Joanna reclined on the couch, dressed in the sheerest wrapper, the fabric doing very little to cover the contours of her body. She watched, a slight smile on her face, as her husband busied himself with goblet and carafe, pouring them both a glass of Arbor red to celebrate his return from King’s Landing. He’d been away too long, he was always away too long, but she would never say a word against his work, understanding what such a position meant to him, after his perilous rise. She would merely bide her time, rule in her own way, and make the days her own as best she could.
But tonight she had some news that had threatened to burst from her lips the moment that his party came within earshot. It had fluttered in her chest, stifled in her throat, through a long ceremonial dinner, dull in its ponderous extremity, through a presentation of yet another necklace, gold laden with blazing rubies, her formal kiss on his cheek a mockery of the thanks that she would give him later behind closed doors. But Joanna grew weary of waiting, and when Tywin handed her the goblet, fingers brushing hers, when he raised his to her, she knew that it was time.
“Lord husband, I have a gift as well,” she said softly, a hand lingering on the collar he’d given her earlier, now glowing through the edging of her wrapper. She took note of the way that, almost against his will, his eyebrow quirked at her breaking of tradition, and how his mouth turned down. He took a deep drink of his wine, almost in preparation, sitting it on a side table.
Joanna continued, raising her glass in kind. “I am with child.”
Her lord did not speak; he acted swiftly, pulling her into his embrace, lifting her from the couch. And the delicately wrought goblet slipped from her fingers, falling to the floor, the wine a red riot on the carpet. Neither of them, of course, cared.