Mid 281 AC
The road to King's Landing stretched before him, dusty and sun-baked in the summer heat. Jaime Lannister, or rather Ser Jaime, rode at the head of the column, his golden hair gleaming beneath the sun, a new knight's pride evident in every line of his posture. The sword at his hip, the magnificent blade his little brother had forged, felt like an extension of his arm, and was now newly wetted with blood.
Behind him rode Lord Sumner Crakehall and the remnants of their company, fewer in number than when they had set out to hunt the Kingswood Brotherhood. The outlaw band had proven more dangerous than anticipated, their knowledge of the forest giving them advantages that had cost good men their lives.
Jaime's thoughts drifted to the recent battle, replaying each moment with the clarity that combat always left imprinted on a man's mind. The Smiling Knight's mad eyes as they crossed blades. The way the man had laughed, actually laughed, while trying to kill him. And then Arthur Dayne, appearing like a warrior god descended from the heavens, Dawn flashing in the sunlight as he ended the outlaw's life with a single perfect stroke.
Rise Ser Jaime Lannister, Dayne had said, his voice quiet yet carrying across the clearing. You are a squire no longer.
The words still sent a thrill through Jaime's chest. To be knighted by Ser Arthur Dayne himself, the greatest swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms, perhaps in the world, was an honor few could claim. His father would be pleased, he knew. Tywin Lannister valued achievement above all else, and what greater achievement for a son than to be recognized by the legendary Kingsguard?
The youngest knight since Daemon Blackfyre himself.
Lord Crakehall rode up beside him, breaking into his thoughts. The older man's face was weathered from years of battle, a scar running from his temple to his jaw.
"You've been quiet since we left the Kingswood, Jaime," Crakehall observed, his voice gruff but not unkind. "Still thinking about Dayne's sword on your shoulders?"
Jaime smiled, a flash of white teeth in his handsome face. "Can you blame me, my lord? Not every day a man is knighted by the Sword of the Morning."
Crakehall chuckled, a sound like gravel being crushed. "Aye, you've earned your spurs, that's certain. Saved my life against Big Belly Ben, though I'll thank you not to mention it to anyone who might tell my wife." His expression darkened. "Poor Merrett, though. The boy will never be the same."
Jaime's smile faded. Merrett Frey had been carried from the battlefield on a litter, his head wrapped in bloody bandages, the mace strike having crushed his helm and the skull beneath. The maester said he might live, but his wits were addled, his speech slurred and broken.
"A shame," Jaime agreed, though privately he thought the world would not miss another Frey's wits. "He fought bravely, at least."
"Bravely and foolishly," Crakehall corrected. "There's a difference, young knight. Learn it before it costs you as dearly."
They rode in silence for a time, the clop of hooves and jingle of harness the only sounds. The Kingswood receded behind them, its dark canopy giving way to rolling hills and scattered farmsteads. Ahead, the road wound toward the capital, where the Red Keep perched on Aegon's High Hill like a crimson crown.
Jaime's thoughts turned to his family, as they often did when he was away from Casterly Rock. His father would expect a full account of the campaign. Cersei would be waiting as well, her green eyes alight with pride and possessive love. The thought made his heart beat faster, a familiar heat rising in his blood. She had promised to welcome him properly upon his return, and Jaime had no doubt she would keep that promise.
Ahead, the walls of King's Landing came into view, the capital sprawling across the hills like a great beast sleeping in the sun. Smoke rose from a thousand chimneys, the stink of the city reaching them even from this distance, fish and sewage and humanity packed too close together.
"Home for some," Crakehall muttered, nodding toward the city. "You'll be returning to the Rock soon, I imagine."
Jaime nodded. "Yes, my father will want me in Casterly Rock after we pay our respects to the King. And I've been away too long."
