Chapter Text
Tywin 1870
There are two things that fuel the world. Money and sex. They are coals in the fire, driving history forward with every bold decision and strategy. Every war, every betrayal that has moistened the earth’s crust with a thick layer of blood could be traced back to those two forces. Men seemed destined to rip each other to shreds for one or the other…sometimes both. Pillaging came with raping and bribes weren’t always coins in one’s purse or cash in their wallet. Sometimes people lie to themselves, believe that their good fortune is self-made, that perhaps fate had smiled at them out of organic good luck and honorable action.
But…at its core, it was, and always will be, money and sex. Coin and flesh. Power and influence.
Tywin Lannister just wished people would see that. Come to terms with it. That’s what he had done, after all. And here he sat upon his throne of iron rail and coal, the richest man in the country. People groveled beneath his feet, whispering and pleading for favors or gifts, their eyes glinting with jealous hope.
Typically, they were ignored until he felt the need to move forward with a deal, whether it be a blessing or a curse. However, today one had slipped through the cracks.
In the lazy noon light, Tywin sat at his desk, tapping the rounded leather arm of his chair with an impatient thumb as he watched the man in front of him lick his lips nervously, his watery eyes darting away from where he sat. Tywin narrowed his own eyes and sniffed out the hesitation like it was rot on carrion. It stunk. And soon it would start to linger.
“Seems to me, Frey,” he drawled, unblinking, “That you are reneging on our previous agreement.”
Frey shrugged, an action that Tywin didn’t appreciate. It was uncommitted, a form of hapless self-want without the words or courage to back it up.
“Just seems to me that your railroad needs to cross my river. I own the sixty miles to the north and the south, re-routing your track is going to be expensive. I don’t like the original numbers.”
Tywin didn’t answer right away. Instead, he propped his chin up on his hand, his index finger extended on the side of his nose. “Hmm. I see…you don’t like the deal now.” Tap, tap, went the thumb to the leather. Light glinted off of the rubies of his cufflinks.The noise bumped through the room like the metronome of his own annoyance.
“Does the water in your stretch of the river still run red, Frey?” Tywin finally asked. His face showed no emotion.
Walder was not a large man, and he hunched forward in his old age. His river provided him water for milling and the years spent hunched over to improve his machinery had left him small and compact like a crumpled bill. “What?”
“I asked you if the blood of both Union and Southern soldiers has still stained your river red. How long did production cease during the battle of the Twins? A week?”
Frey’s eyes narrowed. “The water is flowing, the current washed it away.”
Tywin’s face was stone, yet his eyes glinted like lethal little emeralds. “Oh, but what of the cows and the horses? The bodies rotting away tangled in the underwater branches? The gunpowder and the wooden shards that cannot pass through your mills? How long has production been halted while the banks are cleared?”
Walder’s face puckered in an unpleasant and sour twist.
Tywin continued, only now deciding to blink, deliberate and slow.
“It’s been a wet spring, hasn’t it? And I have no doubt that your silos were damaged by cannon and fire, or at the bare minimum your notorious lack of care,” the Lion mused, “How long until your grain rots?” The gentle thumping of his thumb against his armrest continued, “That is, if it hasn’t already.”
Silence hung between them and Frey’s uncomfortable shifting caused the leather on his seat to squeak. His worn leather shoes twisted against the ivory and ebony floor tiles of Tywin’s study. It did not go unnoticed by the Old Lion. His eyes bore in to crippled Walder Frey, stabbing like two iron pikes through his chest. He held the old man there, suspended by his own judgement and impatience.
“Who will ship your rotten grain? Milled by your tainted water?” Tywin asked, the thumping thumb now curled into a fist. He rubbed the metal of the ring he wore on his index finger. He shifted in his seat and the chain of his pocket watch dangled from his waistcoat. “If you are foolish enough to refuse my offer, then I will see to it that no shipment of anything tied to the Riverlands will ever travel by my trains.”
Walder’s watery eyes glanced to the oak of Tywin’s desk. Avoidance was as unpleasant to the Commodore as cowardice and Tywin took no joy in the knowledge that he was right, that he was winning. To him there was no competition and Frey needed discipline just like his unruly children had when they were young.
Only Frey was old enough to know better.
“You have lost profit from this war. You have been damaged. And my offer was generous at the time, but now it will be even less so. Consider it a charge for wasting my time. Be glad I am not insulted,” Tywin said quietly. Frey didn’t deserve the energy it took to growl. “The railroad will cross through the Riverlands, at the narrowest point, as previously agreed.”
Walder did not speak as he stood, realizing he had been dismissed quite unceremoniously. He hobbled out with an ebony cane that was much to flashy for him. Tywin watched him go before leaning forward and looking at the columns in his ledger. Inside he was seething, angered by Frey’s assumption that he could just shuffle in and demand more money. It itched at him, causing him to turn his neck from side to side to stretch the tension from his cords. The pressed stiff collar of his suit dug into his jugular and he dipped his chin to feel the silk of his ascot, gold flecked with red.
