The Red Keep stood silent beneath a dull and clouded sky, its austere stone walls absorbing the muted glow of the afternoon sun. Inside the Hand's Tower, behind heavy doors and thick carpets that swallowed sound, tension coiled quietly like a serpent waiting to strike.
Jaime Lannister stood before the large carved desk, the crackling fire behind him casting long flickering shadows against the chamber walls. He had shed the dirt and exhaustion of travel, once more wrapped in the familiar white cloak of the Kingsguard and polished armor that reflected the firelight like liquid gold. His long blond hair had been trimmed and his face was freshly shaven, restoring the sharp and handsome lines that once made half the realm sigh at the sight of him.
Yet there was one thing he could not restore—the absence of his right hand, the golden replacement hanging stiffly at his side like a mockery of what once had been. The loss stood out more than anything else, a grotesque reminder that he was no longer the knight he had once been.
Despite his restored appearance, there was no triumph in Jaime's expression. His jaw was tight, his brows drawn in simmering frustration. The source of that anger sat across from him—calm, unmoving, unreadable.
Tywin Lannister did not need a sword or armor to command a room. His posture alone—straight-backed like a towering pine, shoulders broad beneath a dark velvet doublet embroidered with subtle gold thread—projected authority. His golden hair had begun to thin, grey streaking his temples, but even age obeyed him, arranging itself neatly rather than softening him. A small golden lion pin on his chest gleamed with quiet pride rather than ostentation.
But more striking than his attire were his eyes—sharp, cold, and penetrating. Green like cut emeralds, they assessed the world with clinical indifference. Those eyes made tapestries, firelight, even the grandeur of the chamber seem irrelevant. They also made Jaime feel, as always, like a child being measured and found lacking.
This was Jaime's father—Tywin Lannister, Duke of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and Hand of the King.
Their reunion, however, contained not a trace of warmth. Over a year had passed since they last stood in the same room, yet there were no embraces, no words of relief, no acknowledgment of hardship. Instead, the space between them was filled with unspoken judgment, disappointment, and hostility.
Jaime broke the silence first, his voice cold enough to frost steel.
"If there is nothing else," he said, stiffly bowing his head, "I should go and fulfill my duties as a Kingsguard—protecting the King."
There was no reverence in his tone, no respect toward a father, nor even the cordiality expected when addressing the Hand of the King. Only distance. Only resentment.
Tywin met his gaze without blinking. "You are not my son."
The words struck like a blade, blunt but deeply cutting.
"You claim that you are the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, and that this position defines your life. Very well, Ser. I shall not hinder you from performing your sacred duties."
Rage surged through Jaime's chest, hot and suffocating. When he had walked into this office, he had carried hope—hope for acknowledgment, for sympathy, for anything resembling paternal concern. Instead, Tywin's first command had been to demand his resignation from the Kingsguard, to force him back to Casterly Rock, to strip him of the one identity he still clung to after losing his hand, his pride, and his purpose.
Not once—not once—had Tywin expressed relief that he was alive. His capture, imprisonment, humiliation, and mutilation had been treated as trifles. As if Jaime had misplaced a glove rather than a limb.
"I suppose I can take this, can't I?" Jaime asked, pointing at the newly forged Valyrian steel sword resting on the desk. "You said it was to be given to me."
"Of course." Tywin did not look up from his parchment. His voice was flat, but the words dripped with scorn. "How is a Kingsguard without a hand supposed to protect the King if he does not even possess a sharp weapon?"
Jaime's blood boiled. The insult was unmistakable.
He grabbed the sword, prepared to storm out and slam the door behind him, but something stopped him—something he had sworn to honor.
"Before returning, I promised someone a bathtub full of gold dragons as payment." He straightened, lifting his chin. "A Lannister always pays his debts, doesn't he… Lord Tywin?"
Tywin's lips curled slightly, though his eyes remained on his writing.
