a small child, leading his brood of brothers in mischief. It was the castle his wife would command without him, and the land they viewed was but a glimpse of what she would rule.
"It's quite large... even at a distance." Sansa's inflection was airy, her mind obviously in the depths of contemplation. What she would not set to voice was that the image reminded her of looking out the heavy curtains of the Queen's litter all those years ago - some would say in another life altogether - and seeing Winterfell dwindling smaller over the rolling hills of the North.
Even at a great distance Casterly Rock was immense. It was a truth Sansa could admit freely; time may fade memory, but what she was looking at drew out the same sweeping awe that King's Landing did the first time she had watched it grow large on the horizon.
Lord Tywin watched the eyes of his wife flick and glide over the scenery before her, she was motionless otherwise. He also caught the upturn at the corner of her mouth; an action that softened the rest of her features.
"To your liking, my lady?"
He didn't smile the question at her in the slightest, but she knew well enough that he was not asking to create conversation; Lord Tywin truly wanted his wife's opinion. She turned her head slightly to him and widened her delicate smile.
It was all the answer she offered. To him it was a thousand fold answer.
Looking slightly left of where they stood, Sansa muttered softly, "Lannisport."
Her husband's agreement came in the form of a small noise. Sansa made her own when the size of the city she was looking at filtered into comprehension. Even tiny and at a distance it was vast. She knew the numbers, but they were only zeros after all, the scale of the city itself was what made it feel daunting - something that would only increase, much like its physical size, the closer they got.
"Three hundred thousand," she breathed.
Tywin scoffed lightly at her census recall and corrected, "More than that soon - I have approved expansion inland."
She merely raised her brow, continuing to stare distractedly, until she felt Tywin lean in close and breathe his words into the hair at her temple, made unruly by the wind.
"It is yours."
When she turned to face him fully, Tywin immediately felt his insides buckle. She looked as though she were about to tell him she did not want it. He knew she waited for the North, for her home, but as his wife the West was her station by marriage. The seat was her duty if nothing else, and at her lack of even basic recognition Tywin locked his jaw to steel and his eyes in a stony fury...
"Ours," she offered gently. Sansa breathed the word and raised her hand in the same instant.
The old lion watched his wife settle her hand high on his breastplate, dead center on his chest. Her palm covered the ornate lion's head roaring fiercely out at the world, and somehow in hiding the angry animal she doused his burgeoning ire. Sansa turned her head again to the land he so wanted her to see, yet her hand remained. He could feel the warmth of it, he was sure, and brought his own un-gloved hand up to rest over hers.
Returning his attention to the forest, and the land, and the city, and past it all to the ribbon of sea glittering just beyond, he rubbed tiny circles on the side of her thumb. Caressing the part of her that lay simply, yet so complicated over the heart of him; mayhap protecting it.
Tywin didn't know it needed protecting so much, not with any amount of certainty. However, what he did know was that he wanted nothing more than to share his own home, the keep he fought and bled for, with his family.
As Lord Tywin stretched in the bed that wasn't really his, on the boat that was taking him further from the sons whose existence he plotted and the wife he calculated to bring into his life, he thought to make this the last campaign of his life.
Tywin Lannister was at an age where most men slowed to stop - atrophied even at the thought of pursuits which were once chased with limitless zeal in the years of youth. But he enjoyed the chase. Regardless of what it involved, it was part of the puzzle that existed around him. More so he trusted no one to perform at the level to which he pushed himself. In that it was far simpler for him to step into the fray and control the outcome of what he chased than wither to nothing in a castle.
A knock on the door of his chambers tipped his concentration to the present, and with a gruff instruction to wait, Tywin swung his feet to stand, preparing for the intrusion to continue. He was not surprised to see one of his squires, a boy from a distant Lannister relation that followed him from King's Landing; however, what did surprise him was that the youth looked uncomfortable.
"What is it Darin?" he breathed tiredly at the boy.
His squire held up a small parchment with a Lannister seal, cleared his throat, and spoke, "You have a letter, my lord."
"I see that," the lion gritted out, attempting to be patient.
When Tywin did not reach for the letter, the boy furrowed his brow and looked at him with bewilderment.
