Ficlet Entry #3: Nothing There At All
Author: housecreepy
Title: Nothing there at all
Pairing: Roose Bolton/Tywin Lannister
Prompt(s): this image
Word Count: 822
Rating & Warnings: PG, warning for brief violence
Summary: Roose Bolton is brought to court to discuss the fallout of the Red Wedding.
“It was poorly done.” Tywin’s words fell heavily in the otherwise silent chamber. Any other man would have quailed beneath his forbidding tone and the harsh expression on his face, would have begged his lord’s forgiveness, would have remembered things like Reynes and Tarbecks strangled by a golden fist. But Roose Bolton was not the sort to lose his composure over another man’s rage. He sat calmly by the fire, in a low chair that the Hand had ordered fashioned specially for such moments, a narrow, cramped thing that forced its passenger to crouch awkwardly as they were chastised. But he seemed to pay it no mind, resting calmly, his colorless eyes fastened on Tywin, who faced him, seeming to tower over him.
“But it was, in the end, done,” Bolton replied after a long, awkward silence. “And that is all that matters now, my Lord Hand.”
Tywin stood, pacing before the fire, stirring the dying embers with a stick. He savagely thrust it into the remnants of the roaring inferno that had been built hours ago, seeming to vent his frustration at the current situation. News of the massacre that the people had already dubbed the “Red Wedding” had reached Kings Landing with all haste, and while there was little chance that the action could be pinned on the Crown, he was still enraged at the sloppiness with which the Freys and Boltons had executed his order. Leaving the details to Bolton and his new family-through-marriage, Tywin had kept his hands clean on the matter. And while he realized that he should be relieved that at least one threat to his grandson’s rule had been eliminated, he was not pleased with the ridiculous gossip that had reached his ears. Boys did not turn into rabid wolves, regardless of any of the nonsense still spread about the North and the Riverlands by superstitious smallfolk, and he knew that the brutality of the deed would only inspire further solidarity among his rivals.
At least blame was deflected from Joffrey, and pointed solely at Lord Walder. If there were consequences, let them be on his head.
Bolton sipped from the glass of mulled wine that he held almost apathetically, frowning as it had gone cold since it had been given him. He shifted in the chair.
Tywin leaned forward, hands resting on the worn leather of his boots. “There is talk. Too much talk for my taste, Lord Bolton. I thought that your greatest concern was keeping your people quiet.”
“The Tullys and their bannermen are not mine to command, my lord,” Bolton said, and although there was no disrespect in his voice, it further irritated Tywin. He’d never been able to break this man, when so many others, so many greater men, had broken and shattered before him. “Was not Riverrun under the command of your son?”
Tywin rose, dropping the stick that he’d used to tend to the fire, standing above Bolton’s seat. He did not speak, but merely stared at the man, glowered at him. Bolton behaved as though none of this mattered, as though this were only a game played by idle gentlemen who knew nothing of war, moving Cyvasse pieces about on a board. Of course it did not matter to him. His grandson did not sit the throne. His son, albeit foolhardy and bastard-born, was able-bodied, whole, trustworthy enough to rule in his father’s stead. And if that failed, he had a young wife and likely another heir on the way, if other rumors from the Twins could be trusted.
“Do not speak to me of Jaime,” Tywin said at last, compressing his lips. When cold amusement quirked the corner’s of Bolton’s thin mouth, he struck the man across the face, immediately regretting the action. It had been womanish, true, to lash out in such a fashion, and had only demonstrated to Lord Bolton that he had managed to get the better of him, in some fashion. Bolton did not flinch. He sat as he had for the past few hours, a thin trickle of blood marring his otherwise mask-like countenance, the scarlet thread stark against his ghastly skin.
Tywin watched as it trickled down his chin, dripping onto the rusty black clothing that he wore. Without seeming to know what he was doing, he reached out his hand and wiped it away, not shrinking from the coldness that seemed to permeate Bolton. The man was bloodless, or nearly so, it was true. All of his leechings had seen to that.
“My apologies, Lord Tywin,” Bolton whispered, permitting himself a smile, baring his teeth. “I seem to have forgotten my place. It will not happen again.”
Tywin forced himself to meet the other man’s eyes and when he did, he shivered. He had expected contrition, humiliation, something akin to the fiery rage that he was sure blazed in his own. But there was nothing there. Nothing at all.
