The Red Keep was quiet at night.
Tywin Lannister stepped out of the privy wearing a deep crimson robe, his bare feet on the cold stone floor. Candlelight along the corridor walls stretched his shadow long and twisted across the stone, matching the state of his mind.
The Small Council meeting earlier had been nothing short of a farce, and it still gnawed at him. Worse, much of what Oberyn Martell had said turned out to be true. After a day of confirmation, Tywin now understood that the situation in Flea Bottom had spiraled further out of control than he had expected.
For the first time, the man who prided himself on total control was forced to admit there were cracks in his grip on King's Landing.
In short, he was in a foul mood.
He walked down the corridor. The door to his bedchamber was slightly ajar, a thin line of light spilling out from inside.
Tywin pushed the door open and shut it behind him. The room smelled faintly of lavender. His eyes went straight to the bed.
A woman's body lay beneath the silk sheets—young, full, and clearly awake despite pretending otherwise.
Shae.
The whore who once belonged to Tyrion now belonged to him.
The corner of Tywin's mouth twitched. It wasn't quite a smile.
He had never liked Tyrion. Not from the moment the dwarf killed his beloved wife Joanna in childbirth. But over the years, he had come to acknowledge one thing: the little monster had decent taste in women.
At least this one was wet enough.
Of course, keeping Shae wasn't purely about lust. He needed her cooperative for the upcoming trial against Tyrion. And after Oberyn's words today, Tywin also felt the need to prove something to himself—that he was still a man in full control of his body and his power.
He sat on the edge of the bed. The silk felt cool against his robe.
Tywin reached out and pulled the sheet down.
In the candlelight, Shae wore only a thin silk shift that clung to her skin. Her body was young and smooth, honey-toned in the low light. She kept her eyes closed, lashes trembling slightly.
Tywin's hand touched her shoulder.
Warm. Soft. He slid his fingers downward along her collarbone.
Then he stopped.
She was shaking.
Not with anticipation. Her muscles were tight, her breathing shallow and uneven. She was afraid.
Tywin frowned. His hand paused.
"What's wrong?"
His voice was low and commanding.
Shae didn't answer. She only trembled harder, eyes squeezed shut like she was terrified to open them.
Tywin's gaze snapped toward the dark corner of the room.
The bedchamber was large. The candlelight only reached the center. Against the far wall, in the deepest shadow, sat a high-backed chair—his usual reading chair.
A shape was sitting in it.
Tywin's heart tightened.
This was the Red Keep. This was the Tower of the Hand. His own bedchamber.
How the hell was someone sitting there?
He rose quickly and backed away, turning toward the door.
"Guards! Guards!"
No answer.
Only silence from outside.
Then a quiet laugh came from the shadows. Low. Almost amused.
"Don't bother calling, Lord Hand," the voice said calmly. "Your guards are already with the Seven."
Tywin froze.
He knew that voice.
He took a slow breath and forced his expression back under control. His hand moved toward the small table beside the bed where a dagger lay.
"Vito Corleone?"
Another soft laugh.
This time the figure moved.
He rose from the chair with unhurried grace and stepped into the candlelight. White armor caught the glow—clean steel stained with dried blood. The helmet was already off, tucked under one arm.
Vito Corleone.
He looked at Tywin without anger or triumph. Just calm certainty.
"This helmet stinks," Corleone said, tossing it onto the floor. The metal clanged against stone. "I had it washed several times, but Meryn Trant's smell still lingers."
Tywin stood motionless, bare feet on the cold floor. In nearly sixty years of life, he had faced betrayal, war, and death. But he had never had a man in white Kingsguard armor stand in his bedroom and casually tell him his guards were dead.
Especially not a man who had been a farmer only months ago.
"Speak plainly, Corleone," Tywin said, voice cold. "What do you want?"
He didn't reach for the dagger. If Corleone had wanted him dead, he would have done it while Tywin was on the privy.
Corleone tilted his head, looking almost bored. He pulled the chair out and sat down, resting his bloodstained sword against the floor and leaning his chin on the hilt.
"According to the guard rotation schedule for the Tower of the Hand," he said, tapping his temple with one finger, "we still have about two hours before the next shift."
He smiled faintly. "Minus the half hour you spent on the toilet, that gives us roughly an hour and a half. No one will disturb us during that time."
The room went quiet.
Tywin slowly walked to the other side of the bed and sat in the high-backed chair across from him. Even now, barefoot and in a sleeping robe, he carried himself like the Hand of the King.
"You know the guard rotation well," he said.
