⭒ Politics consume Tywin’s life as much as his lady does.
content warning : explicit sexual content (heterosexual, married relationship), detailed sexual descriptions, power dynamics (consensual), erotic dialogue, emotional intimacy, mild reference to political manipulation and cruelty, domineering/possessive behavior (consensual context), explicit language so MDNI, 18+.
word count : 2,694 (+ or - bc we went through some last minute mini-changes).
YEAR 263 AFTER THE CONQUEST.
The candles in the council chamber burned dangerously low, their light shifting soft and red over the richly adorned walls. Smoke curled lazily from a stick of burning incense, and the woody sweetness of it hung thick in the air alongside the scent of wax and parchment.
Lord Tywin Lannister sat at his king’s right hand, his own finger steepled. His expression felt carved from stone. He had stopped listening some time ago.
The Master of coin, Lord Chelsted, was speaking again, and each word fell from his mouth like honeyed rot. “Your Grace, I must insist, if we were to raise the harbour taxes by another five percent, the crown might—”
“Oh, yes, the merchants will howl,” muttered Lord Staunton at Tywin’s left, drumming thin fingers along the edge of the table. “They always do.”
Lord Chelsted’s tone dripped with scorn when he answered. “But they still pay. Insulting them makes matters worse”.
Tywin’s jaw tightened. We’ve got a council of gnats. What a disgrace.
At the head of the table, King Aerys Targaryen lounged, pale and almost too boldly bored, his fingertips tracing idle shapes upon the table. His nails scratched against it once, then twice, and each time it seemed to file down the line of his smile into a knife’s thin edge. The light was enamoured with his hair, making every soft wave glimmer with a silvery sheen. His red-gold crown leaned heavily to one side, and when he looked away, seven pairs of gemstone eyes still kept watch on his behalf.
“Well, let them howl,” the king finally said. Mirth danced behind his violet eyes. “The city will drown out the noise by the second day.”
Pycelle gave a wheezing breath that might been a chuckle. “A jest most apt, Your Grace.”
The Grand Maester was not so old yet, but already was his thick beard white and grey, his chain sinking heavily into his chest. Each link gleamed in the firelight. He smelled of dust and oils and obedience. He laughs at every misplaced jest, Tywin thought ruefully, looking away, so long as it drips from royal lips.
The council had begun at midday. By the time Tywin's patience had been truly worn thin, it was two hours before dusk. They were still quibbling over tariffs, harbour dues and minor lords’ petitions, despite the fact that such time was well past. They were petty things that Tywin refused to discuss when more important matters awaited them all.
In the thick of this nightmare, all he had to do was think of you to picture the candlelight on your hair, how it would gleam against skin warm as the sun. She will be waiting. You hated when he returned late, although you were too courteous to say it aloud.
The thought of you steadied him, as few things did.
Tywin turned his gaze back to the king. “Your Grace,” he said evenly. “May we return to the matter of the taxes still imposed on the lords of the Reach ? The measures enacted during King Aegon’s reign—”
“Yes, yes, yes.” Aerys waved a hand. “You would undo my grandsire’s work, I heard you the each time. The westerlands first, then the Reach, and soon, all the great lords would have their claws back in the flesh of the realm. Bah ! They’re all so eager to rule as kings in all but name.”
“Those lords are the pillars of the realm,” Tywin said. “If the crown itself breaks their strength, the kingdom will soon crack with it.”
The king smiled that mocking smile again. “And who holds the hammer that’ll fix it, my Hand ? You ?”
Tywin held the dragon’s gaze for a moment longer. “The hammer is the law, Your Grace. And the law is yours to wield.”
Aerys titled his head, considering his words as a boy would study an insect he’d trapped in glass. Then, suddenly, his laught came high and sharp, bouncing off the room’s ornate pillars.
“Yes ! Well said, well said !” He turned to the rest of the council, teeth flashing. “One of you does seem to have some sense, at the end of the day.”
Nervous laughter rose amongst the lords, and Tywin inclined his head, tongue rolling behind his teeth. Deep inside, something cold stirred. Aerys will laugh now, but not forever, he mused. Never forever. Nothing but legacy lasted forever.
The torches hissed when Ser Gerold Hightower rose from the other end of the table. “Your Grace, my lords,” he said in his deep voice. “The hour surely grows late. Shall we adjourn until the morrow ?”
Aerys sighed. “You are all so dull, so eager for rest…” His eyes drifted over them all. Qarlton Chelsted fidgeted, Symond Staunton squared his shoulders, Pycelle blinked like an owl, and Lucerys Velaryon was lost in thought. “Very well. Go. Leave me with my Hand. I would speak with him alone.”
