Tywin Lannister did not sit.
Rainwater dripped along the edge of his crimson cloak, pooling into a small, dark stain on the floor, and his emerald eyes swept over every person at the long table.
Lord Mace Tyrell instinctively shrank back, his fat fingers gripping the edge of his armchair.
Grand Maester Pycelle's coughing ceased abruptly; he covered his mouth with a handkerchief, eyes downcast, as if he had suddenly developed a keen interest in the inkwell on the table.
Prince Oberyn Martell remained with his legs crossed, but his right hand had already been withdrawn from his lower back and rested casually on his knee. A faint, elusive smile hung at the corners of his mouth, but there was no mirth in those dark eyes.
The moment the eight-year-old King saw his grandfather arrive, his face turned deathly pale. His lips parted slightly, but he could not make a sound. He looked at his mother, then at his grandfather, his blue eyes filled with confusion and fear.
Cersei was the only one still standing.
She held her back straight, her chin slightly raised, but her trembling body and the white-knuckled grip on her wine goblet revealed that she was not as composed as she appeared while facing her father.
Fear, like a cold snake, crawled up from the base of Cersei's spine.
She was familiar with this feeling; from childhood, whenever she made a mistake, whenever she tried to challenge her father's authority, or whenever she did something he deemed "foolish," this fear would emerge.
But this time was different.
For these past days, every night, the prophecy of that accursed toad witch always surfaced in her dreams.
The image of Joffrey dying in her arms replayed before her eyes every day: those emerald eyes, identical to her own, slowly losing their luster, his handsome face twisted in agony, and foam and blood spilling from the lips that had once uttered countless vicious words.
Her little lion, her eldest son, her future King.
Dead.
Poisoned to death.
And the murderer?
That dwarf, that monster who killed her mother, the little brother she had wanted to strangle since she was a child...
He was still alive.
Not only alive, but he had been released!
Why?
Originally, all evidence pointed to Tyrion, but that dwarf was now strolling openly through King's Landing, "reporting" to the City Watch every day, acting as if nothing had happened!
And her father...
Her good father, the great Tywin Lannister.
What was he doing?
He was busy making deals with that damned Farmer, busy pacifying the maggots in Flea Bottom, handling the endless troubles of this kingdom, and even on the day Joffrey died, he began instructing the new King on how to rule right in front of her and Joffrey's corpse!
As a father, as Joffrey's grandfather, Tywin Lannister had never... never truly done anything for her son's death!
Never truly thought about avenging her!
And Jaime!
At the mere thought of Jaime, Cersei gritted her teeth in hatred.
A few days ago, that man just left, leaving only a letter saying he was going to the Wall, saying he needed to relearn how to fight with his left hand—it was all a damn excuse!
He was just running away, running away from Joffrey's death, from Tyrion's trial, from her!
He left her alone, in this Red Keep full of enemies, facing a cold father, facing that surviving dwarf monster, facing those restless nobles...
He didn't even say goodbye to her.
Nothing.
He just left, discarding her like a piece of old clothing.
The more she thought, the angrier she became, and Cersei's breathing grew rapid.
She could feel her cheeks burning, blood rushing in her eardrums, and that familiar, near-hysterical rage was gradually breaking through her reason.
"Father!"
Seeing that everyone remained silent, Cersei suddenly cried out, her voice higher and sharper than she had intended.
"We are discussing a very important issue concerning the justice of the kingdom!"
Upon hearing this, Tywin did not speak; he merely looked at her, his eyes cold and dark, reflecting no light.
"Prince Oberyn has put forward a reasonable request."
However, Cersei seemed not to notice the warning in her father's eyes and continued hysterically, her voice growing louder: "His sister, Princess Elia Martell, and her two children were murdered when King's Landing fell."
"This was not a wartime tragedy; this was murder, a cold-blooded, brutal murder!"
As she spoke, Cersei took a small step forward, almost face-to-face with Tywin.
"If even the murder of royal family members can be forgotten and covered up, then what law is there in this kingdom? What justice is there?"
"What is Tommen going to rule in the future? A superficial peace maintained by lies and blood?"
The Queen Regent's voice echoed in the council chamber, carrying a near-manic obsession.
Lord Mace Tyrell closed his eyes, as if unable to bear the sight.
Grand Maester Pycelle began to cough again, this time for real, as he had choked on his own saliva.
Oberyn looked at the father and daughter with great interest, his fingers tapping lightly on his knee.
Tommen stared with wide eyes, looking at his mother.
