Corleone's words hung in the air.
Tywin's first reaction wasn't relief. It was a deepening frown.
The killer?
How was that good news?
"Lord Corleone," he said, voice edged with irritation, "even if we have the killer, what difference does it make? The Iron Bank doesn't care who we caught. They care about their one and a half million gold dragons. If we pay the debt, Nahor's death becomes an unfortunate accident. If we don't pay, then we killed him, and handing over a hundred killers won't change a thing."
Corleone only smiled.
"You're right, my lord. From the Iron Bank's perspective, the killer's identity doesn't matter."
He paused.
"But this one… you should meet her yourself."
"Why?" Tywin's frown deepened.
"Because her identity," Corleone said quietly, "is far from simple."
Tywin studied him. From everything he had learned about this man over the past weeks, Corleone only smiled like that when he was about to drop someone into a very deep hole. Still, he was Master of Coin. Tywin couldn't simply refuse.
"Bring her in," he said at last.
It was only a meeting. How bad could it be?
The door opened.
Two Black Hand men escorted a young woman inside.
She looked to be in her early twenties, with warm bronze skin and a tall, graceful frame. She walked like she owned the room, not like a prisoner. She even took a moment to smooth her skirts before lifting her chin and meeting Tywin's eyes without a trace of fear.
This was the killer?
A woman?
Tywin's gaze flicked to Corleone, full of silent questions.
Corleone simply nodded toward the woman. Your move.
Tywin turned to her, voice cold. "You are the one who killed Nahor Dmitis?"
She looked straight at him. "Yes."
Her voice was soft, almost gentle, as if she were discussing the weather.
Tywin's eyes narrowed. "Your name?"
She straightened, chin lifting with unmistakable pride. "Nymeria Sand. My father is Prince Oberyn Martell."
A beat.
"I killed Nahor Dmitis."
The solar went so quiet Tywin could hear the fire crackle.
He sat perfectly still, but the familiar dull ache in his lower regions chose that exact moment to flare again.
Nymeria Sand.
Oberyn Martell's bastard daughter.
She had killed the Iron Bank's envoy.
The pieces slammed together in his mind and refused to fit.
Tywin looked at Corleone. The younger man stood with arms folded, wearing the expression of someone who had been waiting for exactly this reaction.
Nymeria herself remained perfectly composed, almost defiant.
Tywin drew a slow breath through his nose.
He had seen madness in his life. He had watched the Mad King drag a man into Duskendale and get captured by his own bannermen. He had seen Robert Baratheon drunkenly dancing with whores twice his size. He had watched his own daughter marry a fool to a sellsword. But this?
A Dornish prince's bastard traveling all the way to King's Landing just to murder the Iron Bank's representative for no apparent reason?
What in the seven hells was wrong with these people?
He closed his eyes, opened them, and turned to Corleone. His voice was tight with controlled fury.
"What exactly is going on here?"
Corleone spread his hands, the picture of innocence. "I've already told you everything I know, my lord. Her name is Nymeria Sand. She is Prince Oberyn's daughter. Last night she killed Nahor Dmitis with her own hands. My men caught her. I brought her to you this morning."
"That's all."
Tywin stared at him for a long moment.
Simple?
A Dornish prince's daughter murdering the Iron Bank's envoy was simple?
"Why did you kill him?" he asked Nymeria directly.
"I made a mistake."
The answer was so calm, so matter-of-fact, that Tywin's mouth twitched despite himself.
A mistake.
That was her explanation?
He looked at this woman who showed not a shred of fear or remorse and realized she truly believed that. The whole thing had simply been an error in judgment.
But as Hand of the King, he had to consider the possibility that this was a deliberate Dornish plot to drive a wedge between the Iron Throne and the Iron Bank. Given Oberyn's well-known hatred for Lannisters, it wasn't unthinkable.
Tywin shifted in his chair, ignoring the sharp protest from his rear, and forced his breathing to stay even.
He needed to stay calm.
"Lord Corleone," he said, voice returning to its usual measured tone, "if she is the killer, why didn't you hand her over to Ser Adam Marbrand? The Gold Cloaks handle these matters."
