In the study of the Tower of the Hand, there was the scent of aged parchment, sealing wax, and ink.
That was the scent of power.
The hand of the king, Tywin Lannister, sat behind a massive oak desk. Behind him was a tall window, where the morning light was sliced into thin ribbons by the leaded glass, falling exactly upon the dossiers in front of him. The quill made a scratching sound on the paper.
There was a knock at the door.
A knight in red armor stepped in and announced softly, "My Lord, Lord Petyr Baelish requests an audience."
"Let him wait."
Tywin continued writing without looking up, not putting down his pen until he had finished the very last word.
He picked up a silver bell on the desk and rang it. An attendant entered immediately to replace his tea with a freshly brewed cup of bitterleaf tea, produced in the mountains near Casterly Rock. It was very bitter, but it could refresh the mind.
Soon, Petyr Baelish was brought in by the attendant.
"Hand of the King." He bowed slightly, an elegant smile as always hanging on the corners of his mouth.
"Sit."
Tywin was concise. His tone was hardly an invitation; it carried much more the weight of a command.
Once Petyr was seated, he leaned back in his chair, his emerald eyes staring intently at the Lord of Harrenhal without opening his mouth to speak.
The study was so quiet that the crackling of the logs burning in the fireplace could be heard.
Petyr's smile gradually became a bit stiff, but he quickly adjusted his sitting posture and cleared his throat. "Given that Ser Gregor has retaken Harrenhal..
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"As the Lord of Harrenhal, I have already drafted the sowing plan for the next spring within the territory, and had someone recalculate the distribution of seeds and farm tools..
"
"And regarding taxes, I plan to double the taxes around Harrenhal, so that more money can be handed over to the iron throne..
"
He reported his governance plan in an orderly fashion. From beginning to end, Tywin only listened quietly, without interrupting or offering any opinion.
Only when Petyr truly had nothing else to say and sat in his chair looking expectantly at Tywin did the latter slowly speak.
"You are the Lord of Harrenhal, Lord Petyr. These matters are affairs within your own territory; there is no need to report them to me."
"If there is nothing else to say, I have other matters to attend to...
""
"My Lord."
Seeing that the Hand of the King intended to dismiss him, Petyr hurriedly interrupted, bracing himself to say, "I heard... King's Landing is quite lively today. It's said the King's party encountered a riot on Saltpans Street."
Upon hearing this, seeing Tywin's gaze turn somewhat cold, he quickly feigned a relaxed air. "Oh, you know, King's Landing is always like this. Trouble here today, a brawl there tomorrow."
"Your information is always very well-informed, Lord Petyr."
Tywin interrupted him, his voice calm and devoid of any emotional fluctuation. "Even I have only just seen the report sent by Adam Marbrand."
"It has been barely two hours since the incident on Saltpans Street occurred."
As he spoke, he reached out and picked up a roll of parchment still smelling of fresh ink from the edge of the desk, placing it gently on the table.
"People always need to visit brothels."
Petyr smiled and explained, "And while visiting brothels, one always talks about trivial topics. I also overheard this news unintentionally on Silk Street."
"Within a year, the King has encountered two mob attacks. I feel it is necessary to discuss the security issues of King's Landing with you."
"After all, the population is too large and the people are a mixed lot. We must strengthen security management, send more Gold Cloaks on patrol, or drive away those useless poor people...
"
"Is that so?"
Tywin leaned forward slightly, his hands folded as he watched Petyr. "Just like how you 'unintentionally' heard that Loras Tyrell intended to marry Sansa Stark?"
At those words, Petyr's fingers tightened slightly inside his sleeves, but the smile on his face did not change; it even became a bit more radiant.
"It is all what I should do, My Lord."
"When I first received this news, I thought that the union of House Tyrell and the Starks might affect your rule."
"I told you this news merely to express my loyalty to the iron throne...
"
"Your loyalty has been expressed quite sufficiently," Tywin sneered.
"However, after I finalized the betrothal between Loras and Cersei, that fellow happened to disappear on the very day of the engagement.
7
"And I also heard that the squire named Aiden has always lived on Silk Street."
"Haha, that is indeed a coincidence..." Petyr gave a dry laugh.
Someone had called Aiden away from Silk Street back then; he actually knew about this, but had only adopted an attitude of laissez-faire and did not stop it.
After all, for Petyr, the muddier the waters of King's Landing were stirred, the better. The alliance between House Tyrell and the Lannisters was too stable, and he could not gain any benefit from it.
He just hadn't expected Tywin to bring this up today.
"I recall that half a month ago, the Small Council already decided to send you to the The Eyrie to marry Lysa Tully."
Tywin stood up, his burly figure appearing somewhat aggressive. "Why are you still in King's Landing, Lord Petyr, and why are you so... interested in the security management of the capital?"
As soon as these words were spoken, the air immediately froze.
The fire in the fireplace was still burning, but the temperature in the study seemed to drop abruptly.
Petyr could hear his own heartbeat, one throb after another. Ever since the precedent of his encounter with Cersei, he had become paranoid, fearing that in the next second, two hundred axemen would burst into the study and hack him to pieces.
But soon, he forced himself to calm down.
Tywin was not his crazy daughter; killing him would be of no benefit to the Hand of the King.
Thinking this, Petyr took a deep breath and adjusted his strategy.
Since being indirect was ineffective, he would strike directly at the heart.
"Hand of the King."
