Hiii, I love your tywin fics. Can you write tywin x anger issues wife. Pleaseee <33
What are you hiding from me?
Pairing: Tywin Lannister x wife!reader
Note: Hi, love! Of course, here you are :3
I decided to choose passive-aggressive anger and also self-abusive anger. I really liked the reflexion I made while thinking how Tywin would react.
Thank you for your request! I hope you will enjoy it!
cw: implied arranged marriage, age gap, anger issues, conflicts between spouses, mean behaviour
The Maester had been visiting him in his study for several days, complaining that his lady was working far too hard. In the early days, the Great Lion paid no heed to the old man’s babbling; he was overly sensitive about anything concerning his wife. He had a bad habit of exaggerating the extent of the problem and taking up the lord’s time over every trivial matter, the scale of which was strikingly different in reality.
When his wife sat at breakfast for fifteen minutes on the first occasion, sipping herbal tea, he didn’t make a fuss: who knew what might be on a woman’s mind? Perhaps she’d been working late into the night again, finishing some paperwork. However, when this became a daily occurrence, Tywin started to pay closer attention to the maester's gloomy reports, even if he didn’t let it show.
The next day, the old man was practically banging on the table, his chain clinking with every jerky movement.
“My lord, this is quite out of the question. It is unacceptable,” the maester protested, frowning. “The lady is not looking after herself, and you are encouraging her in this by doing nothing. I cannot recall the last time she ate a proper meal. She works through the night. This lifestyle is taking its toll on her health, yet you pay no heed to my warnings. You will see: it will not be long before she has a severe fever and needs treatment. I have no influence over her whatsoever — you must find a way to deal with this. She has threatened to throw me into the dungeon if I mention food or sleep again.”
Red sealing wax dripped thickly from the spoon. The paper buckled under the weight of the future seal and reign.
“Hm,” said Tywin, taking his time to apply the seal before setting the letter aside.
Work proceeded at a measured pace. The morning council had yielded no urgent matters that required his constant presence in the study, nor did it require him to work non-stop until evening without lifting his head from the desk. This allowed him to allow his thoughts of his wife to linger at the edge of his consciousness without needing to suppress them until nearly nightfall, when he would not impose his company on her.
“Is that all, my lord?” the maester asked, waving his hand. “I strongly recommend that you take control of the situation.”
“I have heard you,” said the Great Lion, folding his hands on the table before him. “Lady Lannister shall dine with me tonight.”
“I wish I dared to believe it, my lord,” sighed the old man, bowing as he left his master alone.
Tywin did not immediately turn to the next papers, though the pile of folders and parchments left him with no choice but to occupy himself for the next few hours. He ran through the events of the previous days in his mind that might have affected his wife, once again provoking a deep irritation in her. She would certainly deny feeling any such thing, though, and pretend that she was not angry with those around her, and above all with herself.
He picked up the bell and rang it briefly. From behind a small hidden door, the boy assigned to him for the morning slipped into the study like a shadow. Tywin beckoned the servant with a single, swift flick of his fingers. The boy hurried over, bowed to the lord and listened for his orders.
“Tell the lady that I wish to dine with her tonight,” said Tywin, fixing the young man with a stern gaze. “Let her come to the green room at seven. Serve lamb in lingonberry sauce with potatoes. Make sure they do not overcook the meat like last time.”
The servant nodded, waiting for the Lord to dismiss him, and then disappeared back through the same door.
Tywin sighed and returned to his papers. It would be better to sort them out once and for all shortly after lunch, to avoid having to return to them before bed or after supper. He had a long conversation with his wife ahead of him. She would undoubtedly test his patience as much as his eldest sons did — and that was saying something.
It had been too long, even by his standards, before he heard a delicate knock at the door and it opened slightly. The servant shifted uneasily on the threshold and stepped closer to the table. The lord did not look up from his letter while the boy stood there like a statue, wasting his time and not saying a word.
“Well?” the man snapped curtly, waiting for the boy to reveal why he was fidgeting.
“The lady asked me to tell you,” the servant faltered, looking away. “That she will be busy with paperwork during dinner. She said that you may dine alone as usual, without disrupting your... She said, ‘lovely, sweet tradition’. Those were her exact words, my lord. She wanted me to pass it on to you word for word.”
