The seamstress trembled as she stitched the last pearl to Rhaella's gown. She muttered something under her breath, too low for the queen to hear, but loud enough for the serving girl to grow still. The gown itself was massive and hideous, heavy, red and black: the red of Lannister hacked with the black of Targaryen, pooling around Rhaella's feet like blood.
Outside in the yard, the guests were growing louder too, restless. Someone had brought a skin of wine, and it was making the rounds among the spectators. "Do you think he'll make her crawl?" a boy wondered aloud. His father cuffed him. The High Septon raised his hands. "Let us begin," he said in a voice that was like a rusty gate.
Tywin entered unannounced, no procession or gaudy streamers attached to him. His boots made soft impressions in the plush red carpet as he advanced toward the front, his gaze so dark that nearby lords subtly shifted in discomfort. "You certainly took your time," Rhaella said without turning her head, catching the faint twitch of a clenched jaw.
"Tradition is for men who need permission," Tywin said. He never offered her his arm. Instead he raised her chin with two fingers, examining her as if she were some dubious prize he had won at a village fair. The rubies glimmered in the firelight, casting deep red glints across his cheeks. "You seem suitably…subdued."
Rhaella's nostrils flared, but she did not stir. Her heart was racing, he could feel it pounding in her neck. The High Septon coughed and clutched at the crystal orb that served him as a symbol of office, as if it were a weapon that could protect him from the depravity unfolding before him.
The words fell like figures in an account book, cold and dead. He recited them, but the mouth of Tywin Lannister rarely moved, and there was something in the flatness of his voice that said he would never have said them at all but that they were required.
When the bride had to repeat the words, she put a hand on the hilt of the dagger that hung at her belt, a curving Dornish thing with a blade like black glass; perhaps that was meant to be part of the ceremony, or perhaps she did it merely to make sure it was still there. Whatever the reason, people noticed. Tywin Lannister did not.
At any other wedding the wine would have flowed till the guests were reeling, but in the Great Hall of the Red Keep hardly a drop was spilt. Save one. Oberyn Martell was leaning back in his chair, the faint smile on his face growing with each glance at the roaring head of Rhaella's dragon lion which danced in the light of the fire. When Tywin caught his eye he raised his cup in a silent toast, the Dornishman responding by holding aloft a fig.
Afterward, after the last complaining guest had been shooed out, Rhaella exploded. "Did you really need to shame me in front of so many" she shouted, slamming the door with such force that the candles trembled. Tywin did not look up. Another icy letter, no doubt, to Joanna, most likely.
"You weren't shamed," he said, letting his pen down slowly. "You were shown." Flames crackled in the hearth and sparks danced on the wicker floor-mat.
Rhaella laughed, a brittle sound. "Shown? Like a broodmare on the block?"
He set the quill down, and seemed to find the sight of her raw fury almost…amusing…from a distance. "A broodmare who can summon armies," he said quietly. "Aye, they saw you kneel. But they also saw the Crownlands respond to your banner yesterday, unhesitatingly. You imagine they didn't notice the Riverlords racing to get their wedding gifts to you, after your last raven? You remain a queen, Rhaella… one who merely speaks my name, as she gives her commands."
The following morning, the small council chamber reeked of lemons and ambition. "Those broken islands," Tywin growled, spreading out a map upon the wood and weighting its corners with a heavy golden lion, an old dagger from Valyria, and Rhaella's full cup of spiced wine she never drank. "Raiders have strangled our ships way past due. Hardly fitting."
Lord Velaryon paused in the middle of his sentence when Rhaella moved a little closer, the rings in her fingers clicking on the table, "Tariffs from Gulltown will cover the ships." She paused then added, "Tywin's already arranged for soldiers to join us, privately, through some intermediary." The table fell silent. She called him Tywin. Not 'the Hand' or 'Lord Lannister'. Just…Tywin. With that one name, every protest died before it even began.
By the time the moon was new again, everything had changed. The ships that flew the fresh split flag, with lions of gold and dragons of red burning the outlaw dens down to the waterline. And in King's Landing, the new gold cloaks that Tywin had minted carried out Rhaella's orders without flinching; provisions were gathered and stored against the coming winter, the whores paid their taxes, and merchants who had purchased safety could no longer buy their way out. The common folk whispered of how the queen walked the slum alleys herself at night, her beautiful gown muddied as she inspected the public washrooms that had been built in the place where a tannery had once collapsed.
