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"Nnggh..."
Sitting on the privy, Tywin strained silently. The effort forced a short, raspy sound from his throat. The uncomfortable sensation—stuck, neither coming nor going—left him deeply irritated.
Beside him, a candelabra cast a bright, steady light. Unlike common tallow candles, these were smokeless and crafted with spices, filling the small room with the faint, sweet scent of osmanthus.
Suddenly, the candle flames flickered violently. The privy door had opened. Tywin looked up, momentarily stunned.
In over fifty years of life, no one had ever dared to barge in while he was relieving himself.
The hard, dry mass he had spent the better part of the morning coaxing out retreated instantly, fueling his annoyance.
But in a flash, the irritation vanished, replaced by a sudden realization as he recognized the silhouette standing in the doorway.
"Addam."
"Lord Tywin."
The two men stared at each other. A cold draft blew in, making the candlelight dance nervously. The privy was deathly quiet; Tywin and Addam could almost hear each other breathing.
Slowly, Addam reached behind him, pushed the wooden door shut, and leaned his weight against it.
His intentions were unmistakable. Tywin glanced at the candle and spoke, his voice calm. "Addam, lad. What is it you want?"
"You know what I want." Addam pulled a dagger from his boot and began to inch toward Tywin.
"What has become of Damon and Damion?" Tywin asked.
"Ser Damion died in his solar. Ser Damon died in his bed."
"Is that so?" Tywin's voice trembled slightly, but he quickly steadied it. "Why? I assume you can tell me?"
"Yes, my Lord. Because you ordered me to lead the heavy horse into a suicide charge." Click. Addam slid the bolt home.
"Just for that?" Tywin sneered. "Has the bastard frightened the courage out of you?"
"Just?" Addam shook his head. "Jon Snow is terrifying. He defeated you on the Green Fork. He killed Gregor Clegane with his own hands. Even Gregor's brother, Sandor, serves him willingly. And he commands sorcery. My Lord, what chance do we have against such a man?"
Tywin sighed, though the tension in his body was palpable.
"Listen to me, boy. It is not sorcery. Igniting Wildfire to draw rain—I saw it in King's Landing too, I simply didn't make the connection at the time. On the Green Fork, he used the river waters against us. He killed the Mountain because our plans leaked. As for Sandor..." Tywin truly couldn't fathom why the Hound served Jon, but as a high lord, he rarely concerned himself with the motivations of lesser men.
"Enough, Lord Tywin," Addam interrupted. "Just give me your head peacefully. I will plead your case to Lord Snow. I will ask him not to exterminate House Lannister."
Tywin looked at the young man before him—the bastard "Addam Hill" whom he had personally legitimized. Suddenly, the absurdity of it all struck him. His downfall, at every turn, had been brought about by bastards.
First Joffrey, then Jon, and now Addam.
He had despised bastards his entire life. Even the King's bastards were no exception. When Robert had bedded a woman at Casterly Rock and she birthed twins, Tywin remembered them vividly—hair as black as ink, an eyesore.
He had ordered the twins thrown down a well and their mother sold into slavery.
But the Old Lion was not one to give up or accept fate. He watched Addam impassively, leaning back slightly.
"Do you intend to take my life, or capture me alive to present to that mongrel?"
"You are the Lord of Casterly Rock, the master of this castle," Addam paused, confused. Didn't I just say it? But he replied softly, "I will only be taking your head."
In the shadows, Addam's tone was flat, as if he were discussing what to have for breakfast.
"I legitimized you. You are a Lannister. Would you become a kinslayer?" Tywin demanded, his voice remaining steady.
"Don't be absurd, Lord Tywin. What sort of kinslayer am I? Your own son, Jaime, is the Kingslayer known to all."
Addam stepped out of the shadows, the dagger in his hand glinting cold in the candlelight as he advanced on Tywin, still seated on the privy.
Knowing the man was determined to kill him, Tywin lunged to his feet. But his legs were numb from sitting, and he stumbled. Seeing him try to resist, Addam charged.