"Better than you think," Corleone replied. "Hard to negotiate properly if you don't even know your enemy's schedule."
"Are we enemies?"
"We can be," Corleone said. "Or we don't have to be. That depends entirely on what you choose next, Lord Hand."
Tywin studied him. Those black eyes gave nothing away.
Corleone looked down at the blood on his sword, then lifted his stained fingers into the candlelight and examined them.
"People say Tywin Lannister shits gold," he said suddenly, voice casual. "But clearly, you don't produce it as fast as your mines pull it out of the ground."
Tywin's jaw tightened. "I do have a golden chamber pot. In Casterly Rock. I can have it sent to you if you're interested."
Corleone burst out laughing—loud, genuine, and completely out of place in the tense room.
Shae flinched and buried her face deeper into the pillow.
"Please," Corleone said, still chuckling. "That would be hell on the ass."
He shook his head, then looked straight at Tywin. The humor vanished from his face.
"You broke my heart, Tywin Lannister."
His voice was quiet but steady.
"I was your hand in the dark. I cleaned the filth out of Flea Bottom. I built order where there was none. I went to Dragonstone to deal with Stannis—even though we both knew it was a suicide mission."
"And now I come back," he continued, "only to find my house crawling with rats in gold cloaks."
He leaned forward slightly.
"So tell me, Tywin Lannister… what exactly made you disrespect me so much?"
He paused.
"You haven't even called me 'Ser' once since I walked in."
The words hung in the air.
Tywin stared at him. For the first time, he truly saw that the man in front of him was no longer the knight he had created.
"You needed space to survive," Tywin said at last. "I gave you power and a title. I can take both away just as easily."
Corleone smiled, but there was no warmth in it.
"You still don't understand, do you?"
He tapped the flat of his sword against the floor.
"I know you're trying to stall. But let me remind you of something, Lord Hand. I didn't come here to kill you on the toilet. That's not my style."
He leaned forward, eyes cold.
"But if you keep dragging this out until the next guard shift arrives… I promise you'll be dead long before they get here."
The room went still.
Tywin's fingers tightened on the arm of the chair.
Finally, he spoke.
"Then speak plainly. What do you want, Ser Vito Corleone?"
Corleone didn't hesitate.
"Flea Bottom."
He met Tywin's gaze without blinking.
"I want you to order the Gold Cloaks to withdraw. Recognize Flea Bottom's autonomy. From now on, that district belongs to me. My people run it. My rules apply."
Tywin let out a short, cold laugh.
"Autonomy? Do you understand what you're asking? Flea Bottom is part of King's Landing. It belongs to the Iron Throne. And you—a knight I created—are demanding I carve out a piece of my own capital and hand it to you?"
He shook his head. "Impossible."
Corleone studied him for a moment, then sighed.
"Looks like you still don't see the situation clearly. Let me lay it out for you, Lord Hand."
He raised one finger.
"First, your Gold Cloaks haven't had a proper meal since yesterday. Three thousand men are surrounding a slum on empty stomachs. That's already a joke."
Second finger.
"From last night until now, twenty-three officers have been killed at your checkpoints around Flea Bottom."
Third finger.
"And right now, you're sitting here in a sleeping robe, barefoot, while the four guards outside your door are already corpses."
He lowered his hand.
"If I wanted you dead, you'd already be dead. The fact that I'm sitting here talking to you instead should tell you who's actually in control."
Tywin's face darkened, but he didn't look away.
"Control?" he said. "You think killing a few officers and bribing a quartermaster means you control anything?"
He stood up slowly.
"That quartermaster who took your gold was executed this afternoon by Ser Adam Marbrand for treason. His body is still hanging outside Flea Bottom. The new quartermaster was personally chosen by Kevan. His entire family lives in Rosby. His loyalty has been tested for twenty years."
Tywin looked down at him.
"Your little bribery game ends here."
Corleone was quiet for several seconds.
Then he laughed again—softly this time.
"Lord Hand," he said, almost gently. "Are you sure the new quartermaster isn't one of mine?"
Tywin went still.
"His name is Alaric Vane," Corleone continued. "Loyal soldier. Family in Rosby. Twenty years of service. Perfect choice."
He tilted his head.
"What you don't know is that Alaric has a mistress in Duskendale. Last month he lost over two hundred gold dragons gambling. My people found him right before someone was about to cut off his hands."
He smiled.
"So tell me again, Lord Hand… how sure are you that he's loyal to you?"
Tywin stared at him, the firelight flickering across his face.
For the first time in a very long while, the Lion of Casterly Rock had no immediate answer.