The old lion leaned down, almost nose to nose with his kin, and snarled, "Who is it from, you dolt."
The blood drained from the boy's face instantly. When he replied, it was with a squeaky pitch of fear. "L-Lady Sansa, m-my lord."
As he straightened to full height, it was Tywin's turn to wear a look of confusion. "This just arrived?" he uttered with a tone to suit his features.
"No, my lord. Lady Sansa gave it to me and said to bring it to you once we were on the water."
"Why would my wife give you some cryptic correspondence?"
"I... I don't kn-... She trusts me, my lord?" Darin's face scrunched up as he inflected his statement to a question, perhaps hoping his lord would oblige him an answer.
The only thing Tywin obliged the boy with was an inclination of his head and a tightening of his lips, which meant the squire was dangerously close to enduring a reprimand.
"I'm sorry, my lord," he whispered as he ducked his head. "I don't know why Lady Sansa gave it to me." Darin offered the small letter even higher this time, his arm trembling from holding it out so long.
Tywin breathed out heavily as he snatched the missive away from the young man and closed the door without a word, half wondering if he would find the boy out there in the morning because he hadn't dismissed him verbally.
Walking deeper into his room, his legs as steady on the tilt of the sea as they were on steady ground, Tywin examined the folded parchment in his hand. A letter, and it was barely that. The golden seal was heavier than the paper, and almost as large as the folded square it had been affixed to.
The old lion sat once more on the edge of his bed, dreading to find the insincere wish-wash that wives thought their husbands expected of them - then chided himself for the thought. If he knew anythign at all, he knew his wife was nowhere near that type of woman. Pressing his thumbs down and away, the seal split and the missive unfurled to expose the neat script of his wife's hand.
No flourishes, just her:
Tywin,
Know that I think of you often.
Sansa
He tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace; an answer to the tiny spears of both agony and contentment, equal in their potency, that her note had stirred in him.
His clever wife. She knew he would appreciate a terse sentiment far more than languishing in sentimentality, and it hurt in the best possible way to acknowledge that. Tywin's hand absently drifted to a centered spot on his doublet, just below where the lacing came to an end, and gently pressed two fingers there to calm the roar that persisted even without the accompanying breastplate and ornate lion.
His musing was brief as a clatter of noise outside his cabin severed his calm rumination.
Aboard the ship were musicians, a dozen of them and, what he had been told was, a very gifted singer. Tywin hated them all. He had tasked Sansa with the responsibility of securing them and she had not asked as to why he would need a bard, but her passing looks of amused judgment caused him to growl one at her regardless.
"They provide a modicum of relief for men under pressure of fighting and dying."
She simply grinned at him at the time then nodded and hummed in her charmingly defiant way as she began her search by penned inquiry. However, why the infuriating men were traveling with him he did not know, but if he were to hedge a bet it would surely land directly at the feet of his wife.
He smirked at her passive cruelty.
Thoughts seemingly influenced reality as Tywin heard the initial chords and dull thumps of music starting mid-ship. Though they were traveling north, their ships were hugging the coastal waters, allowing for favourable weather - allowing for socializing on the deck instead of being relegated below. Not that he minded; Lord Tywin had spent enough time at sea in his lifetime that he knew the value of past-time. But as soon as the first line of lyrics reverberated out of the singer's mouth, Tywin was exiting his bunk in long heavy strides to match his fury.
He did not have to go far, the boat itself was little more than two hundred paces from bow to stern, but it was wide and sturdy as was any flat-bottom trader.
The noise had congregated under the main mast; the scene unevenly illuminated by oil lamps securely affixed to various rigging. When he approached, there was a surprised appreciation from the men who had gathered to listen; until, of course, they realized the wrathful look carried by their liege was in direct relation to the song being crooned for their entertainment.
The Great Lion stepped into the throng and unceremoniously snatched the bard by the throat - thus ending his own serenade. "You know better," he growled hotly in the ear of the young man.
As Lord Tywin pulled away from the singer, he noticed the musical compatriots riveted to their exchange. The men who were once lounging in the vicinity of the troop had all but vanished into the sea air. He took the opportunity to address the group in its entirety. "One more note of it," the old lion's eerily sedate speech was as terrifying as that of a man prone to screaming, "One more word of it, and you'll each exit this boat as an anchor."
