Chapter 7: The Weight of an Oath

“He did what?”

He had heard what his sister said, and for all of his training, breeding, and intellect, all Tywin Lannister could do was stare across the table at his sister.

At the very least, Genna had the good sense not to smile. For that peace of mind, Tywin let out a sigh of relief.

“Jon reacted as a Stark does,” she said. “He gave his word.”

Tywin withheld his temper by closing his closing right hand into a fist. He might have clenched his teeth and grimaced, but he knew that displaying his vexation would get him nothing.

The boy was eight years old. Eight, gods damn him!

He had spent the better part of a year teaching Jon Stark to think beyond the childish simplicity of honor that his uncle had given him. Tywin had taught him history, economics, warfare, reason, administration, and the logical nature of power.

The whole point of this education was to demonstrate to the boy that every decision carried consequences beyond the moment in which it was made. Could Aegon’s family have ruled the Seven Kingdoms for centuries? Yes! If the claims about the dragons were true, this could very easily come to pass.

However, not enough of that dynasty had taken succession seriously enough. They liked to think they were entitled to the power they were born into. When someone became lax, that was when mistakes were made, and that was how families fell. It only took one weak link to destroy a chain.

After all of that effort not to fall into that trap, Jon had thrown himself into the first political trap presented to him.

For a Frey girl.

“Did he understand what he was saying?” Tywin asked, pushing to know.

“Not entirely,” Genna replied, almost nervously.

That was new. Genna never got nervous.

“Then the matter is settled,” Tywin said. “We cannot bind this boy to an oath he made before he turned ten years old!”

Genna did not mean to contradict him, but she raised a hand.

“Is it, big brother?”

“Of course it is. No sensible lord would hold an eight-year-old boy to a marriage vow made after he defended a girl from a few indiscrete boys.”

“We both know that Walder Frey is not a sensible lord.”

Tywin paused.

Genna had him there.

“No ... he is not sensible,” Tywin conceded. “The man is a lecher, a miser, an opportunist, and possibly insane, so you might be right ... I have no doubt he is capable of hearing a child’s declaration and deciding it is the foundation of a marriage alliance somehow.”

Tywin looked down shaking his head.

“How could the boy be so stupid?”

“Those boys were picking on her,” Genna said as if that made everything all right. “It’s ingrained in him to do the honorable thing. For Jon, regardless of what you teach him, Tywin, he sees this as right and good.”

“I am aware,” Tywin found himself saying coldly.

“Then perhaps you should focus your anger with them rather than Jon.”

“I am angry with all of them, sister,” Tywin said.

Genna did not smile; she had the sense not to challenge his thought process.

“Jon did what he was taught to do by the Starks. No matter how much you want to change him, Tywin, you cannot make a wolf change its fur.”

Tywin found his facial expression hardening into a grimace. He had spent a year trying to teach the boy that the world was not governed by stories and drivel about knights and honor. A knight was a sword that was an extension of a lord. Kings did not rule because they were good. Lords did not prosper because they were honorable.

Men won battles because they understood the strengths and weaknesses of those around them. Superstitions like gods and supernatural forces were a joke. The idea of nobility winning the day was useless nonsense. It was as helpful as the notion that the common-folk had about Tywin himself.

They said he ‘shit gold’ when he was simply more productive with what he had.

Nevertheless, Jon had found one principle he refused to surrender regardless of what Tywin taught him: His word.

“Regardless of what is prudent, Walder Frey will hold him to his vow if he gets the chance,” Tywin said. “He will not care that Jon is a child, only that he is an eligible Stark, and all of the opportunity that accompanies him.”

“Much like you, then?” Genna asked, leaning on the table. Tywin had no answer, so she went on. “What will you do, then?”

Tywin was silent because his sister was right. While she had no idea about the dragon-connection, there really was no changing a wolf’s fur. He could teach Jon logic, history, tactics, economics, and politics, but in the end, no matter the foolishness of allowing sentiment to dictate policy, Tywin Lannister could not turn a Stark into a Lannister.

As such, he let out a sigh and decided to pivot. One could not win a war by simply battering away at a front door. If one piece of the plan did not work, then it was best to go elsewhere for success.

“This girl? The one you call Fat Walda,” Tywin said. “Does she have any potential?”

“Well, she is a Frey,” Genna replied, lip twitching. “Unless she decides to become a Lannister overnight, I doubt she will suddenly develop the qualities that would make her a remarkable bride by your standards.”

