When Corleone pushed open the doors of the Tower of the Hand, the first streaks of dawn's grey were bleeding from the eastern horizon.
He stood within the threshold, pausing for half a second to adjust his breathing before pulling down the visor of his helmet, the cold metal pressing against his skin.
Then, he stepped outside.
The morning chill hit him full in the face, mingling with the briny tang of the sea breeze.
His gaze swept across the front of the Tower of the Hand.
Four corpses lay sprawled in pools of blood in various positions.
The blood had already begun to congeal, its dark red hue stark against the grey-white flagstones.
Under the gradually brightening sky, those pools of blood looked like some eerie abstract painting, depicting the haste and sloppiness of death.
Corleone's pace did not falter for a moment.
He walked down the steps toward a path leading to the White Sword Tower, a common route for the Kingsguard when changing shifts.
But he wouldn't make it there.
Because footsteps were approaching from ahead.
More than one person.
Four Lannister knights clad in crimson armor appeared ahead, clearly a relief squad preparing to head to the Tower of the Hand to take over the positions of those four corpses.
When the group was twenty paces from Corleone, they suddenly halted.
Tybalt's hand instantly went to his sword hilt, and his three companions behind him reacted simultaneously, entering combat-ready stances.
"Halt!"
Hearing this, Corleone stopped.
"Visor."
Tybalt took three steps forward, his hand still on his hilt. "Raise your visor, Ser."
This was standard procedure.
When an anomaly was discovered, a captain of the guard had the right to demand identification from any unidentified person, even if they wore the white plate of the Kingsguard.
But Corleone did not comply; instead, he took a step forward.
"Are you questioning me?"
It wasn't an answer, but a counter-question.
His tone carried unconcealed displeasure, exuding an air of condescension.
"There is blood on your armor."
"I need an explanation, Ser."
Tybalt did not back down, though his voice softened slightly; even the three knights behind him seemed to develop a preliminary trust in Corleone's identity.
After all, this haughty demeanor fit their stereotype of the Kingsguard perfectly.
"Explanation?"
Corleone's voice rose sharply, echoing through his visor. "I am a fucking Kingsguard! Who the hell are you to demand an explanation from me?!"
This reprimand echoed across the morning plaza, startling several pigeons on nearby eaves into the sky with a flurry of wings.
"I should be asking you!"
"Where were you, the men supposed to be guarding the Tower of the Hand, just now?!"
Corleone pointed at the man's nose and unleashed a tirade, making Tybalt frown as he quickly explained, "We are the relief squad, we've only just arrived on duty..."
"Arrived on duty? Ha!" Corleone interrupted him rudely, his laughter sharp and grating. "By the time you get on duty, the Hand of the King would already be dead!"
At those words, Tybalt and the guards behind him froze simultaneously.
"You... what did you say?"
"I said, the Tower of the Hand was just attacked!"
Corleone's voice grew louder and more urgent, as if recounting a thrilling battle. "Four assassins crept up during the darkest hour before dawn, killed the original guards, and then tried to storm the Tower of the Hand!"
He pointed to the bloodstains on his armor.
"I happened to be patrolling nearby and rushed over when I heard the commotion. A fight broke out, right here!"
"I killed three; the last one escaped."
Corleone paused, his breath coming in heavy rasps through the visor, as if he had just undergone a fierce struggle.
"The Hand of the King was startled, but he is unharmed."
"He ordered me to report to the King immediately, and to mobilize more guards to seal off the Red Keep and hunt down the escaped assassin."
As he spoke, he took another step forward, his voice chillingly cold. "And you."
"Not only are you late, you are standing here blocking me—blocking a Kingsguard who just saved the Hand's life and is on his way to execute an emergency order!"
"Tell me, Ser Tybert Husband..."
""
When Corleone uttered that name, Tybalt's body visibly jolted.
"Are you doubting me, or are you stalling for time so that the escaped assassin has more chance to slip out of the Red Keep?"
The air froze.
Tybalt stood his ground, his hand still on his sword hilt, but his grip had loosened considerably.
His mind seemed to be racing, analyzing the situation before him.
A blood-soaked Kingsguard, an assassination attempt on the Tower of the Hand.
This explanation could account for everything, but...
But why had no alarm been sounded?
Why hadn't the nearby patrols reacted?
Why was this Kingsguard pursuing alone instead of immediately calling for backup?
More importantly...
Tybalt's gaze fell upon Corleone's empty scabbard.
Tybalt spoke slowly, his tone still wary but with less hostility. "Where is your sword, Ser?"
"I gave it to the Hand for protection, you idiot!"
Corleone answered quickly, almost without thinking. "I don't have time to explain to you useless lot. The Hand's order is to report to the King immediately."
A reasonably logical explanation.
But... it didn't seem entirely right.
"Ser." At that moment, a young knight behind Tybalt couldn't help but speak up, his voice tinged with suspicion. "You said you killed three assassins, then their bodies..."
"Shut up."
But before he could finish, Tybalt suddenly barked.
The knight jumped and immediately fell silent.
Tybalt took two steps forward; he was now close enough to Corleone to smell the blood on his armor and see the sliver of darkness behind the eye-slits of the visor.
