Chapter Text
Lady Thea Kearn finally glimpsed the end of the bare, grassy slope she had been climbing for nearly an hour, panting. With a sigh of relief, she quickened her pace slightly and finally reached the summit of the great hill that separated her from the Gold Road. She paused for a moment, contemplating the landscape sprawling below. The Gold Road wound its way between the hills in the distance, a ribbon of dirt over endless plains of tall grass. If she lifted her eyes, she could see, right in front of her, the mountain range that reformed further south. To the east, the Gold Road disappeared behind a mountain’s flank. And to the west, where she was heading, she could already see the towers of Adhemar. The fortress looked so small from where she stood. A few more hours and she would be the one feeling very small.
Thea set off again, letting the gentle slope dictate her pace, and made her way down the hill until she reached the Gold Road.
Her first destination had been Casterly Rock, of course. Her parents had sent her to beg lord Tywin Lannister for help. She had travelled alone from her lands, the Badlands, without guards or mount, despite her title. Her parents cared very little for her comfort or protection, but she was used to it. She didn't mind walking, and she knew how to fend for herself. Time wasn't an issue either, as she had neither obligations nor goals. The boredom that had crept into her life had grown into a vast emptiness. At least, this journey kept her busy.
Casterly Rock, then. The city of the House Lannister. Thea had never been there, surprisingly, and was therefore not displeased with her destination. She had chosen to cross the mountains rather than join the road further south. Spring was only just beginning to show but the weather had seemed fairly mild. Nevertheless, she had encountered a group of soldiers heading north towards the Badlands and had overheard them say that Lord Tywin had set up temporary quarters at the old fortress of Adhemar. The previous winter, she had heard rumours that Lannister lands were troubled by a group of bandits. Thea guessed Lord Tywin had decided to take matters into his own hands and, given its strategic position—midway through Lannister territory and not far from the capital—Adhemar was the ideal location to establish his army. The lady had thus turned southwards, towards the Gold Road, and then to Adhemar. As happy as her parents were not to have her underfoot, if they learned she had waited for Lord Tywin at Casterly Rock for weeks while he had been nearby, they would throw a fit.
Thea reached Adhemar in the early afternoon. The fortress loomed before her, dark and menacing. Partially destroyed about a decade ago and never rebuilt, it resembled a skeletal hand jutting from the ground, with its five towers reaching for the sky. A little Harrenhal. A ruin, yes, but far from dead. The fortress pulsed with the rhythm of the soldiers who had taken up residence there. Thea walked among them, her gaze proud and fixed ahead, ignoring the curious eyes that turned towards her.
She presented herself at the base of the main building and politely requested an audience with Lord Lannister. “Not here,” she was told. The guards were suspicious—what was a woman doing here alone? No mount, no escort, poorly dressed, barely groomed, and she claimed to be Lady Kearn? Thea remained patient and honest, though stingy in detail. “That is for Lord Lannister’s ears alone,” she repeated several times. Eventually, they led her to the Lannister’s study. All that remained was to wait.
Tywin Lannister caught the edge of his glove with his teeth and tugged. The garment slipped off his left hand, and he repeated the motion with his right. He was exhausted.
He had spent the entire day galloping through the surrounding villages, taking full stock of the damage. The damned bandits had taken advantage of the winter to gather their strength, and were now roaming his lands, pillaging, destroying, looting, raping, and killing without restraint. It had to stop—and swiftly.
The sun was slowly setting when he finally returned to Adhemar. He left his horse at the stables and made haste to his quarters, gloves in hand. He had arranged, albeit vaguely, for the only room of the fortress not yet fallen into ruin—the great hall—to be made somewhat habitable. He used the enormous wooden table that still stood there, despite years of abandonment, as a desk. A bed had been brought in for rest, tucked into a corner, along with a small bathing tub—into which he longed to sink, aching as he was. And to think his home was but a few days’ ride away…
He strode past the two guards posted at the door without ceremony, paying no heed to their attempts at speech, and pushed open the double doors with an impatient kick—unbecoming of his stature, had he spared the thought. Thus it was with poorly concealed surprise that he discovered a woman standing in his quarters.
She was seated at the long table—not in his place at the head, but nearby, facing the doors. Several candles had been lit, casting a soft glow over the thick volume in her hands—one Tywin recognised as his own. She must have been reading before he barged in unannounced. Judging by the number of pages she had turned, she had been there for quite some time.
The young woman who met his gaze seemed not the least surprised. Quite the opposite. Her eyes calmly dropped back to the page, and she took the time to finish her sentence before closing the book and placing it gently on the table before her. Then, with graceful ease, she rose and offered a poised curtsy as she spoke her first words:
“Lord Tywin.”
Her voice was pleasant—soft, lilting. There was no trace of unease or impatience, no tremble of awe, only a deep and deliberate courtesy. It irked Tywin. She was in his chambers, at dusk, with no rightful reason to be there. All he desired was a bath and a few hours’ sleep. Certainly not conversation with some presumptuous noblewoman—or worse, a commoner.
The Old Lion did not return her greeting. As the doors closed behind him, Tywin crossed the distance to his desk, dropped his gloves upon the table, seized the book she had borrowed, and sank heavily into his chair, letting his back rest against the support. He inspected the title she had chosen: “Echoes of Ancient Ruins: The Mysteries of Westeros” by Ronan Everhart. His blue eyes rose to study the intruder—for the first time, truly seeing her.
She was rather tall and slender, yet well-proportioned. Pale skin. Long, thick black hair cascading down her back, already streaked with silver threads. Eyes dark—nearly black. He would not have given her more than thirty. Though clad in travel-worn and muted garments, she held herself with the quiet dignity of nobility. And when he fixed her with his sharp gaze, she met it calmly, without hostility or fear.
Tywin ran his tongue along his teeth, mouth closed. He gave the book a shake, then let it fall with a dull thud onto the desk.
“My apologies, Lord Tywin,” she said at last, breaking the silence, “for borrowing this volume without permission. I was merely passing the time.”
He continued to stare. He had not offered her a seat, and she seemed perfectly content to remain standing. Her calm and softness, always laced with a subtle resolve, only served to aggravate him further.
“You were not expected,” he replied curtly. “And I am still waiting for you to introduce yourself properly. Am I to guess your name, or did you assume I already knew your identity?”
A faint smile curved the young woman’s pink lips. She did not seem frightened or offended by his brusque tone—merely amused. Tywin Lannister impressed, Tywin Lannister intimidated, Tywin Lannister infuriated—but Tywin Lannister did not amuse.
“Lady Thea Kearn of the Badlands, my lord,” she said with another refined curtsey. “I bring a message from my lord father, Lord Ormund Kearn.”
And with those pleasant words, she produced a parchment as though from nowhere. Tywin all but snatched it from her hands and began to read.
Thea had not bothered to read her father’s letter—she already knew what it contained. So she waited patiently as Tywin Lannister read it for himself.
The man had made a rather dramatic entrance, and Thea wasn’t a fool; she could tell that the only reason he hadn’t thrown her out yet was because he still clung to manners. She had imagined many things about Tywin Lannister—and some of them were true. He was tall, his voice deep and resonant enough to stir one’s very core. He exuded nobility and command. But his eyes were not as cold as she had expected, and his presence did not weigh as heavily on her as she had feared. In truth, the first thought that had struck her when she saw him was that he looked tired—and alone. For that reason, she found it difficult to take his hostility seriously. Strangely enough, watching him clench his jaw in annoyance over nothing at all gave her a certain satisfaction—perhaps even a flicker of amusement.
“Could Lord Ormund Kearn not have simply sent a raven, instead of dispatching his daughter?”
Thea blinked out of her thoughts and looked at Tywin, raising a brow, letting out a slight “hmm?”.
“Oh,” she sighed, utterly nonchalant, as she sat herself back down in the chair.
The lord watched her do so in silence, evidently too surprised by her ease to think of rebuking her.