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As they rode through the gates of King's Landing, the city's stench enveloped them like a physical presence. Jaime had never grown accustomed to the capital's foul odors, so different from the clean sea air of Casterly Rock. The streets teemed with people who barely glanced up as their party passed, too accustomed to the comings and goings of knights and lords to pay them much mind.
The Red Keep loomed above them as they ascended Aegon's High Hill, its crimson towers catching the afternoon sun. Jaime felt a flutter of anticipation in his chest. Soon he would kneel before the king, receive recognition for his deeds in the Kingswood, and soon be in Cersei's arms.
The throne room was packed with courtiers when they entered. Jaime's eyes swept the crowd, searching for his father's familiar face. He found him immediately; Tywin Lannister stood at the foot of the Iron Throne, his crimson cloak a splash of blood against the gray stone. Their eyes met briefly, and Jaime felt a surge of pride at the subtle nod his father offered.
Then Jaime's gaze rose to the man seated on the throne itself, and his breath caught.
King Aerys Targaryen had deteriorated since Jaime had last seen him. The once-handsome monarch now resembled a creature from the tales told to frighten children, a mad king from some ancient legend rather than the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. His silver-gold hair hung in lank strands around a face grown gaunt and sallow. His fingernails had been allowed to grow into long, yellowed claws that curled like talons around the arms of the throne. His eyes darted restlessly about the chamber, never settling, never quite focusing.
"Your Grace," Lord Barristan Selmy announced, dropping to one knee. Jaime and the others followed suit, the sound of armor clanking against stone echoing through the hall.
The king's head jerked up at the sound, his wild eyes fixing on their group. "Who disturbs my peace?" he demanded, his voice cracking like dry parchment. "Who dares approach the dragon's seat?"
"Barristan Selmy, Your Grace," the older man replied, his voice steady despite the tension in the room. "I bring news of the Kingswood Brotherhood."
Aerys leaned forward, his talons scraping against the metal of the throne. "The outlaws? Have they been dealt with?"
"They have, Your Grace. The Brotherhood is no more."
The king's lips peeled back in what might have been a smile. "Good. Very good. The rabble must learn their place." He waved a clawed hand. "Rise, all of you. Tell me everything."
As they stood, Ser Arthur Dayne stepped forward from among the Kingsguard. The Sword of the Morning moved with a grace that made others seem clumsy by comparison. His white cloak hung from broad shoulders, Dawn in its sheath at his hip.
"Your Grace," Dayne began, his voice quiet yet carrying to every corner of the throne room, "the Kingswood Brotherhood has been eradicated. The Smiling Knight, Big Belly Ben, Fletcher Jack - all dead or captured."
He proceeded to give a detailed account of the campaign, describing each skirmish. The court listened in rapt attention, though Jaime noted how the king's gaze wandered, his attention clearly slipping as Dayne spoke.
"And in the final confrontation," Dayne continued, "it was young Jaime Lannister who distinguished himself. He fought with courage and skill beyond his years, facing the Smiling Knight himself and holding his ground until I could arrive."
The Sword of the Morning turned to Jaime, his violet eyes warm with approval. "I took the liberty of knighting him on the field, Your Grace. The youngest knight in many generations, and worthy of the honor."
A murmur ran through the crowd. Jaime felt his cheeks warm with pride, but he kept his eyes fixed on the king, waiting for acknowledgment.
Aerys blinked, as if suddenly remembering where he was. "A Lannister," he said, his voice taking on an edge. "Another golden lion to snap at my heels." His gaze shifted to Tywin, who stood impassive at the foot of the throne. "Your cub has grown claws, my lord."
Tywin inclined his head slightly. "House Lannister serves the crown faithfully, Your Grace."
For a moment, something dangerous flickered in the king's eyes, a flash of the madness that had been growing in him for years. Then it passed, and he slumped back against the throne.
"Very well," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "The boy has earned his spurs. Let him enjoy them."
Jaime caught his father's eye again. To his astonishment, Tywin's lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. The older man gave a slight nod of approval, so subtle that only Jaime would have noticed it.