It was the bard who spoke and bowed in reverence on behalf of the men around him, "Of course, my lord, of course." The man knew well his error. "It won't happen again... until... I mean..."
Tywin raised his hand, but did not say a word. He did not have to, he simply threw a glare that was both frigid and scorching, at the same time flexing his jaw in anger.
His message was clear.
The musicians were silent the rest of their journey.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The mouth of the Weeping Water was too small for the hope of navigating a boat the size of a cog successfully to the Dreadfort. It left only the option of using a tender to transport men, horses, and provisions to shore. The process was tedious, but it allotted time to send ravens as needs be.
A full six days passed until the handful of ships were emptied and men organized. Tywin had estimated four at the most, but was ahead of his scheduled timing by more than seven anyway.
Although it was the extra two days that gave them away.
The gathering of men in any number on the shores of the North were bound to raise curiosity and fear of all kinds. So when Lannister forces finally made their push toward the Bolton stronghold, it was little wonder that rows of pink banners bearing flayed men, met them less than half way into their journey.
Numbers were even on either side of the rough and shallow plane in which they encountered one another. But Lord Tywin would wager name and title that those wearing red and gold were the better skilled, better armed, and better led.
A white banner was hoisted on the Bolton side as a party of nearly twenty paced their mounts to the middle of the space in front of them.
Lord Tywin ordered assembly of his tent prior to raising his own white banner and leading a core group to meet the Bolton entourage.
"Some might think that white banner is Stark-aligned, Lord Tywin." Roose Bolton was known as a merciless man, a shadowy figure of high cunning and low morals. A man whom also purposely voiced himself with a soft timbre that required those listening to do so with undivided attention.
It was instant leverage.
Tywin would have none of it.
"You know very well what it means, Lord Bolton. I am not here to banter asinine assumptions."
The Leech Lord was emotionless in his reply. "It's hardly an assumption when it is well known who your lady wife is." He craned his neck in what could only be his version of humour and grinned quite fondly. "Did she make the journey as well, my lord?"
Tywin tilted his head slightly to show his annoyance, his voice was not so subtle, "The reasons for me being here have nothing to do with my wife, Lord Bolton, as our correspondence would indicate." The lion narrowed his eyes then, his tone sunk to murderous. "Would you prefer I leave?"
The northern lord knew Lord Tywin Lannister was not speaking on pretense, and if he implicated a bluff the older man would ride away as easily as he arrived. "No my lord, that won't be necessary," Bolton whispered.
"We are shy of a day's ride from your keep, my lord." Tywin resumed, unperturbed by the tension only moments before. "I suggest making camp and arriving in daylight."
Lord Roose nodded in agreement and gave instructions to one of the men he rode out with.
Lord Tywin waited until he was the other man's sole focus before speaking again. "Care to join me, then? When was the last time you had good Arbor wine?"
At the mention of wine Bolton met his eye, thinned his lips to a devious smile, and once more nodded his acquiescence. After a war and a winter just about anything not made of grain or fermented milk was a luxury.
Tywin led his guest into the spacious tent his forethought provided, and it was not long until Lord Bolton addressed his inference a second time, this instance more pointedly. "I understand what your letters said, my lord - you want Stannis. But you have to give credit to my hesitation in that you wed a Stark daughter, the older of the two, and this is the North."
The marriage of the northern girl and the bastard was contract struck and signed well before the Crown removed itself from the ploy of the Freys. And having the Bolton's continue their assumption that the girl was the younger Stark would remain a deliberate advantage. Tywin waited until his squire laid out the wine service and left before intoning sedately, "I wed for no more than an heir. My wife is fertile and obedient, and has done her duty to the West."
It was almost a challenge, Lady Bolton had recently delivered a daughter, not the true-born heir Lord Roose desired. His bastard was legitimized when his father was appointed Warden of the North, but it was never a wise man who took their legacy for granted.
Tywin let out a small sigh. "I am here on the command of the Crown - my grandson - and my task is to be rid of the last false king who wishes to usurp him. I have no interest in the North otherwise."
