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Lannister : Chapter 7
🕑 Added 2025-03-13 14:21:07 +0000 UTC
( Tywin POV )
Tywin Lannister sat on an ancient throne, carved of gold and ebony hardwood, it was a relic of ancient days, the Lannisters had many such thrones from their royal lineage, but this one had always been his favorite. It had belonged to Gerold the Great, a man he had always looked up to, and it fit his frame and structure well. He always had it to moved to the Golden Hall when he held his court in Casterly Rock, rare as that had been in his time as Lord.
Today, he would have it all burned, and the wealth of the Westerlands with it, for a moment more with his Joanna.
Tywin Lannister was a grim man, thin as a bowstring, but hard and sharp as flint. He was tall and whip-like, with a head of willowy blond hair, muscular, wiry arms, and a gaping hole in his heart.
He held his hand over his eyes as he leaned back over the railing of his throne and wept. Tears dropped down beneath his gaunt fingers and sobs echoed around his empty hall.
For all his cunning, diligence, and power, Tywin Lannister was still a man. He had loved Joanna and loved more deeply than many men, small-folk or Lord alike. Raised a grim, thorny pillar of iron, he had let his wife shape him, let only her hands work him into something more honest, something more true. He would have gone to war to protect her, would have slaughtered every man in the Seven Kingdoms, and paved a road in their skulls so her feet need not touch the ground.
Tywin sobbed.
It has been utterly, repulsively beyond his control. Like so many other wives and mothers, she had gone to fight a woman's war and died in the battle. His twisted, disfigured newborn son her murderer, a jest by the Seven upon all the careful works and kindhearted love ever wrought or felt by men.
She had given birth three days ago and her womb had sickened. This morning she had died, all while his little children, his two sons and one daughter had sobbed over her. Little Callum had held her hand until hours after her heartbeat had stopped.
And Tywin had stood there dead-eyed, knowing that the stranger was coming for the one he truly loved. Knowing that he was having the only thing worth more than his house from him, unable to let himself cry, unable to speak, unable to even take fair revenge upon the thief who stole her from him.
He would have thrown the baby from the peak of the Rock and cast it down to the ocean where it could be dashed against the rocks. He could hardly bear to look at the baby, Tyrion, and not for his hideous appearance, but for the indescribable rage that filled him. For the temptation to make himself a kinslayer, to slay the boy and end this curse that the Seven had laid upon him.
But he could not do it.
No, he could not do it. Too weak he was, too weak to make himself a kinslayer for Joanna's sake, to end the gruesome parody that was their youngest and last child together. For Tyrion was their child, hateful and wretched as he was. There was some part of Joanna in that boy, and Tywin feared to hurt what remained of his love far more than he feared the title kinslayer.
And so the murderer would live, and every time he saw his horrible face Tywin would remember that he had been too weak to take his revenge. That he was too weak to pay the debt that fate had foisted upon him in cruel jest.
And that his body was still without a heart.
Tywin sobbed bitterly as he swallowed down his snot. Tears dripped from his chin and fell to his doublet, staining the fine velvet cloth as they made their slow and meandering way to the cold stone floor. An empty hall with an empty-hearted lord, filled with cold echoes of bottomless sorrow in the night.
Tywin didn't know how long he sobbed for, the gaudy decorations of the Golden Hall his only company in the depths of the night. His tears had long since dried, but the sobs still came to his sore, dry throat as the night wore on, and he was finally distracted from his sadness by the distant pitter-patter of small footsteps on the polished marble floor.
The light in the hall was dim, illuminated by a dim solitary brazier against one wall, but even so, he could make out the long, frizzy hair of his son glinting gold in the firelight.
"Father…" Callum's voice was dry and croaky, raw with overuse.
Tywin realized with a start that he must look a mess. There were stains of dried snot and tears down his chin and onto his clothes, and he was entirely disheveled. His own was voice cracked and dry as he answered. "Callum."
He didn't even have the heart to tell the boy he ought to be asleep. He couldn't sleep, so how could his son? They had both lost Joanna today.
"J-Jaime is mourning with Cersei… and Tyrion is with the nurses," Callum said. "I… do you mind if I mourn with you? I have… there's no one else now."
Tywin looked at his son, those green eyes glinting in the light, reddened and crusty from crying. He was so small, smart to be sure, but still so small. Far too small to lose a mother. A mother he took after more than his siblings. Callum had her eyes, her chin, her nose… most certainly her hair.
Tywin sighed, he hated to show weakness to his sons. It reminded him of Tytos, and his feelings for his father were too dark and complicated for this already terrible night.
"Come here, boy," Tywin said at last. And Callum scurried over quickly, stopping just a foot or so away from Tywin, still seated on his throne, where he had been for many hours.
"Father…" Callum looked terrible, seeing him this close. Probably just as bad as Tywin did.
"Hush," Tywin ordered sternly, reaching forward with both arms, he dragged the boy into a tight embrace, pulling Callum up onto his lap. The boy yelped in surprise but calmed as Tywin placed the boy's head against his shoulder. He seemed to realize what Tywin was doing, though he was still stiff with shock, even as Tywin patted his back.
Perhaps Tywin was simply terrible at comforting his children. That wouldn't surprise him. Still, this night he was feeling empty enough to try.
"There… to mourn a great loss is not weakness, Callum," Tywin spoke in his croaky voice, but the words felt hollow. He would not cry like this were he to lose his whole army in a battle and be bound for the executioner's block. But then again, that would not be so great a loss. "I will mourn with you."
Tywin felt teardrops hit his shoulder, and time seemed to slow between them.
A long silence punctuated only by a single croaky whisper.
"I'm sorry."
Even decades later, Tywin never understood just what Callum had meant.