He had never seen his mother like this: cheeks flushed, eyes bright, voice so sharp it felt like it would pierce his eardrums.
This was not the mother he knew, the Queen Regent who was always elegant, calm, and in control of everything.
Instead, she looked like a... shrew.
After a moment of silence, Tywin finally gave a scornful smile: "Justice."
He repeated the word, his voice as calm as if he were discussing the weather.
"Then, Cersei, please tell me, what kind of justice do you want?"
Cersei was stunned: "I..."
"You want to reopen the case from seventeen years ago."
Tywin did not give her time to think, continuing in that cold, sarcastic tone: "You want to establish a regency council, just one month after your son, the former King, was murdered."
He paused and took a step forward.
The step was light, yet it made Cersei instinctively step back.
"Joffrey's case has no result yet, the kingdom's finances are on the brink of collapse, the situation in the North is unsettled, Stannis is missing, and the Targaryen across the Narrow Sea is growing stronger..."
"And you, as Queen Regent, as the King's mother, in the Small Council, without the Hand of the King present, support a Prince of Dorne in digging up old accounts from seventeen years ago, and even want to establish a so-called regency council."
He paused again.
This time, his gaze swept over everyone at the long table.
Lord Mace Tyrell lowered his head, avoiding that gaze.
Grand Maester Pycelle pretended to be wiping his glasses.
Oberyn remained smiling, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes.
Cersei's face went completely white.
She wanted to speak, to refute, but her throat felt blocked by something, and she could make no sound.
"You do not care about justice," Tywin provided the answer for her: "What you care about is revenge."
"I do care!" Cersei screamed, her emotions completely out of control: "Of course I care!"
"I lost my son, I understand the pain of losing a loved one! I..."
"You do not understand."
Tywin interrupted her, his voice still calm, yet it was like a slap across Cersei's face.
"What you understand is the pain of 'Cersei Lannister losing her son'; what you understand is your own anger, your own unwillingness, your own fear."
"You have never truly understood what this kingdom needs, what this family needs, or even what your youngest son, the King sitting there, needs."
As he said this, he pointed at Tommen.
The boy flinched in fear, nearly falling off his chair.
"Look at him," Tywin did not pay attention, just continued: "He was brought here by you, to listen to you argue, to watch you play power games."
"He is the King, Cersei. Even though he is only eight, what he needs is to learn how to rule this country, not to watch his mother teach him how to dig up old accounts, how to play with power to undermine his own Hand of the King... and his grandfather."
Upon hearing this, Cersei opened her mouth, but could not make any sound.
Her face turned purple with redness, and tears began to gather in her eyes—tears of extreme anger, mixed with immense humiliation and madness.
"As for the 'justice' you mentioned."
Ignoring his daughter's state of mind, Tywin just continued, turning to Oberyn.
The Prince of Dorne met his gaze, his smile unchanged.
"Prince Oberyn, I admire your affection for Princess Elia, but I must remind you, seventeen years have passed."
"Most of the witnesses from back then are no longer here, the scene has long been cleaned, and the only possible suspect, Ser Gregor Clegane, is currently lying in the infirmary of the Red Keep, his tongue cut out, his mind shattered."
He paused, his voice gaining a touch of unquestionable authority.
"You have no evidence, no eyewitnesses, no written records, no physical proof. All you have are the stories passed down in Dorne and a heart set on revenge."
After speaking, Tywin looked back at Cersei, and also at Mace and Grand Maester Pycelle.
"And you, members of the Small Council, actually support such a baseless trial at a time like this, one that will only disrupt the stability of the kingdom?"
His gaze finally landed on Mace, his eyes revealing an aura belonging to the Old Lion, carrying immense pressure.
The Duke of Highgarden swallowed, beads of sweat seeping onto his fat face.
"Lord Mace, what is your opinion?"
Upon hearing this, Lord Mace Tyrell took a deep breath.
He knew it was time to choose a side.
"The Hand of the King is right."
Mace spoke, his voice somewhat hoarse but firm: "Now is not the time to dig up old accounts. The kingdom faces too many crises; we should focus our energy on more important matters: stabilizing the finances, monitoring Stannis, and dealing with the threats from across the Narrow Sea."
He paused, glanced at Cersei, and then quickly looked away.
"As for the regency council... His Majesty the King has the Small Council to assist him, and the Hand of the King to guide him; I believe there is absolutely no need to establish one."
After finishing, he lowered his head, not daring to look at anyone else.