"Not even for the seat of Winterfell?"
"Tell me Lord Bolton, other than a seat and a title, what would be my gain in the North?"
"Land, men, resources."
"The land is fruitless at best, the men are of no numbers to compare to the South, at a distance between them that makes even the simplest of summons at arduous affair, and what resources are you referring to? Wool?" The last word he drawled out sardonically. "I'm the one paying you in stores and resources, my lord. You have ice and misery, and you can keep it. As I said, I am here for Stannis, and to have the claim to the Stormlands undisputed."
Lord Roose remained undaunted by the overt insult to his seat and the land that was his home.
Tywin cared nothing if he had been, continuing in his hard neutral tone, "Land of which your king has generously offered acreage and titles for the men of your choosing."
Bolton gave an airy hum, not necessarily of assent. "The Ironborn have a king as well."
Tywin made a bitter sound then said, "Let them choke on their own madness. They are hardly in a position to rebel - they know what happens when they try."
"So do you, my lord," Lord Bolton smirked, "and your entire fleet."
The old lion set his impassive glare on the man standing no more than an arm's length away. "Indeed," he conceded, emotionless. "And I encourage them to try it again."
There was silence between the two men, but for neither was it uncomfortable.
"You and your lead men will, of course, be welcomed under my roof for your stay in the North, my lord." Lord Bolton said the words in earnest as he sat at the broad table that took up most of the tent. He spoke as a matter of privilege that was his capacity as the Warden of the North, and if the irony had struck him at all that particular epiphany was kept to himself.
Lord Tywin raised a brow and scoffed imperceptibly at the quiet man before answering, "Thank you, my lord. However, I shall stay with my host, as is my custom."
In offering a cup of wine to the northern lord, Tywin understood the slight nod of acceptance he was given in return - towards both the Arbor gold and the old lion's preferences.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
The pomp given to the heritage and naming of castles had always been something of a grating annoyance to Lord Tywin, mainly because his own was the namesake of those stupid enough to be bilked of it. No one in the generations of Lannisters had thought to rename Casterly Rock and, as it stood, the inclination to do so currently would bear more harm than good. Although, as he was introduced and guided through the Dreadfort, he could think of no other name so appropriate.
It was a dark place; even in daylight in the open bailey, the high walls and close-set buildings made it feel as though you were being swallowed into a shadow. As he viewed and walked and surveyed and observed, what he also felt of the place was an overwhelming sense of spectacle. Skeletal accents and fixtures, blackened wood, and tales of what horrors could be found in the depths of the dungeons beneath their feet. It all added to bolster the legend of the family who inhabited it.
In reality it skirted the realm of comedic. Not that the man who hosted him was to be dismissed or taken lightly. Bolton history was a grim as the castle, but there were obvious chinks in that armour as well. Coincidentally, those flaws also ran in a garish vein.
Lady Bolton, Fat Walda, was short, round and, like the castle she dwelled in, fit her moniker succinctly. She had been introduced formally, clutching a babe that was fussy - trying to tear for her freedom from the strangers she was being subjected to. The daughter had the markings of her father, straight black locks and grey eyes shining in a way children's are prone to. Lord Tywin took a fraction of a moment to care about what it would grow into, then dropped the thought without qualm or conscience.
Bolton's wife looked out of place in the North, in the company of her deathly silent husband. She had a look about her that Tywin knew to mean she was struggling to remain quiet. That with every word uttered around her, she was itching to speak, or ask, or vex her way into conversation.
She had kept her tongue well tucked in his presence, and what a mercy that was. It only took the girl walking toward a group of ladies to prompt her excitedly shrill voice into carrying, and cause Tywin to both flinch at the sound and immediately want for his own wife.
Her smile, her touch, her reticent grace...
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
"Lannister forces have made Barrowtown and White Harbor, my lord." Bolton's man had interrupted an early meeting of Lord Tywin, his commanders, and Lord Roose and the leaders amongst his vassals, but the information was integral to each man. Lannister soldiers had been camped outside Bolton's keep just under a sennight waiting for word from his other forces.
