Tywin Fic - Tumblr Posts
Repeat of History
Pairing: Tywin Lannister x reader
Requested by: @honeyofthegods
Warnings: pregnancy, reference to morning sickness, childbirth, reference to death of Johanna Lannister
Gif creds to owner
History was repeating itself, he was sure of it. From the moment he had discovered your pregnancy, he was noticing all sorts of symptoms that had plagued Johanna during her final pregnancy.
Your morning sickness lasted much longer than you expected it to, and you spent most days confined to your rooms with your head in a basin. Grand Maester Pycelle had tried all sorts of remedies on you, making you drink potions with sickly sweet herbs, rubbing your growing bump with greasy balms in the hope of soothing your somersaulting baby. But both you and Tywin drew the line at bloodletting, and just the sight of the leeches in the jar made you queasy.
So when a terrified young squire came bursting into the throne room during an audience, Tywin held up his hand to prevent a guard from beating him for interrupting.
“Milord, Milord, Lady Lannister- the tower of the hand- she says the baby is coming,” he said, panting.
The old lion rose from the iron throne, his green eyes ever so slightly widened. “Summon the dowager queen to continue this audience,” he told his own squire, who nodded and turned on his heel at once to summon Cersei. In an instant, Tywin strode through the throne room, the crowd of courtiers parting for him, and when the great wooden doors slammed shut, he broke into a run to the tower of the hand.
***
As he neared his tower, your groans of pain grew louder, and despite not being able to see you, he knew your face would be contorted in fear and pain. As he flung open the door, he barked at the guard, “have Pycelle brought up at once. And the midwives too. And be thankful I won’t throw you in the dungeons for just standing there while my wife screams in pain,”
You heard the commotion from the bottom of the tower and groaned out, on your hands and knees halfway up the spiral stairs, one hand clutching your swollen belly. As Tywin neared, you looked over your shoulder at him. “My Lord,” you whispered. “I forgot you had an audience today, a-and I thought I could manage the stairs, but then the pains started-ah!”
“Oh, you stupid, stupid woman,” Tywin murmured, kneeling beside you, rubbing your back. There was no malice in his tone, but you still moaned out an apology. “Shush,” he told you. “When this pain subsides, we shall start back on these stairs,”
You nodded, biting your lip hard, thinking that Tywin would not put up with hysterics. But you couldn’t be more wrong. While your fear was obvious, but his was blooming deep in his chest, unlocking memories that he had repressed for twenty years. “You are doing well, YN. Come on now, slowly to your feet. Hold onto my arm, that’s right,” with his guidance, you were able to stand, albeit a little hunched over, and together you walked up the stairs to his chambers. “You will have the baby here. Where I know you are both safe,” he told you firmly, helping you through the office and into his bedchamber. “Help is coming,” he told you, drawing back the expensive bedsheets for you.
“My Lord, I don’t want to ruin your bedsheets,” you mumbled. “I… the waters… they have not broken yet. A-and everyone says there will be blood- lots of it,”
“YN,” he said firmly, drawing your attention back to him. “I couldn’t care less about my linen right now,” you nodded, affirming your understanding, before bracing yourself for another pain. Halfway through your contraction, there was a knock at the door: help had arrived. Pycelle and a small squad of midwives filed into the room, and within minutes you were stripped down to your shift and helped onto the bed, with a constant stream of bowls of steaming hot water being brought up into the room. In the frenzy, Tywin was swept out of the room and he found himself looking to the sky and praying to the gods he didn’t even believe in for the safety of the child, and for your safety too. As the hours wore on, your suppressed groans morphed into terrified screams of pain, and Tywin found his heart splintering and shattering with each cry. Your marriage was by no means a love match, but over the months he had found himself growing increasingly fond of his young wife, and the fondness had only grown over the course of your difficult pregnancy.