“My father is always seeking an excuse to rid himself of me,” she explained. “This message is just a pretext to send me far away for a few weeks.”
“Are you aware of the content of this letter, Lady Thea?” Tywin muttered.
“He’s likely begging you to marry off his useless daughter and be done with me once and for all,” Thea replied, shrugging faintly—to the lord’s evident surprise. “Or perhaps he’s asking you to execute me for some unnamed offence.”
She gave a soft laugh. Tywin remained silent.
“To be honest, my lord,” Thea continued, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table, “I am rather weary of traipsing across your lands in search of some poor lesser lord to wed. Let’s end this charade, shall we? Please, do write back to my father with a refusal. Or kill me here and now, if that is indeed what he’s asked. I only beg that you be swift.”
“You’re certainly not making a very compelling case for anyone to marry you,” Tywin said at last, narrowing his eyes. “And what will you do if I grant your request?”
“Which one, my lord?” Thea asked sincerely. “The second seems quite self-explanatory.”
“Your father hasn’t asked me to kill you, Lady Thea,” Tywin sighed.
“One never knows,” she said with another shrug. “Well then, I shall depart as I came, and you’ll never see me again. And perhaps one day, you’ll hear that the Lady of the Lands was found dead in some forgotten thicket—and thus I’ll vanish forever.”
A touch dramatic, perhaps—but it sounded rather elegant to Thea’s ears. And truthfully, she was far too disenchanted to care.
“The Lady of the Lands?”
Tywin frowned, letting the parchment fall onto the table. He sat up straighter in his chair.
“That is the name they’ve chosen for me, my lord,” Thea sighed. “Look—Lord Tywin—you seem far too tired and far too busy to concern yourself with… well, with me, really. I’m not trying to convince you of anything, because I know what is said about me. They’re not even rumours anymore—just common knowledge. I was once married, I was deflowered, and it turns out I’m barren. So I am of no use to any husband. At best, I can offer a few sexual favours—for if I cannot bear children, at least I have some talent for bringing men pleasure. I am twenty-eight, Lord Tywin. In other words, I am of no use whatsoever—neither to my father nor to any potential husband. I am not a fool; I have no illusions about my future.”
She exhaled again, and silence settled between them. Thea suddenly felt tired. Defeated. She realised she didn’t even know where she would sleep that night. Her life had been nothing but a string of failures and disappointments. She saw no reason why that should change now.
“Prove it.”
“Pardon?” Thea started, lifting her head.
“You claim to possess a talent for pleasing men,” Tywin said, settling back in his chair with a hint of superiority. “Then prove it to me, Lady Thea—and I shall find you a husband.”
“I beg your pardon?” Thea gasped, a flicker of amusement on her lips.
Tywin looked at her with a satisfied smirk, and Thea understood that he was quite serious. The Lady of the Lands was neither naïve nor timid. She certainly wasn’t going to let the Lannister get the better of her, and she had long ceased to be prude.
“And what makes you think I even want a husband?” she asked with a crooked smile, straightening her back.
“Think, my lady,” Tywin replied, folding his hands across his stomach, “I could find you any husband you desire. A spirited young man to keep you stimulated—or a dying old one who’d make you a widow before the year is out. Prove your claim, Lady Thea, and I shall free you from your parents. I have the power to do so, and you know it.”
Thea regarded Tywin. She didn’t want a husband—of that she was sure. For all her weariness and disillusionment, marriage would be the final blow to her freedom—and that, she could not accept. It was the last thing in the world that still brought her a sliver of satisfaction.
But the Old Lion had issued a challenge—one that stirred something within her that had lain dormant for a long while. She could see in his eyes that he didn’t believe she’d dare take him at his word. He thought his provocation an insult to her pride—one she would ignore, because accepting it would be to admit his superiority. But had he not already proved it? She didn’t even deny it. Yes, if she accepted, she would have to give him such pleasure that he might question himself. That seemed… unlikely. But in truth, what honour did she have left to lose?
And Tywin Lannister was a handsome man—tall, broad-shouldered, well-kept, and commanding…
Thea made her decision. She would do it. Not for a husband—but for herself. If she succeeded, she could at least take pride in having made Tywin Lannister come—and that, to her, would be a triumph in its own right.
A smile slowly curved her lips as she rose to her feet. Tywin Lannister didn’t take his eyes off her. He raised an eyebrow, barely, surprised that she might actually be taking him seriously. Thea caught it—and seized the moment.
“Don’t believe me capable, my lord?” she asked, sliding languidly in front of him, between his body and the table. “Or perhaps you were jesting…”
It wasn’t a question. Thea now stood above him, her eyes alight with mischief. Tywin Lannister had the uncanny ability to look down on anyone—no matter the height or angle.
“I do not have time for idle propositions, Lady Thea,” Tywin growled.
His hands were already at her corset, fingers poised to loosen the laces.
“Ah, ah!” Thea exclaimed, tapping the lord’s hands with her fingertips as one would stop a child stealing a fresh tart from the sill.
Tywin opened his mouth to object, but she gave him no chance. Thea grabbed his forearms firmly and pinned them to the armrests, pressing down with controlled strength to make it clear that he was not to move. Leaning close, she brought her lips to his left ear, noting with some satisfaction that he had a perfect view down her bodice.
“I do not need to undress to make you come, Lord Tywin,” she whispered softly.
And to forestall any arrogant retort, she pressed her body slowly against his groin. There was, indeed, no reply—not verbal, that is. For Thea felt him harden against her leg, and that was all the answer she needed. She let her lips brush lightly beneath his ear to let him feel her amusement. Then she sank lower.
She knelt between Tywin Lannister’s legs as he watched her in silence. She had released his arms, which remained perfectly still. Her hands slid down his thighs, inching closer to his crotch. He made no move to hasten her pace—nor did he tilt his head back in a rush of uncontrolled pleasure. He didn’t smile. He didn’t raise a brow. In truth, his face was utterly unreadable. He could have been listening to the dullest council report in the realm.
But Thea wasn’t fooled. He watched her with burning focus—and in those piercing blue eyes, she could see it: desire. She might have even glimpsed a flicker of impressed amusement.
Her fingers reached his belt and began to undo it when the sound of movement echoed from beyond the door.
They both looked up at once.
Tywin had half a mind to leap up, shout “Seven hells!” and smash the nearest piece of furniture that dared stand in his path. Instead, he rose sharply, his chair screeching against the stone floor with a rough, irritated sigh. He was about to march to the door—then paused.
With a restraint that surprised even him, he extended a courteous hand to Thea, who was already rising. He helped her to her feet, then ordered her not to move before striding out of the room.
His guards were unable to explain what was happening, but all three of them left the fortress walls. They hadn’t taken more than a few steps into the dirt courtyard before the guard to Tywin’s right took a crossbow bolt to the eye and dropped dead. The one on the left was struck by a volley of arrows.
It took a few seconds for the Old Lion to fully register what was happening. Right. That explained things.
They were under attack.
Tywin stooped to retrieve one of the fallen guards’ swords—he’d not be needing it anymore. Tywin had seen too many deaths, too many battles, to flinch at the brutality of it. Besides, there was no time.
A man came charging at him, screaming, sword raised. Tywin sidestepped almost wearily and drove the blade between the man’s ribs, straight into his heart.
He’d had just enough time to observe the attacker: bearded, filthy, no armour. A bandit.
Tywin clenched his jaw. These wretched bastards had let him believe they were content raiding scattered hamlets and villages—when all the while they’d been encircling Adhemar with strategy and purpose. And Tywin had underestimated them enough not to see it.
He saw it now—wave after wave pouring in. There were hundreds. Perhaps even thousands. Far more than he had reckoned. The realisation made his blood boil.
Even with his armoured men, they would never hold them off. The fortress was already lost. A plan began to form in his calculating mind—he would head for the stables, rally as many men as possible, and escape. Tywin did not like fleeing. But he was neither stupid nor heroic. He would retake Adhemar by other means—and when he did, he would make them bleed. That was a promise.