The lion addressed all those assembled, "They will continue their move north toward Winterfell, and garrison themselves prior to their march on the Wolfswood." He looked toward Lord Bolton for affirmation. "From what we know, Stannis has retreated into the deep of it with whatever remains of his southern forces and clan men, correct?"
The lord of the Dreadfort nodded, his simple action was degrees above his normal timbre. "It looks that way, my lord," he offered. "My son has estimated Stannis carries no more than twelve hundred men at his service, those who survived winter."
Tywin internally scoffed at the man's use of son. Legitimized or not, natural-borns will always be bastards. Flicking the thought from his mind, he refocused on the task at hand. Anything less would drift his concentration to his own sons.
True-born sons.
Heirs.
Lord Roose was fixated solely on the old lion, quietly taking in the older man's distraction as he continued in his quiet debrief. "It has also been noted that after the attempted raid on Winterfell, the Ironborn, once relegated as captives to Baratheon, are now fighting in support of him."
Tywin took the information in stride. Anything could have happened to change that scenario - winter survival a main reason. Above tactical failure on Stannis' part, the raid on Winterfell saw a heavy loss of Bolton forces, as well as the disappearance of the bastard's own Stark bride - news of which had reached Tywin by other means than the man in front of him. Whatever the reason, the true question was exactly what kind of catalyst would be needed to change the heart of a Greyjoy.
Tywin articulated through his disruptive line of thought, "Numbers alone will see them fall. As long as your... son... is confident in his estimation, Stannis will prove little threat. And we can move forward with the dispersal of the Stormlands."
It was Ser Condon who spoke next, almost urgently. "The Crown will also follow through their commitment to replenish the North..."
Tywin looked sharply at the man of House Cerwyn. If he were his own, the knight would be given an exit and no share of any bounty to serve as a testament of his skepticism. But the larger truth was that every man in that tent, at that table, save those who came from the South, looked hollow. Their pallor was frightening and their eyes were no more than watery orbs sunk within dark pits in their skulls. The heartiest was Lord Bolton, but even he was but a shade of his ghostly self.
"Supply ships and tradesmen have already been staggered in launch, they will be ready once Stannis and his forces have been eliminated."
The knight spoke in unbelievable relief, "Thank you, my lord."
Ignoring him, Tywin carried forward with his means and procedures. "My regiments here are preparing to move toward Winterfell in two days time. They will group and organize with those already there and lead the charge to Stannis." He glanced over the faces at the table and was pleased to see that while they were weary, the Northmen were alert and comprehending. He spoke directly to Lord Bolton. "We will leave in a fortnight, flanking high through the wood with your forces."
Roose quirked his lip and nodded.
Tywin narrowed his eyes, his tone remained dry and serious, "I trust you know the wood better than Stannis and the Ironborn."
Roose looked pointedly at the older man, never once faltering under his glare, offering his soft inflection, "There are hunting trails my family has been using for hundreds of years, my lord, some traverse underground." He quirked his lip again. "No, they'll not see us coming."
"Why not eradicate Stannis before now? Why not use these advantages and rid yourself of him altogether?" Tywin couldn't understand not exploiting an obvious weakness to achieve a goal, but as the quiet lord answered, the old lion knew exactly the type of man with whom he had made his alliance.
"They have been well trapped in the Wolfswood for nigh on three years, my lord. I find it far more entertaining wondering what Stannis has been reduced to eating this time around." Bolton smiled outright. "I hear his family perished in the snows."
Tywin scoffed lightly at his host and moved on all the same. "Your banners are present and accounted for, correct? I wish to have the stores and provisions doled accordingly prior to our leave. I'll not have any of my men left to deliberate petty squabbles for grain and lard."
"They are, my lord." Bolton, for the first time, looked slightly uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and began, "We would like to host a feast, Lord Tywin, something of a celebration."
The old lion twitched the corner of his mouth, the rest of him stayed serious. What he was witnessing was a man acting on behalf of his wife. A feast would be expected under any other circumstance; however, true decorum in the instance of famine would state otherwise, in that food stores were nowhere near adequate to support such a thing.
Lord Roose answered his thoughts, "We have been anticipating your arrival, my lord, and while it won't be opulent, a feast would do well to display solidarity with the crown to those who may still be left unsure."