The gesture sent a wave of pride crashing through Jaime's chest. His father's approval, rare, precious, and never freely given, was worth more than any praise from the king or the court. He had done it. He had proven himself worthy of the Lannister name.
The audience concluded shortly after, the king growing restless and dismissing them with another wave of his taloned hand. As they filed from the throne room, Jaime felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Come to my chambers tonight," Tywin said quietly. "We have matters to discuss."
"Yes, Father," Jaime replied, excitement and apprehension warring within him. What would his father want to discuss? His future, perhaps? His place in House Lannister now that he had proven himself in battle?
A servant called to him, leading him to his allotted chambers. As the door closed behind him, Jaime let out a long breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The chamber assigned to him in the Red Keep was smaller than his rooms at Casterly Rock, but still luxurious by the standards of most knights. Lannister gold ensured comfort even in the capital.
He unbuckled his sword belt and poured water from the pitcher into the basin, splashing his face to wash away the dust of the road. The cool liquid felt heavenly against his sunburned skin. He stripped off his tunic, examining the bruises that mottled his torso - souvenirs from his encounters with the Kingswood Brotherhood.
The footsteps behind him were soft, barely audible, but Jaime's honed senses caught them instantly. His hand went to where his sword should have been before recognition dawned.
"You've grown careless, brother," Cersei's voice purred from the doorway. "A proper knight should never be caught unarmed."
He turned to find Cersei standing before him, her golden hair gleaming in the afternoon light filtering through the high windows.
Gods, she was beautiful. More beautiful than he remembered, if that were possible. Her emerald eyes sparkled with mischief and desire, her lips curved in a smile that promised pleasures beyond imagining. She wore a gown of deep crimson that accentuated every curve of her body, the Lannister colors a deliberate statement of her heritage and her pride.
Cersei smiled, the expression both predatory and seductive. She closed the door behind her, the soft click of the latch sealing them in together.
"Jaime," she breathed, her voice like honey. "My brave knight."
Before he could respond, she had taken his hand and was pulling him into an embrace. Jaime could feel the heat of her body through his armor, could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she gazed up at him.
"I heard about your knighting," she said, moving toward him with feline grace. "The youngest since Daemon Blackfyre. They're saying you're the greatest swordsman since the Dragonknight."
Jaime laughed, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "They say many things in King's Landing. Most of them are lies."
"Not this," Cersei insisted, her fingers trailing along his bare chest, tracing the lines of his muscles. "I know you, Jaime. I've always known what you're capable of."
Before Jaime could respond, her lips found his, hungry and demanding. The taste of her, wine and something uniquely Cersei, drove all thoughts of his brother from his mind. His hands tangled in her golden hair as he pulled her closer, the water from his chest soaking into her fine gown.
She broke the kiss, her eyes gleaming with triumph. "I've missed you," she whispered against his neck. "Every night I lay alone, thinking of you."
Her fingers worked at the laces of his breeches with practiced ease. Jaime groaned as her hand closed around him, his body responding instantly to her touch.
"Show me how much you've missed me," she commanded, her voice husky with desire.
He lifted her, carrying her to the bed with the strength that had made him a knight. The sword Tyrion had forged clattered to the floor, forgotten as Jaime laid his sister on the mattress. Her gown came away with a single practiced tug, revealing the pale perfection of her body.
They moved together with the familiar rhythm of lovers long accustomed to each other's bodies. Cersei's nails dug into his back as she arched beneath him, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Jaime lost himself in her, the world outside this room fading to insignificance.
Afterward, they lay entwined, sweat cooling on their skin. Cersei traced patterns on his chest with one finger, her expression thoughtful.
"We must be together," she whispered, her fingers trailing down his cheek. "Forever, Jaime. Just you and me, as it was always meant to be."
Her words sent a familiar heat coursing through his veins. "Cersei," he began, but she pressed a finger to his lips.