"Indeed," he replied, voice soft with poison, "a Lannister always pays his debts."
Then he paused.
"But tell me, Ser—are you a Lannister?"
He tapped his forehead dramatically.
"Oh, how foolish of me! I nearly forgot. Ever since you joined the Kingsguard, you ceased being a Lannister."
The humiliation cut deeper than any sword. Jaime's face tightened, but he forced himself to remain still, gripping the sword hilt until his knuckles whitened. Corleone's promised reward mattered. It mattered because it was his choice—not Tywin's. His promise. His honor.
He would not leave without securing it.
Tywin finally lifted his gaze—and for the first time, surprise flickered in his eyes. Jaime was proud, impulsive, easily provoked. By now, he should have stormed out in fury. But he remained. He endured.
"He saved your life?" Tywin asked, curiosity slipping through the armor of his composure.
"Yes," Jaime said steadily. "He saved my life. And…" He inhaled, holding his father's gaze. "He is also my friend."
Tywin scoffed, dismissing the statement with a flick of his hand.
"I recall how fond you were of making 'friends' as a boy," he said. "Addam Marbrand. The Brax brothers. You always desired admiration, Jaime. But you never understood that their devotion was not for you—it was for your name. For being my son."
Jaime stiffened.
"I understand," he growled through clenched teeth. Then, louder, clearer, firmer:
"But Vito Corleone—he is different."
Tywin's expression stilled. He had not expected such conviction.
After a long pause, he returned to his documents.
"Go find Tyrion," he ordered. "He is the Master of Coin now. A bathtub full of gold dragons is no trivial expense."
A small smirk tugged at Jaime's mouth, a flicker of satisfaction. He turned toward the door.
But before he could leave, Tywin's voice cut through the chamber.
"Bring this Vito Corleone before me. I want to see him tonight."
---
"We won, Lord Corleone!"
The roar shattered the silence of the arena as Rorger leaped to his feet, arms waving wildly, his voice echoing against stone walls and stunned spectators.
Down in the blood-slick pit lay "The Butcher" Bord, motionless except for the faint, shallow rise of his chest. His massive form, which had moments earlier radiated menace, now resembled a slaughtered ox awaiting disposal.
Yigo stood over him, unbothered and barely winded. He wiped the blood from his hands onto his rough trousers with the casual indifference of a man cleaning mud from his boots. Killing Bord seemed to have required no more effort than wringing a chicken's neck.
Just as Rorger had boasted, the infamous Bord—second only to the feared "Fang" in all of Flea Bottom—had fallen quickly. Even Fang, in their days among the Warriors' Group, had not lasted five rounds against Yigo.
The crowd had barely begun to cheer when the fight ended. Shock held them silent before awe finally found its voice.
Rorger, however, had already moved past shock and into unrestrained glee.
"Five thousand gold dragons!" he bellowed, laughter bubbling from his chest. "Ralf, you rat-bellied bastard—come out and pay!"
His grin stretched so wide his yellowed teeth gleamed like crooked ivory. This sum… it was more than he had ever handled in his life. More than months—perhaps years—of Blood Cellar profits. And the man who owed it was Ralf—the traitor who had robbed him, humiliated him, stolen his establishment.
Oh, fate was sweet tonight.
Corleone, in contrast, remained still and composed, his gaze steady, his expression unreadable. He knew better. Winning the bet was not the end—no, it was merely the opening move in a new conflict. Five thousand gold dragons was not money a man like Ralf would surrender willingly.
But Corleone did not fear struggle. On the contrary, he welcomed it. Conflict sharpened the mind. Pressure forged opportunity. And power? Power grew from making others bend.
Sure enough, just as Corleone rose to his feet, he saw Ralf approaching—flanked by grim-faced men, each armed and clearly itching for violence.
Corleone patted Rorger's shoulde
r lightly, as if calming an excitable dog.
"When we receive the money," he said smoothly, "remind me to buy a cat."