Tywin Lannister's misogyny should be its own archive warning. Remember Shae's mysterious nighttime absence? That comes up.
This chapter is slightly Valentine's Day themed. It deals with matters of the heart, anyway.
Late May, 300 AC
Jaime Lannister sweated in his white armor as he watched Tommen chase after a butterfly. The Tyrell girl watched fondly from her bench, practically aglow in the midday sun. A lovely girl, though not quite so beautiful as the Stark girl. He could still see her, red hair shining like flame as Ser Loras knighted Olyvar Sand.
A moon's turn since the trial by combat, a week since the boy was dubbed on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor, and the city would not shut up about it. A pair of puppeteers were rolling in coin thanks to their lifelike puppets and artful recreation of the combat. Some group of worthless mummers was already rehearsing a new play based on the scandal.
The singers had been just as busy. Bethany Fair-fingers was the first to perform her new song, and "The Sand that Brought Down a Mountain" was incredibly popular in the taverns and potshops. Prince Oberyn and his retinue preferred a Dornish singer, some brothel madam who sang "The Day the Mountain Fell." The Blue Bard made Margaery Tyrell and her ladies sigh with "The Mountain and the Maiden," a romantic bit of nonsense about the supposed true love betwixt the Dornish bastard and northern lady. Hamish the Harper's version of events, "And the Seven Sent a Sparrow" was more piously inclined, and Galyeon of Cuy and Alaric of Eysen had their own versions as well.
Lord Tywin was nearly apoplectic over the whole affair. The face he presented to the court might be stern and proud, but Jaime had years of practice in recognizing the warning signs beneath the mask. Small council meetings were as few as possible since the trial by combat, as Prince Oberyn Martell seemed determined to make as many subtle japes as possible while Ser Kevan ground his teeth. Lord Mace Tyrell was little better, with his blustering over wedding preparations.
The only good news of late was Varys' whispers that Lysa Arryn was finally calling her banners. The Lords of the Vale would be a welcome addition to the forces of the Westerlands and the Reach. Their camps outside the city were plagued with the bloody flux; near a third had fallen ill, and half of those had died. Lord Tytos Brax, who had charge of the camp, had been among them. The War of Five Kings had treated House Brax particularly ill; Lord Andros had died during the Battle of the Camps; his brother Ser Rupert at Oxcross, and his second son Ser Robert at the Battle of the Fords. Now Ser Flement, the third son, was the new lord, and ill prepared for his new station. His Frey wife certainly would not help matters.
The begging brothers had grown bolder since the trial by combat. One could not go half a mile in the city without hearing some filthy street preacher decrying the Red Wedding as an affront to all the laws of gods and men. Lord Roland Crakehall had cut one of them down a week past, enraged by the beggar's audacity.
Nor were the unwashed sparrows the only ones talking treason. Ser Jacelyn Bywater, Commander of the City Watch, grimly reported that the guildhalls and the markets echoed with ominous whispers of the fury of the gods. King's Landing had never loved Lord Tywin, not even before the Sack, but now… they spoke of the murder of King Aerys. Nevermind that he would have burned them all in their beds if not for me. They muttered of the attempted rape of Princess Elia, her that was so good to the poor, of the butchery of Rhaegar's children, of the execution of Eddard Stark and the blasphemy of the Red Wedding. They muttered of the pious, tragic Stark girl, and Tywin the Faithless, and the Dornish bastard who killed the Mountain who had slain Ser Arthur Dayne.
Cersei was even angrier than Lord Tywin, if that was possible. They were fucking almost daily now; his back a mass of scabs from her clawing. Jaime retaliated by fucking Cersei as hard as possible, not that it helped any. He didn't know what he was supposed to do; Jaime could hardly march into the Stark girl's tower cell and cut out her heart.
Sparring in the godswood was the only time he felt truly alive. Brienne of Tarth was better than she had any right to be, and her thrashings had grown no less fierce since Lady Sansa was declared innocent. Still, he was improving. He could draw his sword with his left hand almost as fast as he'd once drawn with his right. True, he could only manage one good thrust before Brienne whipped him soundly, but it was something . Jaime was almost disappointed that she was to be ransomed soon.
Lord Selwyn of Tarth might have a daughter of surpassing peculiarity, but he wanted her back all the same. He'd sent a raven offering three hundred dragons for Brienne's safe return, and Ser Kevan had been on the verge of accepting when Lord Mace Tyrell strenuously objected to the freeing of Lord Renly's murderer. As if Mace Tyrell cared. It was Ser Loras who proclaimed her guilt to all and sundry.
