A mournful tolling of bells drifted over King's Landing—the capital and the realm were bidding farewell to the Hand of the King, Lord Tywin Lannister.
A crowd numbering in the thousands encircled the Great Sept, and the Gold Cloaks struggled to hold back its pressing tide. Though many tried to push closer, most behaved quietly and with restraint—an important man had passed from this life, and even in death he was treated accordingly.
The High Septon, a dignified old man with a luxuriant beard, clad in white robes and a tiara of twisted gold and crystal, conducted the service with solemn grandeur. He read the prayers and called upon the Seven not to abandon Tywin in death. Numerous attendants and junior septons carried sacred objects back and forth, lit candles, and assisted in the rites. During the ceremony, the priests entered and exited the Great Hall through the Father's Doors, the septas through the Mother's Door, and the Silent Sisters through the Stranger's Door.
Over thousands of years, the procedure for bidding farewell to such eminent figures had been refined in Westeros down to the smallest detail. Everyone knew where to stand, what to do—and even what to think.
The Hand's body, clad in brocade and golden-hued byssus trimmed with ermine, was laid upon a velvet-draped dais in the center of the Great Hall. Two rounded stones rested upon his closed eyes. A sword had been placed in his hands, and the badge of the Hand was pinned to his chest.
Through the vast dome of glass, crystal, and gold, sunlight streamed freely inside. The air was heavy with incense and fragrant oils.
Within the Sept had gathered the most noble and influential people of Westeros—lords, knights, and kin. They all stood in silence, gazing at the Hand's remains, often shifting their eyes toward me. Their looks—grieving, watchful, wary, thoughtful, ironic, greedy, demanding—seemed to pierce straight through me.
Three days had passed since Tywin's murder. We had not hurried to reveal his death and announced it only yesterday morning, issuing a decree declaring that treacherous enemies had struck a cowardly blow and that the king would not let it go unanswered.
A multitude of kin—Cersei, Tommen, Myrcella, Jaime, Tyrion with Sansa, Margaery with her brother Garlan and his wife, Aunt Genna with her husband and children, who had arrived at the ceremony at the very last moment, members of the Small Council, and others of lesser standing—surrounded the bier on all sides.
I looked at the man who, in this life, had come to be called my grandfather. He was a great man—there could be no denying that. With him, an entire era had ended; that too was true. Some had already left the stage, while others were only preparing to step upon it.
His advice, his guidance, his quiet hints had saved me more than once, helping me avoid mistakes and foolish decisions. His mere presence had taught me the wisdom of ruling a realm. It was a bitter pity that he had perished so soon…
Was he a simple man? Of course not. Like every great lord, he had been vain, proud, resentful, and domineering. Yes, that was what he was. And yet he had also been reliable, composed, farsighted. And he knew how to keep this entire pack—now pretending to mourn—firmly in hand.
At first, he had been a stranger to me. Now, I could no longer say that. He had come to occupy a certain place in my life, and now that place stood hollow.
The service dragged on. Margaery held my arm and said nothing. A few times she lowered herself onto a small bench lavishly inlaid with gold and ivory—her pregnancy had not been easy, and standing for so long wearied her. Sansa, too, rested often beside her; after the North, she found it even harder here. Myrcella and Edmure Tully's wife, Lady Roslin, stood at my left hand. Behind them stood a pensive Cersei. Grief for her father shared her face with authority and detachment.
My thoughts, under the tolling bells and the murmur of prayer, moved slowly…
All these people around me were the very flesh and blood of Westeros. And I was a stranger here. Now I was beginning to understand that, in trying to remain myself—in striving to preserve within me honor and dignity, justice and mercy, kindness and sincerity—I had not shown myself in the best light. I had tried to remain human, as I understood it. But Westeros is a cruel world, and here kindness is often mistaken for weakness—especially when such qualities are displayed by a king.
Of course, a good monarch must be as I once imagined him to be. Yet he must also know how to be hard and commanding, stern and warlike. With one hand he must grant, and with the other punish. He must know how to bend proud necks. The policy of carrot and stick. And it seems I had somewhat forgotten about the stick…
Very well. You shall have your stick. The gods are my witness, I did not wish to become this. I thought I could preserve much of my former self. But I had lived in a very different time and place, where moral and ethical standards diverged greatly from those of Westeros, and where life was valued far more dearly than it is here.
You wanted a strong king? You shall have one, my lords and ladies! I clenched my jaw and swept my gaze over the richly dressed crowd. It seemed the time had come to change.
The service ended. That same evening, a funeral cortege set out westward for Casterly Rock—more than fifty knights escorting the body of Tywin Lannister.
(End of Chapter)
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