A Day Late

By Hikako

Chapter 4

Author's Note: This chapter is dedicated to Nivek Beldo: an individual who has published no stories themselves yet left a review on the previously unfinished version of this chapter with such wording that… quite frankly stirred the pettiest, pissiest, part of my soul to action and has inspired me to not only finish this chapter but to continue on with the story in general. I hope I can return the favor one day.

Tywin dismissed the servant who guided him to his quarters in the Guest House with a flick of his hand and barely a thought. His attendants would make sure his personal effects and baggage would be stored properly and so the Master of Coin undid his cloak and let the dirtied clothing drop to the floor without a thought, as he had done nearly his entire life, trusting in the nameless and faceless dozens who served him to do their duty without instruction. Instead of worrying about those beneath him Tywin walked briskly through the drawing room, hardly noticing it, the sound of his riding boots meeting the bare floors reverbing through the air as he slipped into the solar where he spotted his target against the far wall. After a long day of riding, after weeks of travel, and now facing a long night of sharing the high table with Ned Stark and his scowls, the Lion of the West very nearly let out a sigh of relief when he saw it.

Next to a highly polished desk of oak sat a small side table, with several decanters filled with various wines, from deep Arbor reds to light Dornish sours, along with several goblets of delicate crystal. The Lord of Casterly Rock downed his first glass without stopping for breath and for a moment, as Tywin filled his cup a second time with wine so red it resembled blood, he considered pouring one for his son who would no doubt be along shortly. Instead Tywin decided that Tyrion could fill his own glass; Tyrion often balked at anyone offering him assistance and Tywin wouldn't shame him by offering any, the relationship between father and son was strained enough right now any more tension and it might snap. Taking a deep breath, Tywin paused for the first time in what felt like ages, staring deeply at the dark color of the wine and with thoughts of his son in his head Tywin could not stop his mind from being pulled back all those many years to a bloody bed while a babe's screams echoed in his ears. A noise startled Tywin out his reverie and his head jerked, like a hawk, to face a young girl coming out of his bedchamber.

"What are you doing?" Tywin barked, causing her to stop short in surprise, the maid couldn't have been more than five-and-ten with long brown hair messily pulled back from her rather long face. She had frozen stiff Tywin noticed, except for her eyes, which had grown larger and allowed Tywin to see their grey shade. "Well?" Tywin said, louder and in a more demanding tone that he usually didn't have to use with servants. The young maid seemed to blink and then with a tiny shake of her head to dislodge her wits she spoke with a Northern accent.

"Begging your pardon, my lord." she said, with a quick and awkward curtsy she immediately looked down at the floor. "I was merely... lighting the fire in your bedchamber." She made to move towards the door, before Tywin stepped in between the two, still holding his glass of wine at chest level. "What's that you're hiding?" Tywin asked in the demanding tone, something about this girl wasn't right and he suspected more was going on here than an errant servant. The girl kept looking at his face, and then back down almost like she wasn't entirely sure where she should look, while her left arm was nearly twisted completely around inorder to keep something behind her back. Tywin also noticed the slight clench of her jaw when he stopped her.

"Tis merely a book, my lord... a previous, uh, guest had it, here in their ch- your chambers. I was merely going to take it back to the library.'' The girl spoke with a clear voice, but Tywin could tell from her rhythm that she was lying. The Lord of Casterly Rock did not move from his spot and instead stared at this young maiden, studying her in the way that many people had found so disconcerting in the past. Very few men had been to stand for more than a few seconds under Tywin's silent stare and this girl was no exception. Her whole body seemed to reverberate and twitch with barely contained energy, almost like a doe that was preparing to sprint away into the brush.

"Give it here." Tywin demanded after a few moments, seeing the slight clench of the jaw again before she begrudgingly handed the tome over him. It was a small leather bound volume that was clearly expensive seeing as it was well made and well cared for, it's page ends were hardly discolored, and finely stitched into the cover was it's title, which Tywin read aloud. "The Ten Thousand Ships." Tywin held the book up nearly to his face, drawing the grey eyes as well, he changed his tone then, softening it, before conversationally saying, "If memory serves this would be about Princess Nymeria... an interesting part of history I think I might like to know more about," the young maid stiffened and her hands, which had been at her side were clenched into fists, "mayhap I might like to read it." Tywin sipped his wine inorder to hide his amusement for several seconds letting the silence stretch to almost unbearable length, before he handed it back to the target of his entertainment. "I doubt very much, though, that I will have the time to read for pleasure during my stay here."