As if summoned by Jaime's thoughts, the young knight appeared, his curls bouncing as he strode through the gardens. Loras ruffled Tommen's hair before taking a seat beside his sister, their talk too quiet for Jaime to hear.
By the time Ser Loras rose to leave Jaime had made up his mind.
"Ser Loras!" He called. The boy turned, graceful as a dancer.
"Yes, Ser Jaime?"
"A word, if you please."
Jaime watched the boy draw near. His doublet was a rich emerald green, embroidered with golden roses in sets of three. A golden stag reared over his heart, its eye made of sapphire. Some fool might think the brooch a sign of loyalty to Tommen Baratheon, but Jaime knew better. Lord Renly had once worn that brooch.
"How may I be of service?" Ser Loras asked, an impudent smile on his pretty face.
"Brienne of Tarth."
The smile fell.
"She should have stood trial, instead of the Stark girl. Renly's blood is on her hands."
"Is it?" Jaime asked mildly. "When the wench was not trying to keep me alive across half the Riverlands, she was weeping for Renly. I've never shed a tear for Aerys, I promise you that."
"She was the only one in the tent, her and Catelyn Stark."
"So she told me. Brienne claims a shadow slew Renly while she and Lady Catelyn watched in horror. An odd story, I grant you, but more likely than Brienne slaying the man she loved, or Catelyn Stark defeating an anointed knight. The woman may have murdered Walder Frey, but Renly was not an unarmed lecher of ninety."
"Then why flee, if it was not their work?"
Jaime rolled his eyes.
"Would you stay in a king's tent after watching him murdered, with his host all around you?"
Loras hesitated, then shook his head stiffly.
"Go talk to the damn woman. If her answers satisfy you, ask Lord Mace to stop blocking her being ransomed. It ill suits a knight to leave a maid dangling in such a precarious position."
Loras Tyrell snorted in derision.
"I beg your pardon, I forgot I was speaking to the epitome of a true knight."
Jaime only barely resisted the urge to throttle him for his impudence.
"A true knight, you say? Lord Renly had no more claim to the throne than I have; at least those who rode with Stannis could justify themselves."
The young knight's temper flashed.
"My father trusted my judgment. Lord Renly was the king that should have been, strong, generous, loyal…"
The boy stared into the distance, his shoulders slumped.
"Speak to Brienne," Jaime urged. Loras drew himself up.
"I will speak to her on the morrow. I swear it."
When the boy was gone Jaime found himself watching Tommen play with his kittens. My son, by blood if nothing else. Tommen was working hard to learn the lance and sword from Ser Addam Marbrand, but he had none of Jaime's fierceness, no more than Ser Loras shared Lord Mace's appetite.
My father trusted my judgment, Loras had said. When was the last time Lord Tywin had sought Jaime's opinion? His eldest son was a sword to be wielded by Lord Tywin at his pleasure, and a sword did not command the swordsman, no more than Jaime might command his father. Lord Mace would go into mourning for a year at least should Ser Loras fall in battle; so far as Jaime knew, Lord Tywin had not donned black even once for Tyrion. The smallfolk said he had a shriveled lump of gold where most men kept their heart.
His thoughts were still aswirl when Ser Addam came to relieve Jaime of his duty. He bathed the sweat from his body in a daze before dressing and making his way to the common room of the White Sword Tower. His dinner tasted of ashes, his wine of vinegar.
The bells tolled midnight when Jaime slipped from the White Sword Tower. His golden sword tapped at his right leg as he descended the stairs, the motion still disconcerting. For twenty years he'd borne his sword on his left hip; the sense of wrongness plagued him like a loose tooth.
Jaime expected to find redcloaks guarding the Tower of the Hand. He did not expect to be denied entrance.
"The Lord Hand is not to be disturbed," the short guard said, trembling. For a moment Jaime considered forcing his way past, then thought better of it. Lord Tywin was known for having little patience with guards who did not enforce his orders. There were other ways about the Red Keep.
The eunuch's apartments were under the north wall, three small windowless chambers. The sparse decoration came as something of a surprise, given the eunuch's love of silks and perfumes. Varys was not there, so Jaime waited patiently, dagger in hand, sitting on the eunuch's stone bed.
When the bed began to move, Jaime leapt to his feet, cursing under his breath. Sorcery. No, some mummer's trick. Tyrion would know how it was that half a ton of stone could float up as if by magic, revealing stone steps and a shining bald head.
"Well met, Lord Varys," Jaime said pleasantly, hiding his shock with a mocking smile.
"Ser Jaime," Varys panted, his eyes fixed on the dagger pointed at his throat.
"None other. I was thinking you might help me speak to my father, as his guards refuse to admit me."
A queer look flickered over the eunuch's face.