For hours he stood there like a soldier as you laboured on, alternating between pacing and standing stock still. As night fell, however, your cries changed in tone, and he could hear your sobbing through the door. Hearing your frightened cries had Tywin bursting through the door, and when Pycelle opened his mouth to protest, he was fixed with such a terrifying stare that he promptly shut up.
“Tywin,” you moaned, reaching out for your husband with a shaking hand. In an instant he was kneeling beside you, taking your hand in both of his. “I can’t do it, I can’t,” you whimpered.
“Yes, you can,” he told you firmly. “You have done marvellously so far. Just a little while longer,” he murmured, pushing your hair out of your sweaty, tear stained face.
“My Lady, My Lord, I can see the head,” the septa called up from between your legs. “Push, my lady, gently now,” she told you, and you gritted your teeth, doing small pushed like the midwives had taught you, crushing Tywin’s fingers in your fist. If his hand was hurting, he was wise enough to keep his mouth shut. “Big push now, m’lady,” another midwife told you, and as you were wracked with the most intense pain of your life, you pushed with all your might, shouting out in a mixture of agony and determination.
All was silent.
Instantly, Tywin tensed up. When Cersei and Jaime were born, the room was filled with the lusty cries of healthy newborns. But when Tyrion was born, everything was quiet, eerily so, as Johanna bled out, the life draining from her body as she lay limp in Tywin’s arms. The cry that Tyrion had let out fell on deaf ears after the blood and mucus was cleared from his throat, and Tywin could not bare to look at the deformed little creature that had taken his wife from him.
But you were alive, your body running on adrenaline, and as you panted, you leaned into your husband, trying to see over the crowd of people around your baby. “What’s happening?” You asked, your voice small and shaky, but when you were given no answer, your face hardened. “What are you doing with my baby?,” you demanded.
Your question was left unanswered for several moments more, before loud cries filled the room. The sigh of relief from everyone present was visible, and as your naked babe was handed to you, fresh tears poured from your eyes as you pressed a gentle kiss to his wrinkled brow.
“A boy, My Lord,” Pycelle told Tywin. “Larger than Ser Jaime when he was born,” he added, answering the silent question that Tywin posed. “We need to finish tending to Lady Lannister,” he whispered, implying that Tywin leave the room.
“Well what is stopping you?” He replied, and Pycelle dithered on the spot. “Go on,” he said and Pycelle nodded.
“Right away my Lord,” he said.
Slightly dazed, you looked up at Tywin, then back down at the midwives crowded around your nether regions. “What-“
“Do not fret, wife,” he said gently.
“I’m so tired,” you murmured, although your face beamed with a bright smile.
“I know you are. You’ve done so well delivering my-our son. Let them finish and bathe you, and then you can rest,”
“Promise?” You whispered.
“I promise,”
***
The Maester and midwives delivered your afterbirth, massaging your belly until it was all out, before applying antiseptic salves between your legs, cleaning away the blood and helping to lay fresh linen beneath you without moving you too much.
Finally, they bade you goodnight and congratulations, before bowing out of the room.
“He’s beautiful,” you murmured, your sleeping babe nuzzling against your breast.
“He’s perfect,” Tywin agreed, shifting closer to you to look over your shoulder, reaching an elegant hand out to caress the baby’s soft cheek.
You lay together for hours, until the candles were almost burnt to stumps and your head lolled sleepily on Tywin’s shoulder. Gently, he eased your son from your arms, placing him in his bassinet that had been brought up from your chambers, shushing him to sleep when he grumbled, before helping you lay on your back. You mumbled something incoherent, but Tywin shushed you to sleep and kissed your forehead.
Tomorrow, there would be a hundred visitors in and out of the room, including his older children, his grandchildren, and his bannermen. They would shower you and your son with gifts and blessings, offer you advice and anecdotes, and watch your every move for signs of illness or delirium.
But for now, it was just you and your baby, deep in your slumber, with your old lion guarding you through the night.
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