Words could not describe how annoyed Tywin was at that.
The small council sprang up, bowed low, and filed out in shuffles of silks and muttered parting courtesies that seemed actually seemed directed towards the pair of tall Valyrian sphinxes guarding the exit. Although Tywin wanted to leave for his tower, he remained seated until they had all gone. The doors closed again, and silence settled again.
Aerys leaned back in his black chair. He looked down where his hands joined on his middle. “They bore you, do they not ?”
Tywin raised a brow. “They waste your time, Your Grace.”
“My time ? Yours, you mean.”
“Both.” It seemed obvious.
The dragon’s laugh came again, low this time. He’d always enjoyed Tywin’s way with honesty. “Don’t be so earnest, now. I made you Hand, Tywin. Take more pleasure in your station, will you ?”
“I take pleasure where I find it.”
“Ah, right.” Aerys’ lips twisted. “Your lioness. The westerlands breed such fine women. She has given you no child yet, yes ?”
“She will,” he echoed, drawing out the words. “A son, perhaps. With your golden hair. With your temper.” He taped a finger over his own knuckle. “Or hers, if the gods take pity on the realm.”
The king seemed deceivingly thoughtful every time when he spoke of you. Tywin seldom liked that tone, and so he rose. “If that is all, Your Grace, my lady waits.”
Aerys’ hand moved languidly towards the door, and his sly chuckle followed Tywin as he left.
The great doors of the council chamber closed behind him with a hollow, final sound that echoed down the corridors. It swallowed the last of the king’s laughter, and Tywin stood there in the half-light of torches that guttered in their sconces. One moment he felt like a sword being drawn back into its sheath, the next servants bowed as he passed. He barely saw them. The hour was late, and the air of the Red Keep carried that peculiar stillness that only came after a long day of pointless arguments.
Beyond the windows, the banners hung motionless outside, crimson three-headed dragon turned dull and heavy in the gloom. The city’s glow shivered in the blackness, and the faint hum of the life below danced like the tide. From Beloved Baelor’s Sept, a bell tolled once to mark the hour of ghosts.
His boots whispered over the stone as he crossed the final gallery leading to the Tower of the Hand. Atop the stairs leading to his bedchambers, the guards at his door straightened instantly. When he was close enough, one swung it open without being asked.
Within, the air smelled not of smoke and ink but of the warmth of cedar and perfume, of the sweet ghost of wine and salt of skin. The silence was peaceful.
Tywin unfastened his cloak and set it aside; the heavy lion brooch caught briefly in the fabric before coming loose. The golden necklace of linked hands followed. A candle on the desk had burned so low that it was almost snuffed out by its own wax. Its light still flickered over the gold threads in the coverlet, the running lions on the bed’s curtains and the faint curve of a form under the thin sheets.
For the first time that evening, his shoulders eased. The cold, perfect façade he had worn before the king and everyone else melted away, leaving only the man beneath who remembered how to want, how to ache. He crossed the room silently, drawn toward the faint sound of your breath as you woke, and the whisper of linen against skin.
The glow of the hearth was dying, but still the flames spat and snapped their last moments as if they were as restless as the young lioness who lay in his bed. Tywin sat on the edge of the mattress, unfastening the last clasps of his tunic with fingers that moved swiftly, methodical as he pleased, though there was an uncharacteristic softness in his gaze as he looked back at the girl watching him.
You, his lady wife, were half buried beneath a spill of hair across the crimson-and-gold pillows. The sight of you had already undone him more than once in your short years of marriage. He took care to never let the court, nor even his king, see how much he was truly moved. A lion did not bare his throat to anyone, and certainly not to outsiders.
Your voice was drowsy with sleep, soft as a harpstring plucked in the silence. “You’ll not pretend you’ve left your duties here outside that door, will you ?”
Tywin’s mouth tightnened in what might have been mistaken for displeasure. You had learned by now that it was no such thing. “You would have me speak of dismissals and reforms,” he said, “at a time when most wives would rather hear of love ?”
You smiled at that, that small secretive thing that twisted your lips as though you had managed to trap him in his own snare. “What better time than when you’ve not choice but to stay in one place with me ?”
His tunic slipped from his shoulders and was tossed aside. It landed on the armchair. Tywin bent to kiss you, pressing his mouth against yours with the sort of command he yielded to no one else. You met him as you always did; eager and unafraid. When at last he pulled back, his voice was a whisper meant for your ears only.
