#with a DASH of feylin because i couldn't resist including them in some way

[foxcort]

a lion does not concern itself with the opinion of sheep. tamlin-centric, tamlin/briar (if you squint) au, gen | ao3

But the Lord of Casterly Rock said and did nothing beyond the steady glare he fixed upon his youngest son.

for @isterofimias & @praetorqueenreyna ❤️

a/n: straying a little from my edit in that tamlin's family is still very much alive and his father is lord of casterly rock and *insert all titles here*! tamlin's family are based on the versions of them i imagine existed in acotar canon and less based on the lannisters/asoiaf (though it was difficult trying to separate tywin from tamlin's father, but can you blame me?). also this can be seen as a prelude to the brilin asoiaf au (oneshot for now?) i'm working on, though its more centered around tamlin and how i imagine he would translate into the asoiaf world. (ps. may i suggest listening to the rains of castamere or a lannister always pays his debts while reading this? or maybe even this casterly rock themed ambience/music?). i apologize in advance for my disgustingly excessive use of commas

It was never a good omen when Emrys approached him with a smile on his face. Especially when that smile was too predatory to carry any good will, and the glint in his eyes too cruel to preface anything but torment. Tamlin sighed softly to himself, eyes tracking his brother's movements as he dropped into the seat beside him with all the comfort that didn’t, and should’ve, existed between kin.

"There'll be no need getting all pretty and proper for Lord Tyrell's daughters today." That smile widened. Sharpened. "Not for you, little brother."

Tamlin threw him a weary look from where he sat, haphazardly reclined on one of the finely carved rosewood chairs situated in his guest chambers. "If you have something to say, spit it out." His answer was irate and breathless, still labored from the sparring practice his mornings were oft scheduled with. Having a conversation with Emrys while he had the upper hand was never pleasant. Even less so when Tamlin's body was littered with bruises and soaked in sweat, the fabric of his crimson tunic clinging uncomfortably to his chest.

Emrys gave a mocking click of his tongue, as if chiding a child for impatience. "This came for you. Just before dawn."

A small scroll — loosely unrolled enough to indicate Emrys had taken the liberty of reading it first — sat in the middle of his brother's outstretched palm. Bait in a bear trap.

For a long moment, Tamlin stared, his stomach turning at the possibilities before he calmly collected the paper and unfurled it. Return to Casterly Rock at once. With a quiet groan set off by his sore limbs, he sat up and leaned forward, forearms stretched over his thighs as he turned the message over, searching for an explanation he knew he would not find. Just his name eloquently printed on one side and the six meager words on the other.

"Shame." Emrys laughed, low and taunting. "I could've sworn the youngest was smitten with you. Caught her painting a pair of green eyes too soft to be mine."

Tamlin's gaze snapped to his brother's, the mirror of them always unnerving. It was their mother's eyes. His eyes. Shared between them in a juxtaposition of cruelty and mercy. A curse from the Seven, surely, when those eyes — softened further by his mother's smile — were the only ones that had ever looked at him with love and kindness.

"Are you so lacking in charm, you had to arrange for me to be sent away in order to ensure favor from one of Tyrell’s daughters?”

He thought distantly of the three of them and how they seemed to skirt around Emrys, recognizing at the very least, an undercurrent of savagery that did not belong amongst the delicate roses and clear sunshine. Truly, he was a lion amongst lambs in their presence.

"Careful." A glimmer of rage flickered in the green of his gaze, reminding Tamlin that while they were gifted with their mother's eyes, everything else was a bane from their father. “Or you’ll be journeying to the Wall in place of Casterly Rock.”

And he did not doubt him.

Not when Emrys’ anger was an inferno compared to the ember that sat diligently in Tamlin’s chest.

“You’re to marry the Stark girl.”

It was an effort to keep his mouth shut, though Tamlin's fingers curled into fists under the table, jaw tightening. Whatever he thought he would be facing upon his return to the Rock, it was leagues away from this. And perhaps even farther away from what Emrys could have influenced. No, this was a decision born entirely from his father's mind.

He supposed he should be glad. There were worse fates than marrying into a traitor house. And when he thought of his brief time in King's Landing and the too-watchful gaze of Hybern Greyjoy's red woman, it was almost enough to abate his anger. Almost.

“Do I have a say in this matter?” His voice was measured, surprising even himself.

Only the slight arch of his father’s brow gave Tamlin indication that he’d been heard at all. But the Lord of Casterly Rock said and did nothing beyond the steady glare he fixed upon his youngest son. As if the question was too dull to answer.

“You’ll be leaving in a week. With Lucien,” he paused to lean back in his chair, satisfied that the insolence of Tamlin's question did not tread further, “and a retinue of no more than ten men.”

Small, by Lannister standards, even for the least significant son. His father did not wish for them to be noticed, then. "What of the Tyrells? Will they not ask why I was pulled away in the middle of talks?"

