The Red Keep was very quiet in the dead of night.
Tywin Lannister stepped out of the privy, wearing a crimson robe, his bare feet treading on the cold stone floor.
The candlesticks cast flickering shadows on the corridor walls, twisting his tall silhouette into a distorted shape, mirroring his current mood.
Tywin found himself unable to forget the farce of a Small Council meeting that had taken place during the day.
What was even more irritating was that a part of what Prince Oberyn Martell said was indeed true; after a day of verification, Tywin clearly realized that the situation in Flea Bottom had spiraled out of control far more seriously than he had anticipated.
The Hand, renowned for his absolute control over everything, discovered for the first time that there was an unknown vulnerability in his rule over King's Landing.
In other words, he was currently very angry.
Walking forward, the bedroom door was slightly ajar, a sliver of light peeking through the crack.
Tywin pushed the door open and entered, bolting it behind him. The room was filled with the faint scent of lavender, and his gaze fell upon the bed.
A seductive curve was covered beneath the thin silk duvet; even through the covers, one could tell the body was young, full,
and vibrant.
Shae.
The whore who once belonged to Tyrion now belonged to him.
The corner of Tywin's mouth twitched slightly—not in a smile, but with a sense of mockery or satisfaction.
From the moment Tyrion was born, he had disliked that dwarf son, for he had caused the death of his lifelong love, Joanna, and because a Lannister did not allow for a dwarf.
But as Tyrion grew, the dwarf's intelligence and arrogance only served to highlight his continuous defiance of Tywin's authority. However, it had to be admitted that in terms of women, Tyrion's taste was decent.
At the very least, this woman was indeed quite supple.
Of course, "favoring" Shae was not merely an impulsive act of lust for Tywin.
On one hand, he was preparing for the upcoming trial; to have Shae testify against Tyrion for poisoning Joffrey, he had to give her sweetness and hope.
On the other hand, Oberyn's words during the day had indeed provoked Tywin.
He was indeed nearly sixty years old.
Time is a sharp sword, and no one can escape the grinding of that blade upon themselves, even if he is Tywin Lannister.
Although Tywin never admitted to being old, as a man nearing sixty, he had to concede that he was occasionally starting to feel overwhelmed when handling official business.
He wanted to prove himself, to prove that Tywin Lannister was "not yet old."
Not to prove it to anyone else, but to tell himself in his heart, and through this method, confirm his own power and strength.
Sitting by the bed, the coolness of the silk seeped through his robe.
Tywin reached out and pulled back the covers.
Under the candlelight, Shae wore only a silk chemise as thin as a cicada's wing, her young curves fully exposed. Her skin shimmered with a honey-colored luster in the dim light, her collarbones delicate, her waist slender, and her legs long.
The woman kept her eyes closed, her eyelashes trembling slightly as if she were asleep.
Tywin's fingers landed on her shoulder.
The touch was warm and delicate. His fingers began to slide downward, along the collarbone, across her chest, feeling that young body—
But at that moment, he noticed something was wrong.
This woman was trembling.
Her muscles were tense, her breathing quick and shallow; it clearly wasn't the shivering of anticipated lust, but rather... fear.
Tywin frowned, his fingers stopping.
"What is it?"
His voice was low, carrying its usual authority.
But Shae did not answer; she only trembled more violently. She didn't even dare to open her eyes, keeping them tightly shut as if she would see something terrifying the moment she opened them.
Seeing this, Tywin was startled, sensing something was amiss. His gaze immediately turned toward the shadowed corner opposite the bed.
The bedroom was large, and the light from the candlesticks only illuminated the central area.
The corner against the wall was shrouded in deep darkness, where a high-backed chair stood—the one Tywin usually sat in while reading.
Squinting his eyes, he saw a silhouette gradually emerge on that chair, so faint it almost blended into the shadows, as if... someone was sitting there!
Tywin's heart suddenly constricted.
This was the Red Keep, the Tower of the Hand, his bedroom!
How could someone be sitting there?
How could it be possible!!!
Tywin stood up abruptly, backing away several steps while turning toward the door to shout: "Guards! Guards!"
There was no response.
Outside the door was a deathly silence.
