Tywin Lannister didn't sit down.
Rain dripped from the edges of his deep crimson cloak, leaving a dark puddle on the floor. His cold green eyes swept over everyone at the long table.
Mace Tyrell shrank back in his chair, fat fingers gripping the armrests. Grand Maester Pycelle's coughing stopped dead; he covered his mouth with a handkerchief and stared at the inkwell like it was suddenly fascinating. Oberyn Martell kept one leg crossed, but his right hand had moved from behind his back to rest casually on his knee. His faint smile didn't reach his dark eyes.
Little King Tommen went pale the instant his grandfather walked in. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He looked at his mother, then at Tywin, blue eyes full of fear and confusion.
Cersei was the only one still standing.
She held herself straight, chin lifted, but the tremor in her body and the white knuckles around her wine cup showed she wasn't nearly as calm as she looked.
Fear coiled up her spine like a cold snake. She knew that feeling. It had lived in her since she was a girl—every time she crossed her father, every time she did something he called foolish. But this time it was different.
Every night since Joffrey died, the witch's prophecy had haunted her dreams. She saw her son's green eyes go dull in her arms, saw the handsome face twist in pain, saw foam and blood spill from lips that once spat cruelty. Her little lion. Her firstborn. Her future king.
Dead.
Poisoned.
And the killer? The dwarf. The monster who killed her mother. The little brother she'd wanted to strangle since childhood.
He was still alive.
Not only alive—he'd been released. Walking around King's Landing like nothing happened. Reporting to the City Watch every day like some ordinary man.
Why?
All the evidence had pointed at Tyrion, yet her father had let him go.
Tywin was busy making deals with that damned farmer, soothing the fleas in Flea Bottom, handling the endless messes of the realm. On the day Joffrey died, he had stood over his grandson's body and started teaching the new king how to rule.
He had never truly grieved for her son. Never truly tried to avenge him.
And Jaime…
The thought of Jaime made her teeth grind. He had just left. Walked out with nothing but a letter saying he was going to the Wall to relearn how to fight with his left hand. All excuses. He was running—from Joffrey's death, from Tyrion's trial, from her.
He left her alone in this snake pit of a Red Keep, facing her cold father, the dwarf who survived, and the nobles circling like vultures.
He hadn't even said goodbye.
Just left. Like tossing aside an old cloak.
The more she thought about it, the hotter her blood ran. Her breathing quickened. Heat flooded her face. That familiar, almost hysterical rage was rising fast.
"Father!"
Cersei's voice cracked across the room, sharper and louder than she intended.
"We are discussing something extremely important. Something that concerns the justice of the realm."
Tywin looked at her. Those green eyes were cold and empty, reflecting nothing.
"Oberyn is making a reasonable request," she pushed on, voice rising. "His sister, Princess Elia, and her two children were murdered when King's Landing fell. That wasn't war. That was slaughter. Cold, deliberate murder."
She took a step forward, almost closing the distance between them.
"If we can't even punish the murder of royal blood, what law does this kingdom have left? What justice? What is Tommen supposed to rule—a peace built on lies and blood?"
Her voice rang through the chamber, tight with something close to madness.
Mace Tyrell shut his eyes. Pycelle started coughing again, this time for real. Oberyn watched the father and daughter with open interest, fingers tapping his knee. Tommen stared at his mother like he didn't recognize her.
Silence stretched.
Then Tywin gave a short, contemptuous laugh.
"Justice," he repeated, voice flat. "Then tell me, Cersei—what kind of justice do you want?"
Cersei blinked. "I—"
"You want to reopen a seventeen-year-old case," Tywin said, cutting her off. "You want a regency council, right after your son—the previous king—was murdered a month ago."
He took one slow step closer. Cersei instinctively stepped back.
"Joffrey's murder is still unsolved. The realm's finances are in ruins. The North is barely pacified. Stannis is missing. A Targaryen queen is growing stronger across the Narrow Sea. And you, as queen mother, in a Small Council meeting held without the Hand, support a Dornish prince digging up old graves and demand a regency council."
He paused, letting the weight settle.
"You don't care about justice," he said. "You care about revenge."
"I do care!" Cersei shouted, voice cracking. "I lost my son! I understand what it means to lose someone! I—"
"You don't understand," Tywin said coldly. "You understand the pain of Cersei Lannister losing her son. You understand your own anger. Your own fear. That is all."
He pointed at Tommen without looking at him.
"Look at him. You dragged an eight-year-old king into a council meeting so he can watch his mother try to undermine her own Hand and father. He needs to learn how to rule a kingdom, not how to settle personal scores."
Cersei's face burned. Tears of rage and humiliation stung her eyes, but she couldn't speak.
Tywin turned to Oberyn.
"Prince Oberyn, I respect your love for your sister. But seventeen years have passed. Most witnesses are dead. The scene was cleaned long ago. The only possible suspect, Ser Gregor Clegane, is currently in the Red Keep with his tongue cut out and his mind gone."
He looked around the table.
"You have no evidence. No witnesses. No records. Nothing but old stories and a desire for revenge. And you—" his gaze landed on Cersei again, "—you would have the Small Council support this pointless distraction at the worst possible time."
The room stayed silent.
Cersei stood there, face flushed, eyes hollow. She had lost. Completely.
Mace had folded. Pycelle had folded. Oberyn said nothing.
Tywin walked to the head of the table but didn't sit. He placed both hands on the wood and leaned forward, voice quiet but absolute.
"If no one objects, this farce ends now."
"I object," a calm voice said from the doorway.
Every head turned.
Vito Corleone stood there, rain still dripping from his dark clothes and hair. He looked like he had simply walked in from the courtyard. Behind him stood a filthy, broken man covered in fresh and old wounds.
Amory Lorch.
Corleone gave a small, polite nod.
"Seventeen years is a long time," he said. "Most witnesses are gone. Ser Gregor can't speak. But we did find someone who can."
He gently pushed the ruined knight forward.
Oberyn stood up slowly, eyes locked on Lorch.
Tywin's face remained stone, but something cold and sharp moved behind his eyes.
Corleone met his gaze without blinking.
The game had just changed.