madness. madness and stupidity.

I plucked them off the tree myself.

The tree. Their tree. Tywin takes a plum from the plate, his thumb running along the seam, imagining you having done the same.

He smells it, inhales the sweet scent, presses the fruit against his lips. It feels smooth, warmed by his hand. Not quite like the plum you had let him taste back then.

Most loyal, your Lady from the orchards.

The orchards. A rare place, a curious one. One that seems to be untouched from war and hunger. Owned by an ally of the Lannisters. Some lord who makes his gold with apples and plums and pears. A man whose business is seeds and fruits and who ironically only sired one child, and a daughter at that.

The Lady from the orchards.

Without noticing Tywin licks along the seam, the tip of his tongue pushing through the skin and into the flesh without much resistance.

Sweet and tart, the juice running down his chin. Dripping onto the paper.

He sucks and slurps at the slit of the plum before finally taking a bite.

Dear Lady, Tywin's quill scratches over a square of parchment, send more plums, for I miss their taste. Take them from the tree under which you gave me the ripest of plums, for I want to taste it again.

Tywin pauses, scratching his chin and feeling the sticky juice spreading over his skin. Like the memories spreading in his mind.

The tree. As old as Tywin since it was planted the day of his birth in honor of the new child. 'Come, let me show you your tree,' you said and he had been annoyed. Could this dull girl not see that he was exhausted after months of mud and blood and war? Could she not fathom how he just wanted to rest for a week before returning to the frontlines?

You couldn't. Half his age and full of a good, calm life you just wanted to show the great Lord Tywin, the Old Lion, the Hand of the King his tree. And because he was hungry for colors that weren't mud-brown and blood red and you were sweet like honeyed wine, he agreed eventually.

His tree stood tall and proud, the branches laden with ample plums. It wasn't among the other trees but had its own, designated place, sunny, with rich soil, birdsong filling the air. A piece of quiet Tywin hadn't tasted in a long while.

'Help me, my Lord?' you chirped like the pert sparrows swarming the grounds, already climbing a rickety wooden ladder. Tywin saw it, the way your foot stepped onto the hem of your dress, the way you were so eager to pluck plums for him that you didn't care if you broke a bone in the process.

Swiftly he lashed out, his fingers digging into the backs of your thighs just when you slipped off the third rung. By the Seven, you felt as ample as the ripe fruits, smelled of grass and fresh cut apple slices. And you laughed as if you didn't just fall into the arms of Lord Tywin Lannister but of a common harvest hand.

The plums, pulled in halves by your fingers and offered in your palm, were the best he ever had. Carrying the warmth of the sun in their flesh, each piece felt like he ate a summer's day.

The ink on the quill has dried, so Tywin dips the tip back into the liquid, scratching more words onto the parchment: I will brook no delay. Send a whole crate.

He picks up the second plum from the plate, turning it, letting his fingers press against it, not hard enough to break the purple skin. Yours felt just as smooth under the pads of his fingers. The quill moves again, hastily now.

Bring your Lord his favorite plum.

The one you let him taste under the old tree, where the grass and your skin were painted with dapples of sunshine.

The one he couldn't believe you offered him, a weary and stern man with more silver than gold in his hair.

But days spent with walking beneath trees, with watching men and women alike filling crate after crate with fruits, with being just a lord among the smallfolk and not the Old Lion—it turned him into someone else. A man, who he last had been decades ago. When life was a little simpler and he still could accept small joys that came his way.

'You are leaving tomorrow, no?' you asked and sat down next to him. Tywin Lannister, sitting under a tree in the grass. Something so unheard of it had to stay a secret, right here in the shadow of his tree.

A plum, pulled in half and nestled in your outstretched hand, was offered to him. He took it—like he had so often the last days—and noticed your thumb. It was glistening with sweet plum juice and he thought about taking your hand, too. To suck your finger between his lips and lick the sweetness from your skin.

And so he did it.

And you let him.

And when he drew you closer you followed his wordless command.

Bring your Lord his favorite plum.

A plum, pulled open and nestled between your thighs, was offered to him. He took it, tasted it, heated flesh—warmed from a day out in the sun. The salt of your skin, candied with the ever present plum aroma, a delectable tartness. Summer in his nose and on his tongue.

There, under the canopy of leaves and purple plums, Tywin hid between your thighs and you shielded him with the excess of your skirts. Painted over his sighs with your own. Fed him.

Bring your Lord his favorite plum. I want to taste her again.

The quill stops moving again, the soft scratching on the parchment ceases. A raven would reach the orchards by tomorrow evening. More plums could be here by the end of the week.

Tywin breaks open the last plum from his plate and runs his thumb over the pit sitting in its center until it glistens like his fingers did that one afternoon.

You could be here by the end of the week. He licks his thumb and then his lips, picking up the quill again.

Your plum is ripe, my Lady.

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pearl dividers: @cursed-carmine