"Listen to my plan," she insisted, her eyes burning with intensity. "Harlan Grandison has passed. The old man finally succumbed to his illness. There's a vacancy in the Kingsguard now."
Jaime blinked, momentarily confused by the change in subject. "What does that—"
"Don't you see?" Cersei's grip tightened on his arm. "If I pass along word of your skill, your bravery against the Kingswood Brotherhood, your knighting by the Sword of the Morning himself- King Aerys will name you to the Kingsguard. Father won't be able to separate us then. We'll be together in the Red Keep, just the two of us."
The idea hit Jaime like a physical blow. Kingsguard? The most prestigious order of knights in the Seven Kingdoms? And with Cersei here, in King's Landing, they could be together always...
"It's perfect," she continued, her voice dropping to a seductive whisper. "Father wants to marry me off to Rhaegar. He'll use me as a political tool, just as he uses everyone. But if you're in the Kingsguard, we can be together. No one will question our closeness, you'll be my sworn protector."
She leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear. "We'll be together forever, Jaime. Just as the gods intended."
The thought was intoxicating. To be with Cersei always, to serve the king as a knight of the Kingsguard, to escape his father's plans for him. It seemed too perfect, too wonderful to be true.
"Yes," he heard himself say, the word tumbling from his lips before he could consider the consequences. "Yes, I'll do it."
Cersei's smile widened, triumphant and beautiful. She pressed her body against his, her lips finding his in a kiss that promised everything he had ever wanted. Jaime returned it eagerly, his mind already racing with possibilities, with the future that now seemed within his grasp.
"Leave it all to me dear brother. You need not lift a finger."
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The small dining chamber in the eastern wing of Casterly Rock was filled with the warm glow of candlelight and the savory aroma of roasted boar. Tyrion sat at the table, dwarfed by the high-backed chair but managing to appear perfectly at ease as he cut into his portion.
"Tyrion, dear," she said, gesturing with her fork, "do try the honeyed carrots. The cook has outdone herself this evening."
"More wine, Cleos?" Tyrion asked, gesturing with his goblet toward his cousin. "Or perhaps you'd prefer to continue staring at your plate as if it might suddenly grow legs and dance?"
Cleos Frey, Genna's eldest son, blinked owlishly at Tyrion, his pale eyes struggling to focus. The boy, though at eighteen namedays, he was hardly a boy anymore, had inherited his father Emmon's weak chin and watery eyes, though mercifully, not his complete lack of spine.
"I... I'm quite well, cousin," Cleos replied, his voice as bland as watered-down broth. "Thank you."
"Quite well indeed," Tyrion murmured, taking a generous sip from his own goblet. "The pinnacle of Frey achievement, to be quite well."
Across the table, Lyonel Frey snorted into his wine, a spray of red droplets spattering across the fine tablecloth. At fifteen, Lyonel possessed marginally more personality than his elder brother, though that wasn't saying much.
"Pay him no mind, Cleos," Lyonel said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Tyrion's just jealous you've got a pretty wife waiting for you at the Twins."
"Jealous of a Frey marriage?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "Now that's a novel concept. Tell me, Lyonel, does your brother's betrothed have all her teeth? I hear that's considered quite the accomplishment in the Riverlands."
Aunt Genna laughed next to him, rich and full-bodied. "Leave the boys alone, Tyrion. They've endured enough of your barbs for one evening."
Tyrion grinned at his aunt, genuinely fond of the woman who had always treated him with kindness. Genna Lannister, despite her marriage to Emmon Frey, remained every inch a lioness. Her golden hair was beginning to be streaked with it's first silver streaks, and her once-slim figure had rounded with age and childbearing, but her eyes still held the fierce intelligence that had made her the sharpest of Lord Tytos's children.
"I'm merely preparing them for the real world, dear aunt," Tyrion replied, raising his goblet in a mock toast. "The Seven Kingdoms can be a cruel place for those who lack wit. Best they learn to defend themselves here, where the stakes are merely bruised egos rather than lost heads."