But just as he began to move, he remembered Lady Kearn. Seven hells. He couldn’t very well leave her to those animals.
House Kearn meant little to him. Lord Ormund Kearn had let his lands rot and his people starve for years. In truth, had he the time, Tywin would’ve found a way to seize the Badlands for himself—the mineral-rich amphitheatre of mountains surrounding Avallon, their principal city, was ripe for the taking.
As for Lady Thea, the firstborn, she was famously barren—yes, that was common knowledge indeed—and Tywin had thought for a moment of marrying off his younger brother to a second-rate Lannister. But to let her die—or worse—while he fled? No. That was not an option.
Their short conversation, although it had taken quite the unexpected turn, had revealed a sharp mind, a curious resistance to his own carefully honed authority—something that irked him more than he cared to admit—and a spectacular boldness. And if he were completely honest—not that he ever was, even with himself —, Lady Thea had stirred something in him he had not felt in far too long.
So, if only out of curiosity to see where this might lead, he would save her.
As he stormed back inside, taking the stairs two at a time, he found himself thinking that—if they survived this—Lady Thea would at least owe him one night of pleasure.
He was halfway down the corridor to his chambers when a scream rang out from within. It was a man’s voice, but Tywin still broke into a run.
He reached the open doors—and froze.
On the floor near the table, a man was sprawled, clutching his groin, his hands futilely trying to stem a shockingly large flow of blood. Tywin didn’t spare him another glance—the man would be dead in minutes. His attention turned instead to the pair nearby.
Lady Thea Kearn was half-laid across the table, her skirts hiked up to her hips, revealing her long, pale legs. Between them knelt a second man—and Tywin needed no explanation to understand what the brute had intended. But it wasn’t the assault itself that caught him off guard. It was her.
Thea wasn’t frozen in fear. She wasn’t writhing or flailing in panic. In fact, her legs were wrapped tightly around the man’s waist, keeping him at just enough distance—her heavy-heeled shoes digging into his back. Her left hand gripped his ear with force, while her right—trapped beneath his arm—held a long dagger, poised at his throat.
Her expression was one of cold fury. She wasn’t crying. She was about to kill.
Who was this woman?
Only seconds had passed. Tywin moved toward her, sword raised—but she was faster. When she saw him, Thea called out, her voice desperate. It was enough to distract the man for a heartbeat. She yanked hard on his ear—he gave a strangled cry, his grip faltered, and that was all she needed.
She drove the blade into his throat.
He released her, hands flying to his wound—but Tywin knew he was already dead. He didn’t wait for the man to collapse in a pool of his own blood. No, he reached Thea, seized her by the arm without bothering to ask if she was hurt, and pulled her with him.
They had to escape. Now.
Tywin Lannister was dragging Thea behind him without the slightest care. His hand clamped so tightly around her arm that it hurt, and she wouldn’t have been surprised if bruises began to bloom, following the shape of his fingers. She didn’t hold it against him, though. In a few terse murmurs, Tywin had told her what was happening.
He had come back for her. He could have fled, left her in the hands of the men slowly taking control of Adhemar. But he hadn’t. He had come back. Even though she didn’t understand why.
Suddenly, she was pulled backwards and her back slammed into a wall. Tywin had shoved her behind him and pressed himself against the stone, shielding them both from the sight of a band of cutthroats passing nearby.
The hand that held his sword did not tremble. In fact, he didn’t even look particularly afraid—just angry, and perhaps slightly annoyed. As if all of this were perfectly ordinary to him.
Thea knew how to fight; she had been taught from a young age to wield a sword and a bow, much to her parents’ dismay. She had even taken part in several skirmishes with her father’s men. But what was unfolding before her now?
This was far from ordinary.
She could already see herself—thrown to the ground, skirts pushed up to her hips. Rough, brutal hands on her thighs. Her clothes being ripped from her body—
No.
She mustn’t think of that. Not now. Or panic would seize her. It wasn’t the time. She drew a long breath.
Tywin turned his head towards her, and his blue gaze pierced her once more. If he saw the fear in her eyes, he gave no sign of it.
“We’ll have to run. As far as we can. Find somewhere to hide until the fighting ends,” he whispered.
Thea nodded to show she understood. She would follow him.
Tywin seemed to wait for the right moment—then he darted into what turned out to be a small courtyard of trampled earth. All around them, men fought and screamed. Thea felt a sting of guilt as they passed wounded soldiers overwhelmed by the enemy. But Tywin didn’t slow. He held her hand tight, moving almost too fast for her.
Thea was afraid of falling. Afraid of dragging him down. Afraid of dooming them both. What happened was unexpected—and worse.
A man collapsed in front of them, and Tywin caught his foot on the dead man’s skull. He stumbled and fell forward, rolling through the dust. He hadn’t released her in time, and Thea was pulled down with him. She crashed heavily to the ground, face-first, and the air was knocked from her lungs.
She had only just drawn breath when she was forced to roll aside to avoid two men locked in violent combat. The movement took her away from Tywin. She scrambled upright.
A quick glance—and her heart seized.
Tywin was already under attack, fending off two brigands. He fought fiercely, letting none gain the advantage. But they kept coming. One down, another in his place.
Thea had no choice. She was on her own. She seized the first sword she could find. It was far too heavy, and the blade looked dull. But it was enough to block a blow from an attacker who had burst from nowhere.
Like lightning, Thea drew her dagger—Darghælach, holstered along her right thigh. She didn’t give her opponent time for a second swing. She drove the blade into his gut—again, and again, and again. He dropped to his knees, clutching his stomach, blood soaking his hands.
Two others were charging at her. She had to act fast. She threw her dagger. It struck the first man in the throat—he dropped mid-stride. The second hesitated. Just long enough for Thea to grip her sword in both hands and bring it down on his skull.
She tried to retrieve it, but it was lodged deep in bone. She couldn’t free it.
Desperately, she looked towards Tywin. They wouldn’t make it. The Lannister was still fighting—true to his reputation as a seasoned warrior. Bodies were piling around him. But he couldn’t reach her.
Thea turned her gaze to where her dagger lay—still buried in the corpse. A final gift from her late grandfather. She wanted it back. She took a step.
A brutal kick to the back of her knees sent her crashing down with a scream.
It was over.
She was going to die.
She had only wished for a gentler death.
Then, she heard the heavy thud of a body collapsing behind her. She turned her head—Tywin was standing tall above her, blood dripping from his sword. He didn’t speak—he decapitated the next man without pause.
“Are you well, my lady?”
He was breathless—but the fury in his voice was unmistakable. Thea knew it wasn’t aimed at her. And yet—Tywin Lannister frightened her. He was pale, and dark blood stained his drawn, angular face.
“I am not hurt,” she replied.
Tywin had to pivot—another enemy. He drove his blade through him without a word. A glance around them told the truth. They were surrounded. Not a single Lannister soldier still stood.
It was only a matter of time now. Lord Tywin dropped to his knees beside her—or had he been struck? His sword clattered to the ground. Thea felt the rasp of his breath against her cheek. He looked… done.
Then, in one last desperate gesture—perhaps to shield her—he pulled her into a crushing embrace. Surprised but spent, Thea let herself go. She felt his hand rest gently against the back of her head, cradling her to his chest. She folded into him, limbs slack, her body yielding to his.
That was it.
They were going to die.
Tywin Lannister was seething. He ground his teeth and bit the inside of his cheeks until he tasted blood.
The Lannister was not afraid. In truth, few things frightened him—not even death. After all, he had already lived a long and—relatively—distinguished life. He was likely one of the richest, most powerful, and oldest lords in the history of Westeros. So no, the idea of dying in a cell within his own fortress did not scare him. But it did stir a deep, silent rage.
