The Tower of the Hand felt heavier than usual that evening. The fire in the hearth crackled low, casting long shadows across the maps and ledgers that defined Tywin Lannister's world. Corleone sat opposite the Hand, the half-finished cup of that exquisite vintage still warm in his hand. The silence between them was not awkward — it was the silence of two men who understood exactly what had just been said without needing another word.
Tywin's emerald eyes held the same unyielding weight they always did, but there was something new in them now: expectation.
Corleone set the cup down with deliberate care. "The Mafia will serve you sincerely, my lord."
The words left his mouth in the same calm, measured tone he used when sealing a deal in Flea Bottom. No theatrics. No vows sworn on the Seven. Just a simple promise, backed by the invisible machinery he had already begun building.
Tywin gave the faintest nod — the closest thing to approval the Old Lion ever offered. "Lord Gyles has become… inconvenient. His health has been failing for years. The maesters say the cough may carry him off any day now." A pause. "It would be unfortunate if it happened too publicly. Or too soon after today's… display."
Corleone's lips curved in the smallest smile. "Understood. The Seven sometimes call the faithful home unexpectedly. Especially those who speak loudly of justice in the wrong company."
Tywin's gaze sharpened, but he did not correct the implication. "You have until the next Small Council. No loose ends. No songs written about it. Just an old man who finally succumbed to the weakness of age."
"Consider it done."
Corleone rose, bowed with perfect precision, and turned to leave. At the door he paused, half-turning back. "One small request, my lord."
Tywin's eyebrow lifted a fraction — rare permission to speak freely.
"The young widow of House Hayford," Corleone said softly. "She is still in the Red Keep under your protection. When the time comes… I may need a quiet favor from one of her distant relatives. Nothing that touches Lannister gold. Merely a signature on a minor document."
Tywin studied him for three full heartbeats. Then, almost imperceptibly, he inclined his head once more.
"See that it remains minor."
Corleone left the Tower of the Hand with the same unhurried stride he had used entering it. Outside, the night air of King's Landing smelled of salt, smoke, and the faint rot that never quite left the city. Iggo was waiting in the shadows exactly where he had been told to stand — silent, watchful, hand never far from his arakh.
"Blood of my blood," the Dothraki rumbled. "The old lion gave you a name?"
Corleone smiled in the dark. "He gave me a sheep that needs shearing."
They moved through the sleeping streets toward Flea Bottom. The new black-hand banner still flew above the Hall of Order, but Corleone did not go inside. Instead he stopped at the edge of the district, where the cleaned cobblestones met the older filth that still lingered in the alleys.
Rorge appeared from the darkness like the rat he once was — noseless face split in a grin that showed too many teeth.
"Lord Corleone. The boys are ready. Say the word and we can have that wheezing sack of bones floating in the Blackwater by dawn."
Corleone shook his head once. "No bodies in the river. No knives. No witnesses. This one dies of natural causes."
Rorge's grin faltered. "Natural causes? The old fucker's been coughing up half his lungs for years — how the hell do we make it look any more natural?"
Corleone's eyes gleamed with quiet amusement. "Because I am going to offer him a cure."
He turned to Iggo. "Find Old Moss at the Gold Cloaks barracks. Tell him the favor is being called in tonight. I need a man who can deliver a sealed letter to Rosby's maester without being seen. The letter should mention that 'a certain physician in the employ of the Hand' has developed a new tincture for persistent coughs — one that even the Citadel has not yet heard of."
Iggo grunted and vanished into the night.
Rorge scratched his scarred cheek. "And when the old man drinks it?"
Corleone's voice dropped to the velvet whisper that made even hardened cutthroats nervous. "Then the Stranger will come for him gently. In his sleep. The maester will swear it was the cough finally winning. The septons will praise the Seven for calling a pious man home. And no one — not even Tywin Lannister — will ever be able to prove otherwise."
He looked out over the sleeping district that now answered to the black hand on white.
"After all," he murmured, almost to himself, "a Lannister always pays his debts. Tonight, the debt is Gyles Rosby's life… and the Mafia always delivers."
Far above them, in the Tower of the Hand, Tywin Lannister stood at the window watching the distant flicker of torches in Flea Bottom. A single candle burned on his desk beside a fresh sheet of parchment.
He dipped the quill, wrote two lines in his precise hand, then sealed the document with the roaring lion of Casterly Rock.
The seal pressed down with a soft, final sound.
Tomorrow, when the news of Lord Gyles Rosby's peaceful passing reached the Small Council, the parchment would already be on its way — granting one Vito Corleone formal authority over all "special matters of public order" within the Crownlands.
The Hand in the dark had passed his first test.
And the game had only just begun.