“You have a thought. Do you not?” Tywin asked, frowning.

“I have an idea, yes,” Genna said.

“That sentence does not bring me comfort,” Tywin remarked through narrowing eyes.

Genna ignored him.

“If Jon is serious about keeping his vow, then perhaps there is a way to make the arrangement useful. We work with what we have, not always with what we want,” she said.

“I have no intention of allowing an eight-year-old’s declaration to determine the next decade of his life.”

“Then don’t,” Genna replied swiftly and concisely.

Tywin stared at her, confused.

“Cersei’s daughter was your intention for Jon; was it not?”

“Yes,” Tywin said slowly with a nod to continue.

“She may prove to be a better match when the girl is older. Myrcella is a Baratheon princess and a Lannister, so I believe that would suit your tastes.”

“Exactly the point, Genna. If Jon continues along the path I have set for him, he will be an excellent prospect for Myrcella, and he could prove to be a worthy Hand of the King for a time.”

“Then keep his options open,” Genna said. “If the time comes when he must marry Walda because his honor demands it, you can decide then. However, he won’t be eligible until he’s fourteen, but knowing the Starks, they will want him to marry at sixteen or even eighteen. That gives you time, Tywin. From there, Walder might ship his granddaughter off somewhere else, or perhaps, Myrcella will not take a liking to him.”

Tywin considered her words. Despite how intelligent they were presented, he disliked the proposal involved his pet dragon with a common Frey girl.

More than that, he disliked that his carefully constructed plans had been disrupted by an eight-year-old boy who had decided that a promise made in a training yard mattered more than political calculation.

Was the boy so blind and foolish? Of course he was. He was eight. Nevertheless, impatience only favored the witless or the one taking advantage of the unwise, and for that alone, Genna’s suggestion had merit.

“If it proves necessary,” Tywin said slowly, “and Jon must marry the girl because of his honor, then I will consider your idea. You should prepare as the time comes nearer at hand in case we do need this Frey girl.”

“That you listened is all I ask, Tywin,” she said. “I will keep an eye on the girl.”

Tywin found himself harrumphing at the notion.

“You should be grateful I have not had the boy thrown into the stocks and allowed the peasants to pelt him with rotten fruit.”

Genna laughed.

“You would never do that.”

Tywin frowned.

“Oh? And why would I not?”

“Because Jon is your last chance,” Genna remarked quickly.

“At what?”

“At having a son who doesn’t disappoint you.”

With such a declaration, she rose from the table.

Tywin said nothing.

Genna walked toward the door, leaving her brother alone with the fire, the wine, and the thoughts he would never have admitted aloud.

A son.

Tywin looked toward the corridor where, somewhere beyond the walls of these damned towers, Jon Stark slept.

Jaime had disappointed him when he became a member of the king’s guard.

Tyrion was the worst reminder of every failing a Lannister could have; he was a drunken little lech of a toad that could not control his base instincts. By every measurement possible, he was a catastrophe of a failure.

Even Cersei, for all her lauded beauty and personal ambition, had become a source of complications he had never anticipated.

But Jon—

As he thought, he was a Stark boy in name and temperament despite his Targaryen lineage. He was a political asset and potential ally in the years and wars to come. He would be a lesser lord and a weapon.

Tywin had called him all of those things and more when he was by himself. And yet, as he sat alone, he found himself considering Genna’s words. A son who did not disappoint him.

Tywin stared into the fire. He had never considered thinking of Jon in such a manner. Nevertheless, this problematic observation had a nugget of truth in it.

He realized, with no small measure of irritation, that somewhere along the road from Casterly Rock to the Twins, Jon Stark or Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his name, had begun to feel like the heir life had denied Tywin.

Catelyn had expected the evening to be difficult.

The negotiations with Lord Walder had been tiresome, the food at the Twins was worse than she remembered, and her brother had spent most of the day trying to appear more confident than what he was capable of being.

Still, dinner with Edmure was preferable to another conversation with the Lord of the Twins. Walder Frey could test the patience of the most humble septon.

Despite how stressed she was, Edmure seemed to have a smile on his face all evening long. When she had barely finished her wine, Edmure began laughing.

Catelyn looked at him.

“What is so amusing?”

“Don’t you know about what’s happened with Jon?” Edmure asked.