Tywin had not even sent in to Father before ordering that the corpses of the Reynes be strung up above the gates of Casterly Rock. As the bodies had bounced into the empty air, the ropes around their necks holding them up, the Lannister army had thundered its approval from the plains beneath the castle in a long and mighty roar that had ceased as quickly it had begun.
Disciplined men. Lannister men. My own.
Looking down on them from his place below the gates, Tywin's heart had swelled with pride, and he had watched them for a moment more, almost sorry that he had to dismiss them.
There will be other campaigns. You have won back the Lannister honour, and now you must maintain it. That will mean more blood on your hands at some point in the future. You would be foolish to think otherwise.
'Tywiiiiiin! Why must you insist on driving me into an early grave, you ridiculous, inconsiderate boy?'
Relishing the audible gasps of horror emanating from the ranks, Tywin had turned to greet his lord father, and had respectfully reminded him that he was six-and-ten, and a boy no longer.
'Yes, you might very well be six-and-ten, but that gives you no right to break my maester's rules by exciting me so!' Father had persisted, 'keeping calm is all that prevents me from entering the grave!'
'Avoiding the grave is a noble goal indeed, my lord,' Tywin had acquiesced.
'But how am I to have a hope of reaching it if you insist on stringing corpses above my gates?'
As Father had continued to rant about his health and his nerves, Tywin had realised that he felt no shame and no embarrassment at being chastised like a child in front of his own army; no anger, no pity, no annoyance; merely a kind of deadness, a lull, an absence of fire and flame.
Perhaps it is because he is no longer an embarrassment or a torment. He is simply a ridiculous old man who is trying to maintain control. He must be aware that the first three companies, at least, can very likely hear each word he says.
'So cut down those corpses before I command the men to do it myself!' Father had finished, and he had waited, arms folded, for Tywin to do as he was told.
A thunderous silence had swiftly descended, and Tywin had sat unaffected and rather bored, wondering, detachedly, whom his captains would be most likely to obey.
I am their commander; he is their liege lord. An unenviable decision to make.
Either way, those corpses will remain where they are. Even if I have to knock the old man down, I refuse to accept that I have lost fifteen thousand men regaining the family honour, only to have him besmirch it again by treating the corpses of rebels with respect.
Then somewhere out on the plain, a soldier had cried out 'Lannister!', and the rest of them had begun to take up the call.
'Lannister! Lannister! Lannister! Lannister!'
Kevan and Tygett had looked meaningfully at him, but Tywin had refused to acknowledge his troops, not even deigning to salute them.
Only jesters and singers require applause.
But his heart had thundered harder and harder as their cries had grown louder and louder, his expression never departing from his mask of white marble that was more to be feared than loved.
These men serve our House and they are proud to do so, he thought, the legacy of Castamere will live on in the stories they tell. Because of them, no one will ever forget what happens when sheep bleat at lions and presume to call it war. Their memory and their fear are far more important than who they choose to obey today. Though of course I would prefer it if it were me.
And the fists of his men had punched the air, and their swords and their spears had rained down on their shields, and a new battle cry had been shouted to the horizon; flitting here and there like a rebellious child until it was rolling and roaring off the tongues of every one of the forty-five thousand soldiers lined up on the plains before Casterly Rock; two syllables; harmonious, simultaneous, deadly.
'Tywin! Tywin! Tywin! Tywin!'
And Father's face had turned pale as Tywin had saluted them, allowing himself a smile.
It may be true that only jesters and singers require applause. But gods be good, I do love this.
The memory still rang zealously in Tywin's ears as he dismounted beneath the shadow of the Red Keep, handing the reins of his horse to a waiting groom. The wound to his arm was deep and excruciatingly painful, and he winced slightly as he walked out of the stables and into the Keep, joyful and terrified at the prospect of seeing Joanna, to whom he had not written once since his departure.
She will understand. She feels as I do. The family name is more important than anything.
Thinking of Joanna, he remembered the laughs echoing around the practice yard at Casterly Rock eleven long years ago; remembered himself plunging the tip of his wooden sword into little Lord Tarbeck's face while Joanna screamed 'Don't kill him! Please! Please don't!' Even then, he had known that it was only through blood that honour could be restored. He had just been too young to understand.
When he pushed open the door to his chambers, Joanna was standing regally at the window with her back to him, examining the closed wooden shutters that filled the room with a gloomy crimson radiance that seemed unnatural at midday. Her hair fell undressed to her shoulders, and she wore a simple gown of deepest black, her tiny feet peeping charmingly out from beneath the hem of her dress.
She did not move from the window, and her voice as she spoke was soft and pleading.
'Tell me it is not true.'