"The Lord Hand is not to be disturbed."
Jaime shoved the knife under the eunuch's soft white chin, still smiling. "Did I stammer? I must needs speak with my lord father now, not later."
The tunnels beneath the Red Keep were a mass of dust and cobwebs and rusted iron grates. Here and there the eunuch withdrew a small key from his robes to pass a grate; others had rusted away to almost nothing, their rough edges snaring Jaime's white tunic and breeches, leaving deep orange-red streaks like dried blood.
At last Varys paused. A scuffed mosaic of a three-headed dragon roared beneath their feet, wrought in black and red tiles. Little Rhaenys' hair had been the same shade, her body riddled with more holes than there were stars in the sky. The babe had been an even worse horror, his head a bloody pulp with a few tufts of silver hair. Gone were the sweet children who'd returned from Dragonstone, reduced to naught but flesh and blood and bone.
Lord Tywin was not a man who believed in delays. Jaime had barely told Ser Gregor to stand down and picked up the sobbing Dornish princess when Lord Tywin appeared at the door to the nursery, eyes glinting. While Jaime carried Elia to the maester, Lord Tywin had wrapped the bodies of the royal children in crimson cloaks. Two days later he presented them to Robert Baratheon, grisly trophies set at the foot of the Iron Throne. Jaime had entered just as the new king left the throne room, engaged in a screaming row with Ned Stark.
Why had Lord Tywin made for the nursery? He might have claimed the Iron Throne, had he reached it before Robert Baratheon. Robert had no interest in rule, no more than Stark did. Jon Arryn was the one who had decided that Robert should be the new king due to his droplet of Targaryen blood. Had Lord Tywin intended to ensure the children were properly handled? Or did he mean to take Princess Elia hostage to ensure Dorne's surrender?
"My lord," Varys said loudly, clearing his throat. Jaime blinked.
"We are beneath the Tower of the Hand," the eunuch said, as if Jaime were a slow witted child. One plump finger tapped the rungs of a ladder.
"Two hundred and thirty rungs must you climb. Then you must take the tunnel to the left. You will have to crawl, I'm afraid. It is no more than sixty feet; keep one hand on the wall as you go. You will feel the doors. The bedchamber is the third."
Varys repeated the directions thrice more before Jaime was confident enough to begin to climb. The shaft was narrow and black as pitch. A man of Tyrion's size would have found it comfortable, but it was not made for one of Jaime's height.
Climbing the ladder one handed was an unanticipated taste of hell. At every rung he had to pause and rest his weight on his feet, his hips pressed close to the ladder. His right arm wrapped under a rung, holding it tight in the inside of his elbow while his left hand reached for the next rung.
Finally he reached two hundred and thirty, sweat dripping down his brow and soaking his chest. If the shaft was cramped the tunnel was suffocating, so narrow Jaime was forced to crawl on his hands and knees. After a few minutes his stump was burning in pain, so he switched to crawling on his elbows.
Jaime was beginning to wonder if he should have waited until morning to speak to his father when he felt the rough wood of the third door. He groped at the door for what felt like hours before his fingers brushed against a small iron hook. He pulled down on it, and with a soft rumble a square of dull orange light opened to his left.
The hearth, sweet brother, he could hear Tyrion say. Exasperation warred with fondness in the ghost of his little brother's voice.
Jaime was about to step through and announce himself when some instinct made him pause. It would not do to interrupt his father deep in argument with Lord Mace or Prince Oberyn.
The great log in the hearth had burned down to cinders. Carefully, ever so carefully, Jaime raised himself to a squat, bracing himself against the wall of the passage with his good hand. If he could just get a glimpse of the bedroom beyond—
Dull slapping noises echoed through the chamber. The drapes of the bed were open, a pair of scrawny, wrinkled buttocks pumping away at a gasping girl.
"Yes, m'lord," she panted. "So much better than the Imp, thank you, m'lord, thank you." Her voice seemed strained somehow, a note of falseness beneath the sweet.
The buttocks clenched; a harsh grunt, and it was done.
"I have business to attend to," Lord Tywin said, his voice colder than the grave. "You will remain here until dismissed. You are not to leave this bed; am I clear?"
"Yes, m'lord," the girl said.
"On your belly, girl," Jaime's father said. "If you try to hide under the blankets—"
"I won't, m'lord, I swear," the girl said. "I'll be waiting for you."
"Good. I mislike having to repeat myself."
Jaime barely managed to retreat into the passage before Lord Tywin rose from the bed. His stomach roiled as he listened, hearing the soft sweep of fabric and the dull thud of a door closing.
