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i.
This is not a pretty tale. Oh do not misunderstand, for it is a tale full up of pretty things. With flowers and knights and lovely ladies. But there are no happy endings to be found here, no forever afters or secret vows. There might gold and crowns in a shadowy future beyond this story, mighty victories and stunning losses.
Mainly it is a tale of thorns and lions, of creeping vines and strangleholds.
It is not a pretty story, but it is theirs. Will you hear it?
ii.
Her hair is the color of strong Arbor wine. It is the same shade as the barrels and her skin is as soft as any rose. Her smile could make grown men weep and women pull at their hair in jealous rages. A beauty, a true Southron beauty that the Targaryens should beg for. A woman to be treasured adored, admired and shown off for all the world to see.
Olenna Redwyne has nothing but eye rolls and contempt for these flowery words. What good will they do for her, when the winters come and age steals her beauty? Takes her grace and leaves her stooped and grey? What good is a pretty thing that has been left to rust and rot?
None at all. It never lasts as long as it should. Being gilded and covered in gold has never been a life she longed for. Born on the cusp of a winter, she thrived where other babes died squalling, thrashing and wasting away. Not even the warmth of the weak winter sun could keep them alive, but Olenna found her footing young. She planted her roots and refused to bend, to break and give in to the conventional fate of autumn’s children.
Her hair darkens until it is a color somewhere between rosewood and coffee. Her legs grow long, her hips widen and her mother nods in agreement with the comments of what a good wife her daughter will make. A good match is just waiting to be made.
It is the edge of summer and Olenna has spent all spring deciding that she shall decide which match is best for her. She hasn’t even flowered, but she knows better than to waste her bloom on something less than suiting.
The season is nearly upon her to show all of the Seven Kingdoms just how serious she is.
iii.
They say his hair is made of gold, like the lion of his sigil, like bricks of Casterly Rock. It isn’t, neither in color nor reality. Straw-colored and too fine, it becomes him in a way that the thick tresses that his sister has never could. Young though he is, Tywin Lannister has a strong jaw and a mighty roar. His face is not one that was made for smiling so he doesn’t. When his lady mother tells him to, pleads that it would do her good, he offers up tight-lipped grimaces or bears his teeth, both of which are poor replacements for what she asked for.
He is a son of summer despite the season that he is born in. His heart and spine might be made of steel and stone, but his blood runs red just like ordinary men. It’s a thought that he despises. He is a Lannister; being ordinary is never going to be enough. The hours that he dedicates to his studies, to his practicing his skill and his form show as much. One soft and gentle Lannister is more than enough. Giving money away is no way to build greatness. It must be used as carefully as any sword on the battlefield.
He often wishes that his father knew as much. The years pass, winter fades and spring returns and Tywin knows the future that he has shall. It is a song yet to be written, a tale that makes the blood of men run cold.
No one will need to ask his name, question where he came from. One look at him on his horse and they will know. His voice hasn’t even broken, his form still carries some of its childish softness, but he works to beat edges into place. He has felt like a man for years now and is impatient for his body to catch up.
When it finally does Tywin knows that nothing can stop him now.
iv.
“You’re a Northman.” There is no contempt in her voice, merely mocking. Once she had declared that she would wed a Northman, bear his sons and see them rise out of the rocks and snow. Those houses had proud words, strong words, words that break swords but never vows. Barely fourteen and Olenna already knows what she shall have better than her fool of a Redwyne father can.
Tilting her head she appraises this northman, with his hair of gold and blood red surcoat, takes in the way he bristles when she says north. A wry half-smile takes up residence on her face.
“I am no northman,” he tells her, the sharpness in his words almost enough to cut her if she were not already made of thorns. He stands up straighter, the light glinting off the gold pin on his coat. “I am a Lannister of Casterly Rock. That is not the North.”
“Everything is north to the Arbor.” Her enigmatic smile grows just a fraction as she grips her cousin’s arm, steering them both away from that proud lion. He is right though, in one respect; he is hardly a man at all, merely a boy playing at one. She doesn’t spare him a second glance, but she can feel his eyes on her even as she walks away.
Later she’ll name it a victory and start to keep score.
v.
A good marriage can make a future just as easily as a poor one can ruin one.
Arrangements are made, dowries haggled, negotiations over events that will not happen for years to come set out. Tytos told his son that he would marry his cousin Joanna and despite his personal feelings towards his father, Tywin agreed. He would not publicly disgrace his father by denying him, even if his bride-to-be is a girl of barely twelve while he is a man of sixteen. Joanna has a pretty face, all gold hair and a pretty smile, with manners and grace fitting for a future lady of Casterly Rock.
Down on the Arbor similar plans go much less smoothly. Runceford Redwyne is careful in his approach of his daughter. She is ever bit her mother’s girl, may the seven bless her, and then some. When he tells her that the Targaryens have inquired after her as a potential bride for the third son, she laughs so hard that it sends her maids scurrying for some sweet wine to calm her. It takes three more attempts before Runceford manages to lay the entire offer out to her and she dismisses both him and such plans with a wave of her hand and a carefully timed exit.
The row that ensues between father and daughter becomes a story in its own right.
Her father carries on his plans without her consent, though each of his movements is met by three carried out by Olenna. She has her portrait exchanged with one of an unfortunate looking serving girl. Bribes singers and merchants to spin falsehoods about her through out King’s Landing, makes outrageous requests for what shall see her satisfied in the marriage. In the end the Targaryens look elsewhere and Olenna, sixteen and beautiful, returns to planning her own life while her father declares she shall be the death of him.