At this moment, Grand Maester Pycelle also chimed in at the right time: "The historical records of The Citadel indicate that in times of crisis, the kingdom requires centralized power, not dispersion."
"A regency council often leads to... er, inefficiency and power struggles."
His voice grew quieter and quieter as he spoke, eventually becoming almost like a senile old man muttering to himself.
The council chamber fell into a deathly silence.
Cersei stood there, her face still flushed, but the madness in her eyes had faded, replaced by a near-hollow despair.
She had lost.
Thoroughly defeated.
With just a few words, her father had stripped away all her pretenses, laying her ugliest, most selfish thoughts bare before everyone.
Mace had betrayed her.
That old fox Grand Maester Pycelle had never been on her side.
And Oberyn...
She looked toward the Prince of Dorne.
Oberyn remained in that same posture, smiling, without saying a word.
As if none of this had anything to do with him.
Damn it, didn't you propose all of this yourself today? Say something, The Red Viper!
Seeing that no one present reacted, Tywin slowly walked to the head of the long table, the seat next to King Tommen, but did not sit down.
He pressed both hands onto the tabletop, leaned forward, and swept his gaze across the room.
"Then, if no one has any objections... I believe this farce should end here."
But just then...
"I do."
A voice rang out.
Not Cersei.
Not Mace.
Not Grand Maester Pycelle.
Not even Prince Oberyn Martell.
Everyone's gaze turned toward the direction of the voice, the doorway...
The doors to the council chamber were pushed open once more.
A familiar figure, still wearing those simple dark clothes, with a longsword hanging at his waist and no expression on his face. Rain had soaked his hair and shoulders, but he walked with a composure as if strolling in his own backyard.
Yet the appearance of this man made Tywin involuntarily clench his fists.
Vito Corleone.
Why is it always you!
"Lord Tywin is right."
Corleone spoke as he walked: "Seventeen years have passed, most of the witnesses are gone, and Ser Gregor Clegane cannot speak now."
"But fortunately... we found him."
As he spoke, Corleone slightly stepped aside, revealing a man behind him.
He wore dirty, tattered clothes, and his exposed skin was covered in overlapping old and new scars—whip marks, burn marks, lacerations; some had scabbed over, others were still bleeding.
His hair was matted into clumps by grime, his face so dirty his features were indistinguishable; only in his eyes did a kind of near-mad terror remain.
He walked strangely, dragging one leg behind him, as if injured.
Corleone held his arm with one hand, as if ensuring he wouldn't fall, or wouldn't run away.
However, when this man appeared in the doorway, Tywin Lannister's pupils contracted imperceptibly.
He recognized this man.
Even though the other party was unrecognizable, and despite his attire and state being worlds apart from his memory.
But he recognized him.
Amory Lorch!
Seventeen years ago, Tywin had ordered him and The Mountain to lead a squad of Lannister soldiers to "clean out" the Red Keep after the fall of King's Landing, ensuring no Targaryen bloodline remained that could threaten Robert's throne.
And they had executed it... very thoroughly.
Too thoroughly.
Tywin still remembered The Mountain's own description: Princess Elia Martell raped and strangled, Princess Rhaenys dragged from under the bed and stabbed dozens of times, Prince Aegon grabbed by the ankles and his head smashed against a wall...
Once the cleaning went beyond the scope of "necessity."
It became an atrocity.
And Amory Lorch was the one who dragged Princess Rhaenys from under the bed. The one who stabbed the girl dozens of times.
Afterward, Tywin had asked him why he stabbed the little girl dozens of times; Lorch had said it was because she wouldn't stop screaming and wouldn't shut up. Tywin had bluntly stated that if Lorch had any intelligence granted by the gods, he should have coaxed the child, then used a silk pillow to do the deed.
That would have been more decent.
Later, during the War of the Five Kings, Tywin sent him to The Riverlands, letting him "collect grain" with Gregor Clegane, and even entrusted him to manage Harrenhal in his stead after he left.
However, until Roose Bolton persuaded Vargo Hoat to betray them, and Harrenhal fell.
Since then, Amory Lorch had disappeared.
Tywin thought he was dead.
Killed by Bolton, or disposed of by the Brave Companions.
But now...
He was here.
Brought to Maegors Holdfast by Corleone, brought to the Small Council, brought before Prince Oberyn Martell.
Tywin's gaze shifted from Lorch and landed on Corleone's face.
The Farmer knight was also looking at him.
Their gazes met in the air.
That sense of calm control, as if all this was within his expectations, within his calculations.