“Clegane!” Tywin called, his voice booming and traveling easily to the man who stood on the other side of his door.
The response was quick, as he liked it. He made Sandor Clegane wait while he finished with his column. Sandor waited dutifully, a large man with a face marred by a barn fire when he was a younger man. He was a good worker, clawing his way up from heavy fisted brawlers and baton happy Pinkertons. And he stood in his wool vest and rolled sleeves, dutifully and silently until acknowledged.
Finally looking up as he placed his fountain pen back in the inkwell, Tywin calmly asked, “How did Frey get to my office today?”
Clegane knew better than to response with a cheeky answer. “He informed your staff he had a scheduled meeting to speak about the Riverland Purchase.”
Tywin’s eyes were hard and his lips pursed. “Which staff?”
“That secretary of yours.”
“Ah.” Tywin stood up and approached his bar cart, gilded gold and black cherry wood. Cognac sloshed in the crystal decanter and he poured it neat, no rocks. “Bring Tyrion in here.” It was not a request. Tywin’s back was to his hired man, so he didn’t watch Clegane turn on his large bootheel and stomp back out the door.
Acrid sweetness coated his tongue as he sipped the cognac and waited for his little son. The gardens stretched out before him, rosebushes and hedges, a fountain springing from its center like the famous geyser in the west. Tywin found himself longing for the mountains and valleys of the Westernlands from his youth, but there was no time for memories today.
“Hello, dear father,” came the self-indulgent voice of Tyrion Lannister.
Tywin turned and made a point to dip his chin to regard his dwarfed offspring, his mop of unruly curls gelled back with the pomade that was so popular for the time. The Old Lion’s lip curled with the slickness of it.
“Sit,” he said in response to a greeting.
Tyrion did as told, looking so comfortable in his father’s decadent chairs. He eyed the glass of alcohol with a spark of jealousy and Tywin ignored it, deliberately withholding an offer.
Lannister strode to his chair, sipping once or twice more before coming to stand behind the desk. Sucking the alcohol against his teeth, he set his glass down on a coaster and glared across the desk from his son.
“She’s fired,” he finally said.
Tyrion had his father’s knack for holding an impassive face. “Who might that be? The maid? Because I whole-heartedly agree…my washroom today was filth-”
“Your whore,” Tywin interrupted with a growl, leaning down and propping himself up with his long arms on the desk. He loomed over his son like a stork over a newt. “That girl I provided work. You told me she would be an adequate secretary.”
His son’s face darkened before him and Tywin was reminded how he pouted as a boy, stubby arms crossed and legs kicking. Tyrion had always hated being told no.
“Shae? What did she do?”
Tywin huffed, his bristled jaw set. Much to his namesake, Frey had rubbed his nerves raw and he felt the annoyance prick like tiny needles in his muscles. “She let Walder Frey waltz in here and demand a new proposal.”
Waving his arms dramatically, Tywin tipped his head back, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, father. He’s a snake. He’d trick your best man and you know it.”
“But he didn’t trick my best man, did he?” Tywin replied evenly. “He persuaded some lowbrow, emptyheaded secretary that is sitting at my front desk as a favor to you. If she can be convinced that Walder Frey is a man worth listening to then I am far less than impressed.”
Tyrion was quiet, brooding, and Tywin knew he had gotten beneath his skin, as delicate as he knew it to be.
“Get rid of her.”
Tywin’s son’s mouth opened in protest and was met with green eyes that were warning. “Fine,” he conceded, “but can I put her in the kitchens? Perhaps with the maid staff? I told her she could work.”
Sneering, Tywin Lannister straightened from his desk and took a swig of his drink. “How many favors must you ask of me? I’m not interested in having my son’s whoring muse on my payroll.”
Tyrion shrugged. “I’ll pay her wages.”
The glass froze, the crystal barely touching Tywin’s thin lips. There was a pause, a heartbeat…perhaps two, before he quietly asked, “But who pays yours, Tyrion?” His breath fogged the glass.
No response would be appropriate, so Tyrion sat in silence.
The drink was finished without wincing. “I want her gone,” Tywin stated deliberately. “By the end of the day.”
His son’s mouth was clenched in anger and he stared at his father as he gauged the severity of the demand. He was known to push boundaries, testing their elasticity as far as he could before they either snapped free or smarted his skin. But, over the years and especially against his father, Tyrion noticed a losing fight when he saw one.
“Anything else, Father?” The words left his lips sarcastic and dripping.
Tywin was unfazed. He sat down and closed one of his ledgers. The paper was thick ivory cardstock that soaked up the ink quickly. “Actually, yes. Your nephew is wanting his birthday party on the grounds by the end of the week and I want you to oversee it.”
The insult added to Tyrion’s injury and he huffed. “Don’t you believe that it would be appropriate to have Cersei handle the party planning? I’m not much for…organized…celebrations, father.”