Oberyn lounged in a silk pavilion, watching the proceedings below, slowly rotating his glass in his fingers. He said to Yronwood, with an amused smile, "The both of them? Now that is a pair that will keep you awake at night." The words carried across the field, where Rhaella, catching them, raised a cup in response. No smile, just an icy acknowledgement in her eyes. Beside her Tywin did not grin, but a glint of satisfaction crept into his eyes. They had expected strife and blood. What they got was an alliance.
Ever since, the Golden Age of Westeros has been so glorious that there's not been a song worthy of it.
***
The flames in the hearth were burning low, casting sinister, flickering shadows across the colored hangings. Woven dragons seemed to writhe and twist around the lions. By the window, Rhaella remained motionless, defined by the moonlight as it clung to the translucent silk that covered her. Her body told the story well enough. Tywin seated on the bed observed her, tracing his thumb around the rim of the empty wine cup. "Your thoughts are troubling." he remarked. His voice was smooth as the Arbor Gold they had shared earlier. She didn't turn to face him. "I am counting the number of times I would need to slide my dagger between your ribs."
He took the cup away, then stood up, his footsteps making no sound as he walked on the stone floor. He only touched her when he was right against her. Close enough that his warm breath tickled the stray wisps of hair near her ear which shone silver in the dim light. "You had years to try." he whispered, voice gentle and cutting. "And yet, here I am." His hand brushed against her hip, his fingers splayed wide over her shirt, feeling as she stiffened. "And here you are."
Rhaella whirled on him, her eyes blazing, but her rage was not untainted by a more savage emotion. She struck him in the chest, but not to push him away. Her hand lingered to feel his heart pounding in his breast. "You are a monster." He seized her wrist and drew her hand up to his throat, where the pulse was beating hard beneath her touch. "And you are my wife." His other hand closed in her hair, pulling her head back. He drew her face up close to his own. "So be a monster with me."
The kiss was not soft. Tywin's mouth crashed down on hers, hard as a battering ram. She tasted blood and wine and something deeper. Her lips gave way as he yanked her hair, tugging just enough for her breath to spill out between them.
Instinctively, she arched her back, her full breasts heavily swaddled in fine fabric pressing against the hard muscle of his chest, the nipples like knife points tracing the embroidered lions of his jacket.
Tywin didn't trouble himself to undress her properly, merely hoisting the loose fabric of the shirt above her waist and letting it bunch about her waist while his fingers dug into the flesh of her thighs as he pulled her closer to the edge of the window seat.
"Look at you," he whispered, his breath hot against her mouth, "a queen with her legs spread for a Lannister." His fingers fell, trailing, reaching inside, stroking where he had no right. "You're wet," he noted, stroking slower, circles that made her twitch. "Was this on your mind when you signed those marriage papers? Me inside you while you act like nothing's changed?"
Rhaella drew a breath, her hips jerking against his hand and then he was gone. Tywin pulled the belt free, the supple leather coming off silently and smoothly while his hand remained on her thigh, his fingers digging in.
"You wanted a crown," he growled, pushing her down onto the edge, the stone cutting into her skin. "You'll have a lion." Without any warning he thrust into her, a single violent motion, her body clenching around him as she sucked in a gasp.
She grabbed his shoulders, her fingers digging into his shirt and the flesh of his shoulders, as he pounded away, each stroke pushing her further up against the step. In the moonlight, she could see the sweat beading on his brow, the intent gaze of his eyes as he pumped, his eyes never leaving hers, as though trying to impale her on his cock alone.
Rhaella cried out as the first one hit, convulsing, contracting wildly and painfully, but Tywin would not relent. He continued to force himself into her, using his fingers on her legs to keep her from turning away as pleasure gave way to pain. "More," he snarled, his voice hard and unyielding, and damn her for it, she gave it to him. The second one came like a pounding sea, and her vision went dark as she arched herself off the stone, her lips pressed against his neck to muffle her cry.
The third time, she began to cry, not because it hurt, but because it was so damned intense, her cunt clenching around him like it had a heartbeat of its own. After that, Tywin's smooth, even strokes began to falter, his breathing harsh and ragged as he felt her clenched around him, pressing down, and it wrenched a low, guttural sound from him.
He shoved harder, his hips bucking as he emptied himself into her, a tide of warmth flowing in successive slow pulses.
He stayed inside. Then grabbed her away from the ledge, throwing her onto her hands and knees, the furs lining the floor, his fingers clamped into her hips. She had barely breathed before he thrust into her again, his cock slick with their combined cum, entering smoothly.
