The solar in the Tower of the Hand smelled of old parchment, sealing wax, and ink.
The scent of power.
Tywin Lannister sat behind the massive oak desk, morning light slicing through the leaded-glass windows and falling in narrow beams across the documents before him. His quill scratched steadily across the page.
A knock.
A red-cloaked knight stepped inside. "My lord, Lord Petyr Baelish requests an audience."
"Let him wait."
Tywin didn't look up. He finished the last line, set the quill down, and rang the silver bell. A servant entered at once with a fresh cup of bitterleaf tea from the hills near Casterly Rock—harsh, but it kept the mind sharp.
Moments later, Petyr Baelish was shown in.
"My lord Hand." He bowed with his usual polished smile.
"Sit."
Tywin's tone left no room for debate.
Once Baelish was seated, Tywin leaned back and fixed him with those cold emerald eyes. He said nothing.
The silence stretched until the crackle of the hearth fire became the loudest sound in the room.
Baelish's smile grew strained. He shifted, cleared his throat. "Given that Ser Gregor has retaken Harrenhal… as Lord of Harrenhal, I've already drawn up next spring's planting schedule, recalculated seed and tool distribution—"
He continued with crisp, well-rehearsed reports on taxes, repairs, and increased revenue for the Iron Throne.
Tywin listened without interruption or comment.
When Baelish finally ran out of things to say and sat waiting like a dog expecting a treat, Tywin spoke.
"You are Lord of Harrenhal, Lord Baelish. These are matters for your own lands. You do not need to report them to me."
"If that is all, I have work to do—"
"My lord."
Baelish cut in, steeling himself. "I hear King's Landing was lively today. Word is the king and his party were attacked by rioters on Pickled Meat Street."
Tywin's gaze sharpened. Baelish hurried on with a light laugh. "You know how this city is—trouble one day, brawls the next."
"Your information network is impressive, Lord Baelish," Tywin said flatly. "Even I only just received Ser Addam Marbrand's report. The riot happened less than two hours ago."
Baelish smiled. "People do like to talk when they're… entertained. I happened to overhear it on the Street of Silk."
Tywin picked up a fresh parchment still smelling of ink and placed it on the desk between them.
"In one year the king has faced two mobs. I thought it wise to discuss the city's security with you."
"Too many people, too many undesirables. We need more Gold Cloaks on patrol. Or simply clear out the useless poor—"
"Is that so?"
Tywin leaned forward, fingers interlaced. "Just as you 'happened to hear' that Ser Loras Tyrell planned to marry Sansa Stark?"
Baelish's fingers tightened inside his sleeves, but his smile never faltered. If anything, it grew brighter.
"It was my duty, my lord. When I learned of it, I knew a Tyrell-Stark alliance could threaten your rule. I brought it to you only to prove my loyalty to the Iron Throne."
"Your loyalty has already been demonstrated in full," Tywin said dryly. "Yet after I betrothed Loras to Cersei, the boy vanished on the very day of his engagement."
"And I also hear that squire—Aiden—has been living on the Street of Silk."
Baelish gave a thin laugh. "Quite the coincidence…"
He had known Aiden was taken from the Street of Silk. He simply hadn't stopped it. The muddier King's Landing became, the better for him. The Tyrell-Lannister alliance was too stable; he needed cracks.
He hadn't expected Tywin to bring it up now.
"I recall the Small Council decided half a month ago that you would travel to the Eyrie to wed Lysa Tully."
Tywin rose. His massive frame suddenly felt threatening. "Why are you still in King's Landing, Lord Baelish? And why are you suddenly so… interested in the city's security?"
The air grew cold.
Baelish heard his own heartbeat. After what had happened with Cersei, he half-expected two hundred axe-men to burst through the door.
He forced himself to stay calm. Tywin wasn't his mad daughter. Killing him served no purpose for the Hand.
He changed tactics.
"My lord Hand." His voice dropped. He leaned forward like a confidant. "Forgive my boldness, but Vito Corleone has been in King's Landing less than a month and already rose from commoner to Grand Royal Commissioner of Special Affairs. You've shown him remarkable favor."
