Chapter 126: Fool of a Prince
Tywin Lannister stood near the hearth, hands clasped behind his back, his face carved from the same cold stone as always.
Cersei sat stiffly in a chair near the window, her golden hair catching the pale light, though her expression carried none of its usual composure. Joffrey sat a little apart from both of them, arms crossed, trying to look unbothered and failing.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then Tywin said, "Explain it to me again. Because I want to understand how exactly you came up with this stupid of a plan "
Cersei's jaw tightened. "It wasn't stupid, Father. It was just meant to remind the Starks of their place."
"Their place," Tywin repeated, voice flat.
"Yes."
"And how exactly, did provoking Bjorn son of Artos Stark into a physical confrontation with your son remind anyone of their place? How does this benefits us in any way. It looked stupid and worthless."
Cersei's chin lifted. "Joffrey was meant to needle him to establish the authority of Lannisters, it would have shown the North they don't belong at this court."
Tywin's eyes narrowed.
Silence.
"And what happened," Tywin said. "The plan had no version of success. None. You gambled the dignity of this House on the assumption that a Northern boy would fold in front of a crowd. Of course He did not fold. He humiliated Gregor Clegane infront of the King, and now we're negotiating trials and heirs and debts from a weaker position because a boy who cannot yet grow a proper beard tries to be a man."
Joffrey's face reddened. "I am the Prince and Hier, they should have respected my Authority." He shouted in embarrassed and Arrogance.
Tywin turned his gaze on his grandson. "And did that help you? Did he stop , No! Because he knows how and what to do. He knows how much his Father would behave unlike you two here."
Joffrey said nothing.
"Do you?" Tywin's voice sharpened.
"No," Tywin agreed. "You don't. That is the problem."
Cersei's hands tightened on the arms of her chair.
"Don't speak to me th...." Jofferey said arrogantly and angerily.
"I will speak to you however I like, boy" Tywin said, not raising his voice, which somehow made it worse. "You and your mother needs to learn things And you—" he turned back to her, "—you should know better. You are not a fool, Cersei. Or you weren't, but that arrogance that you think you can control something you aren't capable of, You are too shortsighted and narrow minded to see a greater future." He said coldly
"I was protecting this family's standing."
"You were protecting your son's pride," Tywin said. "There is a difference, and you have never learned it."
Cersei's eyes flashed. "And what would you have done, Father? Let the Starks walk over us without consequence?"
"I am doing what I always do, keep cleaning your mess that have created" Tywin said. "If you think that you being Prince and Queen mattered to him , then you are wrong on so many levels. Now Artos Stark has more leverage over this family than he had a month ago, and it is because of a worthless scheme that could never have worked."
He let that sit in the room for a moment, watching both of them absorb it, though neither seemed inclined to admit fault.
Tywin himself is thinking about his family, that how could his blood be this stupid and shortsighted. His sons and daughter have all inheritanted his intelligence in some ways but not the clever and smartness behind it. One son just waste in being a glorified bodyguard, while other is slave to his list. His daughter too arrogant to use her intelligence.
Then he said, "Which brings me to the matter of Tommen."
Cersei's head turned sharply. "What of him?"
"He will come with me after the trial concludes," Tywin said. "He will be raised at Casterly Rock. He will be my heir."
The room went still.
Cersei stood so quickly her chair nearly tipped. "No, Father. He is my son. He should....."
"It is decided and He is my grandson," Tywin said, "and the future of this House, which you have both done a remarkable job of endangering this past days."
"You cannot simply take him from me."
"I can," Tywin said, "and I will."
Cersei's voice rose. "I am his mother. I have a say in—"
"You have no say in this," Tywin said, cutting through her words like a blade through silk. "I am not asking your permission, Cersei. I am informing you of what will happen. Tommen will be raised properly, away from the influence that produced this—" he gestured briefly at Joffrey, "—result. He will learn patience. He will learn strategy. He will learn everything his brother apparently cannot."
"You can't—"
"I can, and I have already arranged it," Tywin said, his tone final. "The matter is settled. There will be no further discussion."
Cersei stared at him, fury and helplessness warring on her face, but she said nothing more. She knew, as she always did in moments like this, that her father's word was not a suggestion.
Joffrey looked between them, uncertain and suddenly very aware of how small he felt in that room.
Tywin studied them both a moment longer, then turned back toward the fire, already thinking of other matters, other pieces on the board that needed moving.
---
The training yard was quiet at that hour, the sun still low enough to cast long shadows across the packed dirt. Artos stood at its center, sword in hand, watching Bjorn circle him with the wary focus of a man who had learned, painfully, not to underestimate his opponent.