A rage that throbbed at his temples, pulsing through him in thick, sluggish waves that crashed over him without warning, again and again, for hours now. He would have to wait—wait for his brother to decide whether to retake Adhemar by force or pay the ransom. And knowing Kevan, he would not risk Tywin’s life. He would pay. And they would reclaim Adhemar later.
The thought alone made Tywin’s blood boil.
He stopped gnawing at his tongue and lifted his gaze from the filthy, freezing stones of the dungeon floor. He looked at Thea. She was asleep.
They had been thrown into the same cell, though she lay at the far end, her ankle clasped in a thick iron shackle, chained to the wall. She was a pitiful sight. Her cloak had been taken, leaving her only the once-white dress she wore—its thin fabric hardly any protection against the cold. At least he still had his leather garments…
She was slumped on the floor in a corner, back to the wall, knees drawn up in a vain attempt to keep warm. Her head rested sideways against the black stone, her long hair gathered into a makeshift cushion between her cheek and the wall. Tywin knew she was asleep—her shoulders and facial muscles had relaxed slightly. But the streaks of dried tears had carved deep lines through the blood and grime on her face.
She had started crying when he’d held her, kneeling in the dust of the small courtyard. Or so he assumed. She had already been crying by the time they were finally left alone in the cell.
The young woman had not screamed. She had not struggled. In fact, once alone, she hadn’t even sobbed. She had simply crawled to the wall and cried silently for hours. Tywin had said nothing—not even when she began sniffing discreetly, and he had thrown her a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his coat. Eventually, she had fallen asleep.
That left him free to watch her—for the sake of clearing his mind, nothing more.
Her dress left her collarbones and upper chest exposed, rising and falling with quiet, steady breath. Despite the filth, despite their circumstances, the memory of what she had been about to do—just before they were interrupted—returned unbidden, and a knot of heat stirred low in his belly. Of course, he thought, lips twisting into a wry grin—an expression he allowed only when alone. Because now is absolutely the time to be thinking about such things.
He shifted, stretching his legs slightly to ease the sensation.
Right. Don’t look, then. Take stock.
What did he actually know of her?
Of Lady Thea Kearn—not much, really. He knew her as he knew all his vassals.
Thea Kearn, twenty-eight years of age. Pretty, though not staggeringly beautiful. Firstborn of Ormund Kearn and Elora Marbrand, granddaughter of Lord Thoran Kearn.
Her family had never been truly influential, but her grandfather had at least been notable enough not to be forgotten. Thoran Kearn had fought in several campaigns alongside the Lannister armies and was said to have been formidable in battle. A capable lord, under whose leadership the Badlands had once prospered. At the time, House Kearn’s army had been renowned—small in number, but ruthlessly efficient. Avallon, their principal city, had once been known for its artisans, masters of various crafts.
But all of that had crumbled when Ormund Kearn succeeded his father. Now, the Badlands were little more than a poor, weak, near-invisible house.
But the Lady of the Lands—her, Tywin knew slightly more about.
He recalled a time, vaguely, when that name had echoed through the halls of Casterly Rock. He had never paid close attention to gossip, but a few stories had reached his ears.
First, the Lady of the Lands had been a precocious noble girl trained in the arts of war: sword, dagger, spear, bow, knives, staff—almost a prodigy. Then, she had been a teenager who disguised herself among the soldiers to fight at their side, defending lands that were destined to become hers. Finally, she had been a young woman, married off to some lesser lord—a union that had lasted only a year. The maesters had declared her barren, and the marriage had been annulled.
Cross-referencing the tales, Tywin realised how much they revealed. He had long assumed the story of a noble girl turned secret warrior to be a ridiculous fabrication. But now, after witnessing her in combat, he reconsidered.
The fighting had not lasted long, nor had it been noble or elegant. But he had seen in her movements a precision that only comes with proper training. And she had not hesitated to kill—because she had killed before, he concluded. As for hiding among soldiers to defend her lands—yes, that now seemed plausible. Perhaps she had once cared about the fate of her home.
But now?
Now, Tywin saw nothing but a shadow of the woman she might have been. She seemed to expect nothing more from life. As if simply waiting for death to claim her. She was detached. Resigned. Hollow. It was almost pitiful.
And her story, in hindsight, made perfect sense of it. Thea’s marriage had taken place mere months before the death of her grandfather. It was around that time that her name had vanished from conversation. And, Tywin suspected, it was then that Lady Thea had stopped truly living.
Now she was no more than a puppet in the hands of her incompetent father—who had likely tried to steer her away from her passion for battle, unfitting as it was for a lady. And he had doubtless reacted poorly to the news of her infertility.
Lady Thea Kearn had a tragic story, Tywin concluded. He was almost surprised she hadn’t ended it herself.
But then again, she was not the only one.
Night passed, and then the day. They were given nothing more than bread and water, and permitted two visits each to the latrines.
Tywin and Thea exchanged very few words throughout those long hours. The young woman still avoided the lord’s gaze, and he didn’t try to understand why. It didn’t seem to interest him.
The commander of the Flayers’ army—that was what they called themselves—had come to pay them a little visit around midday. He was a pathetic scoundrel by the name of Rod Burg, and he looked exactly like the rest of his “soldiers”: no armour, filthy rags for clothes, bearded, and foul. Utterly vile.
He had taken great pleasure in attempting to humiliate Tywin while casting lecherous glances at Thea. Thea, for her part, hadn’t so much as looked up—she ignored him with deep disdain.
Tywin, however, had stood as soon as the man entered and listened in silence as Rod Burg spewed insults, threats, and revolting jokes. Hands behind his back, face unreadable. But when Burg spat on one of his boots, something shifted in the lord’s eyes. He stepped forward as far as his chains would allow and leaned in slightly, a wicked expression on his face. Even like that, he still stood a head taller than the bandit. And then, in a voice low and cold, he had said:
“Attacking me and my men will be the last decision of your life.”
Thea had clearly noticed the moment Burg resisted the urge to step back. Even chained, Tywin Lannister remained intimidating.
They didn’t see the leader of the Flayers again that day. In fact, they saw no Flayers at all for the rest of the day.
Tywin sat back against the wall.
Time passed. The sun began to sink, casting a reddish glow into the cell through the many cracks etched into the walls.
Dust floated through the golden shafts of light, turning to tiny flecks of gold. The place reeked of decay, and yet—there was something beautiful, something almost poetic about it. Ivy had crept down the underground walls, forming gaps that filtered daylight from above…
“Lady Kearn.”
Thea looked up, startled.
Tywin was seated on the floor, his back against the iron bars, legs stretched and crossed before him. His hands rested neatly in his lap. He was watching her, looking faintly ill at ease. She raised an eyebrow. Tywin cleared his throat quietly.
“I wished to apologise for the manner in which I treated you when we first met,” he said formally, as though each word cost him great effort. “It was… certainly not distinguished of me.”
Thea remained still, simply staring at him, letting the statement sink in. Tywin Lannister had just apologised. Was she hallucinating? Had she taken a blow to the head? Had he?
She moistened her lips, which only reminded her how thirsty she was. But the water was gone. Thea gave a long sigh.
“It certainly wasn’t,” she replied, lowering her gaze to her knees, still drawn up to her chest.
She didn’t see it, but Tywin frowned, pulling his head slightly back. He was about to respond when Thea continued:
“Nor was my decision to play your little game.”
She looked up and met his eyes. He had swallowed his protest and simply watched her.
“Just so you know, Lord Tywin,” she said calmly, “I accepted that challenge out of pure ego. Certainly not in hopes of winning a husband—or anything else, for that matter. I want no husband. And as for ‘anything else’… I see nothing you could offer me, powerful though you may be. No offence meant.”
“None taken,” said Tywin.
He wasn’t smiling, but his features had softened a little, and his tone was gentler.
“And so,” he added quickly, “you accepted that… challenge merely to please me?”
Thea gave a short laugh.
“To please you, my lord?” she said with amusement. “No—to make you climax. Let’s speak plainly. If I’d won that challenge, you wouldn’t have been pleased. You didn’t even believe I would dare try. Or succeed, for that matter. Admit it.”
