I wanted to prompt a thing. I know you don't take prompts right now, but I will forget otherwise. If you ever have time, would you consider writing Tywin's and Aerys's reactions when they receive news of Steffon's death?
It had been years since Tywin had spent a thought of Steffon, a casualty of distance more than anything else. They’d been friends as boys, Tywin the eldest, Steffon the youngest, one far more likely than the other to laugh. It hadn’t been an unpleasant balance, but time is enemy to that which seems pleasant in boyhood.
“Aerys doesn’t mean it,” he remembers Steffon saying. “He just doesn’t think before he speaks sometimes. He’s always been that way.”
“This isn’t making the Dornish deserts bloom, Steffon. This is my wife.”
Steffon had never liked strife. He had insisted upon harmony. He’d blinded himself to truths too hard to stomach, rather than routing them at the root. Easier to say that it was unthinking Aerys, whose antics had caused so much mirth in their boyhood, than to admit that the man was a fool, a madman.
“It is the privilege of your friendship that allows him to speak thusly, Tywin.”
“He insults my wife out of love of me? Is that what you are suggesting?”
“Merely that he has confidence in your love of him.”
Tywin Lannister never suffers fools, even fools he’d once been fond of. He takes joy in removing them from his presence, of reminding them that he was the Lion and not to be presumed upon, not even by kings. Steffon Baratheon grew from a boy into a fool, hiding behind laughter and warm memories, and with what purpose? What had he gained from it? The king’s trust—which he’d already had—and what else? He’d been a more promising boy than man.
Tywin Lannister reads the letter, written in a maester’s neat hand, that his friend and the hand of the king died in his own bay, leaving behind three small boys. He reads that word again, a small one only six letters, and remembers Steffon’s laugh, but finds he feels nothing at all.
Tywin did this to him. He knows it. It’s always Tywin. Tywin gets the credit, Tywin and not the king he serves. Served. Tywin doesn’t serve him anymore. And nor does Steffon.
Steffon would have helped him. Steffon understood him, understood that Tywin wanted all of Aerys’ glory, all of his power. Steffon would have protected him, even from Rhaegar who grew less biddable the older he grew. Steffon would have known what to do. Everyone liked Steffon. Everyone trusted Steffon. Tywin had kept them from liking or trusting Aerys.
The winds killed him. The winds. He’s no fool. The winds didn’t kill him, no more than the walls of Duskendale had held him. Men do things, not stones or winds. And the only man who stood to benefit from Steffon’s death was Tywin. Tywin, who betrayed friends left and right for his own gain, Tywin who Varys whispered was plotting even now, insulted that Aerys had refused to wed his son to Tywin’s daughter. As if it was his right he’d asked it. As if it was his reward. Friendship knows no reward. Steffon had understood that even when Tywin hadn’t. And Tywin took his own reward for good service. He wouldn’t get Rhaegar. He couldn’t get Rhaegar.
So he’d taken Steffon. He’d taken Steffon. He’d taken, greedy lying lion that he is.