Word for word. If that was indeed what she’d said, then his wife was in a far more agitated state than he’d initially thought. In that case, he would soon hear that she had frightened a couple of maids to death and dismissed a junior servant, or that matters had escalated to include the higher ranks of the household staff. Last time, it seemed, they’d lost two stewards.
The boy froze at his silence, his eyes darting about, and he wiped his sweaty palms on his coarse work doublet.
Tywin looked up at the young man and slowly dipped his quill in the ink.
“Set the table for supper anyway,” he ordered. “For two, at seven.”
“Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord. I will send word to the kitchen at once.”
The servant hurried off, fearing that the lord might change his mind and that he would incur the lord’s wrath simply by getting caught between the couple.
The lord finished the letter, slowly and carefully choosing his words, and set down his quill.
He rubbed his eyes; he had no intention of wasting time trying to persuade the stubborn woman. However, he needed to ensure that she would attend dinner and not make him look foolish by leaving him to dine alone at a table set for two. There were already enough rumours circulating in the castle, and he did not want to add to them by allowing Lady Lannister to ignore her own husband. He loathed the idea of punishing her, even if only for appearances' sake. She would not easily forgive him for such treatment.
Tywin rose from the table and made his way out of the study towards his wife’s chambers. The servants parted before him on all sides; they were unaccustomed to finding the lord outside his study at this time of night. Anticipating something serious and unpleasant, they hurried to get out of his sight as quickly as possible.
The two guards at the door to her study stepped aside silently without announcing his arrival to the lady; they never reported on the lord when it came to his wife. He entered without knocking, claiming as much right to his wife’s space as his own.
The Great Lion paused at the door and took a moment to assess the situation. His wife was sitting at the table. Her dress fit her body perfectly, taut as a string; her shoulders were pulled back almost to the point of pain. Piles of papers and scrolls were strewn across every available surface: the table, armchairs, chairs and the footstool. Even the small sideboard, usually reserved for cold appetisers and a jug of wine, had been surrendered to the paper invasion.
With her head resting on her palm and her fingers shielding her eyes, she sat as if the light were blinding her and preventing her from focusing on the documents spread out before her.
“You refused to dine with me,” said Tywin, striding confidently towards her desk. He took the stack of folders from the armchair and carefully placed them on the corner of her desk before sitting down. “Why?”
The woman did not even look at him, leaning lower still over the parchment.
“It seems,” she began, her voice ringing with steel and barely concealed anger at being disturbed once again. “I gave you the reason when I sent your man back to you. I am not hungry, and I have plenty of papers that require my attention.”
Tywin watched his wife closely. She looked exhausted and avoided his gaze. Her stubbornly pursed lips suggested that he would have to draw the reasons for her behaviour out of her because she would not tell him of her own accord.
The Great Lion leaned back in his chair and rested his arm comfortably on the armrest. As the conversation was set to be a long one, he intended to conduct it in relative comfort whilst projecting as much control and composure as possible — qualities his wife so sorely lacked at that moment.
“What has happened?” he asked, not expecting an answer straight away.
“Nothing that requires your intervention,” the woman snapped, abruptly pulling another parchment towards her and comparing the two documents, feigning intense activity.
“Anything that concerns you requires my intervention one way or another,” Tywin objected, barely moving in his chair. “Speak.”
She remained silent for a long time, continuing to pretend to be busy. Long enough for him to begin to lose patience. But she spoke of her own accord just as he was about to press her to reveal this 'terrible' secret, in her view, which demanded the utmost discretion. “There is talk at court that the disappearance of the 100 gold pieces is my fault. Apparently, it is because I am a woman and I am incapable of managing anything more complicated than children. I am going through the estimates and accounts to work out exactly where the gold has gone. If they have been stolen, it must be stopped immediately.”
The Great Lion assessed the scale of the disaster, his gaze sweeping over her face as he tapped the armrest with just his fingertips.
A hundred coins were a negligible financial loss. However, the potential stain on her reputation stirred up other emotions and demanded immediate action before it could grow to catastrophic proportions.
And yet, she thought, such abuse of her own body, a resource with its own limits, which she had brazenly and foolishly overused and neglected, was unacceptable.
“And is that why you have decided not to eat?” asked the lord.
“I am delighted to know that you still find time for meals when you are so busy, my dear husband,” she replied sarcastically, setting down one sheet of paper with a sharp rustle and picking up another. “As if there were nowhere else you could spend your time more wisely.”
