A/N: Long Live the King.

Not me of course, I'm not royalty by any means or measure.

No, I'm talking about Godzilla, King of Monsters. And of course, Charles fucking Dance. He only had a minor role in the film but holy hell it was like watching Tywin Lannister all over again. That man is a fookin' legend I tell ya. Now there's a man who keeps his promises and scares the living daylights out of anyone fool enough to cross him. Speaking of truths and promises:

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!

I know I said I wouldn't write another new story, but Charles Dance! How could you watch that man's performance and NOT write something?!

So here we are: Long Live the King.

Otherwise known as the story "In which Tywin finally decides enough is enough and takes matters into his own hands to bring peace and prosperity to Westeros." I don't know if this has been done before. I'm sure some people will call it AU or such but I disagree. We all know that Tywin Lannister values one thing above all else. "Its the Family name that lives on," by his own words. And what better way for the Lannister name to live on than this?

I hope I do him justice.

Clearly this takes place in Season Two.

And now the world spins anew, and a tale is told.

As before, if folks don't like this, this will vanish in two days.

So by all means let me know so I can slay these damned plot bunnies! Otherwise its just a temporary project!

"ENOUGH! I did not want this burden. I had no desire for it, no want of it. But I see now that none of you are willing to do-or capable of for that matter-what must be done. What is necessary. Perhaps you never were. But I am. And I will bring this realm back to order, one way or another. Even if the lot of you fight me every step of the way. I owe that much, if nothing else...

...and a Lannister always pays his debts."

~?

Long May He Reign

Ashes.

His legacy was ashes.

What could a man do with ashes?

You couldn't build anything with them; you couldn't hold them, you could only bury them, scatter them on the wind, or salt the earth with them. Tywin had done all three in his day and would likely do more yet before this night was done. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. An adequate description of the situation give what he faced. It had been some time since he'd held a sword-since he'd personally gone into battle-some time indeed since he'd slain a man with his own hands. Although his blood was up and his pulse still pounded in his ears like the drums of a great hunt, he knew this to be a Pyrrhic victory.

One had but to look at the corpses on the throne to see it.

With each step-more of a stumble, really-that carried him towards, the Lord of Casterly Rock felt the years weighing him down like a great ocean on his shoulders. Despair joined it, threatening to crush him utterly if he allowed it. For all his trials and tribulations the realm now stood on a knife's edge, the slightest tilt would bring them back from the brink or send them plummeting over the edge into renewed civil war. The slightest nudge may grant them salvation, or oblivion.

What did it matter if they'd won the capital?

What did it matter that Stannis Baratheon had been bested?

What did any of it matter now that his family-HIS FAMILY!-had been so utterly shattered?

Despite of all their prancing and preening-or perhaps in spite of it-the Tyrell army had come too late to their cause far too late.

Joffrey was dead.

For all his cowardice, the little fool was stupid enough-or perhaps arrogant-to go against his Mother's wishes and participate in the battle. For his foolishness, he perished. Poorly. Stannis Baratheon found him in battle and lopped his head off, crown and all. Tyrion's trick with the Wildfire had proven instrumental-without it, King's Landing might well have been flying the sigil of a burning stage before dawn. Yet even with that ace there could be no denying there could be no denying Joffrey's demise. Nor could they hope to suppress it; too many had witnessed his death. Had that been the end of their woes, Tywin might well have made sense of things.

It was not.

In a fit of madness, grief, and utter terror, Cersei had foolishly poisoned Tommen-then herself!-on the Iron Throne mere moments before the rescue party burst into the room. No doubt she'd thought them to be Stannis and his men, come to take all that she loved. He still recalled her look of abject horror as she died with her youngest in her arms. With no maester on hand to deliver an antidote to whatever foul concoction she might've imbibed, no godsend to save them, and no miracle to undo what her self-serving foolishness had wrought, he'd made it just in time to watch her die, to see the life fade from her eyes.

In his mind's eye he still saw that empty vial slip from her grasp to shatter against the floor of the Red Keep. He knew it would haunt him until the end of his days.

"Too late," she'd croaked out in her last moments. "You were too late, Father. "Why weren't you here? Why didn't you save us?"

Even now the press of men at his back demanded his attention, attention he could scarcely bring himself to give.

Even now, as he bid his soldiers cleared the corpses away, he could only hear that blasted broken bottle.

A cold, logical part of him assessed the situation even as his emotions boiled to a fever pitch under a tight mask of control. Lannister and Tyrell soldiers alike stared agape at the horror before them, and at one another, mouths agog, jaws agape. Shock held sway, preventing anyone from taking action, but Had he been possessed of his wits at the moment, Tywin could well have rallied them. Commanded them. As it stood, he only wanted to roar. To howl and snarl his fury at the world. He hadn't felt this way since Joanna's death...but this was a close second. Was his wife not enough? Why must this world continue to take from him?

Damn his daughter.

Damn the Tyrells.

Damn them all.