Only his own voice echoed between the stone walls before being swiftly swallowed by the night.
Just then, a light chuckle came from the shadows, sounding quite piercing, as if amused by his panicked state.
"Don't bother shouting, Lord Hand."
The voice said, its tone calm, even a bit lazy, as if chatting with a friend.
"Before I entered this room, all your guards had already been sent by me to meet the Seven."
Upon hearing this, Tywin froze on the spot.
This voice...
A face flashed through his mind.
Tywin took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down.
His hand slowly moved toward the small bedside table, where there was a dagger—short, but sharp enough. He asked tentatively, "Vito Corleone?"
The person in the shadows laughed again.
This time the laughter was more pronounced, carrying a certain playful undertone.
"Ha~~~"
With that soft sigh, the person moved.
He slowly rose from the high-backed chair, his movements as composed as if he were in his own study. He stepped slowly out of the shadows and into the edge of the candlelight.
The candlelight seemed to freeze at that moment.
The white armor shimmered with an ivory-like warmth in the dim light, yet it was stained with a bit of blood that had already dried.
The helmet was casually removed, and then the candlelight illuminated his profile from below, leaving half of his face shrouded in shadow.
It was exactly as Tywin had thought.
Vito Corleone.
This knight, whom he had personally knighted and then betrayed, now stood before him. However, there was no murderous intent on the man's face, no anger, not even a hint of triumph.
There was only a deep, calm composure, as if he were in control of everything.
The candlelight danced in his eyes, yet it could not penetrate the darkness deep within his pupils.
"This helmet is really stinky."
Corleone spoke, casually tossing the helmet onto the floor. The metal striking the stone floor made a dull thud that echoed repeatedly in the silent room.
"Even though I've had it washed several times."
"That stench on Meryn Trant still won't go away."
Hearing this, Tywin Lannister stood his ground, motionless, his bare feet on the cold floor, his fingers curling slightly.
In his nearly sixty years of life, he had experienced betrayal, war, and massacre; he had seen countless faces die before him.
But never had there been such a person who, wearing the white armor of the Kingsguard, stood in his bedroom and told him that the guards outside were all dead.
And this person was just a Farmer a few months ago.
"In all honesty, Lord Tywin."
Corleone took a step forward, the blood-stained sword still in his hand, its tip pointing diagonally at the ground. He teased, "Only four men."
"As the Hand of the King, your security detail is far too sloppy."
As he spoke, he grinned. There was no warmth in that smile, yet it seemed strangely sincere: "If needed, the The Mafia can provide you with the highest quality security services."
"Of course, it's not free."
After the initial shock, Tywin's mood had settled.
Although in that moment earlier, he had indeed felt a flicker of fear, for Tywin Lannister, overcoming such an emotion was quite simple.
"To appear here at this time," Tywin spoke slowly, staring coldly at Corleone, "what is it you want?"
He did not retreat, did not shout, and did not even reach for the dagger on the bedside table.
Because he knew that if Corleone wanted to kill him, he could have done so while Tywin was on the toilet, at his most vulnerable.
The fact that the man had waited until now meant this was not a simple assassination.
Hearing this, Corleone tilted his head, seemingly a bit bored by the question.
He pulled out the chair behind him and sat down heavily, his sword propped against the floor, his chin resting on the hilt.
"According to the guard rotation schedule for the Tower of the Hand."
Corleone raised a hand, his index finger lightly tapping his temple as he looked at Tywin, the candlelight flickering in his eyes as if he were calculating: "We have... two hours left until the next shift."
"Subtracting the half hour you spent shitting, we still have an hour and a half."
"During this time, absolutely no one will disturb us."
As the words fell, the room lapsed into a brief silence.
Tywin slowly walked to the other side of the bed, where there was another high-backed chair.
He sat down, his movements slow and solemn, his crimson robe looking like flowing blood under the candlelight.
Even at a time like this, even barefoot, in a robe, and facing a man who had broken into his bedroom with a sword, he still maintained the dignity of the Hand.
"You know the rotation of the Tower of the Hand very well."
"Better than you imagine."
Corleone smiled. "After all, if one cannot even master the enemy's daily routine, how can one be fit to sit at the negotiating table?"