Tywin did not flinch at her insolence, nor did his expression change. Only his voice grew slightly lower and more insinuating. “Be more careful now. You are starting to speak dangerously.”
“Really?” YN didn’t take his warning seriously. “And the danger lies in you locking me in my chambers and forcing me to eat until I am sick?’ I cannot wait to see that. Now, if that is all, with your permission, I will go and do what is really important.”
“A hundred gold pieces are no excuse for such idiotic behaviour.”
She understood what he meant. It wasn’t worth ruining her health when she still had to bear him an heir. However, she believed that restoring her good name justified her sacrifice. A small sacrifice. Just sleep and food.
“Perhaps not,” she said, shrugging her shoulders half-heartedly. She was on the defensive, sensing that he was about to attack her, even though he was clearly doing nothing of the sort and had shown no such intention. “But they affect my reputation. What will they say at court? That Lady Lannister allows her stewards to steal from under her very nose and is unable to do simple arithmetic?”
“No one would dare speak of you that way,” Tywin reminded her. “You are my wife.”
Anyone who dared say such a thing about his wife would not last more than a couple of hours in this castle, and their house would suffer catastrophic losses, either politically or financially.
“They are already saying it,” she interrupted him sharply, revealing what she had been keeping to herself. “Not in those exact words, but close enough. It will not be more than a few days before I hear the first remarks of that sort just outside my study door. If my stewards cannot count money, to hell with them.”
Tywin listened to her and made mental notes of what needed to be done. No one had the right to speak about his wife in that way. Only he, Tywin himself, could point out her mistakes. Precisely because he was her husband.
“Watch your language. And replace the stewards,” he said in response to her tirade.
She snorted dismissively and returned to her papers, using them as a barrier between them. Clearly, she had no intention of pursuing the matter further or responding to him as a meek, dutiful wife should.
Tywin rose from his chair and reached the edge of her desk in a single stride. Stretching out his hand, he lifted her chin.
“What?” she asked, not understanding his intentions. But her voice sounded too sharp, a raw nerve laid bare.
Her face was a rigid, frozen mask that glowed with anger towards those who dared to whisper about her, towards herself for her own blunder and that of her stewards, and towards the tense restraint whilst a small, carefully suppressed storm raged within.
He ran his finger along the crease of her thin, pressed lips and smoothed the wrinkle between her furrowed brows with his knuckle. His gesture was devoid of tenderness and filled with control, as if he could command her feelings with a single movement. She froze, watching him in bewilderment. Her eyes, in which incomprehension mingled with irritation, met his steady, deliberately aloof gaze.
“Tonight, at seven, dinner,” he stated. It was not a question. “And you will be there.”
Several seconds passed before she replied, jerking her head and lowering her eyes to the scrolls, unable to bear his gaze.
“All right, all right,” the lady hissed. “By the gods, I will come to your dinner.”
He forced her to look at him again, firmly grasping her chin and not letting her look away.
“Watch your tongue, YN. Your behaviour allows others to see your weakness. It is not others who point out our mistakes, but us Lannisters who point out theirs.”
The woman nodded and bit her lip. Guilt and self-reproach were evident on her face, but he did not comfort her, leaving her to reflect on her behaviour and its impact on the reputation of the House. There was one thing he could not accuse his wife of: she had never harmed the House. Therefore, the mere thought that her reaction to the rumours might harm the Lannisters should have cooled her eagerness to break with the established order.
Tywin turned and left her study without saying another word. There was no need.
On his way to his study, he spent time thinking about the situation that had arisen in the castle. He did not usually pay much attention to rumours in the castle; they did not interest him that much. They could be anything from the kitchen maid being caught kissing the stable boy, to important news such as the Lannisters ignoring the Greyjoys’ latest attack on ships heading for Lannisport. Or Lady Lannister’s mistake with the hundred gold coins.
He had entrusted Kevan, the Maester, and her, YN, the task of keeping track of dangerous rumours. Yet the fact that none of them had reported the gossip circulating within the castle walls about her spoke volumes. They were trying to resolve the issue themselves, without drawing his attention to it. Why? Were they afraid of his reaction? Or of what he might do to those who dared to speak ill of her? Matters at his court were his direct concern, yet no one had informed him of the inappropriate talk.
In his study, he summoned the captain of the guard. A tall, broad-shouldered man approached the desk, bowed his head before his lord and asked, “My lord, did you summon me?”
