It had already been several days since the tournament had begun at Casterly Rock.
The first days had passed in an almost unreal continuity, as if time itself had let itself be carried away by the rhythm imposed by the trumpets, the cheers and the crash of arms. From dawn, the corridors of the Rock vibrated with a contained agitation: squires running from one end to the other, knights tightening their straps, lords exchanging cautious greetings, each wearing on his face a different mask according to what he hoped to draw from these festivities.
For Aemon, the tournament was not a single event but a succession of strange days, too noisy, too colorful, too laden with things he did not yet understand. He only knew that the world seemed broader here than in King's Landing, that the Rock's golden stone reflected a different light, warmer, almost crushing, and that men's voices carried a new intensity, sometimes threatening, sometimes joyful, but always heavy with meaning.
He watched.
He watched the knights fall, rise, salute.
He watched the lords' tightened faces when a favorite was thrown to the ground.
He watched above all the silences: those that followed a serious injury, those that accompanied a look held too long, those that settled when an important name was spoken.
Aemon did not understand the rules, nor the real stakes of these fights. But he understood one thing: this world was not a game. Men here risked their bodies, sometimes their lives, for something invisible but essential. Honor, they said. Glory. The gaze of others.
He had known, in his other life, only white and silent rooms. Here, everything cried, everything vibrated, everything seemed ready to break.
On the lordly platform, Tywin Lannister sat upright, hands joined before him, gaze fixed on the lists.
He did not applaud.
He did not comment.
He did not smile.
Yet, he saw everything.
He saw fatigue in the fighters' gestures.
He saw flaws behind the feats.
He already saw which would be useful… and which would not survive long in a real conflict.
But that morning, his mind was not entirely turned toward the arena.
Since dawn, something had been pulling him back. A dull, persistent tension, lodged somewhere between chest and stomach. He had tried to ignore it, as he had learned to ignore pain, fear, doubt. But the more the hours passed, the more that feeling became impossible to push away.
Joanna.
He knew. He had always known. The birth was close. Too close to be ignored.
When the messenger approached, Tywin understood before the words were even spoken.
He felt the world contract around him.
The rest — the crowd, the cries, the horses — vanished.
He stood.
That simple gesture was enough to draw attention. Tywin Lannister never stood without reason.
When he spoke, his voice was calm. Too calm.
He announced Joanna's labor, his departure, his absence for the final of the jousts. He wished everyone to enjoy the event, as if it were a formality. But those who truly knew him perceived something else: a contained urgency, a tension he never let show in public.
When he announced the coming banquet, and the presentation of his children, a wave of emotion ran through the assembly. Congratulations burst out. Smiles appeared.
Tywin inclined his head.
Then he left the arena.
Without looking back.
The walk to the private apartments seemed interminable to him.
Each step echoed too loudly. Each torch cast too long a shadow. He had fought battles, made decisions that had cost the lives of hundreds of men, without ever feeling this impression of absolute powerlessness.
Here, he could do nothing.
He could neither command, nor negotiate, nor calculate.
He could only wait.
When Joanna gave birth, the world seemed to stop.
Tywin did not enter immediately. He remained behind the door, his hand set against the wood, listening to sounds he did not understand but that seemed heavy with consequences. When they finally told him that all had gone well, that the children lived, he briefly closed his eyes.
It was not a blazing relief.
It was a silent loosening.
Rhaella arrived later.
She had left behind her the splendor, the court, the role. Here, she was only a woman coming to see another who had just given life.
Aemon followed, attentive. Rhaegar was already fidgeting.
Joanna's chamber was calm. Too calm after the tumult of the tournament.
Joanna was pale. Tired. But her smile was sincere, deep, almost luminous.
When she presented the children, time seemed to slow.
Aemon felt something happen.
Not pain.
Not heat.
Not a vision.
Just… a certainty without words.
His gaze passed over the boy, then fixed on the little girl.
There was nothing else.
No sound.
No light.
No reaction around him.
But for a fraction of a second, Aemon knew that this child would have weight in his life, even if he was incapable of explaining why.
The sensation vanished almost at once.
He did not think of it anymore.
The little girl shifted slightly in Joanna's arms.
A tiny movement, almost imperceptible. Her fingers tightened for an instant, as if she were seeking something she could neither see nor understand. Her eyelids fluttered, opened barely, revealing a gaze still blurred, incapable of fixing on anything.
Aemon did not hold that gaze.
He did not know why.