When Jaime finally emerged from the passage the whore was lying on the bed, asleep. Gooseprickles covered her bare skin, just as purple bruises covered her wrists and hips. Her legs were splayed, not in the idle tangle of sleep but in the deliberate pose of one who knew failure to obey would result in punishment.
Jaime closed the drapes, his fingers numb. How many times had Lord Tywin berated Tyrion over his use of whores? So much better than the Imp, the girl had said… Jaime choked down bile. Gods be good, why was Tyrion's whore in his father's bed?
As if in a dream Jaime wandered into the solar. Gone was the simple oak furniture used by Jon Arryn and Ned Stark. Lord Tywin's desk and chair were of cherrywood, richly carved with lions and sunbursts. They sat atop a raised dais in the center of the room, a long crimson carpet rolling from the center of the desk to the doors. Silk banners of crimson and gold hung from the walls; even the ink pots on the desk were gold set with rubies.
It is Aerys' throne room, writ small, Jaime thought inanely. There were no chairs facing Lord Tywin's throne, so Jaime dragged one over from beside the fire. The tunnels had tired him out, and he sank down gratefully into the plush cushion.
When Lord Tywin emerged from the hallway that led to the privy tower, his bedrobe of crimson samite was cinched tight at the waist.
"Jaime," he said coolly, as if he had expected his son to visit in the middle of the night. "I thought I had told my guards I was not to be disturbed."
"I persuaded them of the urgency of my business," Jaime lied as his father settled himself in his chair.
"Oh? And what urgent business would that be?"
Jaime froze. Between the tunnel and the sight of his father in the midst of bedding a whore, he'd forgotten the reason he'd come.
"I've reconsidered leaving the Kingsguard," Jaime said, stalling. "I'll wed the Stark girl, as you wished."
"You shall leave the kingsguard, but not to wed the Stark girl." His father's lips were pressed so thin as to be almost invisible. "The heirs to Casterly Rock will not come from such traitorous stock. Some other girl will have to do; a Marbrand, perhaps, or a Tyrell cousin. The Stark girl requires a sharp lesson to remind her of her place."
Jaime hid a wince. Tyrion's sharp lesson had involved the rape of his little wife by near two dozen guards, and Tysha had only had the temerity to be a crofter's daughter in love with a lord's son. They said she was still weeping when the steward sent her on her way, a bag of silver clutched in her shaking hands.
"A sharp lesson?" Jaime asked. "Joff had her father's head off before her eyes; is it any wonder she's gone mad?"
"Mad?" His father looked at Jaime as if his son was the one who had lost his wits. "Sansa Stark did naught by accident, the scheming bitch. Not since Ellyn Tarbeck have I seen such brazen impudence from a woman. No. I shall take her in hand myself."
"Yourself?" Jaime stammered as a tabby cat slunk past his chair. "Let the girl be punished, but rape—"
"A husband exercising his marital rights is not rape," Lord Tywin declared in iron tones. "She will remain at court with me; the children she bears will be taken from her and raised at Casterly Rock. Stark blood and Lannister tutelage and Winterfell will be ours. The girl should be grateful Ser Gregor is dead; he and his reavers would have taught her a much sharper lesson."
"Like he was meant to teach Elia Martell?"
Lord Tywin watched Jaime, the firelight shining off those cold eyes. Dread curled in Jaime's belly. You intended to watch. That was why you went to the nursery.
"A girl of Dornish blood was not fit to wed Rhaegar Targaryen. Princess Loreza no doubt licked Aerys' boots for weeks to achieve such a match for her sickly daughter. Such insult to House Lannister could not be tolerated."
"House Lannister," Jaime echoed, flexing his fingers. "Tyrion died for House Lannister, yet when I returned to the city neither you nor Cersei wore mourning as Ser Kevan did for Lancel."
"Tyrion was a disgrace to our house." His father's voice was flat. "I would have had him smothered at birth, if not for your mother. She begged me with her dying breath to spare the monster that killed her. Still, he proved some use in the end. Your sister said his chain helped ensnare Stannis's fleet and her wildfire did the rest."
"He was your son, your heir."
Lord Tywin rose to his feet, kingly even in his bedrobe.
"You are my heir. I am glad you have finally seen reason; Cersei is not fit to rule Casterly Rock, let alone serve as Queen Regent. She needs a new husband to fill her belly with children and disprove these disgusting slanders. Oberyn Martell, perhaps; he's indicated interest in bringing her to heel."
"Oberyn Martell?" Jaime was on his feet before he knew what he was doing. "The man flaunts his paramour in public; he'll be unfaithful to her every day of their marriage." I have never slept with another woman, and never will. Cersei deserves devotion, not shame.