“Find out who at court dared to spread rumours about Lady Lannister’s inattentiveness,” Tywin said, cutting straight to the point and issuing orders immediately. “I want a list of the most zealous by this evening. Gather what exactly they are saying as well.”
The captain nodded, bowed and left to carry out the order.
Tywin immersed himself in his work, sorting through papers and replying to letters. The parchment rustled and the tip of the quill clinked against the inkwell as he dipped it into the viscous liquid.
He had just finished when there was a knock at the door. With his permission, the captain stepped inside. He walked to the back of the study and placed a sheet of paper on the lord’s desk.
“Here is a list of those who dared to speak of my lady Lannister, my lord,” the captain began his report. “There are no high-ranking lords or ladies among them. Only minor figures.”
Tywin scanned the list, noting the familiar names. Not all of the faces came to mind — they were so insignificant. And yet, for some reason, they had decided that they were in a position to judge his wife when they themselves had barely left a mark on his memory.
“Let these ladies and lords leave the Rock by tomorrow morning,” said the Great Lion, tapping his finger on the paper. “Their belongings will be sent after them. There is no need for personal preparations.”
“If they ask for a reason, my lord, what shall I say?” the man asked.
“That their presence at court is no longer required,” he replied sharply, pushing the parchment to the edge of the table. It remained within his field of vision while he sat at his desk.
Tywin rose and slowly walked around the desk; his work was done and he was about to leave the study with the captain of the guard. The captain would expel those who had become too self-important within the confines of Casterly Rock, while Tywin would calm his wife and bring her to her senses.
“Make sure they understand the reason behind their departure. Next time, they won't be leaving here. At least, not of their own.”
He walked on, the captain keeping pace with him and following close on his heels. They stepped out of the study and the lord was just about to head towards his wife’s quarters when he stopped, turned back to the captain and paused for a moment as if hesitating. In reality, he was giving the captain time to take up his position.
“Send one of them away in full view,” the Great Lion said clearly. “So that everyone can see why.”
“Word will get around, my lord,” the captain replied, failing to grasp the point. They usually tried to avoid public scandals.
“I know,” Tywin said, lowering his head as if preparing for a decisive leap, accompanied by fangs sinking into flesh.
The lord ruled this castle. Now he had decided to take control of the discussions among his trusted confidants. Rumours, whispers and fears. If the courtiers were beginning to forget whose table they ate at, it was time to remind them just how quickly he could turn sumptuous dishes into leftovers. He would not allow the Lannister name to be sullied through his wife, nor would he allow her to torment herself over it. She had already learnt her lesson.
This time, he turned away for good and went to his wife. Not expecting the woman not to forget, or not to pretend she had forgotten, about dinner, Tywin entered her chambers. She was already standing there, fixing her hair before going out.
“Are you going to lead me by the hand now?” she asked as soon as he paused by the sofa.
“No,” he replied, watching her through the mirror, her eyes fixated on her own hairstyle rather than on her husband behind her. “But you leave me no choice.”
She straightened up and tilted her head from side to side, scrutinising her hair. Satisfied that she looked presentable, she walked over to him, her eyes burning with displeasure. Her whole posture, including her tilted head and hands on her hips, exuded displeasure. She used to look at their daughter in exactly the same way whenever she got into trouble and was ready to face her mother’s fair punishment.
“Just so you know, I am about to waste two hours on something you usually do your utmost to ignore,” the woman declared, as if hoping to shame him.
And how much time did he waste trying to persuade the stubborn woman to stop torturing herself instead of doing more work for the good of the household and its members?
“I am having dinner in my study,” Tywin replied curtly. He slowly tucked a strand of her hair, deliberately left slightly loose from her updo, behind her ear. “You are not having dinner at all. Your comparison is not valid.”
“Perhaps I have dinner in my study too,” she retorted, no longer so confidently. She was thrown off balance by his gesture, which was exactly what he’d intended. “Does my hair look all right?”
Tywin looked at her coldly and sternly. If she thought she could lie to him, she was mistaken. Her attempt to change the subject wouldn’t work either.
“It is decent. Besides, you are not eating dinner in your office; the kitchen reports directly to me. They do not bring you any food in the evenings.”
“I knew I was surrounded by your spies,” she said, poking him in the chest with her finger. He caught her hand in his.
They froze in that position: she, still tense and determined to show him her displeasure; and he, holding himself back, rigid in his response to her emotions. He held her, fixing her in a single pose, in a single moment.