Taking the offered book, and holding it in front of her, the young lady tried her best to hide her relief at having it back. Tywin took another sip of his wine before stepping out from in between her and the door and making his way back to the wine table. Clearing his throat, Tywin spoke again in a more conversational tone, "You may go now..." and as she began to step forward towards the door Tywin turned his back to her and sprung his trap, "I shall see you at the feast, Lady Arya." The speed with which Arya Stark came to a halt and stood ramrod straight would have impressed an infantry captain, Tywin mused to himself as he refilled his glass without turning to look back at Lord Stark's youngest daughter.

When he did turn around he was greeted with a furrowed brow and a look of worry. "How-" she started to say, "how did you figure out who I was?" Tywin recognized the demanding aristocratic tone of voice, final confirmation that this was no scullery maid with a wayward book. Tywin took a moment to bask in his moment of glory, albeit a small one, before moving forward to sit in a cushioned chair that faced the window behind Arya. Tywin took another sip of wine, enjoying the impatience that was clear on her face.

"To begin with," Tywin said, not remotely hiding his self-satisfaction in his tone, "your curtsy was atrocious, I've seen trained dogs do better." Tywin didn't know why but he didn't feel the need to hold back with this young woman, he rather found he liked the glares and looks she was shooting at him. "Also, a scullery maid would need a flint to start a fire, which may have been what you had behind your back except why were you trying so hard to hide it from me?" Arya sharply inhaled as if she was about to protest, but Tywin caught her off with an upraised hand which he then used to indicate the chair across from his. Instead the young Stark sank ungracefully into it, looking not at all pleased with being told to sit like an errant child. "Then of course there was your appearance: your dress is too fine for a servant, not to mention the absence of soot or ashes upon the front. Your bearing is too proud, and you said 'my lord' like a lady instead of 'milord' like a peasant." Tywin paused to take another sip, "But it was your face and eyes that gave you away as a Stark, your grandfather and I went to war together many years ago and I knew your father as well." Tywin resisted the urge to be pulled into the past, old men had a habit of dwelling on days gone by and that was a habit which he did not enjoy in himself. "And then it was a simple guess based on your age." Satisfied his intelligence had been demonstrated Tywin settled in while waiting for her to be sufficiently impressed. "Now, may I inquire as to what you were doing in my bedchamber, Lady Arya?"

Her face looked like she was going to refuse, but all too quickly she relented and said, "I often hide in these apartments from my septa. The servants usually only clean when we have guests, and so I get to lay abed reading in solitude."

"About Princess Nymeria?" Tywin interrupted.

"Yes," Arya shot back, "Or Queens Rhaenys or Visenya, the Conqueror's wives. Or Jonquil Darke, sworn shield of Good Queen Alysanne. Or whatever I want. There's no septa here to tell me what isn't proper reading material for a lady." The last bit was said with quite a bit of venom, Tywin suspected that this struggle between young Arya and her septa had been going on for quite some time. "Everybody has preparing for the king's arrival the last few weeks I haven't had a spare moment alone so, just for today, I snuck away for a few hours of reading, only to realize when we were receiving the king in the courtyard that I had forgotten to bring the tome back-"

"And you hoped," Tywin broke in, "that you could come here, get it, and get back to the keep without anyone being the wiser." For some odd reason Tywin couldn't divine he found that he had enjoyed the last few minutes more than anything else he had done in the last few months. Arya sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly before quickly reverting to a proper posture, and putting a helpless look on her face. "Yes." she replied tersely.

Setting his glass of wine down on a nearby table Tywin interlaced his fingers and laid his hands on his stomach, letting the silence stretch out for a minute or two. The young Stark met his steady gaze for longer than most lords would've but eventually she broke eye contact and scanned the room, so thoroughly unintimidated by him she was actually bored. Absently her hands passed the book back and forth, even now eager to open it and reveal its contents. Tywin almost smiled, it had been years since he had spent any time with a young woman who neither feared him or was trying to impress him, Tywin found it quite refreshing.

"Aren't most young ladies more interested in stories about the pretty maidens?" Tywin asked, finally breaking the silence, "Like Jonquil, or Jenny of Oldstones, rather than warrior women and foreign-born queens?" Arya had turned her head and attention back to the Lord of Casterly Rock, before her face took a new expression that Tywin could only describe as 'impertinent' and she replied, "Most girls are idiots."

Tywin couldn't stop the short, barking laugh that escaped his mouth, and he could fight back the smile on his face no longer. Pity poor old Ned Stark, Tywin thought, he's going to have his hands full with this one. "True enough." Tywin said to his guest, as he leaned back in the chair and leaned his head on his knuckles, "Still, aren't you a little young to be this cynical?"

