Red Keep, Tower of the Hand.
The late autumn chill had spread from the Blackwater Rush to every crevice of the stone walls. Even with high-quality oak burning in the fireplace, Tywin Lannister could still feel the cold seeping into his bones.
He sat behind his desk, gripping a letter that had just arrived.
The content of the letter was brief to the point of arrogance. Petyr Baelish, citing "the Lady's poor health and the busy affairs of the Vale," had politely declined the command to return to King's Landing for questioning.
Politely declined.
Tywin sneered.
Since he had taken the position of hand of the king, whether serving the The Mad King Aerys or ruling The Seven Kingdoms in practice today, no one had ever dared to respond to his direct orders with a refusal.
What right did Petyr Baelish have?
Was it because he married that madwoman Lady Lysa Tully?
Was it because he hid behind The Bloody Gate, thinking the mountains could block the will of House Lannister?
Tywin threw the letter onto the desktop.
The study was very quiet, with only the occasional crackle of burning firewood in the fireplace.
Outside the window, the sky was gloomy, and lead-gray clouds hung low, as if they were about to crush the chaotic rooftops of King's Landing.
Looking from this height, the area of Flea Bottom seemed particularly conspicuous. For some reason, the streets there seemed tidier than elsewhere, and even the cooking smoke seemed to rise more regularly, not ascending in the chaotic manner of other places.
Just then, the door to the study was knocked on gently.
"Enter." Tywin's voice was steady, revealing no emotion.
The door opened, and Ser Theobald walked in.
He wore the deep crimson armor of the Lannister guards, a cloak embroidered with the golden lion sigil draped over it, and a longsword at his waist.
This captain of the guards, a loyal old knight, had served under Tywin for over twenty years. He was familiar with every one of Tywin's habits and knew when to speak and when to remain silent.
But at this moment, Theobald's expression was very subtle, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly.
Finally, Theobald stopped five steps in front of the desk, pressed his right hand to his chest, and bowed slightly: "My lord."
"This afternoon, news came from the The Hall of Order in Flea Bottom. Lady Sansa Stark and Lord Tyrion Lannister, officiated by Bishop Raynard, have formally... dissolved their marriage!"
As if struggling to finish the words, Theobald couldn't help but swallow, not daring to speak further, standing aside as a quiet, loyal old knight.
Clap!
Indeed, as soon as these words were spoken, the hand of the king, who had been slowly tapping his fingers on the desk, couldn't help but clench his fist and slam it heavily onto the table.
The clear sound of the strike echoed in the study, showing that Tywin's mood at this moment was not as calm as usual.
Theobald remained silent.
He knew that at this moment, whatever he said would be wrong. As a knight, they only needed to wait quietly, waiting for the commands of Lord Tywin Lannister.
"What about Tyrion?"
After a moment, Tywin adjusted his mindset and asked: "He just agreed to it like that?"
"Yes, my lord." Theobald paused, then added: "According to reliable sources, Tyrion not only agreed but even proactively requested... a public ceremony."
As soon as these words were spoken, the air in the study suddenly turned cold.
Tywin leaned back slowly into his high-backed chair. The afternoon sunlight fell on half of his face, making his emerald eyes look even deeper in the shadows.
Even someone who was not familiar with him could easily see that the hand of the king was furious at this moment.
This was a quite rare emotion.
"Heh..." But it had to be said that Tywin was Tywin; he could actually still laugh at this moment, though his tone was incomparably mocking.
"Tyrion... that the dwarf is always able to find the right time to remind me of his existence at the most critical moment, as if the gods are destined to cast a disgrace into my life!"
The chill in this sentence made Theobald's back feel slightly cold.
But there was no expression on his face; he just stood quietly, waiting for the next order.
After thinking for a moment while leaning on the chair back, Tywin's gaze moved away from the report and fell on Theobald's face.
Those eyes were incomparably sharp, as if they could pierce through flesh and skin to see the secrets in the deepest part of a person's heart.
Theobald met that gaze, his expression composed and his eyes calm.
Twenty years of guard life had long taught him how to face such scrutiny.