""
"Are we enemies?"
"We could be, or we could not be."
"That depends entirely on the choice you make next, Lord Tywin."
Tywin stared at him, his pale green eyes like two deep pools under the candlelight.
Meanwhile, Corleone looked down at the sword on his lap, his fingers brushing over the bloodstains on the blade before raising a bloodied finger to the candlelight, examining it closely.
"Everyone says Tywin Lannister shits gold."
He said suddenly, his tone carrying a playful inquisitiveness, "But clearly, the speed at which you produce excrement doesn't quite match the speed at which the Lannisters dig gold out of the ground."
At these words, Tywin's face twitched. He gritted his teeth and said, "I do indeed have a golden toilet."
"It is at Casterly Rock. If you are interested, I can give it to you."
"Hahaha!" At this, Corleone suddenly erupted into a burst of laughter.
That laughter was hearty and sincere, even carrying a hint of appreciation, sounding exceptionally jarring in the deathly silent bedroom.
Shae, on the bed, trembled again, burying her face deeper into the pillow.
"Forget it, that would be far too hard on the buttocks." Corleone shook his head in refusal, gazing at Tywin. His gaze no longer held its previous playfulness or testing quality, becoming very serious. "You have broken my heart, Tywin Lannister."
"As the Hand in the Dark, I clean the filth of Flea Bottom for you and establish order. In my own way, in the corners you ignore, I maintain the city's breath, even if that breath is full of the scent of poverty and despair."
"You sent me to Dragonstone to persuade Stannis Baratheon to surrender. We both knew that was an impossible task, but I went anyway."
"And now, I am back."
As he spoke, his voice paused.
His gaze, as sharp as a physical weight, fell upon Tywin's impassive face.
"I have returned, only to find my home crawling with rats in Gold Cloaks."
"Why, Tywin Lannister? I cannot fathom what exactly makes you disrespect me so much."
"From the moment you entered this room, you haven't even called me'Ser'."
Such an impolite tone caught Tywin completely off guard.
At this moment, he truly seemed to feel that the man before him was no longer the knight who had once bowed and scraped in his presence.
Or rather, as early as the moment Tywin decided to move against Flea Bottom, the relationship between the two had ceased to be that of Hand and knight, but was instead that of two men standing in opposition.
"I gave you space to survive."
After a long silence, Tywin finally spoke. "I gave you power and a title, Vito Corleone, and I can take it back at any time."
.
"You need to understand that."
"And you need to understand one thing as well, Tywin Lannister!"
Before his words had even finished, Corleone interrupted him, raising his volume slightly. "I know you want to stall for time."
"However, I must remind you, although I don't intend to kill you in the privy."
"...That isn't my line of work."
"But if you intend to drag this out until the shift change arrives..."
He paused, leaning forward slightly as the candlelight cast deep shadows across his face.
"I guarantee that before the shift change arrives, you will certainly die before I do."
"The choice is yours, Hand of the King."
As the words fell, the temperature in the room seemed to plummet.
Tywin's hands, resting on the armrests, saw his knuckles turn slightly white.
He looked at Corleone's unfathomable eyes in the candlelight, his blood-stained white armor, and the sword hilt held steadily in his hand.
Finally, the Old Lion slowly let out a breath. "Then, let us speak plainly."
"What is it you want, or rather, what is your purpose, Ser Vito Corleone?"
Hearing this, Corleone tilted his head and spoke bluntly: "Flea Bottom."
"I want you to order the withdrawal of all Gold Cloaks and recognize the autonomy of Flea Bottom. From now on, that is my territory, managed by my people, and my rules apply."
As the words fell, the room remained quiet for a few seconds.
"Autonomy?" Tywin let out a cold laugh. "Do you know what you are saying?"
"Flea Bottom is a part of King's Landing and belongs to the Iron Throne. And you, a knight I personally knighted, are now demanding that I carve out a piece of land from my own capital and hand it over to you for 'autonomy'?"
He slowly shook his head, speaking with a tone that brooked no negotiation: "That is impossible."