The northern men at the table nodded, muttered, and, as Tywin scrutinized closely, exhibited a feral look of hunger. Pure and simple, these men were starved. He could only assume what sacrifice had been forced upon these men at the expense of his arrival.
Lady Bolton certainly had not suffered. Tywin smiled at that, inside and to himself.
"Of course," he said with disinterest. "If it please, my lord, I would like to contribute from my personal stocks. But, if I may suggest, the feast wait a fortnight - until we are readied to leave.
"There is no need for the bulk of my own men to deplete what stores you have," Tywin continued, "and the small contingent that will remain at my aid will provide whatever clarification of unity you require amongst your banners."
Lord Bolton considered this and nodded after a short while. "The hall is large here, but the reduction of men will help accommodate a higher comfort."
Tywin angled his head to side a tiny amount, pensive. "Hold it outside, my lord. My host will be gone, the space needed to house guests and serve a meal will be more than enough." There was a murmur amongst the northerners. "The cold will not rankle my sensibilities, I assure you," he smirked casually. "Wood is what you have in abundance, yes?"
The chatter slid into happier tones, but it was Lord Roose that looked most pleased. Roguishly so. "If you insist," he whispered with a smile.
It was an effort not to address Bolton's shift to calculation and assessment at securing a casual setting for his Southron guests. In light of the man's celebratory history, Tywin had every reason to be distrustful, but whatever fraction of apprehension stirred in his gut he bit back and pushed forward.
"I do, my lord," the old lion placated. "I also have infernal musicians I will gladly contribute - whom I also insist that you keep... As whatever form of entertainment you fancy."
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Precision.
As Tywin watched his men stack and store essential supplies, as had been negotiated, it was a word that ticked and flowed through his mind. It was a word that had described him for decades, and yet it was a word that seemed his current antithesis... in part.
He felt himself two men now. Between the regimented soldier - the leader of men and ruthless warrior, the Hand of the King - and the other - the man that found life behind closed doors, the one that existed in private moments and peaceful lulls - he was unsure which he preferred. More so, which was to his benefit.
Each was useful and effective in their own way; one circumspect, one resolute.
Each was a deficiency; one of too narrow a focus, one of too broad a view.
His only hope was to live carefully between the two. Something his wife and sons tugged at and nudged when necessary in order to maintain that delicate parity.
Sansa.
Gods, he could not remember the last time he spoke her name. He knew well enough that he thought of it, thought of her; in the slivers of night when his body forced him to sleep. But the thought drove nothing of arousal, not like those first nights rocking at sea where he ached from the recent memory of her skin and breath and heat. This was something else entirely, as though his mind were petrified it would forget. That it would easily misplace her from his thoughts, remove her loveliness from his dreams, replace them with something or someone else...
...Like it did with Joanna.
The ache in him, of Sansa, another ghost, had unmoored and drifted in the days since setting for the North. Like a shadow it progressed to settle north itself, to lodge itself deep in what felt like a hollow in his chest.
He missed her.
Shaking his head as if to muzzle his contemplation, Lord Tywin walked around the camp to better glean progress. There were men building what looked to be a dais and long tables and benches being transferred from within the castle to outside its curtain walls.
This feast was to be large, and his generosity would not go unnoticed.
Further aside from the dining area, were stacks of casks. Hundreds of barrels contained everything craved by the men and women who would be attending: Arbor gold, Dornish reds, plenty of sweet reds on behalf of the Tyrells, and other things. Far too much to drink in one night, but nothing that wouldn't eventually make it into the castle on his behest.
Tywin never enjoyed the gluttony of feasts and celebrations, but he thrived on the fact it was he who would provide edacity for others. More than that, it was the way people acknowledged it to him, of him. It was power. Regardless of where it was based - awe, terror, respect - it was power all the same. And once gained, it was only a matter of maintenance.
As the sky began to darken into evening, Lord Tywin dressed to suit the pageantry expected, even in the wilds of the North. He braced himself for the long observed ceremony aspect of celebration. It was the part of his station in life that he never truly loved or despised.
Endless faces of lords and ladies.
Countless compliments and whispered favours.
Yet here, treachery was nothing so overt.