“They are not spies,” Tywin replied quietly, leaning towards her so that they were mere centimetres apart. “They know whom they serve and to whom they are loyal.”
The woman snorted but remained silent this time. Presumably for a little variety. She nodded towards the exit of her chambers. Having given her a final look from head to toe, and satisfied that she looked presentable, Tywin released her and walked towards the door, accompanied by her disapproving glare. He opened the door, waited for her to follow and, closing the door behind him, offered her his arm, as she always took it when they walked the corridors unburdened by papers.
The hem of her dress rustled across the floor as she walked, as they walked in silence for a while, but he could almost physically feel the tension simmering beneath her skin and sense the stiffness of her hand in the crook of his elbow. Sooner or later, her self-control would give way, unleashing a torrent of irrational anger that he would have to face.
They reached the living room faster than usual, yet the journey felt much longer to him because of the silence, which was as heavy as the rock upon which Casterly Rock stood. On any other day, she would have chattered incessantly and the journey would have seemed ridiculously short. She herself liked to point this out when she hadn’t managed to tell him even a tenth of the things she felt compelled to share with him. Now she was silent. It was either because she didn’t know what she could possibly tell him about her daily life, which was now filled exclusively with old accounts and the Maester's rare attempts to reach her, or because she didn’t want to pour her heart out to him, repeating the same thing for the umpteenth time. He was inclined to believe it was a mixture of both.
The room he opened the door to for her, holding it open until she had entered, was bathed in a pleasant twilight, broken only by the fire and a few dozen candles. This created a cosy atmosphere conducive to conversation.
He normally made no effort to create an intimate atmosphere, because he was well aware of the subtleties of his wife’s character and had no doubt that she trusted him. With the exception of the most private of moments, such as tonight's dinner occasion.
One of the strengths of their marriage was that they did not pry where they ought not to. They left the past in the past until a situation forced them to confess something, or until they felt the desire to share something after a stressful day. This was something they deeply regretted most of the time, after a couple of hours had passed, and sometimes even after just a few minutes.
The room's decor impressed his wife, too. Standing near the threshold, she looked at things she wasn’t used to seeing, things she had seen, at best, twice in all the years of their marriage. She turned to him and, in the tradition of simple-minded guards, asked bluntly, “What is all this for?”
Tywin pursed his lips, his gaze growing heavy. He walked into the room, shut the door firmly behind him and made his way to the table, not waiting for his hesitant wife to follow.
“I decided it would be appropriate,” he said, choosing not to explain the reasons behind his decision. He placed his hand on the back of his chair.
Taking the hint, she made her way to the seat he had set aside for her, closer to the fireplace and further away from the half-open window. On any other day, she would have smiled at his thoughtfulness, which he would undoubtedly have denied, but today she simply noted the gesture and said nothing. Nor did she give the slightest indication that she had noticed.
“Sit down,” the lord ordered, and was the first to sink into a chair, as if every action had to be accompanied by his own personal example. For illustrative purposes, so to speak.
The lady complied, pulling back the heavy chair with a slight creak of the wooden legs on the floor and plopping down onto it. She folded her arms like a sulky child whose lord father had refused her yet another pony — this time a black one, not a chestnut.
The silver lids covering their plates to keep the food warm distorted their faces, as well as the fire between them, as they reflected the light from the polished, rounded surfaces. It was as if they had suddenly found themselves in the very depths of hell.
Tywin decided to lighten the mood, reckoning that some news would please his wife, given her penchant for punishing the guilty. The innocent sometimes too, though this usually manifested itself as tyranny in the workplace.
“By tomorrow, those who dared to speak ill of a Lannister within the walls of this castle will be gone,” he announced, his tone more reminiscent of a council meeting agenda than marital affection. “They will leave the Rock.”
It suddenly became clear that the Great Lion had failed to take his wife’s proud nature into account when she was upset. She leaned forward and slammed her clasped hands down on the table with an unintentional clatter — and it was forgivable for that very reason.
“Do you think you have done me a favour?” the woman hissed furiously, her eyes narrowing to slits. She tensed up so much that she seemed to be breathing every other breath, or even every third. He recalled a saying among the servants that the lady sometimes didn’t breathe at all if one approached her quietly while she was busy, which meant that she consorted with evil forces. This was usually spoken of by those who had received a severe telling-off for being negligent in their duties, a fact that had not escaped his notice.
