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themotherofblood · 11 months

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CHAPTER 3 | RIVER OF GOLD | The Journey | T.L x Reader

series masterlist | main masterlist | chapter 2

tw: mentions of rape and murder

~ the wedding was charming, if a little gauche ~

"My new home— it doesn't feel much of a home. It is foreign, I am foreign. I see it in the way the attendants glance at me, mayhaps my wild hair. A mythical creature trapped in a fine gown made of crimson velvet and gold. The beaches however are beautiful, sometimes I take off my boots and stand at the shore; salt water cools my feet and just for a moment. I don't miss home."

The journey had been swift, the preparations made through the evening with rows of wheelhouses and bannermen on horses, a joy parade to have Tywin lead his young wife to his ancestral seat. Ravens were sent hours before the blazing afternoon sun, to have your chambers thoroughly prepared and unpacked with your belongings. It appears Lady Genna Lannister had taken personal initiative to gather a toehold of handmaidens and a personal secretary for your coffers.

Your sisters had been tearful, puffed-mouthed poppets clinging to your skits with their dolls in hand. Nyela had fixated a minute glare upon your husband as he conversed with his brother in the Great Hall. The household staff gathered to see off their darling lady and liege lord.

"You swore you would take us with you," Ellia whimpers, "we supposed to visit Uncle Doran."

"We were supposed to," you correct, taking a piece of her loose behind her ear "I'm sorry darling." You engulfed her, the scent of lily soap so strong, it felt like engulfing your mother.

Nyela still clung to your back, small eyes—hooded and glaring at Tywin. When he turned to look at you, an amused frown settled upon his forehead as he looked to your hip.

"You're our sister, you stay with us." She grumbles, if her tiny ineffective fists could do anything, she wished she could drag you to your chambers and lock you in.

"I will write to Doran and Oberyn, they will come get you. Alright?" You crouched to meet their eyes, holding on one shoulder each.

Ellia, still pouting, buried her head in your shoulder, nuzzling the motherly warmth she often tried to find in your arms. Your brother walked over, having taken your brother from his nursemaid's arms and walked over to you. The boy, barely over two summers, had not a clue of why his siblings lamented for you. A stranger yesterday and now a stranger today, you held his little fist. Tracing over his face, the feathery touch of your fingers tickling at his skin making him giggle.

"I'd be a stranger to you the next we meet," you cooed as his tiny fist curled around your finger, babbling away at your hair sat by your chest. "You be good."

Your brother Olvyar turned to you next, a brotherly smile curling in his lips and eyes covered in guilt. You knew he felt terrible for stopping you from running, but in truth he was saving you from the cruel wrath of your father's pride—you were not his pride, even with his flesh and blood, you never would be. The one hard bone your father swallowed, even though Olvyar was his brother's seed sired by your mother. He was a son, a young man knighted and proud.

Olvyar for the longest time wanted nothing to do with your father's estate nor Westerlands politics, if he could. He too would have abandoned your father for adventure at sea with Oberyn, however seeing as though the only mere morsel of affection within Loren Maerilys was for him, you'd told him. Standing on your toes and pinching your older brother's teen puffy cheeks.

"You take care of us, you would be the lord of Deep Den." You hissed at him, hoping your brother would see reason beyond his boyish dreams

When you looked into his eyes, your own was looking back at you, just far more grief-stricken as yours were glossy. You opened your mouth, your form of a farewell was to be another lecture to your elder brother. He however chased your word back into your mouth as he opened his.

"I will look after them, and write to you at every turn of the moon." He reiterates, tilting his head just so as he looks down at you. "I will take care of them, I will be the Lord of Deep Den."

You held his arm, sternly nodding at him before pulling him to a half embrace. Squeezing his larger body so tight he had to set little Loren down to reciprocate.

"Don't let them be afraid, Olvyar. Don't let them be alone." You whispered, closing your eyes tight to fight away the tears threatening to fall.

"Never."

"My lady... it is time," Tywin called, standing with his hands clasped in front of him with a coaxing quirk to his brow and a forever stern disposition.

You bowed your head, to use your brother's chest as a shield as you wiped the salted drops away from your lash line before straightening yourself.