The table erupted in laughter, with Genna's Frey offspring joining in.
"They're good boys," Genna whispered to Tyrion, following his gaze. "Just not the sharpest swords in the armory, if you take my meaning."
"I find dull blades have their uses," Tyrion replied with a wink. "They're less likely to cut you when you least expect it."
Tion, the youngest of Genna's brood at seven, leaned forward, his narrow face eager to join the conversation. "Cousin Tyrion, is it true what they say about you? That you killed a man with a single blow?"
The hall fell silent. Even the servants paused in their duties, ears perking up with interest. It had been over a year since the incident with Bevor, but the story had taken on a life of its own, growing more fantastical with each retelling.
Tyrion took a long sip of wine before answering. "I'm afraid the truth is rather less impressive than the rumors, Cleos. The man was quite drunk, you see, and tripped over his own sword. Tragic, really."
"Tell us about your latest project, nephew," Genna said, deftly changing the subject. "The forges, I mean. Tygett says you've revolutionized the way steel is made in the westerlands."
Tyrion felt a genuine smile spread across his face at the mention of his work. The past year had been a whirlwind of progress. With Tywin's reluctant permission secured, Tyrion had transformed the forges of Casterly Rock into something that satisfied the most basic of his dwarven standards. It was still far more impressive than any human forge.
"It's nothing so grand as that," he demurred, though pride warmed his chest. "Just a few improvements to the refining process. The quality of our steel has increased by perhaps thirty percent, and we can produce it in half the time."
"Thirty percent!" Genna exclaimed. "Why, that's extraordinary! The blacksmiths in Lannisport must be dancing in the streets."
Tyrion nodded, remembering the expressions of the master smiths when he had first demonstrated his techniques and inventions. Staven, the head blacksmith, had nearly wept when shown how to remove impurities from the ore using a new flux compound Tyrion had developed. The man now followed him around like a devoted puppy, eager to learn whatever new knowledge the young lord might share.
"Indeed, Aunt Genna," Tyrion replied, swirling his wine thoughtfully. "The forges have become quite the attraction for visiting lords who wish to commission weapons."
As he spoke, his mind wandered to his true creations, hidden away in secret caverns across Casterly Rock. His private collection of rune-forged weaponry and jewellery had grown considerably over the past year. Rings that could store memories or enhance senses, pendants that could heal minor wounds. Beautiful, functional, and utterly priceless.
Tyrion had been careful to release only a few non-magical pieces into the market through trusted agents. Nothing extraordinary, but a golden torc here, a jewellery encrusted bracelet there – each fetching exuberant prices that modestly supplemented his private wealth. Most of it had been carefully hidden and invested in accounts across the Free Cities with Uncle Gerion's help.
Gerion had also taken several choice pieces to Pentos on his latest voyage, promising to return with exotic goods and more gold. In three moons' time, his uncle would sail back to Lannisport, hopefully with a ship laden with treasures and new contacts.
"I've heard you've been training with Uncle Tygett as well," Lyonel said, breaking Tyrion's reverie. "Is it true you can swing a warhammer twice your size?"
Tyrion nearly choked on his wine. If only they knew the truth. His strength had grown to monstrous proportions since that day in the forge with his father. He could bend iron with his bare hands and punch through stone walls. But he had learned to modulate his power, to appear merely very strong rather than truly supernatural.
"Not twice my size," he said with a laugh. "Though I've become quite skilled with a hammer." He flexed his fingers beneath the table, feeling the power coursing through them. A gentle touch was all that was needed now – anything more would crush bones to powder.
"Jaime has been knighted," Genna smiled, her eyes lighting up with prode. "Did you receive a letter from him yet? Our boy is now Ser Jaime, the youngest knight since Daemon Blackfyre! Oh Tywin must be so proud."
