The Collared Wolf

By Crippled-Canary

CHAPTER 21: FROZEN HEARTS

He didn't see her for the rest of the day.

Tywin was in his Solar, absentmindedly writing a letter of thanks to Mace Tyrell. For once in his long life, his long years of service as Hand, Tywin Lannister didn't care much for the state of his calligraphy nor the rough way he handled the parchment.

His mind was elsewhere, fluttering around wintry eyes and cool touches, lingering on Lynette's face far longer than he thought completely necessary. He didn't need to think too long on her face to recall every little detail of her countenance.

He did not feel guilty for the death of her mother and brother.

It was war, and he ended it. Whatever the cost, whatever the price: he was more than happy to pay it for some small semblance of peace.

He felt no guilt, but felt a thunderous shame weighing on his mind.

Tywin felt nothing for the murdered Starks. He'd kill them twice over by his own hand if it meant that he would have the right to say that he paid his debts.

But Lynette… it was always Lynette.

Her eyes when she spoke, dead and yet aflame with anger and pain; the way her eyes looked at him, through him, with such indifference, and the way she held herself, taller and stronger in her weakness than he had ever seen any other being stand- it worried him, shook him.

Was he worried for the safety of the Crown?

Was he shaken by the wordless promise of retribution in her eyes?

Or, dare he even think it, for thinking it would make it real, that he, Tywin Lannister, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, was scared of losing Lynette and her cool, soothing comfort?

He drove the thought into the wastelands of his mind, alongside the forgotten memories of his youth, and left it there to rot.

At least, he tried to.

Her eyes did not leave him in peace, and disobeyed his banishment. They danced in front of him, mocking, questioning, and pleading.

They were haunting and dark, with the cold of winter winds, they danced before him, mocking his emotions and tearing at his heart.

Silently and cruelly, they questioned him, twin grey eyes floating in his mind's eye with phantom precision. 'Why, Tywin?' they asked.

And they pleaded. Begged. Beseeched. They begged him, 'Please not this. Please not you.'

He was powerless to those eyes' condemnation. He could not escape the eyes he had spent hours lost in. He could not run from the deep and burning lick of shame that weighed him down, forced him to stay seated in his chair in his Solar, and not race down the Tower in search of her understanding, if he could not dare hope for her forgiveness.

He had hurt her.

Perhaps deep down, Lynette knew that her family would not be spared this war. Perhaps she knew that the assassin sent to the Capitol to murder her in her bed bore a Northern purse and a Northern dagger.

Perhaps she knew that her brother would die, in battle or at a fat old age.

She didn't know that it would be him, Tywin, to pass the sentence.

On their wedding night, he could see the wordless question in her eyes: Are you going to hurt me? He remembered it, as he held her that night. And again, when he asked her to sleep next to him. She was always expecting pain from those who were near her.

And perhaps; perhaps she had stopped expecting it of him. Perhaps she grew to trust him, that he would not hurt her if anything else.

And he did hurt her.

That was what her eyes accused him of: hurting her, betraying the fragile trust she placed in him, making her heart freeze because of him.

Tywin slammed a fist down on the wood.

Pain shot up his forearm, but it cleared his head. With a sigh, he picked up his quill again, and resumed his writing.

It was much later, dark outside, with stars brightly shining in the night when he finally retired.

He did not know what to expect when he reached the door of his – no, their – chambers.

A strange, cold fear gripped him when he reached for the handle of the door. Had she hung herself? Had she thrown herself from the battlements? Was she even there?

Tywin sighed again, and thinking that he sounded like a very old man, swung the door open before the nerve to do so left him.

He certainly hadn't expected what he saw when the oak barrier revealed what it hid.

There were candles everywhere, pieces of parchment scattered on the dining table, like leaves on the forest floor in autumn. In the middle of the room, in front of the fire, was Lynette, with her back to him. She looked like a ship did when it was the only floating piece of craftsmanship left on a raging sea.

She was in front of an easel.

Drawing, it appeared.

He didn't want to move. He didn't want to disturb her.

He could hardly throw off the piercing, pained stare of her eyes. He would not be able to stomach her tears, knowing full well that she knew he was the catalyst that caused them.

Tywin's feet betrayed him, much like his treacherous heart did these days, and carried him forward.

Lynette was so immersed in her work that she didn't look up. She looked covered in paints and inks. Her hands were stained with blues and reds and browns, much like her dress. Her hair was a mess. But her hands were moving on the canvas, fast and sure.