"You are right."
He narrowed his eyes slightly, released his grip on his sword, and bowed his head sincerely. "It was our dereliction of duty to arrive so late."
At these words, the knights behind Tybalt looked at each other, but no one dared speak again.
"The Hand of the King... is truly unharmed?" Tybalt asked, his voice carrying appropriate concern, yet seemingly betraying a hint of disappointment.
"Startled, but otherwise fine." This sufficiently humble attitude caused the "Kingsguard's" voice to soften as he explained, "He needs quiet now, and to be guarded by his most trusted men. Therefore, I suggest you—"
He paused, his tone becoming solemn, taking on a note of command. "—immediately take your men into the Tower of the Hand, confirm his safety, and then stand guard outside. Allow no one to enter!"
"Understood!"
At this, Tybalt immediately straightened his back and answered loudly, then stepped aside to clear the way. "Please, go and report. I will handle things here."
Hearing this, Corleone nodded and strode past them into the distance.
However, as he passed Tybalt, he gave the old knight, who had served the Lannisters for decades, a meaningful nod of praise. "You have done well, Ser Tybalt."
Tybalt stood there, not looking back.
He listened to the footsteps receding in the distance, the rhythmic sound of leather boots on stone, until the noise vanished behind the archway at the other end of the plaza.
"Ser?" the young knight from before couldn't help but frown and ask cautiously. "Do we really believe him? He didn't even raise his visor..."
""
"Did you see the blood on his armor?"
"I saw it..."
""
"Did you hear what he said?" Tybalt turned around, scanning his three subordinates. "The Hand was attacked, he saved the Hand, and now he's going to report an emergency to the King."
"In such a situation, should we be here questioning a Kingsguard, or should we immediately enter the Tower of the Hand to confirm Lord Tywin's safety?"
At this, the knights fell silent.
Tybalt gave a decisive wave of his hand. "Come, let us go protect the Hand of the King!"
Meanwhile, in the bedroom on the top floor of the Tower of the Hand.
Tywin Lannister still stood there, in the center of the room, clutching the longsword that should have pierced Corleone's throat.
The sword felt heavy.
Not heavy in a physical sense, but as if it were pressing down on his heart, making it difficult even to breathe.
Because no matter how Tywin recalled, analyzed, or tried to explain it with logic, the scene that had just occurred could not be incorporated into the worldview he had built over sixty years.
Yes, he had used force.
With all his strength.
The sword tip had been pressed against Corleone's throat—a spot unprotected by armor. With Tywin's strength and the blade's sharpness, it should have pierced through as easily as a hot knife through butter.
But the sword had not advanced a single inch.
No, to be more precise, the sword advanced, but Corleone's skin did not break.
The tip of the sword seemed to be pressed against an invisible wall; no matter how much force Tywin exerted, he could not break through that seemingly fragile barrier.
Finally, Tywin even gripped the sword with both hands, pressing his entire body weight onto it.
The blade began to bend, letting out a faint, tooth-aching metallic groan; such a degree of curvature was nearing its limit.
Yet Corleone's throat didn't even show a single red mark.
In that moment, Tywin saw Corleone's eyes; there was no triumph, no mockery, and not even any tension in them.
That look... it was incredibly calm, even reminding Tywin of the statues of the Seven in the Great Sept of Baelor.
Then, Corleone spoke: "Now you understand, Lord Tywin."
"Killing me is not a choice you can easily make—not because of politics, not because of the consequences, but because... you cannot do it."
"At least, not for now."
Having said that, Corleone reached out with two fingers, gently pinched the tip of the sword, and moved it away from his throat.
Recalling this, Tywin's fingers tightened unconsciously.
He looked down at the sword in his hand.
The blade gleamed with a cold chill in the gradually brightening morning light, the fine engravings on the spine clearly visible; it was obviously a fine sword.
And now, this dead object seemed to be mocking him.
After a long daze, Tywin suddenly raised his left hand slowly, extended his index finger, and gently touched the tip of the sword.
A sharp sting followed.
He looked down to see a small puncture on his fingertip; a bright red bead of blood seeped out, looking exceptionally piercing in the morning light.
The blood was real.
The pain was real.
The sharpness of the sword was also real.
Then why...
Why couldn't it pierce in just now?
Tywin stared at the blood bead on his fingertip, watching it slowly grow larger until it finally succumbed to gravity, dripping onto the carpet and spreading into a small, dark red stain.
The stinging pain persisted, reminding him that all of this was the real physical world, not some dream or hallucination.
But what was that scene just now?
Sorcery?
Magic?
Or some kind of... technology from across the Narrow Sea that he could not comprehend?
No.
Tywin shook his head, casting the thought out of his mind.
He had seen the assassins of Braavos, the information brokers of Lys, and the merchants of Pentos.
They might have ingenious disguises, poisons, and conspiracies, but they certainly did not have this... this ability to completely ignore reality.
Vito Corleone...
Just who are you?
This question echoed repeatedly in Tywin's mind, hammering at the bastions of his rationality like a tolling bell.
