"You expect me to wed the Dornish Arianne?" Jaime Lannister tightened his grip on the letter, incredulity lacing his words as he repeated the question.
They stood in the courtyard of Casterly Rock, where the orange-red stone walls, steeped in history, glimmered under the sun's embrace. Beneath the scorching rays, Jaime stood tall, striving to assert himself before his father.
"It is said Dorne's climate is sultry, and thus its women are as indulgent and passionate as fine wine," Tywin Lannister stated, his hands clasped behind his back. His bald head grew warm in the relentless sun. He was clad in the Lannister colors of crimson and gold, while Jaime remained in the white of the Kingsguard.
Jaime puffed out his chest, his tone heavy with disdain. "I have sampled the wives of Dornishmen. And this Arianne… You, a man who—" He cut himself off.
"A man who lies with his own sister," Tywin finished, his voice dangerously calm, "aspires to judge the virtue of a princess?"
Jaime immediately fell silent, his face a mask of discomfort. "May I not continue my service in the Kingsguard? I have sworn an oath."
"No," Tywin replied, his tone resolute. He saw his son's defenses eroding. "You have evaded responsibility long enough through the Kingsguard. Do I need to remind you what Casterly Rock will become under Joffrey's rule in a decade?" Since his son sought duty, Tywin presented one even more difficult to refuse. "As the heir, you must consider a new betrothal."
"What of Sansa Stark? The sweet, eleven-year-old girl?" Jaime retorted, running his fingers through his golden hair. "Would her parents ever marry their beloved daughter to a man they scorn as an oathbreaker?"
Tywin rose, gazing intently at his son. "In truth, Sansa Stark could be a commendable choice. Her mind is filled with tales and songs, innocent and pure as Cersei once was. Convincing the Starks might prove challenging, yet Catelyn would surely desire her daughter to become the future Lady of Casterly Rock."
Jaime stood awkwardly, snared in his own predicament.
"Margaery has tacitly agreed to marry Renly," Tywin pressed on with piercing clarity. "And surely you do not wish to engage in the same pursuits as that 'Knight of Flowers.' Are there truly any more suitable matches for a man of your age than the Dornish heiress?"
Jaime opened his mouth as if to protest, but the words died in his throat. It appeared he had acquiesced. "So, I am to journey to Dorne to make a formal proposal?"
"Of course," Tywin said. "However, Prince Doran will not be particularly eager to receive you."
Jaime stared at his father's bald pate incredulously. "Are you certain it is not that he does not wish to see you? Because of Elia and her children?"
"Doran Martell is not a fool. He is well aware of Dorne's strength, and his own." There was another, more significant reason for dispatching his son: to distance him from Cersei. "Stannis and Renly both covet the Iron Throne. If your son is to secure that position, mere support from Casterly Rock will not suffice. He will need the North, Highgarden, and ideally, Dorne."
Having dealt with Jaime, Tywin knew he must next address his grandson, Joffrey.
He found the boy under the care of a new, timid acolyte. "What has Joffrey been doing?"
"Prince Joffrey has been in good spirits lately, engaging in an apple-shooting game."
"As long as they are not living targets," Tywin remarked grimly.
Under the scholar's guidance, Tywin visited his grandson. As he entered the spacious room, the lad visibly shrank back.
"Grandfather, what have I done wrong?" Joffrey desperately squeezed out a tear, his eyes gleaming. His voice trembled, and he choked on his words. Yet, Tywin caught a whiff of onions and saw the peels on the floor.
Such hypocrisy.
"No need for pretense," Tywin coldly declared. "Were you not my grandson, you would have already found yourself at the bottom of the harbor. A tragic accident. Casterly Rock is not your refuge. I am here to inform you that you may remain, but you must now voluntarily join the Night's Watch, forsaking marriage and progeny."
The boy's eyes widened, followed by a sharp cry. "This is unfair! I am the heir to the Iron Throne!"
Tywin regarded him with pure disdain. Weak and despicable. "The Iron Throne will never be yours. I want to hear you agree to take the black."
"I want to return to King's Landing! Let my father deal with you! I am the legitimate Baratheon, while you are merely the Hand! What audacity do you have?" Joffrey seemed to find a semblance of conviction, glaring venomously. For a fleeting moment, it appeared he intended to reach for the sword by his bedside.
Tywin was faster. He steadily seized the blade from the boy's grasp. In the flickering candlelight, he scrutinized it. The fishbone-patterned hilt was ancient yet resolute, the blade itself forged of Valyrian steel. A king's gift, wasted.
"Put it away," Tywin commanded his attendant. Then he turned his back on Joffrey and departed.
As he left, Joffrey's cries erupted violently behind him, sounding not like those of a child, but like a vengeful specter, unable to find peace. Tywin tightened his cloak, feeling an inexplicable chill rise within him.