Tywin said nothing. He seemed lost in thought.
Thea spoke again, her gaze drifting somewhere into the middle distance.
“I’ve never understood why people insist on speaking about sex through polite little euphemisms. Every living soul in Westeros will one day experience it—it’s one of the few things the lowliest peasant shares with the highest of lords. No matter our station, our rank, our power or age… Yet everyone insists on pretending to be modest when the subject arises.”
She began to gesture, animated now, without breaking her gaze from the invisible spot ahead.
“Did you know, Lord Tywin, that a scholar once tried to count the number of sex workers in Westeros? Mestre Jorin, if memory serves. He never finished. Died of claw fever, in fact. Rather ironic, isn’t it?” she added with a chuckle. “But they found parts of his journals—on the matter. And believe it or not, sex workers came second on the list of the realm’s busiest professions. Just behind soldiers. Who are, naturally, their most devoted clientele.”
She fell silent, drawing breath again. She couldn’t remember the last time she had spoken so much. A blush rose up her neck and crept to her face; she felt suddenly self-conscious for dominating the conversation—especially in Tywin Lannister’s presence. Not so much for the topic itself—she stood by every word—but for the sheer flood of words that had poured out of her.
“My apologies, my lord,” she said into the silence Tywin had not yet broken. “I may have got carried away. I meant no disrespect.”
She cast him a glance. Tywin brushed off her apology with a simple wave of his hand. His expression remained neutral—but at least he didn’t look irritated.
“It seems you’ve given the matter a great deal of thought, my lady,” he said quietly, in a tone Thea couldn’t quite place.
“Of course, my lord,” she replied briskly, as though it were obvious. “Sex is a duty for a woman, just as bearing an heir is. After all, that’s all women are good for. Some of them, at least. I’m clearly good for nothing, in that regard.”
She paused.
“Thank the Gods my Grandfather had the excellent idea to train me in combat, to my father’s great displeasure. I cannot ensure a man’s legacy, but at least I don’t need one to defend myself. Or rather, I didn’t. Seems I’ve lost the knack…”
“Hm, yes,” Tywin murmured, fixing her with his piercing blue gaze. “I saw you at work. Against those… Flayers.”
“Hmph,” Thea exhaled through her nose. “Not a very glorious fight.”
Tywin let out a sharp “hah!” of amusement, making Thea jump. She turned her head to look at him. Still impassive—except for his eyes. Were they… gleaming?
“No, not very glorious, indeed” he said with conviction. “Not for you. Not for me. But not all battles are meant to be glorious, Lady Thea. This one was a fight for survival. Those are the most important—and the most difficult.”
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly as he continued to look at her.
“I confess, I expected to have to protect you—alongside myself. I thought you’d freeze in fear. And yet, my lady, what did you do?”
He fell silent again. After a moment, Thea wondered if she was supposed to reply.
“You picked up a sword far too heavy for you,” Tywin continued at last, “and killed three attackers without even looking to me for help.”
“Only three,” Thea said softly, lowering her eyes.
“Five, actually. That’s far more than I expected,” Tywin admitted, with a short, breathless laugh. “Is that what troubles you? That you didn’t kill more men?”
Thea turned her face away. So—he had noticed she was avoiding him. She would have given anything in that moment not to feel his cold stare upon her.
“No,” she mumbled without looking at him. “That’s not it. I— I just thought that if I hadn’t been there, perhaps you might have escaped. Avoided… this.”
She gestured broadly at the cell.
Then Thea rested her chin on her arms, folded across her knees, and stared fixedly at her feet. She didn’t see Tywin’s expression shift. Didn’t see the initial flicker of surprise, or the quiet softening that followed.
“Lady Thea,” he said firmly.
She answered with a grumpy little “hmm?”
“Lady Thea,” he insisted. “Would you kindly stop ignoring me?”
Thea didn’t move, but she turned her head slightly to look at him. Tywin had drawn his knees up and rested his forearms across them, leaning slightly forward. It gave him a strangely predatory air—like a lion watching its prey.
“First of all, we’ll never know whether I would’ve escaped had you not been there. You seem intelligent—you must know the saying: if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. Secondly, I chose to come back for you. I chose to take you with me. I could have left you. I didn’t. That decision was mine, and mine alone. If you think I blame you for the situation we’re in—then you are mistaken. My choices brought me here. And they were made long before I met you. I will bear the consequences—as you must bear yours.”
Thea licked her lips and nodded slowly.
“I’ve better things to do than blame half-innocent young women for my own mistakes,” Tywin concluded.
“No, my lord,” said Thea, tilting her head towards him with a timid, mischievous smile. “At this precise moment, you’ve nothing better to do.”
“Do not play with words, Lady Thea,” Tywin growled.
But Thea heard no bite in his voice, no anger. And she understood. Tywin Lannister had merely answered her jest. Her journey beyond the Badlands had yielded one unexpected discovery: Tywin Lannister possessed a sense of humour.
Tywin was dreaming. It rarely happened, and only when he was utterly exhausted or—more often—particularly upset. As he was now.
Often, even within the dream, he was aware that he was dreaming, though upon waking, he barely remembered anything. What remained was more of a sensation than a memory. A fleeting impression of reality—swiftly washed away by the true world.
This time, as so often, Tywin was at Casterly Rock. He lay naked in his bed, and Joanna was in his arms. They were both old, and wrinkled, and happy. They had just made love; the scent of sweat and sex still clung to his skin. He felt at peace. The rhythm of her breathing against him calmed his pulse. He knew it wouldn’t last.
Most of the time, Joanna vanished without warning—one moment there, the next, only empty space. Sometimes, in her place, a disfigured child appeared, writhing in a pool of blood. It had made him wake screaming more than once. Genna had caught him in that state once—she had hounded him for days, demanding to know what had shaken him so. He had never told her.
So for now, Tywin savoured the moment. He let the warmth of the body beside him soothe his bones, enjoyed the warm breeze drifting in from the balcony, the fine sheets grazing his skin.
Men thought Tywin Lannister dreamt of more power, more gold, more dominion. They were wrong. Tywin Lannister dreamt of his wife. Of the happiness she gave him. He might have been content in a cabin in the woods with her. Almost.
But this time, the dream changed.
Joanna disappeared, yes. One moment she was in his arms, the next—emptiness. Tywin sighed. He turned his head toward where she had been, braced for the horror that would follow. But there was nothing. The pillows were undisturbed, the sheet pulled smooth across the mattress.
Tywin frowned. He scanned the room—then flinched. At the start of the dream, it had been daytime and warm. Now it was night. And cold.
And standing at the foot of the bed was Lady Thea Kearn. Only… different.
She wore a breathtaking gown. The neckline revealed the upper curve of her breasts and the delicate lines of her collarbones. Only her shoulders were covered, veiled in short, sheer, silken sleeves. The corset was long and laced low over her hips; the skirts fell in elegant waves around her, forming a silver pool at her feet. The fabric was white but shimmered with silver beneath the moonlight. Embroidered arabesques wove across every inch, and the layered gauze revealed the shape of her legs in silhouette.
A cloak, as ethereal as the dress, was fastened at her throat by a collar that reached from under her jaw to the hollow above her sternum. The cape itself was translucent, traced with silver veins forming great luminous wings.
Her silky black hair had been carefully plaited and fell over her shoulders and down her back. The moonlight caught on the strands of white streaking through it. Upon her head sat a fine silver crown—an entanglement of delicate ropes encircling her skull, topped by a crescent moon of diamond.
Her eyes were wholly black—iris and sclera alike—and they stared at him with imperial gravity. There was no trace left of the softness he had once known. Before him stood a queen—radiant, yes, as if she shone from within—but cold. And cruel.
Tywin pushed himself upright in bed, propped on both arms.
“You have been careless, Tywin.”
Thea spoke but Tywin didn't recognise her voice. It was so cold, so heavy, as if she was trying to crush him against the bed, and an echo sounded with every word.