He moved closer until he could see the image that she was trying so hard to capture.

Ned Stark's likeness was staring back at him with the same grey eyes his daughter had, as accusingly as they did on the day of the Sack.

Tywin was at her side now, half-circling this way and that. He was trying to make her aware of his presence without startling her. Her white cheeks, whiter than usual, were streaked with tears.

Tywin felt another sigh creep up his throat but swallowed it down.

It tasted foul, black like shame, and sour like pain.

"What are you doing, Lynette?"

She didn't look at him, just kept drawing, focused on the collar of Ned Stark's cloak. Her lip trembled.

Methodically, as if forcing herself to continue with her drawing, she relaxed her wrist and let the lines curve and flow until the cloak looked ready to waft in the cool breeze. That reminded him. Tywin shut the window, and the cold air slowly seeped into the carpets.

He tried again, "Lynette?"

Her shoulders shook, but still she would not look at him. Her lip was in her teeth now and her back was ramrod straight. Tywin felt anger rise within him. Anger is the first sign of defeat. He trampled the flickering flame of his rage out and let concern replace it. The transition between the emotions was seamless.

Tywin Lannister remembered another time the woman who held his heart fought to keep her grief inside her body, rather than letting him help her carry it. Joanna's father had died suddenly. He remembered her tears and her wailing and the weight of her loss. He soothed her how he could: with a tight embrace and a comforting word.

He'd forgotten those words.

Her voice was small, cracked. She hadn't spoken all day then. There was a rasp to it, too. Crying. She'd been crying. Her eyes remained locked on the canvas.

"I wanted to dr-draw them… be-hiccup-before I forgot what-what they looked like when th-sob-they were alive."

Tywin looked at the canvases in front of the fire. There were two sitting there, accusing him. Catelyn Stark, flaming hair and all, and a boy that had his mother's image and his father's bearing: Robb, he assumed.

When he looked back to Lynette, she'd finally stopped drawing. She was weeping softly. There were no harsh sounds flying from her mouth, just tears – never-ending rivers of tears running down her opalescent cheeks to land on her dress.

She stood up abruptly and her fists clenched.

Her lead came flying through the air.

Tywin barely dodged it.

She was in front of him in a flash. Her fists pounded into his chest as tears – endless tears – burnt through his doublet to brand his flesh. The pain felt better than her eyes mocking him, so he took it.

Lynette hit him, again and again, until she couldn't because hurting him hurt her. That alone made her nauseas: she should hate him. She should! Tywin murdered them! Brutalized them!

And still she felt his warmth on her skin and the fire in his touch, not the repulsive wrongness of the deeds that his hands had performed. She felt Tywin, not the man who signed the parchment, and she hated it!

She hated the relief that coursed through her: she would no longer have to explain to her mother that she, the Wolf of Winterfell was in love with Tywin Lannister. She hated that this relief interwove with the soul crushing grief and longing that she felt whenever she thought about what happened at The Twins.

And Sansa…

Lynette hated herself for being in Tywin's chambers, instead of comforting her sister. She hated herself for loving him. She hated herself for wanting him.

But she loved him.

And she hated herself for it, with a fire that the hottest hell would fear.

"Lynette," he whispered into her hair when she calmed down, "Lynette, Lynette, Lynette." It was like a prayer, the prayer of a desperate man.

She clung to him tightly, so tightly that her nails cut his skin.

In weakness, and fear, she whimpered, "Just make it go away… please! Please just make it go away!"

He kissed her then. In that moment, that breathless few seconds of time they were just two people. They were just people, not Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West and Lynette, of House Stark. They were just people.

And that was enough.

Lynette fought against her mind and her reason and her shame, but it all soon rushed down the river of flame his touch created in her soul. Such safety, such warmth… Their kiss was brutal. There was anger, and pain, and shame, and fire, and frost and everything that made a forbidden romance wonderful.

Lynette didn't care about songs of lovers scorned, or what people would say about her the next day, or what her sister would think. She only cared for his touch, because it made her other thoughts disappear and her heart pound so loudly she couldn't hear the ghostlike accusations that floated around her head. He took the pain away, him – Tywin – and that was good.

And still, not enough.

"Please," she stuttered, his hands hot on her back, "just make it go- go- away."

Sex was a powerful aphrodisiac. He knew she lost herself in him, because he lost himself in her. Tywin gripped her waist and swung her up in his arms. She wrapped her legs around him, searching for some (any) friction, desperate to forget.