Artos's shoulder still ached faintly from the strain of the past practice and training— but the general protest of muscles unused to this kind of work. It had been years since he'd held a blade .Years since he'd needed to.
That, more than anything, was the problem.
He came at Bjorn with a testing strike, watching how his son responded. Bjorn parried, stepped back, countered. Clean. Competent. Not bad, by most standards.
But not good enough by his.
Artos pressed harder, forcing Bjorn to give ground, watching the boy's footwork falter slightly under the pressure. Bjorn recovered, found his stance again, answered with a combination that would have troubled most sworn swords in the Seven Kingdoms.
It should have troubled Artos more than it did.
That was the truth sitting uncomfortably in his chest as their blades met again and again, dulled steel ringing in the morning air.
Bjorn had strength. He had instinct. He had the killer's motion and pace that Artos himself and his subordinates after him had spent years building into boys
But Artos was rusted. His reactions were half a beat slower than they should have been.
His body remembered the instincts, the old lessons carved into muscle memory decades ago, but the execution lagged behind the intention, like a blade that had lost its edge from disuse.
By every measure that mattered, Bjorn should be dominating this spar.
But He wasn't.
They were close to even at most but with Artos experience he would win with no doubts in anyone mind who is watching.
He drove forward with a sharper series of strikes, testing Bjorn's guard, looking for the gap that should have been there and wasn't quite. Bjorn met him blow for blow, breathing hard now, sweat cutting through the dust on his brow, but holding.
Good. Not good enough. But good.
From the edge of the yard, Robb watched with sharp interest, arms crossed. Beside him, Loras leaned against a post, clearly impressed despite himself. Raka stood a little apart, expression unreadable as always, and Ethan hovered near the gate, glancing occasionally toward the keep as if watching for something.
"He's pushing him hard," Loras murmured to Robb.
"Bjorn's pushing back harder than I expected," Robb said, something like pride creeping into his voice.
It was Ethan who broke the moment. "My lord! It's time to meet the King!"
Artos heard it clearly enough, but instead of stepping back, he moved forward—faster, sharper, more aggressive than he had been through the entire spar. Bjorn, caught mid-breath, mid-recovery, found himself suddenly overwhelmed, his guard collapsing under a series of strikes he had no answer for. A final controlled blow to the flat of his blade sent his sword spinning from his grip, and a follow-up sweep put him flat on his back in the dirt.
Silence fell over the yard.
Robb's mouth had already curved into an approving grin. Loras looked openly impressed. Even Raka gave a small nod of acknowledgment. It had been, by any reasonable measure, an excellent showing from Bjorn—holding his own for that long against a man of Artos's reputation.
But to contrary Artos looked down at his son sprawled in the dirt, and his expression was not pleased.
"Get up."
Bjorn pushed himself up on one elbow, breathing hard, confusion flickering across his face at the tone. "That was a good match."
Artos scoffed at that
Bjorn blinked. "I held my ground against you for—"
"You held your ground against a man who hasn't picked up a sword in years," Artos said, voice cutting and cold. "A man whose reflexes are half of what they used to be. You should be beating me right now, Bjorn. Not matching me. Beating me."
The training yard had gone utterly still.
"You won against the Mountain," Artos continued, stepping closer, "because you had pace. Because you had brute strength married to actual technique. Gregor is strong, yes, and dangerous i, but he has no real skill behind the size. Against someone like the Kingslayer, or even old Barristan Selmy, he and even you would die in moments. Real skill would carve through you before you ever got close enough to them to Swing."
He turned his gaze from Bjorn to the others gathered at the yard's edge, and his voice sharpened further.
"And you all look proud of this. As if what I just showed you was something to admire."
Robb's grin faded fast.
Artos's eyes moved to Raka and Ethan. "It looks like you haven't been training them properly. Or perhaps you've gone rusty as well, sitting comfortable while the realm hands you easy days." His voice dropped, low and edged with something that made even seasoned men in that yard feel the old, familiar chill. "Don't worry. I'll fix that. I'll train all of you myself, starting now, and I'll get my own recovery moving faster while I'm at it."
Loras opened his mouth. "My lord, surely—"
"There's no 'surely,'" Artos said, not even looking at him. "There's no quitting this. There's no negotiating this. You will all be ready for training I decide, on my schedule, and you will not enjoy it."
No one argued further. They had all heard enough stories, and now seen enough proof, to know better.
Artos sheathed his sword with a final, decisive motion, some of the tension easing from his shoulders as the immediate anger settled into something colder and more purposeful.
"For now," he said, "I have a king to see."
He turned and walked from the yard without another word, leaving four uneasy faces behind him, each already dreading what "special training" was going to mean.
---
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