“And from small carelessness, great evil is born,” the woman went on, unmoving.
“What do you mean?” Tywin growled.
He wanted to swing his feet off the bed to get up but realised he couldn't move. The fake Thea slowly tilted her head to one side without blinking, staring at him all the while.
“The sunset has blinded you, dear Lion,” she said. “And you have let them poison your lands.”
Tywin felt a dull anger building in his stomach and slowly rising towards his throat. He wanted to shout and vomit, and above all to silence the woman who was not Thea.
“These Flayers have no idea what awaits them,” he said darkly. “You do not—”
Thea-not-Thea interrupted him with a sudden, echoing laugh, tossing her head back. Then she fixed him with a cruel smile.
“You chase cockroaches to exhaustion, Old Lion,” she said, “while scorpions multiply on your soil.”
Tywin felt a draft on his neck and caught a glimpse of silver out of the corner of his eye. He heard the woman's voice whisper in his ear: “they're already here, but you don't even know it.” Then a distant, mocking laugh. Tywin turned his head sharply, a violent pain invaded his neck, but there was already nothing beside him. Fake Thea was still standing at the foot of the bed. It was getting darker in the room, and what little light remained seemed to be sucked away by the entity in front of him.
Then she began to move slowly in his direction, reciting a strange rhyme, detaching each syllable that came to stab Tywin in fits and starts:
“Lion, lion, roaring might,
In the plains of the darkest night,
What furious forces of old,
Could forged thy horrendous fury?”
The woman was suddenly at his side, glued to his body, towering over him, and her hands had locked Tywin's head in an icy embrace. The man could not look away from the black eyes, as if paralysed. A sudden, cold fear numbed his body.
She continued, her voice dragging like claws:
“Wren spectre, hidden to naked eye,
Shadows glide, lightless hands passing by,
Behind a smile, deep in the haze,
The blades sharpen, awaiting blaze.”
She climbed atop him now—straddling his lap beneath the sheets. Her pale, bare legs pinned his. She moved with a slow, obscene rhythm—yet Tywin felt no desire. Only dread.
She spoke again in an imperious tone, and Tywin had the feeling that a enormous force was crushing him:
“But the moon, silent guide, light of wrath,
Its gleam reveals each winding path.
Lonely lion, clutched tight by fate,
Bound to succumb thy Death’s weight.”
Then the weight disappeared. Tywin felt like he was breathing again, but the air was cold, painful in his lungs. He looked down. Fake Thea was crouching at the foot of the bed again, only the top of her face showing. But Tywin could see the cruel smile on her lips.
“Lion, lion, reigning fright,”
This time she spoke in a whisper, which sent shivers down Tywin's spine. He saw her white arms creeping over the covers like the ghostly limbs of some moon-born arachnid. Her hand searched the sheets and grabbed hold of one of his ankles. Tywin tried to make her let go. A simple chuckle answered him.
“King with no crown, ruler of spite,
No peace nor love in this fierce strife,
Only the beast, ruling through life.”
The thing was still holding his ankle when she straighten up. It was hurting him. Fake Thea's black eyes widened and Tywin thought they would pop out.
“Don't forget, Tywin,” she said with one last evil smile. “Act before darkness falls…”
And she tighten. Tighten his ankle. More. And more. Tywin screamed. He was cold, and his whole body ached terribly. He felt like he was falling, falling endlessly into darkness.
Suddenly, a hand pressed against his mouth. The iron smell of blood almost made him sick to his stomach.
“What in the gods’ names are you doing?!”
Someone was talking to him, in a furious whisper. Tywin fell silent and opened his eyes. He discovered that it was Thea who had covered his mouth with one hand. The young woman was crouched beside him but looking behind her, as if watching something. It took a few seconds for the Lannister to remember where he was, but when his memory returned, he tore Thea's hand from his mouth and growled:
“What do you think you're doing?”
Startled, Thea fell on her side with a groan. She landed hard on the pavement but still told Tywin to keep his voice down with a wave of his hand. He realised that she was bleeding, a gash covering the side of her left hand from her little finger to her wrist. So, that was the blood he had smelled.
“I’m trying to make sure you don’t bring every scoundrel in the place running, my lord” she snapped.
Tywin was struck by the chill in her tone—she had never spoken to him like that before. He stared at her, silent. Outside, it was night. Laughter, shouts, and songs echoed faintly. The Flayers were celebrating.
Discreetly, Thea had straightened up and slipped to the Lannister's feet. That’s when Tywin realised she shouldn’t have been able to. She’d been chained at the far end of the cell. She had freed herself.
Tywin shifted slightly as she began fiddling with the manacle at his ankle. The sight of her crouched at his feet stirred something in him—an unease he couldn’t name. He shook it away.
“What are you doing?” he asked again, this time more softly.
“Stop fidgeting,” she muttered, pushing on his leg to hold it steady.
Tywin put more force into his movements and Thea ended up slipping. Her slashed hand scraped the stone floor and, unable to support herself on this arm, the young woman fell heavily with a plaintive squeak. Tywin reflexively rose to help her to her feet, but she curtly pushed his hand away, glaring at him, and resumed her position. The Lannister saw that she was holding a long, sharp, piece of metal. She must have ripped it from one of the old rusty bars in their cell, thus obtaining the wound on her hand, and used it to pick the lock on the bracelet that held her prisoner. She was probably picking his now.
“You can stop wasting your effort, Lady Thea,” Tywin said through gritted teeth. “Escaping Adhemar is not in my plans. Those men are wild fools, but they wouldn't dare touch me. Alive, I’m far more valuable, and they know it. For the moment, we’re safe.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Thea muttered, eyes still on the manacle. “They are savages? Certainly. They won’t dare harm you? Agreed. You’re worth more alive? Undoubtedly. But we are safe, Lord Tywin?”
Thea looked up for a moment and locked eyes with the Lannister. Tywin guessed that she must have been crying again while he slept.
“No, my lord,” she said, voice hollow. “Not we. You, certainly. But me, lord Tywin? I am nothing, I am worth nothing, I am nobody. And what do you think these brutes will do to a woman who is no one, once your soldiers’ wine stores are gone?”
“They wouldn't dare,” grumbled Tywin, narrowing his eyes.
Thea laughed darkly.
“They won't touch you, that's a fact. But I’m of no value. And right now, you have nothing to offer a pack of drunk, armed imbeciles to stop them emptying themselves into the only hole within leagues. I am not giving us an hour before the first man on a long list sets foot in here. “So if you want to sit here and watch them rape me one by one—by all means. But I won’t sit here and wait for it.”
And as if to back up her words, a click was heard and the iron bracelet around Tywin's ankle opened. Thea sat up with a sigh of relief.
“And what do you intend to do?” asked Tywin.
“I don't know,” Thea replied feverishly. “Wait for one of them to get close, smash his skull in with whatever I can find, and run.”
“And if there's more than one?
“If there’s more than one, my lord,” Thea said grimly, “then I’ll start praying.”
Thea silently returned to her corner under Tywin's gaze and slipped her foot back into the iron shackle, if only to preserve the illusion of captivity. Deep down, she expected nothing from Tywin Lannister. Of course, she hoped he would react if things took a turn for the worse, but she knew he owed her nothing. If anything, it was the other way around. All that was left now was to wait.
And the wait was not long. Barely ten minutes passed before Thea heard unsteady footsteps echoing down the dungeon corridor. She curled into a ball in the corner of the room, feigning sleep, but kept one eye on the cell door, hidden beneath strands of hair. She nearly burst into tears when two men, clearly unsteady and tankards in hand, stumbled up to the bars. It took them several long minutes to get the cell open. Drunk beyond reason, they staggered inside and approached Thea.
“Oh—eh! Look, it's sleepin', all tucked in! Best not wake 'em, yeah?”