Dressed in a comfortable gown, devoid of fastened corsets or itchy gold hems to travel with ease through the eight hours of journey to Clegane Keep and then after a respite another four hours to Casterly Rock—your new home.

You offered not one look to your father as you walked out of the Great Hall holding onto both your sister's hands on either end. Your brother following behind as you were ushered to your carriage, you gave Deep Den one more glance; a superstitious tendency as you called to Mother Rhoyne for protection before taking the footmen's hand as he helped you into the sizable carriage. Reined in by eight horses, the wheelhouse was rather extravagant for such a short journey.

You settled in for a moment, sighing and resting your head against the plush velvet padded walls inside the carriage, your new home— you were married.

Perhaps even your bedding had made it so anxiously apparent on your skin that you no longer belonged to yourself, but to the crimsons and golds of house Lannister, to Tywin—

He had been rather aloof to your presence since the bedding last night, having made you feel so warm, an exasperating pinnacle and making you squeak at the strum of his fingers. Your cheeks burned hot even as you felt the gentle cramp within your claimed environs. Then this— your handmaiden Odiele found an odd form of compliment when Tywin's cupbearer had approached your lady's maids to inquire of your health.

You took that wholeheartedly as you had prepared yourself to break your fast, and then the waft of cold hit you. Not a word, not a word to you beyond formalities, it is at that moment your mind gave way to further past your bedding and to the ceremony feast. Your Daima Eldrã had told you, men often melt when their frigid minds crawl to their pillar. It was a deal, that was your marriage. You looked to your belly, wondering if a blonde child had already made a home there, waiting to spread within you and have you waddling about all fat and sweaty.

You were sure your mind had raced even harder than the dozen horses shifting in your riding party outside, however, the very man that clung to the crevices of your head peaked through the door of the wheelhouse. Pulling himself in and sitting opposite you, he glanced at you for a mere moment, the glint of questioning in your eyes that called to him. You thought he would ride with his brother.

"You seem displeased?" Tywin raised his brow, appearing defensive, perhaps irked by your reaction.

"No- I thought you were to ride with Lord Kevan, my lord," you muttered, still finding it hard to meet the steel green of his eyes, the frown perpetually etched onto his forehead often left you dislodged for your firm disposition. He did scare you, you would never let him have the satisfaction of knowing so.

"If that is what you wish, my lady." Tywin shuffled to the edge of his seat. His discontent was apparent, you had displeased him. He is your husband, he is trying, and you are trying.

"No- I, stay..." you stutter holding onto his arm "Please." You blurt out meekly.

He grunts for an answer, turning to the stained window as you shuffle closer to it, waving at your sisters clinging to Olvyar's side as the horses neigh, and the procession moves. The first carriages trot away from the moat bridge, and then your carriage moves. That unsettling dread fills your chest again, regressing you to a child of seven summers being sent as a ward to Dorne to your uncles. You gave up the olive greens of your house to the mustards of Martells and now you gave those up for the crimsons of house Lannister. Shedding skin after skin, no home would truly be yours, first the burden of your father then the responsibility of your uncles and now a child bearer for your husband.

Tywin should have travelled with Kevan, irked at his brother's attempts to find leisure in this match. Kevan had physically hauled his elder brother away from their carriage to yours. So here he sat, within the first hour of the ride. The carriage shielded both bodies from the chilled air outside but made the inside unbearably stifling with tension, you would meet his eyes, freeze and curl your lips to a tight smile before uncomfortably looking away.

A young thing so fierce he had thought, you cowered from within, a small sense of satisfaction within Tywin. Maybe you wouldn't try and strangle him to death at night, or stab him as he coupled with you. A Martell after all, a tinge of distrust was highly warranted of the Old Lion. What worried him even more was taking you to Clegane's Keep. A true test of your loyalty— what loyalty? It had only been two days since your wedding— he could picture a torn sneer over your face. Being made to present your dainty hand to the man who had raped and murdered your dear aunt and Targaryen cousins.

He watched as the rocking of the carriage lulled you to soft slumber, head resting against the cushioned wall. Hugging yourself with your neck cranked to find comfort, pouted mouth breathing puffs for lazed breaths. The terrain of the Gold Road was smooth with nary a bump, yet Tywin came to sit next to you. The uncomfortable crank in your neck ought to make it ache in the morning, your head finding itself on his shoulder as you slept, the thick cloak covering your body as you lift your legs next to you. Resting against your husband.

