FIRE & BLOOD | 𝐑𝐇𝐀𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍✔

𝐗𝐕𝐈𝐈

𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐍

•|°

277 𝐀𝐂,
𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐠'𝐬 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠

Tywin Lannister was not a lover of loss, especially not his own.

He sipped the arbor red from his goblet, watching from his chambers in the Tower of the Hand as the princess, lady Myra and Ser Oswell promenaded in the gardens; no doubt discussing the new lady's lands, holds, and finances.

He didn't despise her, nor did he despise the princess. If anything, he grew more wary of her. He taught her how to play the game, as did Olenna, and from that seed it was bound that a two-edged sword would sprout from the soil.

Naerys, so young yet so cunning and wise, had become one of the strongest contenders in the Game. He would be a fool to dismiss any of her actions as foolhardy or undermine her for her beauty, like some at court did. Not only her, though, but her brother as well. The two together were a formidable force, anyone could see that, and he was certain theirs would be a glorious reign like that of Jaehaerys and Alysanne.

But he always saw the alternative path; the one that would serve him and the realm. The one that saw, at last, a Lannister King seated upon the Iron Throne.

Tywin drank the dregs of wine and departed the Tower for the small council meeting. As he passed through the corridors, courtiers and servants alike bowed and paid him obeisance. His daughter, Cersei, was on the other side of the courtyard, mingling with the other younger ladies. From where he was he could tell it was she who was in charge of that small council, much like Joanna used to do with her ladies of the Rock. The memory of his late wife cast a dark cloud over him right away, bringing with it memories of pleasure and love now lost, replaced by the malformed creature that slipped forth from between her legs; it taking its first breath, she her last.

What he wouldn't give to swap their places. Alas, it is not what she would have wanted.

Tywin turned his gaze from his daughter.

Yes; if Cersei was anything at all like her mother and him, even in the least, she would make a fine queen indeed.

In the gardens of the Red Keep, Naerys sneezed when they passed a bush of dandellions.

"Bless you," Myra said. The princess sniffled, scrunching her nose like a rabbit.

"Thank you. Now," she tapped the tip of her nose and recomposed herself, "as I was saying about your coffers: the lands which you now preside over have taverns, brothels, markets, ports, and tradesmen. Three weeks ago, they paid their tax to the Buckwells. Now, they pay it to you. And as bannerwoman to House Buckwell, you pay tax to them. You'll need a Maester to help you manage your finances and a Master of Arms to train your men."

"My father's master of arms's brother is a skilled swordsman," said Ser Oswell. He smiled smugly. "He fought at the Stepstones, slew fifty men in a single strike."

Myra giggled. Naerys raised a brow at him.

"Aye, it is true," Oswell insisted, still smiling. "His name is Gyles, but he prefers going by Gyles the Gallant slayer because he gave the men better deaths than they deserved."

Myra hummed, biting back her laughter. "He sounds like quite a man."

"He's more beast than man. But rest assured he is the most leal swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. He even fancies himself as great as Ser Barristan."

Naerys chuckled at that.

Myra did take Oswell up on his offer and asked him if word could be sent to his family in Harrenhal. Naerys promised to send a raven to the Citadel on her behalf, requesting their finest measter, and for the remainder of their stroll in the gardens, the princess and the white Knight helped the young lady fashion her house and lands.