Corleone met his eyes. "Because she is Oberyn Martell's daughter."
"Everyone knows there is… history between you and Prince Oberyn. If this is handled poorly, it could create serious problems between Dorne and the Iron Throne."
Tywin gave a short nod. That much was true.
"So you brought her to me because you want me to deal with it?"
Corleone nodded. "Yes. Her identity is too sensitive. I didn't feel comfortable handling it alone. After thinking it over, I decided you were the right person."
The words sounded respectful. Tywin recognized them for what they were: a blatant attempt to pass the problem.
He wasn't going to take it.
If he accepted responsibility for Nymeria Sand, he would be tied to whatever happened next. Dorne would hold the Iron Throne accountable. The fragile peace he had spent years maintaining would crack further.
He needed stability, not another Dornish crisis.
"Lord Corleone," Tywin said coolly, "I believe this matter is better handled by you. You are Master of Coin. The Iron Bank falls under your purview. And Prince Oberyn is currently recovering in your Hall of Order. He is also a special advisor to the crown. The two of you are perfectly positioned to resolve this between yourselves."
Corleone looked at him.
For three long seconds they simply held each other's gaze.
Then Corleone nodded slowly, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.
"Very well. If that's how you want it."
He turned to Nymeria.
"Then I suppose I'll have to send a full report to Prince Doran Martell. I'll tell him that his niece didn't just kill the Iron Bank's envoy… she also killed Anders Yronwood."
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Tywin's green eyes widened.
"What did you just say?"
Corleone didn't answer. He simply looked at Nymeria.
She lifted her chin again, voice clear and proud.
"That's right. Anders Yronwood. I killed him."
Tywin felt something inside his mind snap.
Anders Yronwood.
Lord of Yronwood. Warden of the Stone Way. One of the most powerful bannermen in Dorne.
Dead.
Killed by this woman.
The implications crashed over him like a wave. The Yronwoods would demand justice. If Doran couldn't deliver it, they might rise in rebellion the way Robb Stark had. Quentyn Martell, fostered with the Yronwoods, would be in immediate danger—either taken hostage or killed in retaliation.
Doran Martell was a cautious man, but even he had limits. And the fragile balance that had kept Dorne quiet for years would shatter.
If this became public, the Iron Throne could benefit from Dornish infighting… but not now. Not with the North still unstable, the Iron Islands restless, and a Targaryen with three dragons across the Narrow Sea. Another war would drain what little strength remained.
And there was Myrcella's marriage to Trystane. That alliance had been meant to bind Dorne to the crown. If Dorne tore itself apart, the marriage became worthless.
Tywin's jaw tightened until it hurt.
This bastard.
Corleone stood there looking like a man who had already played the entire game three moves ahead.
Tywin could hand Nymeria over to the Yronwoods and wash his hands of it. But with Oberyn having just been attacked and all evidence pointing at the Yronwoods, doing so would look like the Iron Throne was openly taking sides. Even Doran's legendary patience would break.
There had to be another way.
"Lord Corleone," Tywin said at last, voice low, "you are… very thorough."
Corleone's smile was small and satisfied. "I'm glad you understand."
Sunlight continued to fall across the floor in quiet golden bars.
Nymeria stood to the side, watching the two men circle each other with open confusion. She didn't fully understand Corleone's plan. Her father had agreed to it, and that was enough for her. Still, watching the great Tywin Lannister sit there looking like he was suffering from the worst case of constipation in history, she decided King's Landing might actually be more entertaining than she had expected.
After a long silence, Tywin exhaled.
"You may go. I need time to consider both matters."
"As you wish." Corleone nodded, turned, and walked to the door without another word.
He knew better than to push. Tywin hadn't demanded he take Nymeria back with him. That alone meant half the battle was already won.
Just as he reached the door, Corleone paused and glanced back.
"Lord Tywin."
His smile was pleasant. "Wishing you a smooth day."
Then he was gone.
Tywin stared at the closed door.
Smooth?
What did that mean?
He looked down.
And understood.
Damn him.
The man really was an excellent healer if he could diagnose that from across the room.