His voice lowered as he leaned forward, adopting a posture of speaking heart-to-heart. "Please allow me to say something offensive. Vito Corleone has been in King's Landing for less than a month, yet he has already gone from a commoner to the chief special agent of the small council. You have shown extraordinary appreciation and tolerance toward him."
"But now, that fellow is designing a scheme to obtain a knighthood. Isn't this pace of status leap a bit too fast?"
Hearing this, Tywin did not interrupt; he just watched him quietly, seemingly in thought.
Petyr continued to strike while the iron was hot. "You should be able to see that Corleone's schemes are not small."
"Flea Bottom has now completely changed its face. Several casinos have been opened one after another, with business spanning five or six nearby blocks. The business at Fishermans Square and the docks has also been incorporated by them."
"It's said that even several brothel owners on Silk Street have signed private agreements with him, and he is about to open branch stores there."
"Most importantly, when his fighting pit opens, Prince Oberyn Martell will personally be present to perform the opening show for him!"
Saying this, he paused and said enticingly, "By then, the Place of Order will be the most profitable place in all of King's Landing, and all of this will be in the hands of Vito Corleone.
6
"Once that fellow becomes a knight, what's the next step? A count?"
"By then, to what extent will his ambition swell? Will he still be content to be just a... 'hand in the dark'?"
Having finished speaking in one breath, Petyr leaned back in his chair, the usual smile hanging on his lips once more as he quietly waited for Tywin to make a decision.
Based on his understanding of the old lion, the other party would certainly not allow such an ambitious fellow to grow and strengthen right under his nose.
However, Tywin did not speak immediately.
He just walked slowly to the fireplace, the flames dancing on his face and making those deep wrinkles appear even harder.
He reached out and picked up the fire tongs, poking at the logs, causing sparks to fly.
After a moment, he turned around. "Do you know why I tolerate you, Baelish?"
"It's not because of your cleverness—there are many clever people; nor is it because of your ability—there are also many capable people. Even after Tyrion became the master of coin, he hasn't done a bad job."
As he spoke, Tywin walked back to the desk, but did not sit down. Instead, he stood before Petyr, looking down at him.
"I tolerate you because you know your place. You know which lines can be stepped on and which lines cannot be touched."
"You play at power and schemes, but you keep it within the rules. You seize interests, but you are not excessively greedy."
"But now, you have crossed the line."
Tywin's voice gradually turned cold. "Corleone is my man, hand-picked by me, the chief special agent of the small council personally appointed by me."
"Every bit of power he has was given by me. Since I can give him power, I can naturally take it back at any time."
"And you, now you are trying to tell me that my chess piece is going out of control. Why? Because his casinos have affected your business, or are you coveting that territory in Flea Bottom that everyone used to avoid?"
Every word hammered against Petyr's heart. Looking at the old lion's cold gaze, he wanted to speak, but Tywin raised a hand to stop him.
"You promised to go to the The Eyrie."
Tywin spoke word by word, leaving no room for maneuver. "Go now."
"I will give you one week to prepare for your departure. Before Roose Bolton and his army return to the North, I want to hear the news of your marriage to Lysa Tully."
He paused and added the final sentence, "This is a decision of the Small Council, not a suggestion, nor a consultation."
Silence fell over the study once again.
It was a long time before Petyr slowly stood up. His movements were steady, and he even wore a smile on his face again.
Though it was a bit stiff, like a mask that didn't quite fit his face.
"As you wish, Hand of the King."
He bowed deeply, his posture flawless. "I will arrange the affairs in King's Landing and depart for the Vale within a week."
"Before Roose Bolton returns to the North, you will hear the news of me becoming the Lord of the The Eyrie, I guarantee it."
Seeing this display of loyalty, Tywin did not respond. He simply sat back in his chair, picked up his quill, and began to review documents.
That posture clearly indicated that the conversation was over.
Petyr turned and left.
His steps were steady and his back was straight, like a nobleman calmly accepting his fate.
But the moment Petyr walked out of the study and the door closed behind him, the smile at the corners of his mouth became slightly smug.
The seed of doubt had been planted.
Even if Tywin took this opportunity to beat him down, that Farmer had climbed too fast and had already aroused the lion's vigilance.
Trust, in fact, is as thin as a layer of ice, liable to collapse at any moment.
Walking down the spiral staircase of the Tower of the Hand, Petyr's steps were as light as if he were dancing.
One week?
That was enough.
Enough for him to see the people he should see, say the words he should say, and plant the final seed.
In the study, Tywin put down his pen.
He walked to the window and watched Petyr's figure cross the Red Keep's courtyard and disappear behind an archway.
That was the direction of the master of laws' residence.
The commander of the City Watch, Adam Marbrand, soon appeared at the door.
"Keep an eye on him." Tywin did not turn around as he instructed, "Every person he sees and every word he says this week, I want to know about it."
"Yes, My Lord."
Adam hesitated for a moment. "Then Corleone..
"
Tywin was silent for a moment.
"Watch him too."
Adam bowed and left.
Tywin continued to stand by the window, watching the people coming and going in the courtyard.
Knights, squires, officials, nobles... everyone was looking for their own path in this maze of power.
Some found it.
Some got lost.
And still others thought they had found it, when they were actually walking toward a cliff.
Tywin turned and returned to his desk, continuing to pick up those documents that could never be fully reviewed.
The sunlight slanted in from the high window, forming a halo above his head, like a dazzling crown.