Title: Nothing there at all
Pairing: Roose Bolton/Tywin Lannister
Prompt(s): this image
Word Count: 822
Rating & Warnings: PG, warning for brief violence
Summary: Roose Bolton is brought to court to discuss the fallout of the Red Wedding.
“It was poorly done.” Tywin’s words fell heavily in the otherwise silent chamber. Any other man would have quailed beneath his forbidding tone and the harsh expression on his face, would have begged his lord’s forgiveness, would have remembered things like Reynes and Tarbecks strangled by a golden fist. But Roose Bolton was not the sort to lose his composure over another man’s rage. He sat calmly by the fire, in a low chair that the Hand had ordered fashioned specially for such moments, a narrow, cramped thing that forced its passenger to crouch awkwardly as they were chastised. But he seemed to pay it no mind, resting calmly, his colorless eyes fastened on Tywin, who faced him, seeming to tower over him.
“But it was, in the end, done,” Bolton replied after a long, awkward silence. “And that is all that matters now, my Lord Hand.”
Tywin stood, pacing before the fire, stirring the dying embers with a stick. He savagely thrust it into the remnants of the roaring inferno that had been built hours ago, seeming to vent his frustration at the current situation. News of the massacre that the people had already dubbed the “Red Wedding” had reached Kings Landing with all haste, and while there was little chance that the action could be pinned on the Crown, he was still enraged at the sloppiness with which the Freys and Boltons had executed his order. Leaving the details to Bolton and his new family-through-marriage, Tywin had kept his hands clean on the matter. And while he realized that he should be relieved that at least one threat to his grandson’s rule had been eliminated, he was not pleased with the ridiculous gossip that had reached his ears. Boys did not turn into rabid wolves, regardless of any of the nonsense still spread about the North and the Riverlands by superstitious smallfolk, and he knew that the brutality of the deed would only inspire further solidarity among his rivals.
At least blame was deflected from Joffrey, and pointed solely at Lord Walder. If there were consequences, let them be on his head.
Bolton sipped from the glass of mulled wine that he held almost apathetically, frowning as it had gone cold since it had been given him. He shifted in the chair.
Tywin leaned forward, hands resting on the worn leather of his boots. “There is talk. Too much talk for my taste, Lord Bolton. I thought that your greatest concern was keeping your people quiet.”
“The Tullys and their bannermen are not mine to command, my lord,” Bolton said, and although there was no disrespect in his voice, it further irritated Tywin. He’d never been able to break this man, when so many others, so many greater men, had broken and shattered before him. “Was not Riverrun under the command of your son?”
Tywin rose, dropping the stick that he’d used to tend to the fire, standing above Bolton’s seat. He did not speak, but merely stared at the man, glowered at him. Bolton behaved as though none of this mattered, as though this were only a game played by idle gentlemen who knew nothing of war, moving Cyvasse pieces about on a board. Of course it did not matter to him. His grandson did not sit the throne. His son, albeit foolhardy and bastard-born, was able-bodied, whole, trustworthy enough to rule in his father’s stead. And if that failed, he had a young wife and likely another heir on the way, if other rumors from the Twins could be trusted.
“Do not speak to me of Jaime,” Tywin said at last, compressing his lips. When cold amusement quirked the corner’s of Bolton’s thin mouth, he struck the man across the face, immediately regretting the action. It had been womanish, true, to lash out in such a fashion, and had only demonstrated to Lord Bolton that he had managed to get the better of him, in some fashion. Bolton did not flinch. He sat as he had for the past few hours, a thin trickle of blood marring his otherwise mask-like countenance, the scarlet thread stark against his ghastly skin.
Tywin watched as it trickled down his chin, dripping onto the rusty black clothing that he wore. Without seeming to know what he was doing, he reached out his hand and wiped it away, not shrinking from the coldness that seemed to permeate Bolton. The man was bloodless, or nearly so, it was true. All of his leechings had seen to that.
“My apologies, Lord Tywin,” Bolton whispered, permitting himself a smile, baring his teeth. “I seem to have forgotten my place. It will not happen again.”
Tywin forced himself to meet the other man’s eyes and when he did, he shivered. He had expected contrition, humiliation, something akin to the fiery rage that he was sure blazed in his own. But there was nothing there. Nothing at all.