A tight jostle however startled you to consciousness, your adamant need to still remain ridden by sleep you peeked one eye open, taking a moment to gather your bearings, Tywin's hold on you tightened, making you aware that you were indeed resting against his body. An apologetic frown upon your brows as you made an attempt to shuffle to the other end, his hold remained firm.

"Sleep." He whispered, squeezing your shoulder.

You, by the Mother's grace, remained a bed for the remainder of the journey. A mellow call of your name is what broke you away from your clouded warm dreams of the sea.

The face of your handmaiden however above you as she sat with a cloak in her hands, you grumbled awake, rubbing your eyes with the back of your palm.

The tenuous tugs of sleep still had you curled to the cushioned seat, grumbling as Syaria pulled you up, accustomed to your demands for more sleep she shifts to hold you straight. You scowl at her mothering, hissing as you felt the bitter tug of the hairbrush she ran through your mussed hair to neatly put into a braid. She slipped the cloak over your shoulders, humming to herself as your body was finally in focus and properly awake.

"Lord Tywin?" You croaked, one last broken yawn breaking through you. Shrugging the gentle ache in your shoulders.

"Out with Lord Kevan." She mused, letting you a satisfied hum before shoving a branch of Meswak for you to chew on.

You had a faint memory of feeling warm, the heavy feel of arms upon you to find your husband's chin resting on your head as he lay awake. You shuffled out of the carriage, the other maids of your horde holding up a sheet of white cloth as you changed behind its security into more appropriate riding clothes. You sat on the foot of the carriage, shooing away the Westerlands maid as she bent down to lace your boots, you were perfectly capable of tying them yourself.

Once ready they pulled away the white curtain as you stood to your height, stretching your arms up in the air to yank at any odd knots within your skin, the carriage had swaddled you in for nearly seven hours from dusk to dawn. The Gold Road was painted orange with the peak of the morning sun, horses neighing away as people changed shifts, a moment of respite and preparations for your arrival at Clegane's Keep.

You walked back five paces, your lovely black mare Nysa sat with her hooves curled in, Eldrã lovingly feeding the sweet thing apples, spoiled girl—

"Might I interrupt for a ride?" You called, Eldrã turned to you smiling, she petted your cheek before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"You rest alright, dæriya?" she asked, concerned but toying at a far greater subject as she with ease switched to her mother tongue of Rhyone. He was with you last night. sweet girl

"Quiet well, daīa." you hummed holding onto Nysa's reins as you pulled yourself onto her.

Fredrick already stood at the ready. If you were to bolt away from the procession, you pointed your head to the edge towards the clearing where you were sure your husband sat with his brother breaking fast.

"Sleep well, Serret?" you asked a spurt of happiness within you, having the people closest to you accompanying you through this new journey.

"Well enough, my lady." He smiled baring his thirty-one perfect teeth, one happened to be chipped.

"Race with me?" you smiled sheepishly, pointing at the edge of the forest.

"I don't think racing at your station is appropriate now." He pressed, he wouldn't deny you. He never could, he never would.

"And if I were to order you, use my station. Would you do it?" A cheeky grin spread through your face, head tilted and mischief coating your features after a moon.

"Then I shall have no choice but to obey, my lady."

"Then we race!"

Nysa took off with the speed of storm winds, your braids whooshing against the wind as you tore through the forest line, the sun already risen, the orange fading and clear blue skies up above. It felt like an exotic delicacy willed into your environs as the fresh air bathed your skin away from the lingering tensions from the night before. You stopped, right at the edge of the forest line. Turning back to find Fredrick five paces behind before he too halted next to you.

You giggle, poking your pink tongue out at him before turning to bask in the scenery, you finally let your thoughts flow as you tarry.

"How am I expected to raise my palm to a man that raped and murdered my aunt," you muse, that sullen heaviness in your heart wet again weighing you down.

"Do you want me to kill him?" He blurted, a jape in all honesty but a blade pierces a man all the same.