In times such as these one would say the king is dead, long live the King. But who was the king? The line of succession was muddled. Joffrey's severed head was lost somewhere in the battle. Tommen was gone. Myrcella was trapped in Dorne, and unlikely to be released, if ever. She may as well have been dead for all that mattered. For lack of children Cersei may well have been queen, but she was gone as well. Which brought the matter of Myrcella back to the forefront once more. If she ruled, Dorne would rule through her. As would the Martells. Who loathed the Lannisters and the crown.

Unacceptable.

Yes, victory belonged to Kings Landing for the time being, but the price was higher than any man might have expected, the toll too exacting. In a single night the Lannister name had risen to insurmountable heights and subsequently fallen from them in a single suicidal leap, dashing itself against the stones. In a rare moment of genuine grief he considered seeking out the highest window in the keep and leaping from it. To put an end to this awful night and everything associated with it. That would be an end sure enough, but what of those left behind? Kevan? No, his brother was capable, but not strong enough to bring the real to order.

Who did that leave, then?

No one competent; not anymore.

Thus once again, Tywin Lannister was left to pick up the pieces; once again it fell to him to prevent the collapse of his house and once again he found himself with the unenviable task of holding his family together through sheer force of will. First it had been his father's mess with the Reynes and those foolish Tarbecks, now it was the blunders of his children and their children that he must correct once more. But how to do it? If not through Myrcella-not with the serpents of Dorne hissing poison in her ear-then who? Without her and her mother, the line of succession was all but broken. Then who-

A thunderous realization struck Tywin then, as shocking as it was galling, and he reeled back a half a step.

The Seven Kingdoms needed a king. House Lannister needed order.

There was one way in which both could be provided. It only required action on his part.

What he was about to do smacked of dishonor and disrespect, yet he saw no other way. Even if Myrcella could somehow be spirited away from Dorne in one piece-unlikely given the animosity Oberyn and his brother bore the crown at the moment-she would still need a regent until she came of age. Perhaps not even then if she proved herself incapable.

Strangely, Tywin had no desire to be king.

Did he want it?

Not at all.

Running the realm was an ugly business; his tenure as the Hand of the King had proven that much. Aerys had been a madman. Robert, a drunken fool. Neither were particularly adept at ruling. Each forced him to attend to their What was the saying that the common folk passed around as of late? The King shits and the Hand wipes. An adequate comparison. Bringing order to one's house was an ugly business even at its best, but seven kingdoms being brought to heel? Worse. Far, far worse. Yet if not him...

Tywin started forward.

...who would?

Slowly at first, then with increasing boldness, heedless of the alarmed looks at his back, he forward. the steps to the now-empty-throne.

"My lord?" a stray Tyrell soldier grabbed at his shoulder as he started toward the steps, "What are you doing?"

The lord of Casterly Rock growled.

"Release me."

To his credit, the man-some fool whose name escaped Tywin at the moment-didn't question him further. Nor did anyone dare to challenge him after that. They saw the cold fury looming in the old lion's eye; a great storm ready to scour all before it. He left with all due haste, lest he too become a victim of it. Good. It meant none had yet to question this...deplorable display. He could sense the Tyrell's-and that fool Loras-bridling behind him no doubt, but none dared to challenge him. Just as well, for he did not deign to look back at them. If anyone else tried, he would've cut them down on the spot.

Still, he removed his helmet and climbed the steps.

Oddly enough, in these final moments before he reached the throne, Tywin's thoughts went to his remaining children. His sons. Jaime wore a white cloak and would likely be broken by his sister's death once he learned of it. Shattered even. If he ever returned. If he survived the war unscathed. If.

As for Tyrion...just the thought made his lip curl.

In her last moments all those years ago Joanna had begged him to love his son, to not blame him for her death, even as she bled out in his arms. By all the gods Tywin could not bring himself to honor that promise. Besides that, he had seen his...injury. The dwarf yet lived, but who could tell with that wound? Even if he did survive, Tywin couldn't bring himself to acknowledge him. And yet at this rate, he might yet have to do just that if Jaime never returned.

His boots cleared the last step and then, quite suddenly, he found himself before the Iron Throne.

Ugly thing.

Tywin paused, allowing one hand to grace the pommel of that accursed chair. He did not smile. All that remained was the grimace of a man in full plate, battered and bloody by wars and tragedy alike. The realm held its breath and he hesitated, torn between his own innate hatred for this ugly seat and all the weight that it carried.

Gods. Why did it have to be him?

He was growing old; in a few years he might well be gone from the world. Who would lead the Lannisters then? Without him his family would collapse back into oblivion; the butt of jokes everywhere, mocked and scorned and sneered at by every noble house in the North and South alike. Half the realm already loathed the Lannisters, the other would likely stand by and watch as they shriveled into dust. No, he had a duty to attend and he could not-would not-allow himself to break in the face of his foes. If the Gods truly wished to punish him and his family then he would live to spite them; he would drag them back to glory if it was the last thing he did.

He would not let these events break them.

He would not let this night best him.

He would not falter here.

Slowly, ponderously, Tywin Lannister turned and lowered himself onto the throne. There was no grand ceremony, no aplomb, no feast or trumpeting of horns. He simply turned and, still grimacing, took his place upon the Iron Throne. There could be no turning back now. If the gods had a sense of humor, they were likely laughing at him this very moment. A man who had no desire for the throne, indeed, one who hated all that it stood for, was ironically, in this moment, most suited to rule.