He’s not entirely wrong.
vi.
The air smells of rain when they meet again.
He is noble and golden-haired; a vision of the Warrior aged seventeen. Even clad in his practice clothes he looks like he ought to sit on the Iron Throne that shall never be his. His squire stands nervously beside him, holding the reins of the horse, fearful of what fate holds for him should the horse misbehave.
She is straight-backed and beautiful, waking with a grace and elegance that would make one thing that she’d already been named queen. Her cousin walks arm-in-arm with her, a more homely shadow of a girl who would be lovely if she stood anywhere else.
The bow Tywin gives her is small and proper, met with a curtsy and a smirk from Olenna.
It is only fitting that they meet again so close to a playing field.
vii.
“When I win, I shall make you my queen.”
“What makes you think that you’ll win?”
“I always win.”
“Oh, we shall see about that, won’t we? I’d get back to your horse if I were you. You need the practice. ”
viii.
A crown of roses rests upon her hair, the yellow and purple blooms bright against the dark of her hair. Queen of Love and Beauty, that’s what she has been made and Olenna revels in it. It isn’t a real title, merely a nicety, a bit of pageantry to go along with the blood and noise of a tourney, but she appreciates it nonetheless.
She doesn’t even mind that the thorns prick against her scalp. Her maid will squeal, fretting over the dried blood that gets dragged through her mistress’ hair by the teeth of the comb.
The gift of the crown had been met with polite applause as she bestowed her favor upon him. Tywin had been gracious in his acceptance of it, wrapping it around the reins of his horse. The spectators had lapped up the story-like nature of the scene, singers already composing their songs to win them money for their cups.
ix.
He presses against her, thrusting with a fury that later has her jesting that he should have been a Baratheon. The scowl on his face, the growing lines between his brows when he tells her that he is better than any rutting stag is enough to send her in peels of laughter. It does nothing to change her mind.
She leaves marks on his back, pricks of red and long lines from where she holds on tight and bites back his name. He pushes on, relentless in his tireless pursuit of pulling moans from her, taking each loss of her precious control as a victory. She does her best to return the favor, teasing him in public, taunting him with low-cut dresses and kisses when they are on the edge of being caught. She claims him in stables, rides him like her prize horse and he responds by leaving red marks on her collarbone.
It is a war played out on the maps of their bodies, in the corridors and the guest rooms of the great houses that belong to neither of their fathers. The servants who catch them and lower their eyes as they make apologies do not call fealty to the Arbor or to the Rock.
It stretches across months, lasting a season of tournaments and dances, over rivers and through valleys under the soft summer light.
x.
“Next tourney, will you name me again?”
“Perhaps. It does depend.”
“Does it now? On what? The weather? The mood your cock is in?”
“No. It depends on who sits with you in the stands.”
“Oh. It must be terribly boring to worry about trivial things such as that.”
“Hardly trivial. There are those whose opinions could damn us both.”
“Let them talk. It’ll amuse me. Mother knows we could stand for a little humor.”
“I have had enough of this talk.”
“Then do your best to silence me. I dare you.”
xi.
He crowns Joanna. Their eyes meet, his blue eyes locked with hers even as he accepts the token from his betrothed. It’s a challenge, a dare for her to say something, to cause a scene and surrender the game to him. Tywin has slighted her and Olenna has never been one to take such things lying down. What should it matter that they are the only two in the world that know what this truly means?
Her curses are silent, her pride barely nicked as she smiles beauteously, shooing her maid and cousins out of the way so that she can sit beside sweet little Joanna. Darling Joanna, who can barely contain her joyous smile, still too young to know the weight of what has just transpired. All this girl knows is that she has been declared beautiful by her one-day husband for the entire gathered crowd to see. Olenna does not curse her for that doesn’t blame her for being like so many other foolish girls.
“Such a perfect queen of love and beauty,” she praises, pressing a kissing to the girl’s cheek before tucking a stray curl behind her ear. No glance at Tywin is needed. Olenna does not need to see his barely concealed scowl to know that this time it has ended in a draw.
xii.
Casks of arbor wine are sent to Casterly Rock for Tywin’s wedding. Carried with them are traditional formal letter of congratulations from the future bride of Luthor Tyrell on behalf of her future husband and the rest of the Reach. Joanna writes a gracious reply to send back with the messenger, oblivious to the more personal note her husband found in pocket of his formal doublet.
A toast in honor of the Northman who tried to best me. May your good tongue be put to excellent use just as I know it can be.
A blanket of crimson stitched with patterns of gold is sent to Highgarden after the birth of Olenna’s first child. It is a girl and Olenna loves her, but pities her nonetheless. She shall have no say in the choices of her life, but if the Seven have any decency little Mina will have her mother’s wits. There is no note, but it comes with a myriad of other petty tributes and a herald from Casterly Rock, so the giver is fairly obvious to anyone with a lick of sense.
Her husband never inquires why the blanket has patterns of little lions mixed amongst the flowers. It is just as well for Olenna would hardly be bothered to explain them away.
It takes decades for another piece to be moved in their little game, but both of them have always been in it for the long haul.
xiii.
They weren’t in love. Not even a little bit, don’t let the songs fool you. The old days might be written of, remembered with a gilded fondness that grows in times of war and confusion.
No.
It was never that sort of tale at all.