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Game of Thrones: Archer's Ordinary Life
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Game of Thrones: Archer's Ordinary Life
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Tywin's presence hit like a hammer.
The moment he stepped into the sept with his sword drawn, the air froze.
Nobles lowered their heads. Women clutched their skirts, knuckles white. The High Septon stumbled backward, his bulk crashing into the altar.
Cersei reacted first. Her cool, disdainful smile vanished the instant she saw the naked steel in her father's hand. Fingers tightened on her crimson gown. Her mind raced.
Why? Why would Father enter the sept with a drawn sword?
Had he learned something? Was he planning to—
Her gaze snapped to Corleone kneeling before the altar, back straight as a spear.
Was Father really going to execute him in front of everyone?
The thought made her pulse jump. The smile crept back onto her lips.
Perfect.
Vito Corleone was clever, but hard to control. If she spoke up and saved him at the last second, he would owe her everything.
Before she could savor the idea, Joffrey stepped forward.
"Lord Tywin!"
The boy king tried to sound regal. "Do you have some special reason for entering the sept with your sword drawn?"
Tywin didn't answer. He walked slowly, steadily. The blade hung low, its edge catching the light. The tip scraped the marble floor with a soft, chilling rasp that seemed to drag across every heart in the room.
Joffrey's face flushed. He opened his mouth again, but Cersei grabbed his wrist and yanked him back behind her.
"Your Grace the Queen Regent."
Margaery turned her head, voice low enough for only the two of them. "Isn't Lord Hand going too far? This is a knighting ceremony. The sept should be—"
"The Seven?"
Cersei cut her off, lips curving. "No. The Seven live in power. And right now, power is in my father's hands."
Joffrey kept struggling to step forward, but Cersei held him fast.
Tyrion stood among the nobles, staring up at his father. He tugged Jaime's pant leg.
"How long since you've seen Father with a sword?"
Jaime's eyes never left the blade. "At least twenty years."
"Why today…"
He knew his father had been a great swordsman once. Everyone knew Tywin Lannister's deeds in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. But after becoming Hand to the Mad King, Tywin had rarely touched steel. Power came from parchment, gold, and marriages now.
Hearing Jaime, Tyrion narrowed his eyes. "Yesterday I heard Corleone staged the whole rescue of the king just to earn his knighthood. Littlefinger went to Uncle Kevan with all the details. Could it be true?"
"Impossible."
Jaime's answer was instant. "Corleone is an upright—"
He stopped. Memories flooded in: the escape from the Brave Companions, the careful manipulations, the negotiations with Roose Bolton, the rescue of Arya by the Gods Eye. Every move had been sharp. Ruthless.
He had never been just an "upright physician."
Jaime's stomach tightened. Then he shook his head, trying to convince himself.
"Even if it was his plan, it's because he deserves to be a knight. If highborn nobles need schemes to rise, why can't a commoner?"
His voice carried quiet anger. "It's my fault. If I weren't the Kingslayer, I could have knighted him myself as Lord Commander. He wouldn't have had to play this game."
Tyrion stared at his brother in disbelief. Corleone had saved Jaime's life once. How had he earned this kind of loyalty?
Bronn had saved Tyrion many times, yet Tyrion never trusted him this blindly.
"With Father's temperament," Tyrion said quietly, "he won't let this slide. The ceremony is probably finished. He might even judge Corleone publicly."
Jaime's head snapped toward the altar. Corleone still knelt, back straight. Kevan stood beside him, face hard, ceremonial sword in hand. Tywin had reached the middle of the sept, steps steady, purpose clear.
This couldn't happen.
Jaime stepped forward.
"Jaime!"
Tyrion lunged, but only caught the edge of the white cloak. Silk slipped through his fingers. Jaime was already in front of Tywin, blocking his path.
Gasps rippled through the sept. Joffrey's eyes lit up.
A show was starting.
Tywin stopped. He looked at his son with the calm detachment of a man studying a rock in the road.
"Step aside, Ser Jaime."
Jaime didn't move. His back was rigid.
"Why have you entered the sept with your sword drawn? This is sacred ground. A knighting ceremony. Not a battlefield."
Tywin's voice was ice. "Even as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, you have no right to question the Hand. Step aside."
"Corleone has done nothing wrong!"
Jaime's voice rose. "If he's guilty of anything, it should go through proper channels, not… not this. Drawing steel like you're about to execute a man in the middle of the sept? Father, this is the Great Sept of Baelor, not Casterly Rock's dungeons!"
His left hand found his sword hilt. The motion was instinctive, the proud golden youth of twenty years ago flashing through.
Tywin's gaze dropped to that hand, then rose to meet his son's eyes.
"You wanted to wear the white cloak. I allowed it. You didn't want Casterly Rock. I stopped pushing. But what have I done, Ser Jaime Lannister, to make you disrespect me like this?"