You chuckle, shaking your head— a fine prospect, a violent one but one that Oberyn had fantasised over multiple times, Gregor Clegane's head resting at his foot. You wondered if you stared at his plate of food at lunch, you wondered if The Mountain might fear you of poisoning him. The entirety of your family sat shaking their heads on your shoulder.

You looked around, about a yard away sat your husband by a thoroughly filled table, a black tunic and vest of sable fur with his leg bent and resting over his other. Fine leather boots reaching up his knees, he was watching you from a distance. His arm shot in the air, finger bent to call you over to him.

You sighed, looking at Fredrick before turning Nysa as you trotted over, dreading the conversation you were soon to have.

"My lords." You bowed, barely meeting their eyes. Relishing the sudden warmth against your skin from the lit fire.

"My lady."

"Wife."

Lord Kevan rose from his seat, gesturing for you to replace yourself, he passed a knowing nod to his brother before leaving.

"Are you cold?" Tywin asked, inspecting the gloves on your fingers and the fur lining of your coat.

"The weather hasn't agreed with just yet I'm afraid," you agree, smiling at him "The Dornish climate is a lot more forgiving."

All you could do was rub your leather gloves palms together, speak to him, say anything dammit—

"I have employed a governess for you," Tywin began, setting his plate of food "all the way from Oldtown."

"What use would I have for a governess? Our children would have years before they needed one."

Tywin looked surprised for a moment like the mention of possible children tickled at his hoped.

"You were raised Dornish, it is for your own good."

You frowned, toying at the cusp of what he meant.

"What? Being devoid of good societal behaviours, do you think I am unladylike?"

Tywin's lips pressed into a hardline "You are expected to be the Lady of Casterly Rock, now I will not have mockery being made out of my lady wife and by extension me."

"And why do you suspect it is so? It is you who wanted a lady wife with more than half a brain, have your feet turned cold now my lord?" You appeared irked, pushing your weight against the chair you sat on, married for two days and your husband already believed you daft.

"Do you intend on letting Gregor greet you?"

Silence, an arrow right on the mark you stared at him through the lining of your scrunched eyebrows, that heaviness greeting itself once more.

"You will perform your duties, my lady, you wish not to be greeted. I will allow it. However, the matter of the governess is unchanged if you are to raise my sons."

"My lord, the Keep is ready for you." a foot soldier approached.

You sucked in a sharp breath, wishing you had a pendant vial of poison before stepping foot in that establishment. Tywin gave you a stern look once more before helping you into your horse.

The two of you rode to meet the procession, you very valiantly chose to ride in on Nysa, the niceties of lady ship so far behind your mind, and your husband shook his head as he rode in front of you.

The attendants of Clegane's Keep and the one monstrously large man stood amongst the crowd. People revered the blonde image of Tywin atop his white stallion. Their liege lord once in a moon had come to grace them.

Smile, you should smile but instead, your face seemed to have frozen itself to an unimpressed leer, eyeing Gregor with the malicious power of Mother Rhyone, drop dead— drop dead you sick bastard.

Footmens rushed to lay stools by the horse to make your unhorsing more graceful as you huffed off, patting Nysa as she gently neighed before walking to your husband.

The gruff voice of Gregor Clegane echoed, you were wishing a lance through his heart "Welcome to Clegane's Keep, my lord—" he bows his head before turning to you "My lady."

The anticipation burned up as Tywin watched you from his periphery, honour the fool that ruined your family, you lifted your hand and Tywin's chest deflated. A gloved hand turned and presented for the Mountain to bend and lay a kiss upon your palm. A gloved palm, you remained untouched.

"Clegane's Keep is yours."

Tywin turned to Kevan this time, his younger brother who appeared rather amused at your doings. He merely hoped that you would be introduced to Genna soon.

A gloved hand, a leather toy for a dog, deprives him of the honour of greeting you. You never said you'd let him.

Ahhhh first of all, I thank everyone for the support through this odd time of drama. I figured I’d best focus on my writing and thank everyone that reached out to me.

Secondly. I totally wanna make the reader poison Gregor Clegane, I’m just not sure if I wanna do it this early.

Taglist (thank youuuu💐)

@joker640 @wondergal2001