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The Red Keep was wrapped in a thin morning mist.
It rose from Blackwater Bay, climbed the walls, and curled around the tall tower spires. The sun had just cleared the eastern horizon, its light still weak and cold, painting the fog a faint orange-red.
Winter was coming.
Corleone walked the stone path toward the Tower of the Hand. The chill cut through his wool coat, and every breath came out white before vanishing. He'd walked this road before.
The first time, he was still just a farmer from the Riverlands, dust on his clothes, chasing ten thousand dragons. He'd sat across from the most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms and tried to earn his trust.
The second time, he'd worn a white Kingsguard cloak, slipped through the night like a ghost, and put a sword to Tywin Lannister's throat in his own bedchamber.
Now he walked in broad daylight.
He stopped for a moment and looked up at the tower. It rose gray and solid in the morning light, every window shut tight like watchful eyes. This time he didn't have to scheme or sneak. He belonged here.
Master of Coin.
A small smile touched his mouth.
A few days earlier Tywin had sent more than just Sandor Clegane's pardon. There had been a second parchment sealed with the Hand's sigil, naming Vito Corleone the new Master of Coin for the Seven Kingdoms.
Corleone had laughed for a long time when he read it. Not because he was happy. Because it was funny.
Tywin Lannister always played the long game. Since he couldn't crush Corleone outright, he was trying to pull him inside the system instead. Make him one of them. Tie him down with titles and responsibilities.
Corleone wasn't stupid enough to think it was a gift.
The position of Master of Coin had been a poisoned cup ever since Robert Baratheon took the throne. Everyone who sat in it ended up bleeding money or bleeding out.
He shook the thought off and kept walking. The stones were slick with dew. Dead grass along the path glittered with water droplets. A couple of servants hurried past, saw the new Master of Coin badge on his chest, and stepped aside with quick bows.
"Lord."
"Lord."
"Morning," Corleone answered without slowing down. The Tower of the Hand was right in front of him.
Twelve Lannister guards in gold-and-crimson cloaks stood at the door, spears in hand, swords at their hips. The man in front was someone Corleone knew well.
"Lord Corleone."
Ser Tallad Hetherspoon's voice was polite but careful. He gave a proper knight's bow, right hand over his heart. The gesture looked formal and just a little forced.
"The Small Council is already waiting inside. They're only missing you."
Corleone looked up at the tower again. Morning light hit the top and threw a long shadow down the stone.
"Keep the place secure, Ser Tallad," he said. "The Hand's safety matters."
Tallad's face twitched. He knew exactly who had last put a sword to Tywin Lannister's throat in that very tower.
Still, he answered like a professional. "Of course, my lord. We've doubled the guard. Twelve knights on rotation, changing every four hours. More at night. Extra men inside on every landing and hidden watchers too."
Corleone nodded, eyes still on the tower. "Not enough."
"My lord?"
"Ever since Aegon the Conqueror built the Red Keep, the Small Council has always met in the throne room," Corleone said. "Meeting here in the Tower of the Hand isn't tradition. It's habit. And habits get people killed."
He turned to look at the line of red-cloaked guards.
"Twelve men. What happens if someone sends twenty? Or fifty? What happens if they bring crossbows and set up on the rooftops across the way while the Hand stands at the window?"
Tallad's face went pale. He opened his mouth, but Corleone was already moving again.
"Best to move the meetings back to the throne room soon," he called over his shoulder. "Can't have the Small Council getting picked off because the Hand likes his old study too much."
He laughed as he walked inside.
The tower was warmer than the courtyard but darker. Corleone climbed the narrow spiral stairs, boots ringing on stone. He felt strangely calm. Last time he'd come up these steps he'd carried a sword and half-expected to use it.
He reached the door and pushed it open without knocking.
The room was warm. A fire crackled in the hearth. The long table sat in the center. Kevan Lannister, Varys, and Grand Maester Pycelle were already seated. Tywin Lannister sat at the head, facing the door. His green eyes reflected Corleone's figure, and for once he wore a thin, almost welcoming smile.
"Welcome, our new Master of Coin."
Corleone stopped just inside the doorway.
The seat at the far end of the table was empty. The lowest chair. The one facing the door and directly opposite Tywin.
He didn't move toward it.
Instead he stayed standing, looking around the table like he was checking inventory. Then he knocked once on the polished wood with his knuckles and smiled wide.
"Good morning, my lords! Sorry I'm late. The fighting pits are doing ridiculous business these days—dozens of wagons full of gold coming and going every single day. Plus the docks, the gambling houses, the clinics… I'm buried in it."
He gave a theatrical sigh. "I had to cancel a deal worth thousands of dragons just to make it here on time. And I skipped breakfast. There's stew waiting at home and I'm in a hurry."
He looked straight at Tywin.
"So let's get this over with, shall we? What's on the agenda?"
The room went very quiet.
Kevan Lannister's face had gone tight. Varys watched with that careful little smile he always wore when he was calculating. Pycelle coughed into his sleeve.
Tywin's thin smile didn't waver, but something cold moved behind his eyes.
Corleone kept standing.
He wasn't sitting at the foot of the table like some new pet. He wasn't playing the grateful newcomer.
He was making it clear from the first second:
He wasn't here to be managed.
He was here to count the money.
And he had places to be.