Using the momentum of his fall, Tywin grabbed the heavy candle from the sconce and hurled it at Addam, simultaneously yanking up his breeches.
Addam dodged. The hot wax spilled, extinguishing the flame and plunging the room into darkness.
Addam strained his eyes, searching for Tywin in the gloom. Suddenly, a flash of steel caught the corner of his eye, followed by a sharp pain in his thigh. Warm blood began to soak his trouser leg.
Tywin had hidden a sword in the privy.
"Guards!"
Tywin knew the strike hadn't been fatal, but he had definitely drawn blood. He shouted for help.
"Save your breath, my Lord. The area is under my control."
"Guards!"
Tywin didn't believe him. He shouted even louder.
From their earlier conversation, Tywin deduced that Addam absolutely did not control Casterly Rock. If he did, wouldn't delivering a live Tywin be worth more than a head?
Tywin was right. Addam had only a dozen conspirators with him. It was a bluff.
Desperate, Addam threw himself at Tywin, tackling the older man to the floor. Tywin tried to stab him, but the blade met resistance—Addam was wearing mail under his tunic!
That was why Tywin had aimed for the thigh earlier instead of the torso.
To get in here quietly, Addam had come prepared.
But the initial strike, the quick thinking with the candle, and the precise target selection represented the limit of Tywin's burst of energy.
He was old. A man past fifty was no match for a youth not yet twenty, especially one whose adrenaline masked the pain of a fresh wound.
In the dark, Addam pinned Tywin down, driving the dagger toward his body.
Tywin grabbed Addam's wrist, and the two struggled fiercely. In such close quarters, the longsword was useless. Tywin had to fight Addam barehanded.
But Addam was young and fueled by the ferocity of desperation. He shoved Tywin hard, forcing him face down onto the floor, trying to mount the Lord of the Rock.
Tywin managed to roll over, but that was all he could do. Addam put his entire weight on Tywin's chest, reversed his grip on the dagger, and drove it down.
Tywin caught the blade with his bare hand. The primal instinct to survive forced him to grip the steel with flesh and bone.
Blood immediately welled up between his fingers, dripping down the blade onto his face. Drip, drip.
Even in the darkness, Tywin could see Addam's eyes bulging with exertion.
Suddenly, Addam stopped pushing down and instead twisted the handle. The blade churned inside Tywin's palm.
The agony was unbearable. Tywin's hand spasmed open like he'd been electrocuted. In the next second, the dagger plunged down.
As the cold steel pierced his chest, Tywin felt his lungs deflate like a punctured bladder. He tried to breathe, but blood gurgled up his throat.
Stab. Stab. Stab. The cold dagger sliced through fabric and skin but was stopped by bone. Blinded by the dark, Addam struck wildly. If one spot wouldn't give, he tried another.
Belly, ribs, neck—he stabbed wherever he could reach.
Feeling the steel enter and exit his flesh, Tywin began to hallucinate. The pitch-black room faded, replaced by a vivid scene from years ago:
"My Lord, this is Rhaegar's daughter. A whelp of a dragon."
A squat, ugly man presented a small corpse wrapped in red cloth to him.
When the cloth was pulled back, the small body in the pale yellow dress was soaked in red.
"Why is it like this?" Tywin asked.
"Couldn't be helped, my Lord." The man with the piggish eyes smiled sycophantically, a hideous expression that Tywin found strangely pleasing. "She kept screaming and kicking. I stabbed her... oh, twenty times or so."
"You could have smothered her with a pillow! Fool!"
Though he scolded the man, Tywin remembered that he couldn't hide the smile on his face that day.
He had killed Rhaegar's daughter. Aerys's granddaughter. That damned father and son.
Soon, the vision shattered. Addam was still stabbing him, again and again. Only when Tywin stopped struggling beneath him did the attack cease.
Panting heavily, Addam suddenly smelled a foul stench. He gagged, dry heaving. As he scrambled out of the privy on hands and knees, the body behind him lay soaking in a pool of blood and waste.