Tyrion smiled genuinely at this. "I did. I've commissioned a special gift for him – a dagger to match his sword. Though I doubt anything could match the honor of being knighted by Arthur Dayne himself."
In his heart, Tyrion wished Jaime all the success and glory he deserved.
"To Ser Jaime," Tyrion raised his goblet high. "May his sword always be sharp and his enemies always dull!"
The toast was met with enthusiastic cheers, goblets clinking together in celebration. Yet as Tyrion raised his cup to his lips, his mind was already racing ahead, calculating the implications of his brother's knighting.
Jaime's achievement is impressive, no doubt, Tyrion thought, his face maintaining its cheerful expression while his mind worked through the inevitable consequences. But it's the beginning of the end for Tywin's plans as we know it.
He watched as Genna beamed with pride, her Frey sons joining in the celebration with varying degrees of enthusiasm. None of them understood what was coming. How could they? They saw only glory in Jaime's achievement, not the chain reaction it would set in motion.
Tywin will be pleased for now, Tyrion mused, swirling the wine in his cup. But his pride will turn to rage soon enough. Jaime will be named to the Kingsguard by Aerys if the timeline follows the path I'm aware of; and when that happens...
The dominoes would begin to fall. Jaime would be bound to the Iron Throne, unable to inherit Casterly Rock. Tywin's carefully laid plans for his golden heir would crumble to dust. And Cersei dear, ambitious Cersei, would initially see her twin brother's elevation to a white-cloak as a victory, not realizing it would ultimately separate them.
"Tyrion," Genna said, leaning close, "you've been quiet. What are you plotting in that clever head of yours?"
"Plotting?" Tyrion feigned innocence. "I'm merely thinking about the delicious lemon cakes that will be served as dessert, dear aunt."
Genna's eyes narrowed with suspicion, but she let the matter drop. As the servants brought in trays of sweets, Tyrion caught sight of Maester Creylen entering the hall, a sealed scroll in his hand. The man's expression was grim.
"My lady," the maester bowed to Genna. "A raven has arrived from King's Landing. It's... it's about Lord Tywin."
Tyrion's good humor evaporated. His father rarely sent messages unless something of great importance had occurred. He watched as Genna broke the seal and scanned the contents, her face growing pale.
"What is it?" Tyrion asked, already dreading the answer.
Genna looked up, her eyes meeting Tyrion's with a look of grave seriousness.
"Your father is returning to Casterly Rock, and he's bringing Cersei with him."
Her tone made Tyrion's stomach clench. "That doesn't sound like cause for concern, Aunt."
Genna's fingers tightened on the parchment. "Jaime has been appointed to the Kingsguard, and Tywin has resigned as Hand of the King."
Well, that was far quicker than I anticipated. I was expecting there to be at least a year before he would become a Kingsguard.
The table fell silent. Even the dimmest of the Freys understood the implications.
"Gods be good," Genna whispered. "What is the King thinking. Tywin must be apoplectic."
"That's putting it mildly, dear aunt," Tyrion replied, a mocking smile playing at his lips. "I imagine the Red Keep is currently experiencing what the smallfolk might call 'a bit of a situation.'"
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In King's Landing, the situation was indeed developing with all the subtlety of a rampaging bull.
The court of King Aerys Targaryen II had never witnessed such a scene as when the Hand of the King received the news. Tywin Lannister, the man who had ruled the Seven Kingdoms in all but name for nearly two decades, stood motionless in the Small Council chamber as Grand Maester Pycelle read the royal decree. The parchment fluttered in the old man's trembling hands, the king's seal gleaming like a drop of blood against the creamy surface.
"By the king's command," Pycelle intoned, his voice quavering, "Ser Jaime Lannister is hereby appointed to the Kingsguard, to fill the vacancy left by the passing of Ser Harlan Grandison."