"Theobald."
"My lord." Theobald stepped forward, his right hand clenched into a fist against his chest, performing a standard knight's salute.
"The matter I asked you to investigate, has there been any progress?"
Tywin did not specify what matter, but Theobald clearly understood.
For these past days, the Tower of the Hand had been filled with a repressive atmosphere. Everyone knew what Lord Tywin was looking for—a mole.
That is, those so-called people who leaked information inside and outside the Tower of the Hand to Flea Bottom, to Vito Corleone.
"Still under investigation, my lord."
"I have questioned the forty-seven servants, menials, scribes, and guards in the Tower of the Hand one by one, and checked everyone's whereabouts and contact records for the past month."
"But... currently no clear suspects have been found."
As he spoke, Theobald lowered his head slightly, his posture respectful but his spine straight: "Only three people's whereabouts have slight suspicious points. The kitchen helper Meryn has left the Red Keep twice outside of purchasing times; the clerk Gas has appeared near the Tower of the Hand three times before and after you summoned Sir Corleone; and there is a young guard whose sister married a fisherman in Flea Bottom."
Regarding Theobald's report, Tywin just listened quietly, his fingers tapping gently on the desk.
One, two, three.
Each time it felt like it was tapping on Theobald's heart.
"These three people, how did you handle them?"
"Meryn has been transferred away from the kitchen and arranged to clean the stables; Gas has been suspended for the time being."
"As for that guard..." Theobald paused: "I had him undergo special training under Ser Harlund, from dawn to midnight every day, without rest."
Of course, both of them knew very well that the so-called "special training" usually meant non-stop physical torture until the person broke down.
These dispositions seemed severe, but in fact, they left room for maneuver. Every decision left a way out, without directly convicting them.
But with Theobald's authority, being able to do this much seemed to be his best effort.
Seemingly watertight.
Tywin stared at Theobald's face. That weathered face was filled with loyalty and diligence, his gray eyes staring straight at him without any evasion.
But it was this overly perfect performance that caused a hint of indescribable strangeness to rise in Tywin's heart.
It was too perfect.
Like a shield polished too brightly, reflecting blinding light, making it impossible to see the patterns behind it.
"Throw them into the black cells of the Red Keep and hand them over to Rorge for interrogation."
Out of the blue, the hand of the king suddenly spoke.
"Ah... Yes!!"
Hearing this, Theobald was shocked at first, and then immediately agreed readily.
Such a crisp and neat answer made the hint of suspicion in Tywin's heart gradually ease slightly.
"Do you think there are only these three small characters as moles?" Tywin took a deep breath and asked slowly, his sharp eyes still fixed on Theobald's face, refusing to move away.
Theobald was silent for a moment, then replied: "Based on existing evidence, yes, my lord."
"But I will continue to investigate deeply, not ruling out more hidden communication methods, or that someone has taken advantage of our neglect of these small characters."
However, such an answer obviously could not satisfy the hand of the king. Tywin leaned back into the high-backed chair, and a strong feeling suddenly rose in his heart.
This feeling was very strange. He had controlled the Westerlands for forty years and had been the hand of the king for over twenty years. Tywin Lannister was used to insight into people's hearts, used to putting everyone's desires, fears, and ambitions on a scale to weigh them, and then offering the right price.
But now, he felt a subtle imbalance.
It was like a chess piece on the board suddenly breaking free from control and starting to move according to its own rules.
"Vito Corleone." Tywin suddenly said this name: "Regarding this person, do you have any new findings from your investigation?"
"Very limited, my lord."
As soon as these words were spoken, Theobald's expression became solemn: "According to the ability you described... that swords cannot harm him, I have asked all the maesters and physicians in the Red Keep, and no one can give a reasonable explanation."
"Some say it might be some kind of Eastern magic, some say it might be an illusion or a trick, but no one has ever seen anything similar with their own eyes."
"Heh..." The hand of the king sneered again. Since Corleone entered King's Landing, the number of times he had sneered was perhaps more than in his entire life combined.