And so it was that a Lannister took the Iron Throne.

"The battle is over." he declared solemnly, though the words were naught but ash and misery in his mouth. "We have won." before anyone could think to challenge this sudden turn of events, he began issuing commands to his men. "Ser Loras, if you would take your men and help secure the rest of Kings Landing...?"

The knight bridled at this, bloated pride stirring a hair too late.

"Lord Tywin," he began, placing a hand on the hit of his sword, "What are you doing?"

Something dark uncoiled in the old lion's chest. He was in no mood for japes. "Ruling. I thought that would be obvious."

"You cannot simply seize-

With that, Tywin's temper finally slipped its leash.

"ENOUGH!" his voice roared out in a snarl, forcing a flinch from all men present. "Take a look around you, you witless oaf!" an armored arm flung about as though to strike him from afar, "The King is dead, and his mother with him! And his brother as well! Who is left to rule?! A little girl thousands of miles in the south, trapped in a nest of vipers! If you've a problem with this then you're more than welcome to fetch her yourself!"

Sure enough, the Tyrell knight cowered and knelt in the face of his fury.

He didn't challenge him further. Tywin almost wished he had.

...as you will...Your Grace." he murmured. "I will secure the battlefield."

"Good. I did not want this burden." green eyes flashed with cold fire as he leaned forward on the throne to watch the boy rise, "I had no desire for it, nor wish for it. But I see now that none of you are willing to do-or capable of for that matter-what must be done. What is necessary. Perhaps you never were. But I am. And I will bring this kingdom back to order, one way or another." he flicked a dismissive look at the bridling knight before he could protest. "Even if the lot of you fight me every step of the way, kicking and screaming. I shall give the realm that much, if nothing else...

A low growl stole out of him.

...and a Lannister always pays his debts. Now be off with you."

There would be many changes in the coming days; from the most mundane of matters to secrets spanning the realm itself. New alliances would be wrought. Old allies broken. Houses would rise and fall in a season. All of this, from a simple change. The tiniest ripples would soon become the greatest of waves. Its effects felt from the shores of the Blackwater Bay across the Narrow Sea. Even in Essos itself. Word would spread like the very wildfire used this night, tales told of the Lion Who Sits The Iron Throne.

And so, little by little, piece by piece...

...the world began to change.

Long Live the King.

A/N: Let's be frank here, folks.

Tywin may not be the king that the realm likes, but he's the one that they NEED. Someone who will get shit done.

He's also one of the few villains most of us like, so he has that going for him...

Each of Seven Kingdoms-excluding the Westerlands-may not be happy with Tywin and the Lannisters at the moment, but few of them have power to stop him presently. Lets go over it at length, shall we? Renly? He dead. Stannis? Just lost the Battle of Blackwater Bay. The North? About to fall apart due to Robb Stark's foolish mistakes and the Riverlands with them. Ironborn? Ha! Not until Euron enters the picture.

By the time word reaches Dorne they'll likely try to start something with Myrcella, but will it be successful? Who can say? Sure, the Tyrells can cause trouble if prodded, but Margaery is still oh sooo desperate to be queen. I can easily see her trying to latch onto whomever sits the Iron Throne. Whom. Bloody. Ever.

Daenerys? She's not even in MEREEN yet, and thus a non-factor.

Of course we still have shadowy players such as Varys and Littlefinger to contend with, not to mention the Night King eventually, so the Seven Kingdoms are still far from safe. Should Tywin actually swallow his distaste for Tyrion, however briefly, and appoint him as Hand of the King...well. The old lion's one of those villains you might hate, but at the end of the day you respect him. Or fear him. Hmm. Not sure which. Pretty sure its both.

As ever, reviews are my lifeblood, and they keep me alive and writing.

Again, this will be gone in TWO DAYS if folks don't like it.

So In the Immortal Words of Atlas...

...Review, Would You Kindly?

Surprise, surprise, surprise!

Guess whooooo~!

(Preview)

"Very well." Tywin drew himself up in his chair, steepled his fingers and sighed. "Have you come to kill me, then?"

The girl frowned at him. Just a bit. Just a touch.

...I don't know."

"And you're going to go through with it? Marry her? You're old enough to be her father."

Jaime took a certain bitter satisfaction in Tywin's reaction then.

...I'm well aware of that discrepancy."

"Cersei...

...is dead, yes. Unfortunate, but there you are." Tywin bit down on the dark anger stirring deep in his chest and composed himself once more. "The Kingsguard has no need of you. As such you will remove your white cloak immediately. You will leave King's Landing to resume your rightful place at Casterly Rock." He paused, waiting for an objection. It never came, and with something resembling the beginnings of a smile, he bulled on. "You will marry a suitable woman and father children named Lannister. And never turn your back on your family again. Do you understand?"

Tyrion regarded the pin in his hand with mute horror.

His father's grim smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Go on. Say something clever."

R&R~!