He simply looked away, as one does when one feels that something is too great to be grasped, too heavy to be carried. The sensation had dissipated as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind it a vague impression, hard to define, like a memory of which only a fragrance would remain.
Rhaegar, for his part, approached without hesitation. He awkwardly held out his hand, brushing the air near the infant's face, under Joanna's attentive gaze.
— Gently…, she murmured.
Rhaegar smiled, proud, as if he had accomplished an important gesture. Then he turned back toward his mother, seeking her approval.
Rhaella smiled in turn, but her gaze rested for an instant on Aemon.
She had seen nothing.
Not noticed anything.
And yet… something in the attitude of her eldest son seemed different. An unusual restraint. A silent gravity, more marked still than usual.
She said nothing.
Time passed slowly in Joanna's chamber.
The words exchanged were simple, almost banal. They spoke of fatigue, of pain, of necessary rest. Of concrete, reassuring things, that allowed deeper thoughts to be avoided.
Joanna recounted the labor, breaking her tale with silences when fatigue took over again. Rhaella listened attentively, sometimes nodding, laying a light hand on that of her friend.
Tywin remained at a distance.
He watched.
He watched Joanna's breathing, too slow, too measured.
He watched the way she held the children, with an almost fragile caution, as if she feared breaking them with too brusque a motion.
He also watched his own hands, clenched against each other, useless.
He had never been so conscious of his limits.
When Rhaella предложa to let Joanna rest, Tywin agreed immediately.
— She needs calm.
— And you too, the queen answered softly.
He did not contest.
In the corridor, the torchlight seemed brighter than on the way in. Rhaegar spoke in a low voice, repeating simple words, still excited by what he had just seen. Aemon walked in silence.
Tywin's silence was different.
It was not empty.
It was full of thoughts he did not put into words.
They stopped near a window looking out to sea.
Far off, the dark water crashed against the rocks, relentless, indifferent to men's joys and fears. Tywin set a hand on the stone ledge, breathed deeply.
— I thought… he said at last, then broke off.
Rhaella waited.
— I thought I could control everything. The realm. The wars. The alliances. Even the future.
He shook his head slightly.
— But not this.
— No one can, she answered. Not really.
He looked at her.
— I was afraid.
Those words, Tywin Lannister rarely spoke. Perhaps never, before someone other than her.
— That is normal, Rhaella said. It means they matter more than everything else.
He nodded slowly.
— Joanna is… everything.
There was nothing to add.
Later, alone with their children, Rhaella sat near the window of their chamber. Fatigue weighed on her shoulders, but she did not complain. Aemon settled near her, back against the wall, legs folded under him. Rhaegar, already exhausted, fell asleep quickly.
Aemon did not sleep.
He watched a candle flame flicker softly.
He thought — without really thinking.
He did not try to understand what he had felt earlier. His mind was not that of an adult seeking answers. It was that of a child who watched the world and accepted what he could not explain.
Yet, something had been inscribed in him.
Not a clear memory.
Rather a persistent impression.
Like a marked page, without words.
The days that followed passed in a strange atmosphere.
The tournament resumed its course. The final jousts took place without Tywin, but under the attentive gaze of the king and the court. The cries returned, the songs too. A winner was proclaimed. Bets were settled. Alliances sketched.
But for Tywin, all of that seemed distant.
He visited Joanna several times a day. He spoke little. He watched a lot. He learned to recognize the children's cries, silences, breaths.
The little girl cried less.
The boy slept more.
Insignificant details for the world.
Essential for him.
One morning, Rhaella returned alone.
Joanna was seated, propped by cushions, holding the two infants against her. Her complexion was still pale, but her smile more assured.
— You are holding up better today, the queen noted.
— A little, yes.
They spoke a long time, in low voices. Of fatigue. Of fear. Of what it felt like to become a mother in a world where children were born already laden with expectations.
— Sometimes, Joanna said, I feel as if they already carry something I do not understand.
Rhaella smiled sadly.
— It is always the case.
When Aemon entered later with Rhaegar, Joanna turned again to show the children.
This time, Aemon felt nothing.
Nothing particular.
And that reassured him, without his knowing why.
The little girl moved softly, like any infant. The boy let out a faint sound before falling back asleep.
Everything was normal.
In the evening, Tywin announced that the banquet would take place in a few days, as promised. The news spread quickly through the Rock. Preparations began at once.
Hundreds of candles were ordered.
Tables set.
Wines brought out from the deep cellars.
The nobility waited.
But that banquet was not yet for this chapter.
Here, there was only the birth.
The fatigue.
The silence.