"King's Landing must remain entirely under the rule of the Iron Throne, under my rule. I will not allow any place to slip from my control, not even Flea Bottom."
Tywin spoke with absolute finality, yet Corleone merely raised his left hand, his fingernail scraping against the sword blade, making a piercing sound.
"It seems you still haven't seen clearly, so let me lay out the current situation for you, My Lord."
"First of all, your Gold Cloaks have eaten nothing but a single meal of moldy black bread since last night. Three thousand men surrounding a slum on empty stomachs is already a joke in itself."
"Secondly, from last night to tonight, at the twelve outposts on the perimeter of Flea Bottom, a total of twenty-three officers have died accidental deaths."
.
Saying this, Corleone paused and looked Tywin straight in the eye, speaking mercilessly: "Thirdly, and most importantly."
"You are sitting here now, in your robe and barefoot, while the four guards outside your door have already become four corpses."
"If I wanted to kill you, you would already be a corpse. The fact that I choose to sit here and negotiate with you is proof in itself of who is in control of the situation."
Hearing this, Tywin's face darkened.
But he did not lose his temper, instead studying Corleone with a scrutinizing gaze, as if evaluating him.
"Control?" Even with the blade before him, the Old Lion still refused to back down, saying sternly: "You think killing a few Gold Cloaks and bribing a quartermaster constitutes control?"
"This afternoon, the quartermaster who took your bribe was publicly beheaded by Ser Adam Marbrand on charges of embezzling military rations and colluding with the enemy in rebellion. His body is still hanging from a flagpole outside Flea Bottom."
"The newly appointed quartermaster is a man personally selected by Kevan. His entire family is in Rosby, and his loyalty has been tested for twenty years."
As he spoke, Tywin slowly stood up, his voice carrying a near-arrogant confidence: "Your game of bribery ends here."
The room fell silent.
Corleone rested his folded hands on the sword hilt. After a long time, so long that Tywin thought he would not respond, he suddenly laughed.
"My dear Hand of the King." Under Tywin's surprised gaze, he spoke softly: "Are you so sure that the newly appointed quartermaster isn't one of mine?"
"
At these words, Tywin's hand shook imperceptibly.
"That man was personally selected by Kevan; there can be no mistake."
He emphasized, but this time his voice held less certainty and more scrutiny.
"Yes, personally selected by Lord Kevan." Corleone nodded, as if in agreement. "Alaric Vaughan is indeed a very upright old soldier. His entire family is in Rosby, and his loyalty has been tested for twenty years. What a perfect choice."
Hearing Corleone actually state the name of the quartermaster he had appointed less than two hours ago, Tywin froze on the spot, motionless.
The firelight from the hearth danced on his face, and in those green eyes, it seemed as if something was turning to ice.
Seeing this, Corleone slowly stood up, lightly lifting the sword that had been resting on the floor. He walked to the window and pulled back a corner of the heavy curtain, looking out into the pitch-black night.
"You see, Lord Tywin, this is where the problem lies."
He spoke in a playful tone: "You think of rule as a top-down pyramid. You sit at the top, issuing orders, and those below execute them."
"But reality isn't like that."
As he spoke, Corleone turned around, leaning his back against the windowsill.
The night spread out behind him like thick ink, while his face, illuminated by the indoor candlelight, was half-bright and half-submerged in shadow.
"The reality is, hungry soldiers will sell out their superiors for a loaf of bread, indebted officers will turn a blind eye for a few Gold Dragons, and ambitious mid-level commanders will provide convenience for a chance at promotion."
"And your new quartermaster... Alaric Vaughan."
Corleone tilted his head: "You surely don't know that although he has a wife and children, that is actually merely for the sake of continuing his bloodline."
"He... has a lover in Duskendale, and that fellow happened to lose over two hundred Gold Dragons gambling last month. When my people found him, he had nearly had his hands cut off."
As the words fell, the room was as silent as a grave.
Tywin still stood there, his knuckles white from the force of his grip. Although his face remained expressionless, a storm was raging in his heart.
Damn it, these things... neither he nor Kevan knew any of this, yet Corleone knew it all in such detail!
Just how many people has this man corrupted? Has the entire Gold Cloaks been dragged down by him!
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