They both gasped in relief, because all was heat suddenly and she didn't feel the harrowing, biting cold anymore. The kiss reduced both of them to nothing but hunger for each other, and a desperate need to be closer than they were, to lose themselves. Tywin dug his hands into her wild hair, tilted her head back and kissed her, his tongue plundering her mouth, kissing her in ways he never had before, as if he was finally losing all of his control.

She didn't realize they were moving, but then he slammed the door behind them, harder than he meant to, and set her down. Lynette whined in response. Lynette needed something to hold on to, something to ground herself because her world was falling apart.

She was empty and wet already – she'd not had him for weeks and was beginning to doubt if their last coupling on his desk was only a dream, a figment of her imagination.

His hands drew her out of her mind again and away from the cold, as they always did. Warm, soothing and sinful, they curled around her body. She gasped – his hands were resting just over her breasts, teasing her through the fabric of her corset and dress. Her nipples were straining against her corset and she felt constricted.

Suddenly, with barely contained tension emitting from him, he whirled her around and drew her back to his chest. Lynette shook with want, her mouth open in a breathless moan. Her muscles clenching painfully, arousal rushing through her. He did so little, and she was already putty in his hands.

His mouth, hot and wet, kissed her neck. Tywin ground his hips into her behind, just as desperate as she. His hands loosened her dress hurriedly and little by little she could feel the constricting material slip.

His scent was everywhere, leather and ink buffeting her.

Please. Please just make it go away.

Tywin couldn't get enough of her skin, the way she arched into his touch. Her arse was pressed deliciously to his cock, and he was already so hard he had trouble breathing. His chest heaved against her back, straining for air, but breathing her in instead.

"Be sure, Lynette…"

His voice was rich and made her shiver – low, like a growl. The Lion of Lannister. His hands – Tywin's beautiful hands - were at her waist, holding her dress up. Was she sure she wanted him to touch her? Was she sure that she would be able to live with herself for letting him?

Again, her throat hoarse, she whimpered her plea, "Just touch me… please."

A growl so dark and dripping with lust echoed from his chest. Lynette knew she was wet but when she heard that sound, so raw and filled with need for her, a deep ache settled in her soul.

He ripped her dress, the back seam breaking under his harsh grip.

It fell away, and his hands were on her again, all over, like he couldn't decide where to touch her first. She made quick work of her corset and threw the thing across the room.

Tywin caught her waist in his hands and corralled her to the bed. He gripped her thighs and set her down among the pillows. He stood back and looked at her: her dark hair, her heaving breasts and her smallclothes. A vision.

She reached for him and pulled him down on top of her. His clothed body, a stark contrast to her near naked flesh moulded into her perfectly, like she was made for him and only him, and he for her. She hated that thought.

He kissed the guilt away.

Lynette shook against him, overcome by the fire in her veins. His lips danced slowly down to her neck, over her breasts. He kissed her skin and whispered nothings into her flesh, sighed her name to the emptiness around their exclusive niche on the warring earth.

They made love that night, he and she.

Afterwards, as she lay warm in his embrace, she cried. She cried for her sister's grief. She sobbed for her father, for her mother, for her brother. She wept for the North and wailed for the future.

And she wept for Tywin Lannister – the man who once gave her hope in her hopelessness, who shielded her, who comforted her, who taught her to survive in a pit of liars. She wept for the love she knew he'd never give her. She wept for everything wrong with the world: war, pain, death, suffering and cold.

When sleep finally claimed her, she dreamed of ice and snow and the world drowning in Winter, and woke, with her heart frozen – a cold and barren image of the woman she'd become there, the daughter of the traitor, the liar, the wolf, in the den of horned lions.

Author's belated note:

If you are reading this, it means you've not yet given up on me, and for that I thank you!

School has been CRAZY and I am sorry for abandoning this story (if it can be called that).

And yes, I know I pushed Ty's inner monologue, but I wanted to convey a very important message, something I've stressed from the beginning: sex is used as an escape, and Tywin isn't as unfeeling as he lets on. Lynette is in shreds (I told you, dear reader, not to judge her too harshly) and will be for the foreseeable future.

Please review! They helped me so much! Thank you to everyone who left me a little bit of love, and please feel free to leave some tips, too. 'Pack of One', my trusty guide to Westeros (meant in all honesty as a compliment, I swear) feel free to leave me some information - you help me keep it all as real as it can be given the circumstances.

Anyway, enjoy! xx