Posted: Tue May 05, 2015 12:55 pm
Ser Cerion Lannister
The Yellow Stag, King's Landing
Day Zero
"If any man didn't call my sweet bastard daughter a lady," Cerion said, a smirk pulling over his face, "I'd slit their throat, reach up their mouth, rip out their tongue, and tell them to try again. But, as you wish, my . . . friend? Ally? Practitioner of the finer tastes?" Cerion shrugged. "Flatter me then, Renly--what is it that the most hated man in Westeros has to say?"
Lady Joanna Lannister
Casterly Rock, the West
Day Zero
"I fare well, Lord Morshall. Thank you," Joanna said, doing her best to keep her composure at her initial sight of him. He towered above her, and on instinct she made to step back. On her robes, red and flowing, stopped her, and she looked up to see the giant in the eye.
She suppressed a quiver. He will not be so bad sitting, Joanna thought. "Please, Lord Morshall--sit with me." Near the window, there was a round table of a fine cherry wood. The lion of Lannister was engraved on it, and the two seats that were pulled in to it were paddled with red cushions. On the table itself, a tray full of fruits sat, and Joanna immediately seized upon a helpless grape to calm her raging nerves.
"Help yourself," Joanna said, gesturing to the bowl. "May I ask how you are, Lord Morshall?" Waiting for his reply, Joanna reached for another helpless grape.
Lord Paramount Tyrion Lannister
Casterly Rock, the West
Day Two
Tyrion's fingers worked their way through the grey-flecked-with-gold beard that lie down the entirety of his chest. They were ancient fingers, and thick-knuckled, with skin so thin the veins could be seen through them. Tyrion worked them through his beard, hoping that would take the question away.
"You will not ride for Goldengrove," he said at last. The light trickled into his study, weakened by the night. "War is coming; my heir will not be caught far from home."
"Madness," Tywin replied. "Raving madness." He shook his head, as though finally understanding something. "This new tax on cities is almost too much to handle; now, they have taxed us on gold as well. We cannot abide this."
"I did not say that we would," Tyrion replied. He shrugged his long-ago slopped shoulders. "I am the Golden Lion to my people. To my rulers, I might as well be the Dusty Lion. But you will not ride for Goldengrove. You will remain here, and lean armies when I cannot."
"Then shall stunt the Tyrells?" Tywin demanded. His eyes leaned further into his head. "They command almost twice our levies, and they are richer than us, though thank the gods that they don't know it. My lady wife has saved us a rivalry with them, but it would be unwise to deny them."
"Do you think that I don't realize that?" the old lion demanded. "Tywin, you will inherit after I am gone. Do you know when I last left the Westerlands? Do you know when I last left this castle?" Tywin shook his head. "No, you do not. I do not. A lifetime, it seems. I sent you in my stead to see to Aegon VIII, as I was the lord of this land, and a lord remains with his land."
"Then let me go," Tywin repeated. The old lion looked at him, pulled his lips into a scowl, then laughed aloud.
"My youth died with my father, but how wont was I to say much the same while he still drew breath," the old lion said. "And when I die--not long from now, I'd imagine--then you will have Jaime saying the same thing to you, and when you die, his children will say the same thing to him. But know this--you might as well be lord now, and a lord remains."
"Then who will go?" Tywin demanded, at last dejected to the fate he had been served. He had spent years charging through the Westerlands, and how his father resigned him to remain at Casterly? Perhaps it was fitting; bandits were no longer rife in the Westerlands. For what reason would have ridden, save this one?
"Gerion," the old lion replied. "Gerion, though he has no blood with the Tyrells, so we will send you son as well. I will tell them that they ride tomorrow."
"Jaime is in training with Loren," Tywin said. "He is apt to make a mock of us in the field."
"Did I say Jaime?" the lion demanded in return. He leaned back, and ran his fingers through his beard.
The Yellow Stag, King's Landing
Day Zero
"If any man didn't call my sweet bastard daughter a lady," Cerion said, a smirk pulling over his face, "I'd slit their throat, reach up their mouth, rip out their tongue, and tell them to try again. But, as you wish, my . . . friend? Ally? Practitioner of the finer tastes?" Cerion shrugged. "Flatter me then, Renly--what is it that the most hated man in Westeros has to say?"
Lady Joanna Lannister
Casterly Rock, the West
Day Zero
"I fare well, Lord Morshall. Thank you," Joanna said, doing her best to keep her composure at her initial sight of him. He towered above her, and on instinct she made to step back. On her robes, red and flowing, stopped her, and she looked up to see the giant in the eye.
She suppressed a quiver. He will not be so bad sitting, Joanna thought. "Please, Lord Morshall--sit with me." Near the window, there was a round table of a fine cherry wood. The lion of Lannister was engraved on it, and the two seats that were pulled in to it were paddled with red cushions. On the table itself, a tray full of fruits sat, and Joanna immediately seized upon a helpless grape to calm her raging nerves.
"Help yourself," Joanna said, gesturing to the bowl. "May I ask how you are, Lord Morshall?" Waiting for his reply, Joanna reached for another helpless grape.
Lord Paramount Tyrion Lannister
Casterly Rock, the West
Day Two
Tyrion's fingers worked their way through the grey-flecked-with-gold beard that lie down the entirety of his chest. They were ancient fingers, and thick-knuckled, with skin so thin the veins could be seen through them. Tyrion worked them through his beard, hoping that would take the question away.
"You will not ride for Goldengrove," he said at last. The light trickled into his study, weakened by the night. "War is coming; my heir will not be caught far from home."
"Madness," Tywin replied. "Raving madness." He shook his head, as though finally understanding something. "This new tax on cities is almost too much to handle; now, they have taxed us on gold as well. We cannot abide this."
"I did not say that we would," Tyrion replied. He shrugged his long-ago slopped shoulders. "I am the Golden Lion to my people. To my rulers, I might as well be the Dusty Lion. But you will not ride for Goldengrove. You will remain here, and lean armies when I cannot."
"Then shall stunt the Tyrells?" Tywin demanded. His eyes leaned further into his head. "They command almost twice our levies, and they are richer than us, though thank the gods that they don't know it. My lady wife has saved us a rivalry with them, but it would be unwise to deny them."
"Do you think that I don't realize that?" the old lion demanded. "Tywin, you will inherit after I am gone. Do you know when I last left the Westerlands? Do you know when I last left this castle?" Tywin shook his head. "No, you do not. I do not. A lifetime, it seems. I sent you in my stead to see to Aegon VIII, as I was the lord of this land, and a lord remains with his land."
"Then let me go," Tywin repeated. The old lion looked at him, pulled his lips into a scowl, then laughed aloud.
"My youth died with my father, but how wont was I to say much the same while he still drew breath," the old lion said. "And when I die--not long from now, I'd imagine--then you will have Jaime saying the same thing to you, and when you die, his children will say the same thing to him. But know this--you might as well be lord now, and a lord remains."
"Then who will go?" Tywin demanded, at last dejected to the fate he had been served. He had spent years charging through the Westerlands, and how his father resigned him to remain at Casterly? Perhaps it was fitting; bandits were no longer rife in the Westerlands. For what reason would have ridden, save this one?
"Gerion," the old lion replied. "Gerion, though he has no blood with the Tyrells, so we will send you son as well. I will tell them that they ride tomorrow."
"Jaime is in training with Loren," Tywin said. "He is apt to make a mock of us in the field."
"Did I say Jaime?" the lion demanded in return. He leaned back, and ran his fingers through his beard.