The young Stark frowned, making no effort to control the emotions on her face, and replied, "I'm six-and-ten! Most ladies my age are married or about to give birth to their first child."

"Yes," Tywin agreed, "and they probably still believe in all the romantic stories of pretty young maidens being rescued by dashing knights and living happily ever after surrounded by a score of fat, happy, babies." Picking his wine up with the hand he wasn't resting his head upon, Tywin brought to his lips and emptied the contents, letting his words sink in before continuing his 'education' of the young Arya Stark. "But most of them will be married to men older than them, who will use them like brood mares, and if they don't die in childbirth they'll find that those same children they fought to bring into the world will repay their parents by shaming and embarrassing them at any and all opportunities." Tywin silently cursed the wine as he finished his short rant, he had drunk too much too quickly and he had lost control of his tongue, letting slip more than he normally would to a total stranger. Hopefully the young lady would understand and let the incident pass without further commentary.

For her part, young Arya seemed to understand immediately what he meant and her face now took on a sympathetic look; a genuine sympathetic look that surprised Tywin, that too was something he hadn't seen in years. Nodding her head slightly Arya replied, "I can only guess how hurt you must've been when Ser Jaime sailed for Essos, my lord."

Like a portcullis slamming into place Tywin felt his face immediately fall into the same stern visage he showed his children when they disappointed or disobeyed him, a face that could and did often cow even battle hardened veterans and mighty lords. Setting his glass down, fairly hard judging from the sound it made striking the table, and rising swiftly Tywin seemed to have startled Arya as she rose too, yet thanks to the difference in their heights Tywin still glowered down at her. Putting his hands behind his back and locking one hand over the other wrist, Tywin adopted a stiff yet respectful posture he used when he had to say 'no' to the king and he knew Robert Baratheon was going to bellow and bluster in his great booming voice to try to get his own way.

"I beg your pardon, my lady, but you are mistaken." Tywin practically growled his words at the young girl, "I have only one son, and he traveled with me to Winterfell." Tywin spent several moments trying desperately to keep his tone under control, his teeth grinding so hard against each other the sound was almost audible. "Speaking of which, I am weary and I believe there is a feast soon. I'm sure you will be needed… elsewhere."

Even a young noblewoman, unused to being ordered about like a servant, knew a dismissal when she heard it and Arya quickly curtsied and mumbled a 'rest well, my lord' before she turned and almost fled from the room, leaving Tywin alone to regroup himself and his temper.

"Stupid girl." Tywin whispered to himself, barely keeping himself together.

After several seconds Tywin felt a dull throbbing in his hand and he became aware that his crystal goblet had broken and deeply cut into his palm, which was bleeding profusely on the fresh rushes on the floor.

Several hours after his impromptu audience with young Arya Stark, Tywin Lannister found himself in clean clothing suitable for dinner, a black tunic and hose in his usual style with a Lannister crimson cloak around his shoulders and black leather boots, and walking from the Guest House to the great hall of Winterfell. One of the maids in the Guest House had told him the fastest way to get to the great hall, and Tywin was deliberately going the opposite meandering way, trying and failing to get his mind and temper under control. Tywin was followed closely by a servant, also dressed in Lannister colors, and no one else. By all rights, his entire entourage should've been following, including his children, but frankly Tywin was in such a foul mood that when Tyrion broached the subject of him and Cersei skipping the feast due to being weary from the road, Tywin agreed.

A quick blast of wind that seemed to come from every direction chilled the Warden of the West to the bone. Tywin pictured his children, his granddaughters, sitting down to a small intimate dinner in front of a blazing hearth, and the idyllic nature of the fantasy was not unwanted. And a fantasy it was; Tywin knew that any amount of time together with Tyrion invariably led to an argument between father and son (especially nowadays) and Cersei would still be stinging from the conversation they had yesterday. No, it was better that Tywin attend the feast and put up with Robert Baratheon's great booming laughter in his face; they had come all this way and if Tywin didn't attend the feast it would be seen as a grave insult. Even if Ned Stark's dislike of Lannisters meant he'd be offended by them even if they all attended.

As he tightened his cloak against the chilling northern winds, Tywin's mind drifted to another Lord of Winterfell, very different from the current one. While Rickard's childhood had been different than Tywin's they were both cut from the same cloth: dutiful to their families, and both accused of being too somber. Sometimes, in his dreams, Tywin was back in that tent during the war on the Stepstones, sitting near the fire with Rickard and listening to Steffon or Aerys tell the most outlandishly tall tales while Jon and Hoster talked politics over mulled wine.