Beards hid subtle conversation, shaggy hair obscured covert observation, furs covered blades that had been promised to be left behind. There was an ingrained element of suspicion here, a wary politeness that he could not remember ever seeing in his own northern bride. Yet it was an attitude to which he could most certainly dole esteem.
As he sat high on the rough-planked dais, Tywin looked over the men and women and children who had come as their duty required, as their hunger lead them, and he better understood his wife's iron will to survive.
They each had it, these Northerners, a tenacity all their own - bred into their bones. An organic form of kinship and courage, something they displayed proudly.
To a fault.
::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
It will always be the tiniest of things that work to betray a man: a word, a glance... one knuckle of one finger.
The evening progressed. The night was cold, but nothing a heavier layer could not warm to something pleasant. The feast moved past food and drink, tables were moved, and under the stars of the impossibly black northern night, men and women danced and laughed in a carefree manner the old lion was duly unaccustomed.
The frustratingly intolerable musician, the one Lord Tywin restrained himself from indulging his want to run through, was suddenly in a light that made him useful: entertaining those around him.
In the choral midst of what he was sure was some northern dirge Tywin saw it. Saw Lord Roose minutely lift his hand and brush his knuckle in a barely noticeable trail over the back of his lady's hand. In the normality of things, there would be no reason to question the affection a husband may show toward his wife; in the actuality that was the Bolton patriarch, particularly when he was in the company of the Hand of the King, Tywin knew it for what it was. Complacency.
And complacency tends to breed opportunity. But what opportunity could there be for an old lion flanked only by a handful of his own men?
"Bard!" Tywin clipped loudly at the first lull in the music, if only to prolong the gap.
The other musicians dampened their instruments and watched their leader scamp to the raised table that summoned him, waiting for the instruction of a new song. "My lord," the singer gaily chirped with a flourishing bow, "My tongue is yours."
Tywin's hate flared openly at the chit and was made doubly volatile at hearing the sniggering along the head table - lead by the trill giggling of Lady Bolton. "Address me again with pluck, bard, and consider your words truth." His tone was like the summoning of winter, his thunderous glare equally elemental. The warm mirth of the head table froze and shattered at such icy disdain, as did nearly all of the chatter at the tables close to the makeshift dais.
The singer spoke first to break the spell of awful silence. This time there was not a sliver of mischief or coy in him, his eyes were suitably lowered in fear and submission. "I- I am sorry for any offense, Lord Hand." His eyes were still turned down, his voice terribly somber, "Allow me to apologize, my lord, allow me to honour you."
Tywin said nothing, letting the insignificant man flounder in his terror. It was Lady Walda who turned to him and offered calm respite. "He is quite good, my lord."
The bard looked up in the direction of the praise, but it was the furious gaze of the old lion that at once captured his attention.
"Prove it," snarled Lord Tywin.
The singer gulped loudly, bowed without a word and traversed the expanse of the feast area without seeming to place a single step on the ground. The next moments there was heard a shuffle of instruments before a loud cheerful tune carried through the crowd, cascading from the mouths and fingers of the musicians.
Tywin had no idea what the song was, nor did he truly care. What he was riveted to was the seduction of the music and how the crowd fell into the rhythm of it. People drank in time and talked within the cadence of the drum. Women fawned and cajoled normally steadfast men into dancing, with no more than smiles offered like lyrics themselves.
He stood. The people occupying the head table each turned to look, but they were nowhere near his focus. Each step taken with grace and ease placed him squarely in front of a genuinely smiling Lady Walda. "Your assessment of the bard is correct, my lady," he purred at her with a twitch of his mouth, "Take my offer to dance as a confirmation of your opinion."
Holding his hand out to the girl, Tywin flicked his eyes to those of her husband. Lord Bolton would no more deny his request then he would have expected it in the first place. With a nod from her lord husband, Lady Walda took the hand of the Great Lion and followed his lead from the dais to the flat hard-pack ground ahead of it.