The words landed like a slap. Jaime's face went white, but he didn't budge.
The sept fell silent. Everyone watched the most famous father and son in Westeros face off.
Cersei's lips curved higher. Ever since Tywin had betrothed her to Loras Tyrell, she had hated him. Let Jaime challenge him. Let everyone see the proud Lord of Casterly Rock defied by his own son.
Joffrey's eyes gleamed. He wanted them to fight. Wanted everyone to see that a king's word mattered.
Margaery clutched her skirts, thinking of her missing brother Loras. He would have stood just as tall.
Petyr Baelish murmured, "How poetic. Father holds the sword. Son lost the hand to hold one. Power and helplessness. Control and rebellion. Better than any play."
Varys shook his head. "Watch and wait, Lord Baelish. Don't jump to conclusions."
Tyrion finally pushed through the crowd and grabbed Jaime's leg.
"Don't do this, Jaime! This is Father! This is the Great Sept! You're going to shame the whole family!"
Jaime looked down at his brother but didn't move. His eyes stayed locked on Tywin—anger, resentment, and something deeper he refused to name. Longing. For approval. For the man who had once told him he would be a great knight.
Then Corleone spoke.
"Ser Jaime."
He still knelt at the altar, voice clear and steady. "Whatever Lord Hand decides, I have a clear conscience."
Jaime turned. Corleone's back was straight, armor simple and clean. He didn't argue. Didn't beg. He simply accepted whatever came.
"Corleone…" Jaime's throat tightened. He was doing this for him. To keep Jaime from breaking with their father.
Corleone turned his head slightly. His profile was hard, eyes calm. "Please step back, Ser. This is my path. I walk it alone. You've already done enough."
Jaime stared into those eyes. He remembered the Riverlands, the careful hands treating his wound. The training yard. The rescue at the Gods Eye. This man had saved his life more than once. Given him back his purpose.
And now Jaime could do nothing.
He took a deep breath and stepped aside.
"Thank you, Ser."
Tywin nodded once, polite as if to a stranger. Since Jaime had refused to give up the white cloak, they had barely spoken. The thanks sounded like "You finally saw sense."
Tywin walked on. Boots struck marble in crisp rhythm. Past Jaime. Past Tyrion. Past Cersei and Joffrey.
Joffrey suddenly broke free and pointed. "Lord Tywin! I promised Uncle Kevan would knight Vito Corleone. A king keeps his word!"
Tywin stopped and looked at his grandson. The lion stare made Joffrey flinch, but the boy squared his shoulders.
"A king keeps his word," Tywin said calmly. Then to Kevan: "But this knighting is inappropriate."
"Are you defying your king?" Joffrey snapped.
Tywin didn't answer. He didn't even look at the boy again. The dismissal stung worse than any insult. Joffrey's face burned red. Cersei grabbed his arm before he could speak.
Tywin reached the altar and stopped before Corleone. The man still knelt, head bowed. Tywin raised the sword.
Petyr's heart raced. Yes. Strike. Expose the fraud. Punish the peasant who dared play games with the crown.
But the blade moved in a clean arc and touched Corleone's right shoulder with a soft metallic tap.
"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave."
The sword shifted to the left shoulder.
"In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just."
Back to the right.
"In the name of the Mother, I charge you to protect the weak and innocent."
"I, Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West…"
His voice rose like a lion's roar.
"…hereby dub you, Vito Corleone, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms!"
Silence.
Tywin withdrew the sword and turned to the stunned High Septon.
"Give him the cloak."
The fat man fumbled forward and handed it over with shaking hands. Tywin took the white silk cloak, the black hand sigil on the chest, and draped it over Corleone's shoulders himself. He fastened the clasp, adjusted the folds with precise care, then stepped back.
"Rise, Ser Corleone."
Corleone lifted his head and stood. His black eyes were calm. No triumph. No gratitude. Just quiet certainty. He bowed slightly.
"Thank you, Lord Hand. I will carry your honor forward."
Tywin studied him for a long moment, then nodded. He turned to face the hall. His gaze swept over a relieved Jaime and landed on a stunned Petyr Baelish.
"In King's Landing, under my rule, loyalty is rewarded. Service is recognized."
He said nothing more. Sword still drawn, he walked toward the doors. The crowd parted wider than before, more fearful now. He passed Jaime without pause, Tyrion without a glance, Cersei and Joffrey without turning his head.
Then he was gone, swallowed by morning light.
Only then did Corleone turn to face the hall. He watched the old lion disappear and felt a quiet respect.
If he were a true Westerosi, he might have been grateful enough to die for that man.
But he wasn't.
Morning wind swept through the open doors, lifting the white cloak. The black hand sigil flew high.
From this day forward, the Seven Kingdoms had one more knight.
Ser Vito Corleone.