Chapter 1: New Life
Some say Tywin Lannister does not felt fear.
Perhaps that was true.
Perhaps not.
Who can say? As Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, head of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, Lord Tywin was certainly made of sterner stuff than the average Westerosi noble.
He had taken a house once known for its weakness and made it strong once again. Not through generosity, or honor, or foolish kindness, but through ruthless pragmatism. He was, after all, the head of his house. Naturally, the head of the house must stand strong, lest they appear weak.
It's the family name that lives on. Its all that lives on. Not personal glory or honor, but family.
His father had been weak in matters of the realm, he would not be. Those who had come to think of the Lannisters as weak were swiftly disproved of such notions. If a debt were owed to him, one must repay it.
If one did not...well. Just ask the Reynes and Tarbecks. If any were yet living, they would loudly attest to his...intensity. The bards had even composed a quaint song of the massacre. A tragic but necessary step in furthering the foundation of their house while eradicating those who would oppose them.
The Lannister name would remain long after he returned to the dirt; the legacy left behind by him, his children, and his children's children.
At present he had little hope for Jaime or Cersei. Far too interest in preening than statecraft or the business of Casterly Rock. Perhaps that wasn't fair him; they were only children after all. But neither had proven themselves overmuch in the last nine months. Thus, it was here with his third child that his hopes lay. Hope and all the soul-crushing fear that came with it. Yes, Tywin Lanister knew what fear was.
He understood it.
Respected it.
"Push!"
He knew that fear now; felt it coil in his gut like a hideous serpent threatening to strangle him as he watched his lady wife writhe on her birthing bed. Each cry ripped through Casterly Rock, a knife through his heart; every gasp a painful blow to his soul. And there was nothing he could do for her.
For all his might and wealth Tywin was as powerless as any other man in this; weak as any other. He could only stand by and hold her hand while she swore and spit and snarled. Joanna, the light of his life, the one woman in this world that he would yield to, his everything. Without her his life would be rudderless, his heart hardened.
She was every bit a lioness of the Lannisters; it was not pain that made her weep but concern for the babe in her belly.
"He's coming, beloved!" the frantic desperation in her voice unmanned him. "I can feel him!"
For all his wit, Tywin found himself struck speechless by her ferocity.
He saw the strain etched into her face, the pain as that old doddering fool of a maester coaxed her through her contractions.
Yet for all her suffering Joanna had adamantly refused milk of the poppy or any such medicine; though she bled and bore her suffering with a tenacity few possessed, though she gritting her teeth as her body worked tirelessly to usher this tiny new soul into the world, he couldn't help but fear for her.
Golden hair hanging like a wreathe about her pale, sweaty face, her crimson dress hiked up to the knees. The child was nearly here, or so she claimed. He was inclined to believe her.
Gods.
So much blood.
A man's past can haunt him; the smallest of actions often have the most lasting of consequences. Cersei and Jaime had been a hard birth for her. This was harder still. For all the blood and battle he'd seen, the sight of a child being born-his child!-still unnerved him.
Yet he couldn't bear to tear himself from his wife's side, even as her grip promised to crush every bone in his right hand. He grimaced against it and willed himself not to dwell on dark thoughts, but pleasant ones. At least Aerys-in a rare moment of sanity-hadn't object to Pycelle's presence for Joanna's labor. With him here at Casterly Rock, she might yet survive.
Or she might die.
A sharp and and sudden squall arose all at once, startling husband and wife alike.
"Its a boy, my lord!"
For all his age, Pycelle proved his worth and loyalty ten times over; in less than a minute he'd severed the umbilical cord and wrapped the wailing babe in clean linen. Then his bearded face turned down and pensive for some reason as he gazed at the child's face, for reasons Tywin din't understand.
The boy looked healthy. He certainly sounded healthy enough by his cries. No, he decided, he didn't like the look the Grand Maester was giving him. As if he were a freak of some sort.
An abomination. Nothing could be further from the truth. He was not a dwarf, and Tywin saw no extra fingers or toes. He was, for all intensive purposes, just a boy.