Lord Tywin stopped there rather abruptly. A curious act to be sure, but Walda could only assume that Lord Tywin did not want to mingle too deeply in the throngs of merriment. At the same time he turned to her and arranged his hands in a manner that suggested he danced well, and often; he moved to the slower time of a new song that seamlessly blended with the first. She smiled and leaned closer. This was an opportunity that only happened once. Not only was the Great Lion of Casterly Rock engaging in a dance, but he looked happy to do so. His eyes were bright and his demeanor was fairly open - as far as she could tell.
Lady Walda kept her smile as he led, step after step, every one well timed and precious to her. She loved to dance, but her husband never indulged her.
The song once again changed; once again seamless; once again slower than the one prior.
The musicians were only a few bars in when Walda realized she and Lord Tywin had danced themselves far into the shadows, past the torches along the perimeter, outside of the feast area.
Walda giggled, "We've been carried out of the warmth of the crowd, my lord, perhaps-" She was cut off by his hands, large and strong, making a calm journey over her arms, up her neck, to cup each side of her jaw making her swallow hard and her breathing quicken.
His face was shadowy in the dark, but she could see his silhouette bend the distance needed to bring his mouth just above her own. Walda licked her lips - out of habit of course, nothing more than that. Her eyes shuttered when he swayed closer the smallest of fractions, again she told herself it was out of habit. His breath was of wine and spice; her insides fluttered - he tasted Southron. She felt the barest of tickles when his lips moved, but what she did not expect was a statement to fall from them. One that cut like a blade.
"Speak one word and you die, woman."
Her eyes snapped wide, trying to see in the black where they stood; she must have heard wrong, something altogether different than a threat from Lord Lannister. The fingers that once graced her with a gentle touch now dug into her skin.
Tywin could feel her shiver in his hands, but she was trained well enough to obey his command.
With a nod in the direction behind them, Lady Walda gawked as the features of the man who danced her into the darkness were illuminated as though it were daybreak. She then saw the barreling rush of flames, from all sides of the feast, column to the height of the tree tops. The base of those same trees looked to take life; there was movement in waves - a trick of the light perhaps...
Perhaps...
Along with the blazing brightness, Lady Walda heard the brandishing of steel at a volume that was an awful acquaintance. Coupled with that horrible sound were the immediate cries of fear and death and pleading for lives. She began to tremble. A firm hand gripped a hurtful hold of her fur collar as a warm flow of breath caught and swirled in her ear.
"Seem familiar?"
That was all the mesmerizing breath said before it moved away from her, and was so much more than just a cruel taunt. She stood, made of shivering stone, the very air she needed to live choking her in her terror. For as much as she led others to believe, Lady Bolton was hardly stupid and her immediate understanding was what led to the inconsolable rush of tears and sobs that throttled through her.
Walda blinked and swiped angrily at the water that was blurring her vision, trying to see. Looking toward the head table she witnessed Ser Condon being cut down mid-stride in defense of his liege.
Her husband.
The man who was paid so handsomely to take her as a bride was standing tall and defiant, fighting against being forcefully handled in an effort to haul him away - all the while searching methodically over the massacre before him.
Looking.
He was looking for her.
Their eyes locked for only a moment, but it was more than a lifetime. Lady Walda saw within that blink the man that only she knew; the man she had grown to care for. And it was in that same heartbeat eternity that her husband acknowledged their fate. She watched his eyes slowly close as his body stopped resisting the Lannister men battering him to move - it was the apology of a man who had never once thought or cared to utter one.
Walda doubled over, keening wails of fear and torment. Her painful realization was a lightning strike: the sounds she made were just like those she heard so long ago. An echoing menace that had followed then found each and every Frey woman and child in the nooks and hollows in which they were hiding the night in which Guest Right was broken.
Her own screams now mirrored those of Lady Catelyn then. A fact that was nothing cathartic, she merely felt empty, but before there could be any further contemplation, a set of rough hands grabbed her arms and pulled her away from Lord Tywin.
Away from the anguished bewailing of so many men and women and, gods, children.
Away from the blood that was already flowing like little rivers from the mayhem.
Away from the scores of crimson-cloaked soldiers butchering those not wearing the same.
Away from the music still being sung and thumped and strummed slowly; a loud, grotesque accompaniment to such a horrific scene.
The music...
Her soul shocked absolutely cold.
The Rains of Castamere.
...
..
.