“While that may be,” Tywin replied, “You know how to value guests. If your sister took over it would be decadent, tacky, and far too much for what that boy deserves.” The thought of his pouting, sour little grandson smugly stomping around the mansion curled Tywin’s lip. The family seemed to forget quite regularly that they were staying as guests, albeit long-term ones. Casterly Rock had been purchased by blood and iron money, the coal from his railroads providing a nice foundation of wealth and decadence. Tywin respected it, the old walls and the historic beams. However, his ungrateful daughter and her brood routinely pretended they were the rightful owners as well. Cersei seemed to forget about that little farmhouse she and her brother were born into, crying and waving their fat little arms against the scratchy straw mattress while his wife chased away the rats.
Joanna never saw Tywin’s money, the life he had worked so hard for. He remembered whispering to her about it as he wiped the sweat off her brow while she wailed and cried in childbirth.
“Your work is now, then you will rest and it will be my turn,” he had said.
But she still died in that dirty little house. And now his grandchildren had no idea of what it meant to work hard. Especially Joffrey…his hands were the softest of all and his voice was always shrill with complaint.
And once the spoiled boy turns twenty, he will consider himself a man.
And if Tywin’s patience was thin for boys, it was nonexistent for men.
Tyrion’s voice pulled him from his memory and he was suddenly reminded why his lady wife had never been given the chance to bask in his riches. His dwarf son was oblivious and Tywin had to remind himself of that.
“Perhaps Littlefinger or Varys will be better in planning a party.”
A rush of air from his nostrils and Tywin worked his jaw before he finally decided to stand up. “Look,” he barked, “Littlefinger and Varys are already planning catering and booze. I just need you to make sure everything is up to snuff because I’m using this party as an excuse to contact a few possible investors.”
Raising his eyebrows, Tyrion nodded knowingly. “Never miss an opportunity, do you, father?”
“You seem happy to reap in the reward of my ‘opportunities,’ don’t you think?” the Lion growled.
Tyrion held up his hands and Tywin looked away from his small fingers. “I will assist. I’ll make sure the banners and streamers are hung and the place looks top notch…but only if you still let Shae work.”
Anger spiked up through Tywin’s gullet hot like the poker that sat next to his hearth. He leaned over his desk, long fingers splayed flat against the wood surface. His watch chain dangled and Tywin’s flashing green eyes glared hatefully at his son. Tyrion met his gaze, doing his best to keep his composure. Years of being pushed down by his father had nurtured his argumentative streak.
“Hear no evil, see no evil, my boy,” the Old Lion rumbled, his lips barely moving in the subtlest of sneers. “If you want her here, fine. But if I see her… if I even catch a glance of that tangled brown hair or if I even hear that foreign voice coming from my kitchens, or my washroom, or my garden…you’re going to wish you sent her away a long time ago.”
His lips were curled in a snarl. “So gamble with that as you will. And know this, you may be my blood, but I will never allow you to give me an ultimatum again. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” the reply wasn’t weak, but it was quiet with understanding. Tyrion slid off the chair. He tried his best to look unbothered by his father’s warning, brushing off his suit coat and tugging at his vest. A subject change was sorely needed. “So who is it that you are trying to impress?”
Looking at his watch and deciding to have lunch, Tywin walked past his son and towards the large oak door. He rapped on the wood once with his ring and the butler on the other side silently pulled it open. Tywin waited for his son to come to the door so he could watch him leave.
“Oilman,” the tall man finally called as Tyrion made his way out into the sprawling entry room and parlor of the mansion. Tywin glanced to the left and was pleased to see the secretary desk empty. “From the North. He’s been having luck with his rigs and his kerosene and I want to ship them.”
Tyrion would never admit it, but he had the same hunger for business that his father had. His interest was piqued. “Young?”
“Not young enough to be foolish, old enough for a family, which might complicate things,” Tywin mused, momentarily forgetting about his outburst. Out of all of his children, Tyrion was the only one with a sharp enough wit to follow along with the deals and the contracts.
The blessings and the curses. The partners and the enemies.
“Family’s name is Stark. Ned Stark.”
Tyrion nodded. “Stark Oil been growing exponentially in the last six months. I see why you’re interested,” he reached into his waistcoat pocket and took out his silver cigarette tin. Knowing better than to light it in the house, Tyrion walked towards the front door. Tywin watched him pause, then turn and say, “I’ll do my best with the house. But, dear father… if you want to invite the whole Stark family for the weekend, I suggest you urge my sister to reign in Joffrey. If you can manage.”
And with that Tyrion walked away, patting his hands on the sides of his head to smooth out his slicked curls. Tywin watched him go, his mouth neither frowning nor smiling. He was too busy thinking about what was to come, the handshakes and courtesies. The Old Lion had been out of the game for a while, relying on his brute force to make new contracts. The Starks were going to be something different and refreshing. An equal, or at the bare minimum, a challenge.
He just hoped that Ned Stark was a smart enough man to recognize a generous deal when one was offered.