"Red orbs." no doubt the Maester meant the words for himself, but Tywin's keen hearing caught it immediately. "An ill omen."
"What're you on about?"
But Joanna was already rising, reaching for the newborn with the single-minded intensity that so defined her as a mother, and he never had his answer.
Concern for his wife won out over suspicion and he released her hand to place a steadying hand against her back. She swatted it aside and propped herself up on her elbows of her own accord, drawing a chagrined smile from the lion.
"Let me see him, Pycelle." it began as a groan, but with every syllable she grew stronger. "Let me see my son."
"I-If it would please my lady," The Grand Maester doddered, "Perhaps a wet nurse would be-
His wife would have not of it.
"Give him to me!"
Before such devotion even the maester faltered and the boy was soon within her arms, mewling softly.
"Look at him, Tywin." she crooned, beckoned. "Look at your son."
The Lord of Casterly Rock did just that.
Bright blue eyes squinted up at him. None of this "red orbs" nonsense Pycelle had been on about. Perhaps old age was catching up to the Grand Maester.
Regardless, he had served his purpose and helped to bring him into the world unharmed. So it was, then. A night of passion so many moons ago had given birth to a son. The birthing had been rough, but Joanna had survived...somehow.
Even now he watched her clutch the child close, cooing softly at him as only a mother could. In moments the boy was nursing, sucking lustily against her breast. She would live, Pycelle assured him.
If she hadn't...he shuddered at the thought. Without his wife-no. Tywin's mind rebelled with a violent shudder and refused to even consider it. He was...fond of his children, in-as-much as man like him could be fond of them, but his cold heart had only ever truly warmed for Joanna.
Seeking to distract himself, the lion dismissed Pycelle with an errant wave. "Thank you for your service. Leave us."
The Maester glanced at him
"B-But my lord...this is an ill omen...
"Did I stutter?" a growl etched itself into his voice. "Out!"
With a sputter that wasn't entirely feigned this time, the grand maester tottered toward the door. But his gaze lingered, drawn once more to the boy's face.
Why? What was it about his son that perturbed him so? Tywin resolved to ask him at a later date; but now was not the time for such thoughts. No sooner had the door shut than he turned his attention back to the boy.
"I suppose we need to think of a name," he murmured.
"I've already thought of one," Joanna hummed, rocking the babe softly.
A golden brow rose in mild consternation and surprise both. "Have you now? Without telling me?"
So she told him her choice gladly, and he knew at once that there would be no swaying her. Of course, he still tried anyway.
"You can't be serious." he nearly guffawed outright at the news. "With a name like that...he'll be a laughingstock. Tell me you're joking."
"I've never been more serious about anything in my life, my beloved." Joanna's cheek nuzzled against that of their son's with tender care, cradling him as though he might shatter into glass at any moment. "I saw him in a dream, Tywin. He spoke to me; told me his name. He'll do great things someday."
The conviction in her voice unnerved the lion, shook his resolve. A dream? Nonsense.
Perhaps she was still out of sorts from the birthing. How could a boy who'd only just been born tell his mother what he wanted to be named. It was the stuff of snarks and grumpkins and he believed none of it. What manner of magic was that? Nonsense, utter nonsense. But for the sake of her pride, he leashed his retort, if only just.
"Did he now?" Tywin rolled his eyes. "I suppose he read your palm as well?"
"Careful, dear." his wife clicked her tongue at him playfully, her free spirit already beginning to recover in the absence of Pycelle. "I may be weak at the moment, but I'll repay every bit of your snark."
In the end the choice was taken from Tywin and Joanna-as was often her wont-named their son after the dream she'd had. In his darker moments he would look back at this moment-this day-and dwell at it; somewhat ruefully in the days to come. An unorthodox name perhaps, and not necessarily the one he'd intended to give the boy at first, but it would do.
He sounded it out now, testing the newfound name on his lips as he gazed down at the infant swaddled in cloth, considering him, his odd blue eyes, that faint golden wisp of hair, those peculiar cheeks.
"Naruto, is it?"
And the boy smiled.
He would change the world.
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