For sixty years, he had used power, gold, and the predictable and exploitable weaknesses in human nature to rule The Seven Kingdoms, pushing House Lannister to unprecedented heights.
And now, a Farmer who had crawled out of the mud had demonstrated a truth to him in the crudest way possible.
Some things are beyond your scope of understanding.
Some rules you have never truly mastered.
The upheaval brought by this realization made Tywin feel more uneasy than any political threat or military failure!
Because it meant that the worldview he had constructed his entire life might have fundamental flaws.
"My lion..."
"
Just then, a soft voice came from the bedside, interrupting Tywin's thoughts.
It turned out Shae had woken up at some point, or rather, she had been awake all along, just too afraid to make a sound earlier.
Now, seeing Tywin standing alone with a sword, looking dazed, she gathered her courage to climb out of bed and walk toward him, her bare feet stepping on the cold floor.
The woman wore only that silk chemise as thin as a cicada's wing; the candlelight filtered through it and onto her body, outlining young and full curves.
Her movements were cautious, carrying a sense of deliberate seduction born of training.
"Are you alright?"
Shae asked softly, walking up behind Tywin and wrapping her soft arms around his waist, her cheek pressed against the back of his deep red nightgown: "You look very tired..."
"
Her voice was tender, carrying just the right amount of concern and dependence.
This was a skill she had learned in the brothels, and it was the reason she could stay by Tyrion's side for so long and now climb into the Hand of the King's bed.
She thought she knew how to make a man feel needed, comforted, and admired.
But this time, the technique failed.
Tywin's body was as stiff as a stone.
He did not respond to her embrace, nor did he even turn around; he just stood there, his hand still tightly gripping the sword, the blood on his fingertip still slowly seeping out.
Shae sensed something was wrong.
She backed away slightly, moved in front of Tywin, and looked up at his face.
"My Lord?" Shae's voice began to tremble slightly.
At those words, Tywin finally moved.
He slowly lowered his head and looked at Shae, his gaze sliding from her eyes to her lips, and then to her bare neck.
The skin there was fair, and the blood vessels were faintly visible beneath it, pulsing slightly with her heartbeat.
So fragile.
So easy to destroy.
"Kneel," Tywin said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
Shae was stunned for a moment, but an instinct for obedience made her comply; she slowly knelt before Tywin and looked up at him, her eyes filled with confusion and a sliver of growing fear.
Tywin raised his left hand, and that finger that had just been punctured by the sword tip gently brushed over Shae's cheek.
The bloodstain left a dark red trail on her fair skin.
Then, his hand moved to the back of her neck and pressed down.
Shae's body trembled slightly, but she did not resist; she didn't dare, only looking at Tywin with those large eyes, her lips slightly parted, thinking he was asking her to get to work now.
However, Tywin had no intention of favoring this young body; instead, his right hand tightened around the sword.
He looked down at Shae's throat, at that fragile and unprotected spot, just like Corleone's throat had been moments ago.
Puchi...
The sword tip easily pierced the skin.
It was very easy, as easy as piercing a layer of silk; the resistance was so weak it could almost be ignored. Then the blade continued forward, entering the muscle, severing the blood vessels, and penetrating the trachea.
Shae's body suddenly stiffened.
Her mouth opened as if to scream, but only a "hehh" sound like leaking air came out.
Blood gushed from the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin and staining the silk chemise on her chest red.
The young prostitute's eyes remained open, looking at Tywin, her gaze shifting from fear to confusion, and finally becoming a hollow, unbelievable daze.
Until the moment she died, she didn't understand why.
Tywin did not immediately pull out the sword.
He just watched like that, watching life drain from this young body, watching the light in those eyes gradually extinguish, watching the blood spread on the carpet, growing larger and larger.
The whole process took only about five seconds.
But to Tywin, it felt like an hour had passed.
Finally, he slowly withdrew the sword.
The blade brought out a string of blood beads, tracing an arc in the air and splashing onto the carpet, merging with the previous bloodstains.
Shae's body slumped down, lying on its side on the floor, her eyes still open but having lost all their luster.
Tywin looked down at the sword in his hand.
The tip was dripping blood.
The blade was stained red.
Everything accorded with his understanding, with the laws by which this world operated.
Then just now...
What exactly was that scene that happened to Corleone just now?
Tywin slowly exhaled a breath.
That breath condensed into a white mist in the cold early morning air, then quickly dissipated.
Then he walked to the window and pushed it open.
The cold morning wind rushed in, blowing away the smell of blood in the room and fluttering the hem of his deep red nightgown.
In the distance, King's Landing was waking up.
A new day had begun.
And he needed time to observe, to figure out exactly what secrets that Farmer was hiding.
And until then...
After a moment's daze, Tywin turned, walked to the desk, picked up a quill, dipped it in ink, and began writing the first order of the day: "Ser Adam Marbrand, before sunset today, all Gold Cloaks units are to withdraw from Flea Bottom..."
"
The tip of the pen slid across the parchment, making a soft rustling sound.
Outside the window, the sun had not yet fully risen, and a hazy sunlight spilled into the Red Keep.
Light and shadow, life and death, promises and betrayal, rationality and the unknown...
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