"They will not." Irritation singed the end of his father's tone, his answer too quick. A glint of disdain sharpened the Lord's cold gaze, "Let me assure you, there was never any impression that you were an option for groom. Lord Tyrell's eldest will choose between your brothers, and you— you will go to Winterfell to marry the Stark." He paused, body rigid again. "Is that clear?"

Once more Tamlin held his mouth firm, afraid that if he opened it he would make the grave mistake of truly angering his father. Grey might've speckled the fine golden thread of his hair, but a man could count himself blessed by the Seven to survive a duel with Callen Lannister. He was as sharp and vicious with his sword as he was with his tongue. And Tamlin had been at the end of both enough times to know when a limit had been reached.

Callen rose from his seat — seemingly content with his son's silence — and Tamlin's gaze flickered to the courtyard beyond the room. Beams of sunlight filtered onto the lone tree planted there, snagging his bleating thoughts, a balm to his bruised heart. Years of being Callen's least favored did not lessen the blow his words often landed, and every new interaction reopened a wound he had thought long since healed.

"Your mother leaves to join your brothers in Highgarden tomorrow in hopes that her company will usher Tyrell's daughter into making a decision." His father's hand curled around the back of his now vacant seat and the sound of wood scraping on stone filled the room as he set it neatly in place. "Meet her before she departs.” Not a drop of warmth existed in that tone, though Tamlin knew some part of his father always considered his mother's heart above them all. “It would grieve her if you froze to death in the North without a proper farewell."

Tamlin had no chance, or will, to speak before his father turned on his heel and swiftly left the room.

In contrast, his mother had a retinue of thirty.

Twenty-five men, gathered in an arrangement outside the castle, and five women — his mother's personal attendants — seated safely in the awaiting wheelhouse. All the gold buried deep in the Rock, and it was Tamlin's mother his father treasured most. The one and only ideal he respected him for.

He squeezed her hands and cherished the warmth they offered, knowing soon he would feel nothing but the biting cold of the North. "My sweet boy." Her voice was smooth and pleasant as she slipped a hand from his to cradled the side of his face, a comforting gesture familiar to him since childhood. "Promise me you'll send a raven once you've reached Winterfell. It would settle my nerves."

He leaned into her touch, forcing a smile over his mouth for her sake. "I promise."

Gentle sea winds stirred the unblemished, golden curtain of her hair, a knowing look shadowing her features. "Trust in your father's intentions. They have always been for the good of his sons. Even if it may not seem so in the beginning."

"It's not always . . . easy to see what he sees." Pain colored his gruff voice, escaped from the confines of his well guarded heart. He paused in an attempt to swallow that hurt and failed miserably. "I'm being sent as shackles for the Starks, aren't I?" Only his mother's presence could draw such emotion from him and he hated it. Hated succumbing to that ugly feeling, hated letting it expose his weaker points. "He means to use me to keep them in line."

A soft sigh from her. She knew how he felt. Had tried to protect him from it for as long as he could remember. "He means to ensure all of his sons have grand standing in this world. The North is a stronghold with a precarious relationship to the crown and all of its vassals. Choosing which one of you to tie to the Starks was not done carelessly." Her lips tilted upward and her eyes shone with quiet pride. "Your brothers have little tact where delicate matters are concerned. You, however, are mine. And you always will be." She returned her hand to his and squeezed, coaxing a lightness back into his chest. Knowing she had a part in sending him to the North was both a solace and an ache, but where he found it difficult to trust his father, it was as easy as breathing with her. "Promise me again, you'll send a raven?"

He laughed under his breath, the sound of approaching footsteps stilling behind him. "When have I ever broken a promise to you?" Water glimmered in his mother's eyes and Tamlin quieted whatever thoughts stormed in his mind, to wrap her in his arms. "I'll send as many ravens as you'd like." She shivered, likely an attempt to hold off real tears, and he squeezed her harder. "So many, you'll grow sick of me."

"And stay warm," she murmured into his shoulder, before her chin tilted upward and her gaze settled on someone behind him. She said in a louder, more clear voice, "Lucien, see to it that he stays warm."

"I will, my lady." Tamlin didn't have to turn around to see the grin on the emissary's face, or the deep bow he offered. "Even if I must suffocate him with furs myself."

Finally, he pulled away from her, and she gripped his hand as he guided her into the wheelhouse, one last murmured goodbye passing between them, before an attendant shut the doors. A shouted command rang high above the sound of horses and armor clinking armor, and the procession to Highgarden began.

a/n: i just wanted to add that because i've chosen houses based on what made sense to me, a lot of the asoiaf loyalties and histories will be different — (e.g. the greyjoys taking over the targaryens/iron throne instead of the baratheons/robert's rebellion). i hope you enjoy this one! i've been meaning to do a got rewatch at some point, so there might be future asoiaf au oneshots or shortfics with different characters, ships and timelines! / lannister divider by @dingusfreakhxrrington