Shaking his head slightly to force himself back into the present, Tywin took in his surroundings. He was near an older part of Winterfell, a great drum tower that was in need of repair loomed large overlooking the training yard, where a few stragglers were standing near the training dummies. Deciding it would be best to stop to ask for directions, in order to give credence to his excuse of getting lost to Lord Stark, Tywin approached them, and heard their conversation cut off quickly as he came closer. There were four of them, 3 of them were older judging from the gray in their hairs and one was barely a man yet it was he who stepped forward to greet Tywin.

"Well met, my lord." the young man's voice was clear and his words proper, if only slightly tinged with a northern accent. Tywin opened his mouth slightly but before any sound could come out he was struck dumb as he looked at the boy's face. Had Tywin not just been thinking of them he may have missed how much the lad looked like Rickard and Ned Stark, with a long stern face and long brown hair, but there was something else… in the jawline, in the shape of the eyes, and the nose. That nose was definitely Aerys', he reminded Tywin so much of Aerys as a young man. "My lord?" the boy said, jolting Tywin out of his reverie.

"I beg your pardon," Tywin said, quickly reverting back to his lordly persona and visage, "I was wondering if you might be so kind as to direct me to the great hall? I appear to have gotten lost." Tywin watched the boy rather than listened to him as he pointed and gestured as he fulfilled Tywin's request. The boy had clearly been educated, his manners were good and his voice was clear, and although his accent was northern Tywin was practically in awe at how much his voice sounded like Rhaegar's. When the boy stopped Tywin gave him a quick bow of his head and said, "Many thanks, and your name please? So as I can make sure to have Lord Stark properly reward your good service."

The boy responded with his own quick nod, and said, "My name is Jon Snow, my lord, and no reward is necessary."

"Ah!" Tywin said, falsely giving the impression he had not already guessed the boy's identity, "Jon Snow, you would be Lord Stark's bastard son."

"Indeed, yes, my lord."

Tywin watched his face carefully, Jon didn't so much as twitch when Tywin said the word 'bastard.' Tywin had never seen a bastard who didn't resent being a bastard or someone using that word to describe them. The fact that he didn't let it phase him at all was striking all on its up appearances, Tywin closed the short conversation.

"Well, good evening, young Snow. I imagine I shall see you again at the feast."

Turning to move in the direction that the young man had pointed him Tywin's eye quickly scanned the older men who Jon had been speaking with. For just a split second Tywin locked eyes with Gerold Hightower, older and shabbier than he had ever been in King's Landing, though Tywin knew the man on sight. The White Bull's face, however, gave nothing away or even flickered in recognition of Tywin, although the Lannister lord had no doubt he knew him. Tywin also saw the face of one of the other men, and although it took a moment longer, Tywin recognized the Sword of the Morning too, his purple colored eyes giving him away as a Dayne.

His back turned towards the quartet, Tywin made his way across the yard towards the main keep, trying desperately to keep his pace and posture at ease. The wheels in his mind whirled so fast that Tywin was afraid his skull would crack open and they would fly in all directions. They were not the only things spinning, Tywin was certain the world around him was reeling having just been stationary and solid a moment before. As he rounded a corner that took him out of view of anyone in the training yard, Tywin reached out and placed his hand on the stone walls, casting about trying to recenter himself.

Ned Stark's bastard was not his bastard, but the son of Rhaegar Targaryen.

Ned Stark, loyal friend and subject of Robert Baratheon who had made it his mission to stamp out all traces of the Targaryen family, down to the youngest babe.

Ned Stark was harboring a Targaryen in his own home, his own keep. Could he really be so foolish? Tywin wondered, could he be planning something?

Loyalty was everything to the Starks, Rickard would cut off his own hand rather than break an arrangement he sealed with a handshake. Tywin had no doubt he would've taught his son the same. Eddard Stark rose in rebellion with his best friend to overthrow the Targaryens, so why was he harboring one? Would honorable old Ned Stark actually be working with them to undermine the man he helped to put on the Iron Throne?

All of these questions and more swirled in Tywin's head like a confusing tornado and the rest of his evening was a blur as he sat at the end of the high table, too engrossed in his revelations to take even the slightest notice of the insult. Later, while watching the young men and women dancing in the center of the room Tywin noticed the Stark girl again, as she danced with a lad with a black horse head on her tunic. Tywin was forced to sip his wine to hide one of the rare smiles, the first to have graced his face in a good long while.

My, is she not the living image of Lyanna Stark...