It was just that this time, there was a hint of imperceptible irritability in his tone. He stared directly at Theobald and questioned: "So, what we are facing is a Farmer who possesses unknown abilities, can control Flea Bottom in just three months, and even has enough ability to hide Sansa Stark right under my nose!"
Tybert did not respond.
Silence fell upon the study once more.
Only the sound of Tywin's fingers tapping against the tabletop remained, continuous, like a rhythm gradually tightening.
"Magic." After a long while, Tywin clenched his fist and slowly exhaled.
He had never believed in magic.
It was the excuse of the weak, the consolation losers sought for their own incompetence.
True power came from gold, steel, and will, from meticulously woven alliances and the execution of punishment through iron laws.
Magic?
That was the thing that caused House Targaryen to play with fire and burn themselves, the ashes of Summerhall, the final madness of the The Mad King Aerys!
Yet that night, the feeling of the sword tip pressing against Corleone's throat was so real.
That impenetrable sensation, that frustration of being unable to pierce even a fraction of an inch no matter how much force was used...
Tywin closed his eyes, letting that scene resurface.
The sword tip pressed against the skin, causing it to indent, but it simply could not pierce it, as if striking a piece of fine steel or an invisible wall.
At that moment, a crack appeared in the understanding of the world that Tywin Lannister had built over sixty years.
"Continue the investigation." He opened his eyes, his voice hardening once again: "Use all resources, send men to The Citadel, and scour every record regarding supernatural phenomena."
"If necessary, contact the Iron Bank of Braavos; they possess the most detailed intelligence network of the Nine Free Cities!"
"Yes, my lord." Tybert bowed his head in acknowledgment.
Just then, Tywin stared at Tybert and suddenly asked a seemingly unrelated question: "How many years have you served House Lannister, Ser Tybert?"
"Twenty-two years, three months, and five days, my lord."
"You remember quite clearly."
"My father and grandfather both served Casterly Rock; it is my family's honor."
"Honor." The look in Tywin's eyes did not soften in the slightest: "Tell me, Ser Tybert, in your view, which is more important: honor or loyalty?"
The air in the study seemed to stagnate for an instant.
The flames in the fireplace flickered, and the shadows cast upon the wall swayed with them, like some unsettling omen.
Tybert remained silent for a few seconds, a rare pause in the rhythm of his responses.
"My lord, I believe..."
"For a knight, honor is the foundation of one's standing, but for a guard, loyalty is the only creed."
A near-perfect answer.
It stated his position almost explicitly.
However, just as he was nearly congratulating himself on his answer, Tywin abruptly asked: "I remember Melara!"
!!!
At these words, Tybert's entire body trembled uncontrollably, and he quickly lowered his gaze.
Tywin seemed not to notice his reaction, simply continuing as if reminiscing: "A pretty little girl, brown hair and eyes, very much like her mother."
"She loved to sing. In the summer, she often sang in the courtyards of Casterly Rock. Her voice was very clear. Once, I heard it from the balcony and even had a maid give her some lemon cakes."
"I didn't expect... that you would remember these things!"
Tybert swallowed hard, a look of gratitude appearing in his eyes.
"I remember everyone who serves House Lannister, including their sacrifices and their losses."
It could be said that this sentence was both a consolation and a reminder and warning.
Upon hearing this, Tybert took a deep breath and straightened his back once more.
"Thank you for remembering, my lord, but it has been a long time."
"Some things never truly pass," Tywin said slowly. "Just like some loyalties; once shaken, they can never return to what they were."
The room was quiet for a moment, but it passed in an instant.
"My lord." Tybert's voice regained its steadiness: "My loyalty has never wavered. I serve House Lannister; I do now, and I will in the future."
"Very well."
After staring at him for several seconds, Tywin said: "Then, please continue to investigate the mole and Corleone's background, Ser."
"Yes, my lord."
"As for Petyr Baelish, since he is unwilling to come to King's Landing, let him feel the consequences of not coming."
Tywin's gaze fell back to the letter on the table: "Send word to the lords of the Vale, especially those dissatisfied with Lady Lysa Tully marrying Petyr, and remind them that King's Landing always has friends among them."