For the first time, Tywin Lannister's heart felt a chill.
He couldn't help but wonder, how did Corleone find Lorch?
Lorch should have been imprisoned by Bolton, or on the run; even he himself had sent many people to search, but found nothing.
How could Corleone find him in such a short time, and even bring him to King's Landing?
Could it be that Corleone's network of favors was wider and deeper than he had imagined?
Or had this guy been monitoring and laying plans long ago, planning this scene from the very beginning?
Terrifying.
Such an opponent.
"Prince Oberyn said he was still missing a witness."
Corleone shifted his gaze and continued speaking.
He nudged Lorch, and the battered man stumbled forward a few steps, nearly falling.
"I think this knight might be able to provide some useful information."
Upon hearing this, Oberyn stood up.
He did not look at Corleone, nor at Tywin; his gaze was locked tightly onto Lorch.
There was fire in that gaze; the hatred, pain, and anger pent up for seventeen years all ignited in this moment, almost turning into something tangible.
"Ser Amory Lorch."
Oberyn spoke, every word squeezed from between his teeth: "Do you recognize me?"
Lorch raised his head; on his dirty face, those eyes were filled with fear. His gaze lingered on Oberyn's face for a second, then quickly shifted away, as if scalded.
Immediately after, he saw Tywin, and his eyes brightened, as if he had seen a savior, but then, that light extinguished.
Because he saw the expression on Tywin's face.
Cold.
Indifferent.
Just like looking at an inconsequential object.
"Speak." Corleone said softly behind Lorch.
The voice wasn't loud, but Lorch's body visibly trembled, as if it wasn't just a sentence, but a knife pressed against his back.
"I... I..."
"I recognize you, Prince Oberyn."
"Very good." Oberyn walked around the table, stepping toward Lorch: "Then, you should also know why I am looking for you."
Lorch began to shake.
His leg injury made him unsteady; he swayed, relying entirely on Corleone to hold him up so he wouldn't fall.
"Seventeen years ago."
Oberyn stopped in front of Lorch, questioning him word for word: "King's Landing fell, the Red Keep was occupied by the Lannister army, my sister, Princess Elia Martell, and her two children, Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon, died that day."
He paused, his voice suddenly rising.
"How did they die, Ser Lorch?"
Lorch's lips trembled.
His gaze glanced toward Tywin again, as if pleading for help.
But Tywin had no reaction.
He just stood there, hands behind his back, no expression on his face, as if everything happening before him had nothing to do with him.
"I... I don't know..." Lorch muttered.
"Don't know?" Oberyn smiled, a smile cold and bone-chilling: "Then tell me, where were you that day? Were you in the Red Keep?"
"...Yes."
"What were you doing?"
"...Executing orders."
"What orders?"
Lorch fell silent.
His body shook even more violently, sweat seeping from his forehead, mixing with the grime as it flowed down.
Corleone said something else softly behind him.
This time no one heard the content, but Lorch's reaction was more intense; he jerked his head up, his eyes filled with pure terror, as if he had remembered something extremely horrifying.
"Clean out..." he muttered: "Clean out the Red Keep... ensure... ensure no Targaryen threat remained!"
"Whose orders?" Oberyn pressed, his tone becoming urgent.
Upon hearing this, Lorch looked at Tywin again.
This time, his gaze lingered for a few seconds.
Tywin met that gaze; there was no emotion in his emerald eyes, only a bottomless coldness.
Lorch swallowed.
"It was... it was..."
He stammered, unable to say it for a long time.
Oberyn waited a few seconds, then smiled: "You dare not say it."
"You dare not say his name in front of that person!"
Lorch lowered his head, curling into a ball, like a terrified beast.
The council chamber fell into silence once more.
The sound of rain came from outside the window, tap-tap-tap-tap, as if it were a countdown.
Tommen watched all this, his small hands clutching the seven-pointed star pendant tightly, his lips moving silently.
Cersei had already sat down; she slumped in her chair, pale, eyes staring blankly ahead, as if her soul had been drained away.
Mace and Grand Maester Pycelle kept their heads down, daring not to look at anyone.
Tywin remained standing there, back straight, like an immovable statue.
Knowing that no more information could be extracted from this guy's mouth, Oberyn turned around and looked at Tywin.
"You heard it, Lord Tywin."
Tywin did not speak.
His gaze shifted from Oberyn's face and landed on Corleone.
Their gazes met again.
This time, the corners of Corleone's mouth turned up almost i
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