"I want to know," he growled, breathless. "Aerys. Did he ever fuck you like this?" His strokes were deep and slow now, working up into her all the way. "Did he ever make you cum so hard you forgot who you were?"
Rhaella's hands were trembling, her face pressed into the fur as she panted, shocked at what had just occurred. "No," she said hoarsely, as if the word had escaped before she could catch it. "He—he couldn't."
Tywin laughed, a short, cruel sound. He yanked at her hair, pulling her head back, forcing her to stretch her neck, exposing the pale flesh there to the cold wind.
"Good," he whispered in her ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. "Keep that in mind the next time you consider betrayal."
One of her hands remained at her side, the other trailing across her hip and then burrowing deeper, the tips of her fingers probing the space where their firstborn was likely even now taking root, if Tywin had his way. She gasped and clenched around him, unthinking, and he responded with a vicious pounding that was meant to bring her closer to the fire.
"Shit," he snarled, his voice trembling with restraint, the first break in his collected demeanor all night. "You'll take it all, won't you? Like a proper queen."
And she did. Rhaella remained motionless even as each jet forced its way inside, his cock twitching as he emptied himself into her, almost overfilling her. Her thighs trembled, sticky with sweat and seed, but she did not pull away. Not when he withdrew, more liquid tracing runic paths down the insides of her thighs like hasty script on a crumbling parchment. He gazed upon the evidence, half in disbelief, tracing the runic paths with his fingers before smearing them across her lips. "Taste it," he snarled, panting. "Taste what you now are."
She opened her mouth as he requested, tasting the saltiness of his fingers, his victory, her defeat. His thumb pressed against her tongue then, as she closed her eyes and drew uneven breaths. The taste was earthy and sharp, all him, and just as his marks that were rising on her flesh, it seared.
Tywin leaned back, a low rumble of satisfaction in his chest, his fingers digging into her chin to bring her back up. "Yes." He whispered, the satisfaction in his tone causing a slight shudder in her. His gaze drifted to the place where they had been joined moments before, warmth still resonating there and a darkened expression passed over his features.
"You will give me children," he told her, as if it was a fait accompli. "Children with Targaryen blood and Lannister gold."
He paused, rubbing her bottom lip with his thumb. "Unless you prefer I'd fuck another child into you?"
Rhaella smiled, digging her nails into his arm. "You would like that," she said hoarsely. "To see me crawling."
Tywin's smile was sharp enough to slice with. He bent down, his mouth touching her temple, tender, and threatening, if threats came wrapped in silk. "l already do," he whispered, his voice low, even. "But please, do go on."
Rhaella released a few slow puffs of fire, dancing on the slick down between her shoulder blades. It didn't strike her until that moment - she didn't fear him. Not as she had feared Aerys' unpredictable moods, not as the court feared Tywin's fabled coldness. This man, who'd fucked her on the furs? No. He was a force. Like gravity. Like death. Inevitability in the guise of a man, and he performed like clockwork. She smiled. All that time, her blade held under the pillow, and his teeth were never her enemy, only his skill.
Tywin studied her silence as a maester might study an ancient text. "You are thinking," he mused, tracing the line of her spine with his index finger.
"That you are not nearly as intelligent as you believe you are," she replied, yawning languidly and arching her back so that her breasts shifted against him. He might believe that she was as vacant as she appeared.
He chuckled, his breath hot against her shoulder, and pulled her closer so that his still semi-erect cock rested damply against her. "No," he breathed against her shoulder, his voice low, but distinct, "You are thinking that you could cut my throat just now, and no one could do a thing about it." His hand wandered back up her thigh, two fingers still wet with their juices gliding smoothly. "But you will not."
Rhaella tensed, less at his touch than at his perception. His thumb moved lazily back and forth, blithely, as if he had not just pinned her soul to the furs as well. "Why not?" she asked, a little breathlessly despite her best efforts.
"Because you will not want to go without this," he replied matter-of-factly, sliding two fingers up into her with a twist that lifted her hips from the fur. "And because you are intelligent enough to realise that I would plague you from beyond the grave." His teeth nipped at the lobe of her ear. "Now, cum for me once more, and we will talk about which of the Free Cities we shall reduce to ashes for slighting your last trade delegation."
She sucked in a breath, and then laughed, sharply, surprised. God damn it, he was right. She did not want him dead; she wanted him there: inside her, poking about inside her mind, his schemes and cock both stuck to her like burrs. Her orgasm broke over her like a wave, pouring through her like water, and Tywin growled low in her ear, as if he knew that she had finally been defeated.
Or had won.
She had long since lost count.