Of all those who might improve a mood already fouled by incompetence and the chill from a late summer storm which seeped in through every crack, the Lady Dustin could not count herself amongst their number. A crown excused her viperous tongue, yet no such circlet rested upon silver-threaded hairs. Time and again she rebuffed all pleas for a husband’s bones returned — a fool’s errand, for which Sansa harbored neither the interest nor the heart. And the bones of my father, my mother, all of my kin? What of them!
“If it is of Dorne that you come to speak with me, pray leave now my lady. You shall find no recourse here.”
“I thank you for the compliment, your Grace.” The phrase came in the voice of one who recognized the slight far too well. “But I have to say, knowing the company you keep, I would think you had an affinity for talkers.”
“You might find yourself rather astonished, Lady Dustin.” Bemused, Winter’s queen could only smile upon her ruffled guest. “Lord Baelish and I possess an affinity for far more than speech; indeed, at times I believe he prefers not to dull his tongue on wifely trivialities.”
The…dissatisfaction of Barbrey Dustin at being denied a true foothold in the North was legendary. Brandon Stark had sown his oats far and wide, and there had been any number of ‘Snows’ that had sprung up in the years after the Rebellion – but the North had loved Eddard Stark and his Tully wife, so they were dismissed. Similarly, Lady Dustin was seen in the North, Tywin knew, as an old witch who still dwelled on her lost youth and lost chance at being Lady of Winterfell.
Be that as it may, the North was weakening, day by day, true enough, but the Lannisters could face no more defeats in the field – they had sustained heavy losses, for one, but Tywin’s reputation was at stake, and the Young Wolf was eroding it piece by p i e c e. The Lannisters needed an ally on the inside.
So Tywin took 20 of his best men ( since if they made it to the field, they’d be slaughtered anyway ) to treat with Houses Dustin and Ryswell. Were they as pliant as the Boltons had been, the war might be over in a matter of weeks. Their horses reared into the camp, before Tywin dismounted and was led to the main tent, to await his audience with the Lady herself.
The corners of his lips tugged at his cheeks, creasing into a sardonic smile. He bore Brandon Stark no love and though long ago he despised him, he now did not think him worthy of his hatred now. He had one essential victory over him; he still lived.
Yet he understood what it meant to still be drawn to the past. His came in the form of auburn hair and ocean blue hues, but the boy he was then was long dead, his heart buried in Riverrun.
He suspected she had her own scars as well.
"An exaggeration," he conceded, folding his hands across his lap. "When what's ours is threatened -- when those we /love/ are harmed -- aren't we all capable of cruelty? We just mask it as justice. Of course, there are those who would not tempt conflict and instead do nothing." He'd leaned forward in his chair, studying her features for even the slightest hint of understanding. "I doubt you are of the sort to abide any grievance."
I am selfish. I am cruel. My mate cannot be less than I.
“Was Brandon Stark selfish then? I know all too well how cruel he could be.” He raised his fingers to his collar, tracing the front of his doublet where his scar hid just beneath. Though he learned long ago to not let bitterness cloud his mind, he did little to keep it from seeping into his tone. The slant of his lips into a grin was the most he did to counter it.
“I, however, haven’t a cruel bone in my body.” A lie, of course, but one well (and so often) told with a gaze that did not falter under her scrutiny. It did not benefit him to wear his heart or his true nature on his sleeve, after all.
Tywin was not a man given to sentimentality, nor was he that fond of ceremony...unless it involved putting some minor lord in their rightful place as a spectator while House Lannister was glorified. But there were some occasions that he marked, even in the depths of his heart or what was left of it, unseen and unheard. Her nameday. Their wedding. The anniversary of her death. Her life still had a hold on his own, even now it had ended.
She had been small--uncommonly small, for a maiden of 10--the first time he saw her, when Uncle Gerold took him to Lannisport for some tourney that he had known, even then, that they had no money to pay for. His best crimson doublet chafed, his child-lord’s swordbelt dragged on the floor. But his ‘Lord’s Gaze’ was hard as iron, and he quelled any laughter. Father will never have any say over my image again. He would make sure of that.
It was a privilege, though, to see other golden-haired children that did not have to bear the burden of an incompetent father. Young Stafford Lannister was entertaining, if only because he was a harmless fool, rather than one that had the power over Casterly Rock. But she...was interesting. She had made some comment about the most popular knight of the day’s lance being worthless, for all its gold leaf, and that was that. Not because she was shallow for recognising what everyone else failed to see--that the lance was gold-plated copper and would not last another tilt--but because at 10, she was already an analyst. A thinker. Would that she had been born a boy: as cousins they could have ruled the Seven Kingdoms (but then, we did anyway as husband and wife, so nothing new there).
The next time he saw her, he didn’t recognise her - she had changed so completely and utterly. She had fully flowered, for one. She looked less like an underfed urchin and more a statue of the Maiden from the Sept at Casterly Rock. Every part--every part--of her was defined, precise, perfect. But it was her mind that had aged the best. She saw him dismount, disheveled from putting down the Reyne woman, and lifted one eyebrow.
Lust: a headcanon about your character’s romantic and/or sexual life
- Claude has never been overly interested in romance. He sees it as a nuisance, an inconvenience that others are susceptible to, and that he is not. He holds himself in high regard in this matter, and his emotional distance and self-control is something that he holds up as an example of his righteousness, something that makes him worthy of God’s love and praise.
however -
- His sexual impulses are harder for him to control, the unholy pull of another’s flesh drawing his attentions away from his goals more often than he would like to admit. There is something so sweet, so inviting about the touch of a woman - or of another man. He does not indulge himself often, but when he does, he ignores the hypocrisy of his actions. After all, he knows that it will only happen again, and confronting the reality of himself would be too painful.