“We’re cursed with a council of gnats,” he said, sliding his hand along the curve of your waist. The fabric of your slip crumpled under his touch.
“Ah, well.” You reached out, hand sliding down his chest, scratching at his stomach, then lower. The first brush of your fingers against his manhood made him grit his teeth. “The realm has had its fair shares of foolish lords. But you can deal with such inconveniences. Right, my lord ?”
“Yes,” he muttered, the word coming out far too meek for his taste. “Yes. Of course I can.”
You shifted, so very feline as you pressed up against his side. Your lips were warm as you kissed his cheek, down beneath his ear. “Tell me more.”
He bit down on the sigh that threatened to escape, grinding his teeth until his jaw ached. He found himself caught between answering your questions and answering the more urgent summons of your touch. Tywin was not a man accustomed to division; he liked things ordered, neat, and set into their proper places. Yet, here, in this bed, the boundaries blurred. It was always your fault, somehow.
Your mouth traced his chin. Your hand finally found its way into his trousers, fully wrapping around his cock. It was already hard and he hissed when you squeezed it.
“Tywin, tell me more,” you urged again.
Seven hells, woman, he thought. There was no heat in it, only a helplessness he would confess to no one but you. You made him speak of things he would otherwise keep sealed away, things even Kevan had a hard time prying from him. You coaxed them out with nothing more than a whisper, a touch, the press of your thighs.
You stroked him slow at first, the way he liked, and heat flushed through him.
“The Master of coin…” Tywin shut his eyes. Still, he needed to look at you, so he forced them open again. “He worries about taxes and… and nobody thinks about the reforms.”
His hand came up behind you and trailed up your spine. It slipped beneath the fall of your hair and curled around the shorter strands at the nape of your neck. Before he could think any more, he kissed you, too roughly at first, with teeth dragging against your lips, before softening as you hummed into him. Your tongues met, emboldened by habit and affection, as if you had been made for each other from the start.
Tywin broke away only to peck at your jaw, your throat, feeling the familiar pulse beneath the skin. There, he tasted sweat, heat, life itself. In response, your voice broke in a sweet sound, and your hand pumped faster, gripping the slick length of him more firmly.
The mattress creaked beneath his shifting weight. He dug his free hand into the sheets, his knuckles turning white. He wanted to tell you more, to share a burden that he had never imagined sharing with his wife, but only a hoarse breath escaped him.
The tension coiled, unbearable, and broke. He hissed through his teeth, spilling hot over your palm, painting both your fingers and his cock with his own seed. Oh-so slow, you slowly soothed him through his own high as your foreheads pressed together.
“They waste their hours,” he whispered. “Like old men clinging to old quarrels. They forget what truly deserves their time. And Aerys... Aerys is growing bored and restless.” His voice flattened slightly. You wiped your hand on his trousers as you withdrew. “He spoke of rebuilding the Dragonpit, once. One moment he makes sense, and the next he doesn't.”
Untangling his fingers from the sheets, he brought his hand to your waist, holding you close. You rose easily enough to straddle him, your knees pressing against either side of his body. Your hair fell forward, brushing his face as you kissed him again, brief and gentle.
“You must bear it all,” you said. “If not you, then no one else will. You’ll have to suffer more than these fools for the realm’s sake.”
He felt the warmth of your thighs against his hips and, with it, a heat rising through him again—sharper than any anger he ever felt outside this chamber. He brought you even closer. You were half-smiling at him, but your eyes held no humour; they held only that piercing attentiveness that he both loved and loathed, depending on the moment.
Your brows drew softly together. “Let me suffer through it with you.”
Tywin’s breath caught for half a heartbeat, young and foolish.
“You already do,” he said against your mouth. “You suffer me. You believe I would speak of council matters in bed with anyone else ? No. You will hear of every plot, every folly, every quarrel in that cursed chamber.”
For a second, his eyes studied you in the dimness—the curve of your lips, the fire in your gaze that never went away—and a small smile spread over his face.
“You’ll hear it from me, in this bed, while I take you, while you take me. Would that please you, my lady ?”
With a shy grin, you nodded, cheeks heating pleasantly, stroking along his jaw. “It would, my lord.”
And so it will be, he thought.
Then, he was fumbling at your nightgown. You let him, let the urgency burn, pressed down onto him, until there was no more speech, only the hunger in your kisses and the heat of your skins.
it was supposed to be longer and go even further than that but… we got into some issues as some know, so while i’m ANNOYED about losing the better one, we’ll have to be happy with this 😗