A log in the fireplace cracked, sending a shower of sparks flying. Neither man nor woman turned at the sound; they continued to stare intently at one another.
“I defended you from inappropriate talk,” Tywin replied calmly, as if unable to see the obvious. “That is not a favour, but the fulfilment of a lord-husband’s duties.”
“Or were you defending your honour?” the lady snapped, leaning even closer to him and almost snorting at how ridiculous his words seemed to her. “Were you afraid I would not be able to find those damned coins?”
Tywin frowned, his gaze growing heavier and heavier as she spoke without restraint. She herself had no idea what she was saying. He could feel his anger slowly rising, his patience wearing thin — a patience she had relentlessly tested all day in every possible way.
“You have not slept properly for five days, and you have barely eaten,” he said in a deadly cold tone, suggesting to his interlocutor that it would be wise to stop right at that moment. “You are driving yourself to exhaustion in an attempt to prove to yourself that you were not wrong. The truth is, you have already made a mistake. And of the two of us, it is bothering you far more.”
“Oh, is that it? You mean to say…”
“Enough,” Tywin cut her off sharply. He was fully aware that if he let her continue, she would say something that would force him to react. He clenched the armrest of the chair to stop himself from making a rash gesture.
She flinched and sank back into her chair, sitting up straight and staring at the table. She pressed her lips together, but said nothing. However, he could see her trembling with barely contained anger.
The man forced himself to exhale. The sound was slightly louder than he’d intended and she shot him a sidelong glance. Ignoring her, he sat up slightly, opened the dishes and hoped that this would divert her attention from her anger to at least a semblance of kindness. He also wanted to give himself a breather from her incessant attacks. He understood perfectly well how difficult it might be to get her to eat, but she wouldn't turn her nose up at her favourite dish in such a situation. Her mistake was not that serious, and she knew it.
YN turned her attention to the plate, drawn by the familiar scent. Appetising, succulent lamb in lingonberry sauce and freshly boiled, buttered potatoes lay there, waiting to be eaten. She swallowed the saliva that had gathered in her mouth.
“But you do not like lamb,” she said, frowning. He was somewhat surprised that she still had room to frown further; just a little more and her eyebrows would have met.
“I do not,” he replied in a low voice, pushing the lids aside. The vibration of his voice ran through her body as if he had run his hands from top to bottom, sending a shiver through her. He added, a little more slowly and insinuatingly, “But you like it.”
Avoiding his gaze, the lady began irritably shuffling the cutlery on the table, carefully pretending that she had no desire to begin the meal and that she was not at all impressed or moved.
“Eat,” ordered Tywin. With his fork, he picked up a potato and put it in his mouth.
“Are you going to watch over me like a child?” Her remark sounded much calmer this time; she was still reeling from his sharpness and the overwhelming pressure he’d exerted when he’d pushed things to the limit. Even though she was on the verge of doing all sorts of foolish things, she still had a perfect sense of her husband and knew when to rein in her enthusiasm.
Tywin chewed the potato and swallowed it.
“Yes,” he replied unequivocally, requiring no further clarification or argument. “Though I did not suppose you needed such a thing.”
She snorted, but left the cutlery where it was, lying there and glinting in the candlelight. The woman wanted to end the conversation before tucking into the meal, which looked far too appetising. Yet, to her dissatisfaction, it only caused a sickening twist in her stomach.
“And they will not be coming back?” she asked in a half-whisper. All her boldness and haughty self-assurance had vanished. She looked away towards the fireplace, her fingers clenching the edge of the table.
He noticed the movement and was once again convinced of how much a mere whisper had shaken her. Unworthy of the Lannisters. But he said nothing, choosing not to press her or order her to eat again. Instead, he simply replied, “No, they will not be coming back.”
The question sounded so childish that he couldn’t help but chuckle.
Tywin had been silent for too long and she looked at him, her gaze shifting from the fireplace to the logs burning within it.
“They will come back, won’t they?” The lady could hear the answer in his silence.
“Only when their presence is absolutely necessary,” he assured her. Though he did not deny that, occasionally, her tormentors would have to be allowed into the castle. But it would be him, not them, who decided when they should appear.
She suddenly realised that she was clenching the tablecloth in her fingers and gently unclenched them, lowering her hands beneath the table to hide them.