"Now he's maneuvering for a knighthood. Isn't that rise a bit… rapid?"
Tywin didn't interrupt. He simply watched.
Baelish pressed on. "You must see it, my lord. Corleone's ambitions are large. Flea Bottom has been completely transformed. He's opened multiple gambling houses covering five or six streets. He's taken the fish market and the docks. Even the brothel owners on the Street of Silk are signing private deals to open branches under his protection."
"And once his fighting pit opens, Prince Oberyn Martell himself will headline the opening night."
He paused for effect. "When that happens, the Hall of Order will be the most profitable place in all of King's Landing—and everything will belong to Vito Corleone."
"If you let him become a knight, what's next? A lordship? And once he has real power, will he still be content to remain merely 'a hand in the dark'?"
Baelish leaned back, smiling, waiting for the inevitable rebuke.
Tywin never gave it.
Instead the old lion walked slowly to the hearth, firelight carving deep lines into his face. He picked up the poker and stirred the logs, sending sparks flying.
After a long moment he turned.
"Do you know why I tolerate you, Baelish?"
"It isn't your cleverness—there are many clever men. It isn't your ability—there are many capable men. Even Tyrion has done adequately as Master of Coin."
Tywin returned to the desk but remained standing, looking down at him.
"I tolerate you because you know your limits. You understand which lines can be stepped on and which cannot. You play the game, but you stay within the rules. You take, but you are never truly greedy."
"But now you have crossed a line."
Tywin's voice turned to ice. "Corleone is mine. I chose him. I appointed him. Every scrap of power he holds, I gave him. And what I give, I can take away whenever I choose."
"You are trying to tell me my own piece is getting out of control. Why? Because his gambling houses cut into your profits? Or because you've set your sights on Flea Bottom—the very district everyone used to avoid?"
Each word landed like a hammer. Baelish opened his mouth, but Tywin raised a hand.
"You promised to go to the Eyrie."
Tywin spoke each word with finality. "Go. Now. You have one week to prepare. Before Roose Bolton and his army return to the North, I expect to hear that you have married Lysa Tully."
He paused. "This is not a suggestion. It is the decision of the Small Council."
Silence filled the room.
At last Baelish stood. His movements were steady, his smile perfectly in place—though it looked like a mask that no longer quite fit.
"As you command, my lord Hand." He bowed deeply. "I will settle my affairs in King's Landing and depart for the Vale within the week. Before Roose Bolton reaches the North, you will hear that I am Lord of the Eyrie. I give you my word."
Tywin offered no reply. He simply sat back down, picked up his quill, and returned to his papers.
The audience was over.
Baelish turned and left, spine straight, steps measured.
The moment the door closed behind him, the smile on his face turned quietly triumphant.
The seed of doubt had been planted.
Tywin might have used the moment to put him in his place, but that farmer had climbed too high, too fast. The lion was already watching.
Trust was thin as ice. It could crack at any moment.
Baelish descended the spiral stairs of the Tower of the Hand with light, almost dancing steps.
One week?
Plenty of time.
Time to meet the right people. Say the right words. Plant one final seed.
In the solar, Tywin set his quill down.
He walked to the window and watched Baelish cross the Red Keep courtyard and disappear beneath an archway.
Toward the Master of Laws' residence.
Ser Addam Marbrand appeared in the doorway moments later.
"Watch him," Tywin said without turning. "For the next week I want to know every person he meets and every word he speaks."
"Yes, my lord."
Addam hesitated. "And Corleone…?"
Tywin was silent for a long moment.
"Watch him as well."
Addam bowed and left.
Tywin remained at the window, gazing down at the constant flow of knights, squires, officials, and nobles moving through the courtyard like pieces on a board.
Some found their path.
Some lost it.
Others thought they had found it—only to discover they were walking straight toward the edge of a cliff.
Tywin turned back to his desk and picked up the endless stack of documents once more.
Sunlight slanted through the high window, forming a bright halo above his head—like a crown of pure gold.