"Understood."
The captain of the guard saluted once more, turned, and walked out of the study with steady steps.
The door closed softly behind him, and Tywin was left alone in the study once again.
He sat in his high-backed chair, not moving, merely staring at the closed door.
The sky outside was darker, storm clouds gathering, as if it were about to rain.
The streets of King's Landing began to light up with scattered lamps; viewed from above, they looked like broken stars scattered in filth.
The lights in the Flea Bottom area seemed denser and more orderly.
The location of Corleone's "The Hall of Order" was the brightest spot in all of Flea Bottom, like a glowing heart, pumping some kind of invisible energy in all directions.
Tywin recalled the day of the trial, the way Corleone walked into the Great Sept of Baelor.
Dressed in coarse cloth, with a common longsword hanging at his waist, like a Farmer who had just returned from the fields.
But the way he walked, the look in his eyes, the tone of his voice—none of it was what a Farmer should have.
That was the composure of someone who had experienced power, held life and death in their hands, and witnessed things far beyond the imagination of ordinary people.
And then there was Sansa Stark.
That girl who was once timid, naive, and only dreamed of knights and love—the change in her was so great now that Tywin could hardly recognize her.
And all of this was clearly related to Corleone.
Corleone had saved her, hidden her, trained her, and now supported her divorce.
Why? Unless... this knight of Farmer origin wanted more than just Flea Bottom, more than just King's Landing. He wanted more!
And he, himself, had unknowingly paved the way for him.
He decided to reclaim control of Flea Bottom, but the result triggered a riot, which instead allowed Corleone to win the hearts of the people.
He decided to publicly try Tyrion, but the result gave Sansa a chance to appear in public, allowing Corleone an opportunity to display his influence.
He decided to win over Petyr Baelish, but the result was that the man holed up in the Vale and refused to come out, and now even dared to refuse his orders.
Every decision, at the time, seemed logical, but what was the result? Everything was spiraling out of control.
Could his judgment have been wrong? Should he not have tried to control Corleone, but rather eliminated him completely from the start?
No.
Tywin clenched his fists, a glint of stubbornness appearing in his eyes.
He was Tywin Lannister.
He had begun ruling the West at nineteen, suppressed the rebellions of House Tarbeck and House Reyne, filled the vaults of Casterly Rock until they overflowed, served the The Mad King Aerys for twenty years, and secured the position of House Lannister during the dynasty of Robert Baratheon.
He had never made a major mistake in his life.
Not once.
Of course, except for fathering that creature Tyrion.
As for Vito Corleone? Nothing more than a lucky Farmer, an opportunist who knew a bit of medicine and swordsmanship.
He might have some mysterious methods, perhaps some ability to bewitch people, but in the face of true power, those were just tricks.
All bubbles, bursting at a single poke.
Tywin Lannister would not be intimidated by bubbles.
He stood up and walked to the window.
Night had fully descended, and King's Landing was shrouded in darkness, with only scattered lights flickering.
From the direction of Blackwater Bay in the distance came the faint sound of waves, like the low breathing of the city.
He was Tywin Lannister; he could always control the situation.
He certainly could.
But just then, a frantic and urgent knock sounded at the door.
Tywin frowned: "Enter."
The door was pushed open, and in came Kevan, his brother and master of laws.
But Kevan, always calm, restrained, and even somewhat rigid, now wore a look of rare unease.
His brows were furrowed, his breathing slightly rapid, and he held a scroll of documents tightly in his hand.
"Tywin."
"What is it?"
Kevan took a deep breath, walked to the desk, and placed the document on the tabletop.
"Just moments ago, Prince of Dorne Prince Oberyn Martell made a formal request before His Majesty Tommen."
"He wants..."
Kevan took a deep breath, every word seeming to be squeezed out from between his teeth: "A formal request to reopen the case of the murder of Princess Elia Martell and her children."
"He named names, accusing Ser Gregor Clegane as the murderer, and..."
"Demanding that Ser Gregor Clegane identify the person who gave the order back then!
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