“But they won’t stay at court?” the woman asked, searching for even a single thread to cling to so that she might calm down.
“Too many questions for someone who was displeased with my interference.”
“I am still displeased,” she said, frowning. Her eyes immediately found her husband, pinning him in place. He was not frightened by her threat, of course, but he did notice her irritation. “I will find those coins, whatever you try to do.”
Finally, the lady picked up her fork, popped a potato into her mouth and began cutting the meat into small pieces. He hadn’t touched the meat on his plate, and he doubted he ever would.
“I have no doubt,” Tywin replied calmly. “You will have to find them. Otherwise, I will not be defending you, but abetting your incompetence.”
Her fork plunged into the meat with sharp, unnecessary force. The prongs scraped across the plate, clinking and emitting a nasty grinding sound. Her eyes flashed with fury, but this subsided immediately, leaving a slow simmer like lava in the crater of a volcano, waiting for the moment to erupt.
“I am competent,” she hissed.
“Prove it with actions, not words.” Tywin popped a piece of potato into his mouth, looked at her with an icy coolness that contrasted sharply with her lack of restraint, and began to chew.
“I have worked for so many years without a single slip-up, and now you are just writing them off for a hundred coins?” Her voice rose, and resentment and distrust were etched clearly on her face.
“You are wrong. You are the one writing them off when you show the whole court just how important this is. You should have kept your search quieter.”
She sniffed in offence but said nothing, partly acknowledging that he was right. The woman buried her face in her plate and began smearing the food across it with exaggerated effort. It was a habit he couldn’t stand. But Tywin forced himself to remain silent this time, too. If she felt the need to play with her food before finally eating it, then so be it — at least today, when his initial aim was simply to get her to eat.
The prongs of the fork scraped against the plate and she winced at the sound. She darted a brief glance towards her husband, checking to see if he was angry, before returning her eyes to the plate. She found no sign that he was about to make yet another remark. It made no difference to her how fairly he might point out another flaw in her behaviour. The only thing that mattered was that she was in no mood to listen to his nagging or his long, tedious lectures on how Lannisters should behave.
“Is it tasty?” she asked, spearing a piece of lamb and staring at it intently as if expecting it to bleat and scamper away from the plate.
“Just the way you like it,” the man replied, not bothering to describe the chef’s culinary artistry. He still hadn’t tasted the meat; to him, it was both sweet and sour, but she loved this dish and he didn’t mind.
“So it is tasty,” she muttered under her breath, hesitantly putting the first piece in her mouth.
The taste was exactly what she was used to. Just a little more lingonberry sauce and the meat would really come into its own. She began to eat, no longer holding back. Not very neatly, and ignoring etiquette somewhat, but what could she do when she hadn’t eaten properly for days?
She speared the next piece of meat, ignoring the potatoes completely, and scooped up some lingonberry juice that had spilled onto the porcelain before popping it into her mouth. Their plates were mirror images of one another: hers was full of potatoes, but the meat was gradually disappearing; his had the meat untouched, but the potatoes were almost gone. Dinner was more modest than he was used to, but there was no cause for complaint.
“Were you very angry with me when those coins turned up?”
“No, but you decided for me.”
“What do you mean?” the woman asked, looking up from her plate.
“You decided to be angry for both of us,” the man explained.
“Nonsense,” she snorted, waving him off. The lock of hair he’d tucked behind her ear fell out again and hung down by her face. “I am not angry.”
Tywin raised an eyebrow and looked at her sceptically, trying to tell from her expression whether she believed her own words or was merely trying to convince him of this obvious lie.
“And what do you think you are doing, then?” he asked.
“Correcting a mistake,” she replied without hesitation, as if she had been preparing for this question day and night. “And perhaps worrying just a little about the House’s reputation.”
“If that is the case, there was no need to starve yourself,” Tywin declared, pointing out a simple flaw in her logic and shattering all her sandcastle defences.
“I…” the woman faltered, unable to think of a coherent response. Just trivial, ridiculous excuses that she didn’t want to say and he didn’t want to hear. “You are probably right.”
She smiled and looked at him, a little softer and more forgiving.
“You really love being right, don’t you?”
“It does not fall into the categories of ‘love’ or ‘not love’. I am right. And that is the end of it.”
She exhaled through her nose, trying not to laugh. Although making her laugh hadn't been his original intention, he didn't mind that things had turned out this way. At least she was holding back laughter rather than showing irritation; that alone was a sign that they'd made some progress.