Naturally, the Flayer had bellowed those words with no regard for discretion. The other man leaned over Thea and rolled her onto her back. The young woman kept her eyes closed, but her breathing quickened as fear coiled in her chest.
“Old Lion, we don’t touch. Heard he shits gold, that one… But her...”
Despite the drink, his hands moved with certainty. He lifted Thea’s dress to her hips. She let out a low groan, as though stirring from sleep, but she was only waiting for the right moment to strike.
The Flayer knelt between her thighs. But the Lady of the Lands didn’t give him the chance to get closer. Her eyes snapped open, she bent her knee and drove her foot into his groin with a cry of fury. Too stunned to react, the man doubled over, clutching himself, and collapsed to the side with a pitiful whimper. Before he even hit the ground, Thea drove the sharpened piece of metal she had kept hidden into his eye. She knew she had only seconds to deal with the second man—and she couldn’t let him escape to warn the others. If she was quick enough, she could grab one of their tankards and use it as a weapon. She’d likely need to hit him several times to knock him out. She had to be fast.
Adrenaline surged through her, her heart pounded in her chest. She rolled aside, away from the first Flayer, and leapt to her feet in a crouch, ready to strike—but froze at the sight of Tywin Lannister.
He had risen in silence. Now he stood behind the second man, holding him in a vice grip. With one fluid, controlled motion, he slit the man’s throat with a stolen knife. The Flayer fell to the floor with a pathetic gargle. Without hesitation, Tywin stepped over the body and approached Thea’s attacker—now trying to stand, blood streaming from his ruined eye. He didn’t have the chance. Tywin opened his throat from ear to ear. The man collapsed.
Thea could only sit down, stunned.
She instinctively adjusted her skirts, catching her breath—regaining composure—but Tywin was not finished. He crouched beside her, lifted the first layer of her dress from her legs. Thea blanched, unsure what he intended. Without asking permission, Tywin laid his weapon aside, tore a strip of relatively clean cloth, seized her wounded hand and wrapped it tightly. Thea couldn’t stifle a cry of pain as he knotted the bandage. Then, still in heavy silence, Tywin retrieved his knife, seized her arm, and hauled her to her feet. When they were both upright, he didn’t let go—instead, he held her so firmly her feet barely touched the ground. He brought his face close to hers, so close their noses almost touched.
“From now on,” he growled, “I want you like my shadow: silent, and at my heels.”
The order sounded like a threat, and Thea nodded frantically. It was the first time since meeting him that she felt truly awed and afraid of Tywin Lannister. He seemed satisfied, for he released her and turned away.
The Old Lion moved swiftly through Adhemar's empty corridors, Thea close behind. Whenever they passed drunken Flayers, they slipped into alcoves, waiting for the danger to pass. The army's intoxication and festivities played in their favour. For the first time in hours, Thea felt a spark of hope.
It brightened when she pressed herself against a wall. On the far side of a cracked wall, through a long fissure, she saw horses.
Thea patted Tywin on the shoulder. He told her to be quiet with a wave of his hand, still watching the surroundings to make sure the group of men had passed them. Thea insisted, grabbing his bicep and shaking it with an urgent “my lord!”. Tywin turned on her, terrifying, and for a moment Thea thought he was going to hit her. But she quickly pointed to the opening. A moment passed, as if Tywin was weighing up the risks. Finally, he lifted himself off the wall to inspect the crack. Thea followed him in silence.
There was no doubt that they could both get through the opening. On the other hand, Thea spotted a Flayer who was probably guarding the animals. The man was leaning against a long halberd and seemed to be unsteady on his feet. Thea looked at Tywin out of the corner of her eye. He was staring at the guard and she could see the movements of his jaw as he bit the inside of his cheek, just below the blond patch of his white beard. The young woman suddenly had an idea.
“Lord Tywin,” she murmured.
Tywin looked down at her without turning his head. His blue eyes seemed to glow in the half-light, giving him a carnivorous look.
“I have an idea to deal with this savage quietly,” she explained in a low voice, “but I need you to rip my neckline.”
Tywin had clearly not expected this, for he turned his head and torso towards Thea, his eyebrows furrowing over his forehead.
“I beg your pardon?” he blurted out in open amazement.
“Rip. My. Neckline,” she insisted, pointing at it. “I can't do it myself,” she clarified, “with this damned wound I don't have as much strength as I'd like.”
“Alright, but why?” he asked, frowning.
“Oh for the gods’ sake! For once in your life, Tywin Lannister, do as you’re told without asking questions!”
An odd expression crossed his face—like a jolt of lightning. He leaned in, grabbed the fabric near her chest, his fingers brushing her skin—and tore.
“Just a bit more,” ordered Thea, watching him.
Tywin complied. He stepped back when Thea nodded in satisfaction. Then, before the Lannister's mortified eyes, Thea readjusted her corset to accentuate her cleavage, smoothed her skirts and combed her hair.
“How do I look?” she asked Tywin as she adjusted her breasts one last time, which the Lannister tried not to stare at—without much success.
“Like a soiled whore,” he replied without a hint of remorse, after quickly looking her up and down.
“Oh for the life of me!” chuckled Thea.
She took advantage of a moment's inattention to retrieve the knife and then, without giving him time to stop her, she slipped through the crack. If she turned around, she was sure to see Tywin trying to catch her, swearing through his teeth. She ignored him, however, and walked teasingly over to the Flayer, the knife in her right hand, hidden in the folds of her dress. It took her very little time to deal with the man; drunk, he didn't wonder what a woman was doing there and greeted her with a lecherous smile. Thea sank into his arms, pushing him quickly backwards into the darkness of the stables, then slit his throat. He crumpled into the hay, the straw turning ruby red.
By the time Tywin joined her, the man was dead.
“That was by far the stupidest thing you've ever done,” growled the Lannister, pulling her close.
“But it worked,” retorted Thea, handing him back his knife.
Tywin took it, furious.
“He might have realised that a woman had no business here,” he snapped, speaking quickly and in a low voice. “What if he'd realised who you were, lady Kearn? What if—”
Thea put a hand on Tywin's shoulder and smiled slyly.
“If wishes were horses, my lord,” she said calmly, “beggars would ride.”
From his expression, Thea knew he was barely restraining himself—from shouting, or striking her, perhaps. She had used his own words against him and he did not appreciate it. She resisted the urge to pat his cheek and moved past him.
She chose the sturdiest of the three horses—an auburn stallion who watched her with black eyes, as if he already knew what was coming. He was tied to a wooden pillar added to support the crumbling roof. The stables, like the rest of the fortress, were ruins. Only the roof remained. Some tack lay scattered on makeshift fences behind the animal.
Thea reached for the saddle, but Tywin brushed past her.
“Keep a lookout,” he ordered between his teeth.
“I might as well harness my mount!” she snapped.
Tywin half-turned, scowling. Thea raised her hands in peace and went to stand watch at the ruin’s entrance. She could hear Tywin harnessing the horse quickly, staring at the fortress in front of her, shrouded in shadows. They were going to make it. Her plan had worked. A warm bubble of pride began to rise within her. It was thanks to her they’d come this far. Tywin would never have tried this alone—he’d have waited to be rescued. Reasonably so. But now? The tale would be told: the old lion of the Rock and the Lady of the Lands had slipped through the Flayers’ fingers like smoke.
It would only enhance Tywin’s reputation.
As for hers—it couldn’t hurt.
She heard him approaching—nearly done with the tack. Then she saw it, and her heart plummeted.
An archer. Standing on a small tower opposite them. Aiming. Three targets: the horse, Tywin, herself. She had seconds to decide. She didn’t hesitate.
As the man released his arrow, Thea rushed at Tywin without a word to push him out of the likely path of the projectile. The Lannister was heavier than she was, but he was taken by surprise and with the speed she picked up in the short distance between them, Thea hit him head-on and pushed him behind what was left of a low stone wall, her arms wrapped around his neck. The arrow must have stuck somewhere in a pile of straw or earth, because she didn't hear it strike stone. The young woman pulled her head back slightly to observe the archer. She saw him turn his back and retreat into the shadows.