"If Cersei cannot keep him in her bed, the fault lies with her. She certainly did little enough to slake Robert's appetites. Your sister will tolerate his infidelities just as she tolerated Robert's."
"Must she also tolerate a nest of vipers underfoot? If you think for one misbegotten moment that he'll send his bastards away—"
"When I wish to hear your opinion, I shall ask for it," Lord Tywin said coldly. "Cersei shall wed and bed whomever I please."
"That hasn't stopped her from bedding me."
The color drained from Lord Tywin's face. A poisoned silence hung over the room until he finally stepped from behind his desk, eyes fixed on Jaime.
"I see," he said in a voice dark as the Stranger. "How long?"
"Since we were children. I took her maidenhead when we were thirteen." Jaime had never felt such fear, nor such boldness. His father stared at him, pale green eyes venomous.
"You will speak of this to no one. I shall find some excuse to send Cersei to the silent sisters without the tongue that led you astray."
"Father, please, it was not her fault, she is your daughter—"
"SHE IS A WHORE!" Lord Tywin's bedrobe fell open as he slammed his fist on the desk. His chest was wrinkled, thatched with golden hair. "You will never see her again—"
Jaime could not fight as he once could; he could barely slash and parry. But he could draw his sword easily enough, the gold shining in the light.
Even Aerys had turned and run. Lord Tywin merely stared at his son, unafraid, the tip of the sword resting at his breast.
"Really, Jaime? You haven't the nerve." The bedrobe slid from his broad shoulders, fluttering to the ground. Without it Lord Tywin seemed shrunken, just some old man.
"Haven't I, father? Cersei is mine."
The smallfolk said Lord Tywin's heart was made of old hard gold, but when Jaime drove his sword through his father's heart, it bled like any other man's. He pulled the sword out and his father reeled away, falling face first on the desk, arse in the air. Jaime stepped back just as the bowels loosened in the moment of death.
He was still staring at the reeking pile of shit when Varys found him.
"You should not have done that," Varys said reproachfully. "Kingslayer and kinslayer? A heavy burden for any man. It would break poor Tommen's heart to order his father's execution."
Jaime grabbed the eunuch by the throat.
"Would you care to join Lord Tywin?"
"I can help you," Varys gasped. "I've known of you and the queen for years, and never told a soul, not even Lord Stark when he began sniffing about. I pitied the two of you, truth be told. Some of my own ancestors were similarly afflicted with your, ah, inclination."
Jaime eased his grip, dumbfounded.
"What?"
Varys rubbed at his throat, coughing.
"Tommen is a sweet child. That cruel throne will eat him alive, should he sit it long."
Jaime raised his golden sword, blood dripping.
"Not a threat, my lord," Varys placated, his powdered hands raised. "A warning. I could save him."
"Save him? How?" Jaime shook his head. I must stop echoing people; it makes me sound a fool.
"I could spirit him away when the time is right, just as I saved Elia's sweet babe. You could raise him, pardoned of all your crimes. Jaime and Cersei Lannister, Lord and Lady of Casterly Rock."
"Elia's babe?" Jaime cursed himself. "Aegon lives?"
"Let me send you to him," Varys said, his voice somehow deeper. "He will need famous men by his side, powerful men, and who better than the Lion of the West?"
Jaime stared at the eunuch. Cersei would hate giving up her crown, but they would be free, free to raise Tommen openly as husband and wife; perhaps even make him younger brothers and sisters. With Lord Tywin dead no one would force Cersei to wed against her will; nor would the poor Stark girl be forced to endure the marriage bed at thirteen. Even Brienne should be ransomed on the morrow.
"I accept," Jaime finally said, sheathing his sword. The eunuch smiled.
"Then we must make haste. You were never here, after all; your father was killed by some assassin hired by his enemies. Stannis, perhaps."
They returned to the bedchamber in silence but for the soft swish of Varys' robes. The eunuch tip toed around the ashes of the hearth before crouching and entering the passage. Jaime was following after when he heard it.
"M'lord?" The girl's voice was muffled by the closed drapes. With a surprisingly strong grip Varys yanked Jaime into the passage and closed it behind them.
"Never fear, I'll take care of the girl," Varys reassured him.
"Don't kill her," he replied, careful to keep his voice low. "Was she Tyrion's?"
"For a time." The eunuch pursed his lips. "I had no intention of killing the girl, my lord; she'll stay in that bed until Lord Tywin comes for her. Which, ah, we needn't worry about. I shall fetch her once you are on your way."
"On my way where?"
Even in the dark Jaime could see the eunuch's white teeth as he smiled.
"Why, on your way to Essos. To King Aegon, the Sixth of His Name."