Tywin returned to his meal, considering the conversation to have reached its logical conclusion and feeling satisfied with the outcome. But she saw things differently.
“So, you think I am angry after all?” she asked, with a hint of curiosity.
“Obviously,” he agreed, as he cut a large potato.
“And what am I angry about?” YN pressed on, following his example and returning to the meat.
“Not what, but whom,” Tywin corrected. “About yourself.”
The smile vanished from her face in an instant. She stopped before bringing the meat to her mouth and lowered her hand, holding the piece — from which a drop of sauce occasionally dripped — over the plate.
“I am not angry with myself,” she protested. “I... I am angry about the missing coins. And the fact that they cannot be found.”
The Great Lion put down his fork and knife, his shoulders sinking slightly under the weight of a weary sigh. They were going round in circles, unable to find their way out, as if it were an enchanted labyrinth rather than his wife’s simple, straightforward emotions.
“Do you even believe what you are saying yourself? Or am I supposed to waste time trying to convince you of something we have already agreed on?”
“We have agreed that you love being right,” she argued desperately. She resented being read like an open book, and she resented the fact that her feelings were so base and unworthy of his control and that he knew it. “That is a consensus, yes. But it does not mean that I am angry, or that I am angry with myself. I have nothing to blame myself for. I have done enough.”
“Not enough, since the coins were lost after all. Or are you saying they did it themselves?” He blinked slowly and tilted his head towards his shoulder.
She clenched her jaw. His words struck at the very place she forbade herself to look. But her husband had never minced his words: if she was hurt, it was her own fault. The woman clenched her fingers, her short nails digging into her palm.
“I cannot keep track of everything,” she said more quietly.
“Cannot, or do not want to?” Tywin pressed her with one final question, forcing her to draw her own conclusions.
Her eyes began to sting. She blinked and lowered her head; her thoughts were now far more occupied by the plate than the conversation. The man sighed and sat up straight. Reaching out, he touched her hand, which was clenched so tightly around the fork that her knuckles had turned white and the cutlery trembled slightly in her grasp. He merely brushed her hand, drawing her attention to him.
She frowned and pulled her hand closer, breaking contact. Tywin froze for a moment, then withdrew his hand. If she didn’t want him to touch her, he wouldn’t insist. At least, not now.
“I will find the coins,” the lady repeated stubbornly, spearring a second piece of meat with her fork. “And then I will calm down.”
She put it in her mouth and began to chew as though the piece of meat had personally insulted her. She looked at him; her eyes still glinted in the candlelight and the bitter crease at her lips had grown sharper and more discontented.
The lady fixed him with a piercing gaze, and her facial expression clearly reflected her thought process, leaving him in no doubt that something was about to happen.
But nothing followed, and she continued to eat in silence, as if she could not or would not continue the conflict.
Neither of them said a word for the rest of dinner. The servants began to clear the plates and set the table, leaving it as empty as the void between the couple.
They rose from their chairs; she neatly pushed hers back, stood up and ran her fingers over the upholstery fabric. Tywin approached her and stood beside her, looking down expectantly. There would be no continuation of the quarrel — that was as clear and certain as the moon dancing across the night sky and the sun racing across it by day.
“Can you help me?” she asked quietly. The struggle with her own pride was etched clearly on her face, distorted by tension and dissatisfaction, which robbed it of some of its charm.
“With what exactly?” Devoid of any harshness in his tone, his question sounded almost gentle. She looked away, feeling guilty about the way she’d spoken to her husband all evening.
She raised her head, her gaze darting across his face, unsure where to stop or linger. She might have taken his reply as a joke, but her husband was not one to joke around.
His hand rested on her cheek, heavy and firm.
“Next time,” Tywin began, his tone insinuating. “If there is a next time, you will come to me straight away. No games, no trying to sort it out on your own. And you will not dare to deliberately hide rumours from me. I trust you to decide what I need to know about the gossip surrounding the Lannisters. Do not you dare let me down.”
She nodded and bit her lip. The woman sniffed and clenched the hem of her dress with her fingers. Anger gave way to shame, no less searing and painful than all that had tormented her before.
“Of course. I understand.”
He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead, asserting his right to possess her and her thoughts, even if they were her own. Especially then.
“Then come on. Find the coins and let’s finally put an end to this farce. It is gone on long enough.”