“Lady Thea,” Tywin whispered, annoyed.
“An archer,” she replied.
She faced him again and was surprised at how close they were. Her arms were still wrapped around the Lannister's neck and he had put his hands on her hips to steady them both. She was resting almost entirely on him. Thea straightened up, clearing her throat, the darkness hiding the redness that had taken hold of her face.
“Sorry,” she mumbled in a small voice.
“Is he still there?” asked Tywin as he straightened up.
“No, he’s gone.”
“Then we’ve minutes before he sounds the alarm.” he growled.
Tywin disappeared behind the first harnessed mount, speaking loud enough for her to hear:
“You will ride this one, Lady Thea. I’ll ride bareback. No time to saddle another.”
“Lord Tywin.”
It was a whisper, Thea realised. The Lannister could not hear her.
“Mount up now, we must be quick,” continued Tywin, throwing a blanket over the back of a second horse.
“Lord Tywin,” she tried again, louder. “Tywin,” she insisted.
“You clearly don’t understand, Lady Thea,” he said, approaching fast. “And it is Lord Ty—”
The Lannister stopped dead in his tracks when he saw what Thea was staring at. The young woman's eyes were lowered to her own abdomen. The reason she hadn't heard the arrow hit an obstacle was simple, and particularly painful: the projectile had gone right through her, piercing her left flank, in her back, and exiting just above her hip. A dark stain was slowly forming on her white dress. There had been the adrenaline, the fear, the rush, the feel of Tywin's body against hers... all right. But how on earth had she not felt an arrow piercing her? Because now, a burning pain was shooting through her side, almost taking her breath away, as if a blade of fire had sunk into her body and refused to withdraw.
“I won't be able to ride, lord Tywin.”
Tywin swallowed slowly, his eyes fixed on the arrow. That girl—he simply could not understand her. She had defied him, fought, killed, fought again and again; she had survived two attempted rapes and managed to convince him—him!—to abandon his cautious strategy and flee at her side. And now, this girl—no, this woman—had taken an arrow to protect him, and was now stating the obvious—that she would be unable to ride a horse in such a state—with the calm of someone giving a weather report. Although he suspected the shock was responsible for such composure.
“You should go,” she said, just as evenly. “I’ll only slow you down. I’ll find somewhere to hide.”
Tywin did not argue with Thea. She had already proven herself to be incredibly stubborn, and he had found she obeyed far better when given no choice at all. So he closed the distance between them in a few determined strides.
“This is going to hurt,” he warned gently.
Then he snapped the arrow in two places, leaving only the wooden shaft protruding from both sides of her body. He saw tears begin to stream down her face as she winced in pain, barely managing not to scream.
In the distance, a murmur began to rise—the alarm had been sounded. They didn’t have much time left. Tywin cursed under his breath. Ignoring Thea’s renewed pleas for him to leave without her—her voice now growing faint—he grabbed an old cloak hanging from a rusted nail and tore off a long strip of fabric, wrapping it tightly around her torso. Then he undid his own belt and used it as a makeshift tourniquet, pulling it tight just above the bleeding wound. Throughout the agonising process, he forced himself he forced himself to ignore Thea's increasingly high-pitched cries of pain.
At last, without so much as asking for her consent, he hooked his arms beneath hers and, despite her feeble protests, lifted her up and set her astride the horse. She didn’t fight him, instead doing her best to help by clinging where she could. Tywin grabbed a thick blanket lying nearby, then mounted the horse with grace—though the steed, impatient, scraped the ground with its hooves. He draped the blanket over Thea and positioned himself behind her as best he could.
There was no time left for discretion. Tywin took the reins and led the horse out of the ruined building. In front of him, Thea had placed one hand over her wound and used the other to grip the horse’s mane to stabilise herself. Tywin let out a long sigh, then guided their mount along what he believed to be the quickest route away from the fortress. He kicked the horse’s flanks with a sharp cry.
As the beast charged forward, Tywin heard the rising clamour behind them. It was time—perhaps a few minutes, or even seconds more, and they would have been found. Fortunately, the flayers were drunk, and even if they had kept the Lannister soldiers’ horses, they likely hadn’t saddled them. The first hour of flight would be decisive; there could be no slowing down.
The horse leapt over a low wall. Tywin heard Thea’s cry of pain as the animal landed, but it didn’t matter anymore. They were galloping into the night, heading for Casterly Rock. If he could keep her alive for a few hours more, they would be safe. And it would be thanks to her.
Tywin did not spare his mount. He knew the journey would take days, and that the horse would tire more quickly bearing both their weight, but there was no other option. He had to put as much distance as possible between them and Adhemar. More importantly, Lady Thea needed help. She was slowly bleeding out, and while she was currently upright in the saddle, her strength would inevitably fade. So the Lannister steered the horse towards the Gold Road, hoping to come upon a village untouched by the Flayers. Stealth was no longer a concern—speed was everything.
Lady Thea remained completely silent, and Tywin didn’t attempt to speak to her—she needed to preserve her strength. He could feel her tense with pain in sudden spasms, and heard her groan regularly. As he had predicted, she gradually slumped against him in the hours that followed. When dawn broke behind them, they had passed only two ruined villages, both deserted.
Thea now rested her full weight against Tywin. He kept the reins in his left hand and used his right arm to stabilise her, wrapping it under her chest. She had made no attempt to resist and allowed her shoulders to press into his chest with a relieved sigh. Her head lolled dangerously, threatening to fall back against his shoulder should she succumb to unconsciousness. Despite their days of travel and captivity, Thea still smelled faintly of earth and woodland after rainfall—not unpleasant. Tywin tucked her head gently into the crook of his neck with his chin and spoke in a soft voice:
“You must stay awake, Lady Thea.”
“What’s the point, my lord?” she whispered. “We haven’t seen another soul since we left Adhemar, and Casterly Rock is still days away. You should leave me by the roadside—you’d reach home faster.”
“I didn’t come this far to leave you behind now,” Tywin replied curtly. “We will cross paths with someone who can help us.”
“What if we don’t? And don’t tell me that if wishes are horses, beggars would ride—I think we’ve both well established that.”
She couldn’t see him, but Tywin smiled.
“Then we will find another solution.”
“What solution, Lord Tywin? We have no water, no food, our horse is nearly spent, and I’m bleeding out, slow but steady. In a few hours, you’ll be holding a corpse.”
Tywin leaned close to her ear and said with quiet satisfaction:
“I didn’t take you for a defeatist, Lady Thea. Open your eyes and look ahead.”
Thea obeyed slowly. Tywin could feel her entire body relax as her muscles released their tension. They had just reached the top of a hill. In the valley below lay a massive encampment, like that of a marching army. And above the many tents, brown in the distance, the golden lion of House Lannister fluttered unmistakably.
“Oh,” Thea breathed, and Tywin could hear the wide smile in her voice. “The gods be praised!”
And then she collapsed. Her body went limp, turning to dead weight in Tywin’s arms. He cursed and stopped her from falling, securing her against him as best he could, then spurred the horse into a full gallop, shouting encouragement as they charged towards the camp.
Everything happened very quickly once they arrived. Tywin was recognised at once, of course. It was Kevan who greeted him, his face a mix of shock and relief. Soldiers helped Tywin lower Thea from the horse, and the Lannister ordered that she be taken to a maester immediately and treated with the utmost care. His voice promised a thousand agonies to anyone who disobeyed.
Then, finally, Tywin dismounted. His entire body ached—he was sore, dehydrated, and utterly exhausted. He forced himself to stand tall in front of his men, but once the flaps of Kevan’s tent had closed behind them, Tywin felt his legs give out. Kevan caught him before he collapsed and helped him to the bed. Tywin sank into it with relief. There was much to discuss with his brother—but for now, he had to regain his strength.
So he let himself slip into a warm blur of sleep and unconsciousness.
