"Six months."
"The Queen Regent will spend six months in the Great Sept under the supervision of the Silent Sisters. During that time she will take no part in the governance of the realm. She will not leave the sept without the Small Council's permission."
Tywin's cold voice filled the throne room. Cersei's body jerked like she had been struck. She gripped the edge of the long table and slowly sank to her knees.
Six months.
It had been three. Now it was six.
"Does anyone object to what I have said?"
Tywin's eyes moved across the table. No one spoke. Olenna Tyrell simply lifted her cup of red wine, took a delicate sip, and closed her eyes with a look of deep satisfaction. She had gotten what she wanted. The Queen Regent was being removed from power. Whether it was three months or six no longer mattered.
Kevan Lannister stood with his arms crossed and gave a short, firm nod. Even Varys stayed silent, pulling a handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbing at his bald head even though there was no sweat.
"If there are no objections," Tywin said, "then the matter is settled."
His gaze lingered on Corleone for a moment.
The man in the gray coat had not said a word during the entire exchange. He simply sat at the far end of the table, one hand resting on the black cat in his lap, dark eyes calm as still water. Nothing in his expression suggested he had been the one who orchestrated Cersei's downfall.
Tywin knew better. But he had no proof.
"The Queen Regent is tired," Tywin said, turning toward the door. "Take her back to her chambers."
Tyene Sand stepped forward. She reached for Cersei's arm, but her hand paused for half a second near the small of her back where a poisoned dagger rested beneath her dress.
For one dangerous moment she considered it.
The distance was short. Tywin was distracted, speaking quietly with Kevan. One quick step, one thrust into the old lion's throat, and decades of Dornish hatred would be answered.
Her fingers brushed the hilt.
Then Tywin's voice cut through the air.
"What are you waiting for, woman?"
Tyene's hand froze. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
"Escort the Queen Regent out," Tywin said, irritation clear in his voice. "We still have business to discuss."
Tyene let her hand fall away from the dagger. She forced a soft, obedient smile and took Cersei's arm.
"Come, Your Grace."
Cersei didn't move at first. Her golden hair hung in disarray around her face. Her scraped palms left faint red marks on the table. For a moment she looked like a cornered animal.
Then something in her eyes shifted.
She pushed Tyene's hand away and stood on her own. She lifted her chin, smoothed what remained of her torn crimson skirts, and gathered her scattered hair behind one ear with deliberate grace. When she spoke again, her voice had regained its usual sharp edge.
"I am the Queen Regent," she said, loud enough for the entire hall to hear. "And the Queen Regent is leaving of her own will."
She looked at each of them in turn, her gaze finally settling on Corleone. She stared at him for a long, silent moment.
Then she turned and walked toward the doors with her back straight and her head high. The torn edge of her gown dragged behind her like a banner of defeat, but she did not look back.
The heavy oak doors closed behind her with a deep, final sound.
Silence returned to the throne room.
Pycelle's snoring started up again. No one else moved.
Corleone continued stroking the black cat in his lap. Sunlight from the stained-glass windows painted faint blue patterns across his face.
"When we are seven years old," he said quietly, "we believe our fathers know everything. We think there is no problem they cannot solve."
He spoke as if he were simply thinking out loud.
"When we are thirteen or fourteen, we start to doubt them. We think their words are old and tired."
"By seventeen or eighteen we believe we are smarter than they ever were."
Tywin's eyes narrowed slightly.
Corleone kept speaking, his voice calm.
"But after thirty… we start remembering the things our fathers said. We realize some of it was true. Not all of it. But enough."
He looked around the table.
"Growing up takes time. No one can skip it. The Queen Regent may be thirty-five years old, but perhaps she still needs a little more time to finish growing."
Tywin's fingers tightened on the arm of his chair, but he said nothing.
"Enough about the Queen Regent," he said at last. His voice was flat. "This matter will not be discussed again."
He glanced at Olenna. The old woman gave the smallest nod. She had won this round. For now.
"Now," Tywin continued, "let us speak of Stokeworth."
Corleone's mouth curved in the faintest smile.
He had been waiting for this.
"Ser Adam Marbrand—"
"Wait," Corleone said, raising a hand before Tywin could finish. "There is something I need to say first, Lord Hand."
Tywin's eyes narrowed.
"Stokeworth burned through the night," he said coldly. "The smoke was still rising at dawn. The entire city saw it. This is not something that can be brushed aside."
"I know," Corleone replied. He reached into his coat and pulled out a rolled parchment. He opened it and began to read in a clear, neutral voice.
"Ser Balman Byrch, captain of the Gold Cloaks in Flea Bottom, returned to Stokeworth last night and discovered his wife in bed with another man. In his rage he killed Lady Falyse Stokeworth and set the castle on fire. Lady Tanda Stokeworth and several servants died in the blaze. Ser Balman has confessed to the crime. Due to his injuries he is currently recovering in the Hall of Order."
He rolled the parchment up again and set it on the table.
Tywin studied him.
He had expected excuses. Deflection. Instead Corleone had laid out every ugly detail without hesitation.
Something was wrong.
"Balman Byrch committed murder and arson," Tywin said. "Under the laws of the Seven Kingdoms, the punishment is death."
Corleone nodded once.
"Law is law."
Kevan frowned. Even he looked surprised by how readily Corleone accepted it.
Tywin leaned forward slightly.
"If you have no objection, then Balman Byrch will be handed over to the Gold Cloaks for public trial and execution."
Corleone met his eyes.
"The Seven are merciful," he said. "They offer every sinner a chance to atone. That is both doctrine and law."
Tywin's jaw tightened.
"You want to grant him trial by combat."
"Balman Byrch is badly wounded," Corleone said calmly. "The wound in his back is deep. He nearly died. It will take time for him to recover enough to fight. The Seven do not demand a man stand trial while he cannot even stand on his own two feet. They demand a fair judgment."
Tywin's voice was cold.
"The law does not wait forever. A murderer cannot be allowed to linger in comfort while the realm waits for him to heal."
Corleone tilted his head.
"Then perhaps we should use this time wisely. The fire at Stokeworth has raised many questions. The Small Council will need time to investigate properly. In the meantime…"
He looked around the table.
"We have a more urgent matter to settle."
Tywin's eyes sharpened.
"What matter?"
Corleone's voice remained quiet, but it carried clearly across the hall.
"The Queen Regent is no longer Regent. The king is only eight years old. Tommen is a good boy, but he cannot rule on his own. The realm still faces threats from every direction. Stannis's remnants still trouble the North. The Ironborn have struck the Shields. Across the Narrow Sea…"
He paused.
"We need someone to hold the realm together until the king comes of age."
He looked directly at Tywin.
"My lords," Corleone said, "I believe we need to appoint a Lord Regent."