For a moment, Tywin said nothing. The chamber grew colder despite the summer heat beyond the windows. The other council members, Varys, Lord Qarlton Chelsted, Lord Symond Staunton, and others, held their breath, some containing a gleeful smile as they watched the great lion's reaction with the wary fascination of mice observing a cat's twitching tail.
"Your son will be sworn in this evening, my lord," Pycelle added, breaking the silence. "A great honor for House Lannister."
"A great honor," Tywin repeated, his voice so soft it was nearly inaudible. "Yes."
The court tittered at Tywin's response. Those who knew him best would have recognized the danger in that stillness, in the careful control of his features. But the court had grown accustomed to Tywin's impassivity, mistaking it for his natural state rather than the iron restraint it truly was.
That evening, as Jaime Lannister knelt before the Iron Throne, his white cloak draped across his shoulders by the king's own hand, Tywin Lannister was nowhere to be seen. The court murmured in confusion at his absence, for the Hand of the King to miss his own son's investiture was shocking.
The truth, which few would learn until later, was that Tywin had returned to his chambers in the Tower of the Hand immediately after the Small Council meeting. There, alone, he had allowed himself one moment of pure, unadulterated rage. A single glass goblet had shattered against the stone wall, red wine spreading like blood across the floor.
By morning, word spread through the Red Keep that Lord Tywin had fallen gravely ill and would be returning to Casterly Rock immediately. By midday, a letter of resignation lay upon the king's desk, citing failing health and the need to return to Casterly Rock to recuperate.
King Aerys, in one of his rare moments of humour, had laughed until tears streamed down his gaunt cheeks. "The great lion, felled by a fever," he had cackled to his court. "How the mighty are humbled!"
None dared point out the obvious, that Tywin Lannister had not been ill a day in his life, that his sudden 'malady' had struck precisely when his son was named to the Kingsguard, an appointment that would prevent Jaime from inheriting Casterly Rock.
That evening, a procession of Lannister guards, servants, and wagons loaded with Tywin's possessions wound their way through the streets of King's Landing toward the Lion's Gate. At its head rode the Lord of Casterly Rock himself, his face pale but composed, his back straight as a sword. Beside him rode Cersei, her beautiful features set in lines of barely contained fury.
"I won't go," she had screamed at her father the night before. "Jaime is here! You can't separate us!"
Tywin had looked at his daughter with cold contempt. "Your brother has made his choice. He has chosen the king over his family, over his birthright." His voice was pure ice. "You will return to Casterly Rock, and your time at Kings Landing is at an end."
The smallfolk of King's Landing lined the streets, watching the departure of the man who had ruled them for so long. Some cheered, grateful for the lower taxes and relative peace of Tywin's tenure. Others hurled insults and rotten fruit, emboldened by the knowledge and novelty that a noble was being humiliated, that Tywin Lannister was leaving with his tail between his legs.
None of it seemed to affect Tywin Lannister. His eyes remained fixed on the road ahead, his expression revealing nothing of the storm that raged within. The king had stolen his heir, had humiliated House Lannister in the most public way possible. But Tywin Lannister was not a man to accept defeat.
"Father," Cersei said, breaking her sullen silence, "you cannot mean to leave Jaime here."
Tywin's jaw tightened. "Your brother made his choice when he accepted the white cloak. He is no longer my heir."
"Then who will inherit Casterly Rock?" Cersei demanded, her voice rising. "Your dwarf? Is that what you want? A monster to rule the westerlands?"
For a moment, something dangerous flickered in Tywin's eyes. "The succession of House Lannister is not your concern."
As the procession passed through the Lion's Gate and onto the Goldroad that led to the Westerlands, Tywin allowed himself one final look back at the city he had ruled for twenty years. King's Landing sprawled across the hills like a great beast, its stench and corruption hidden beneath a veneer of prosperity that he himself had created.
Tywin would not settle for an apology or a reprieve. He would have a reckoning.
A Lannister always pays his debts.
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Things are heating up!
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