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Game of Thrones: Rune Bastard
Game of Thrones Wizard Dothraki
Game of Thrones: Knights Life
Night had fallen deep over King's Landing.
A cold autumn wind blew in from Blackwater Bay, slipping through the cracks in the high windows of the Tower of the Hand and making the flames in the hearth flicker.
Tywin Lannister felt none of it.
He sat on his golden toilet, where he had been for nearly half an hour.
Instead of a mirror, a large map of King's Landing's defenses hung on the wall in front of him. Every gate, major street, and key vantage point had been marked in red ink.
His eyes lingered on the southern district—Flea Bottom.
He had already circled it in red. Beside it, in the same ink, he had written two words:
Black Hand.
"Damn him."
Tywin muttered the curse under his breath. The words echoed in the empty privy. He wasn't sure if he was cursing his stubborn bowels or a certain farmer.
He reached for the thick report sitting on the small table beside him. It was from Ser Adam Marbrand, delivered three days earlier.
The document was heavy—over twenty pages of parchment. It contained the complete roster of every officer in the Gold Cloaks, the City Watch of King's Landing. Names, origins, dates of service, pay records, commendations, and punishments. Everything.
But Tywin wasn't interested in most of it.
His gaze moved to the final pages, where several names had been marked in red ink. These were the officers Adam had quietly confirmed were taking money from Corleone's organization.
Seven centurions. Nineteen squad captains. Over a thousand regular soldiers.
These were only the ones with solid evidence. The real number was almost certainly higher.
Out of four thousand Gold Cloaks, at least a third were now on Corleone's payroll—openly doing the Black Hand's bidding.
According to Adam's report, last month Corleone's casino, the Wheel of Order, had been robbed by a group of unknown men. A Gold Cloak patrol had "just happened" to pass by and captured every single robber within a quarter of an hour.
The thieves were thrown into the cells beneath Gold Cloak headquarters.
The next morning, they were all conveniently dead.
The City Watch had rotted from the inside out. It was no longer the shield of the realm. It had become Corleone's private army.
"Janos Slynt…"
Tywin spoke the name aloud, his lips curling into a cold, bitter smile.
That fat bastard had been the one who turned the Gold Cloaks into what they were now. Extortion, bribery, protection rackets, covering for criminals—Janos had done it all.
If that pig hadn't spent years corrupting the City Watch, Corleone would never have been able to sink his claws so deep in just a few short months.
Janos Slynt was long gone, stripped of his power and sent to the Wall. But the poison he had spread was still bearing fruit, and now Tywin had to clean up the mess.
Suddenly, Tywin's eyes snapped open. His cold green gaze gleamed in the candlelight like a lion hunting in the dark.
He could not wait any longer.
Tywin stood, walked to the washbasin, and splashed cold water on his face. The shock helped clear his mind. He dried his hands, returned to his desk, and picked up his quill.
To the commander of the Casterly Rock garrison, Ser Adam Marbrand…
Tywin's handwriting was precise and sharp, every letter perfectly formed.
"…Given the recent deterioration of public order in King's Landing, and in order to ensure the smooth coronation of the Regent, you are hereby ordered to select two thousand elite troops and march them to the city in stages. They will reinforce security around the Red Keep and its surrounding districts."
He paused, then added one more line:
"All troops entering the city will be under your direct command and will report solely to the Hand of the King."
The meaning was clear. These two thousand Lannister soldiers would answer only to Tywin. No one else.
He read the letter over once, then took the Hand's seal from the drawer, pressed it into red wax, and stamped it firmly onto the bottom right corner. The golden lion stood out sharply against the parchment.
Tywin rolled the letter, tied it with a deep red ribbon, and rang the silver bell on his desk.
A moment later, steady footsteps approached. There was a knock.
"Come in."
The door opened and a tall figure stepped inside.
Ser Talbert Hetherspoon.
The captain of the guard wore a deep red wool coat instead of armor, but the sword at his hip remained.
"My lord." He bowed, right hand over his heart.
"Ser Talbert." Tywin handed him the sealed letter. "Leave the Red Keep immediately. Go to the Gold Cloak barracks and deliver this to Ser Adam Marbrand personally."
"Understood."
Talbert took the letter and turned to leave.
"Wait."
Tywin called him back.
"My lord?"
"Your daughter… Mela."
Tywin's voice had softened slightly. "If she were still alive, she would be thirty years old now, wouldn't she?"
Talbert's body went still for a fraction of a second.
"Thirty-six, my lord," he answered quietly. "She was a year older than the Queen Regent."
"Thirty-six…" Tywin repeated, as if remembering something distant. "If she had lived, she would probably be married by now. Perhaps even have children."
"Yes, my lord."
Tywin was quiet for a moment, green eyes studying the weathered face of his loyal guard captain.
"Since your wife passed, you have never remarried."
Talbert's throat moved. "My duty is to protect you, my lord. I have had little time for personal matters."
"You are a loyal man, Talbert," Tywin said, stepping around the desk and placing a hand on the captain's shoulder. "More loyal than most."
"Once the Regent's coronation is over, I will find you a suitable wife. A noblewoman from the Crownlands. Good family. Young and fertile."
"You will have a new family. A new heir."
Talbert kept his head lowered. His expression was hidden.
"You do not want this?" Tywin asked.
"My lord…" Talbert's voice was rough. "I am not worthy of such grace."
"You are," Tywin said firmly. "You have served House Lannister for decades. You have earned this."
He paused. "I remember Mela was a beautiful child. She looked like her mother. If she were still here, I would have arranged her wedding myself."
Talbert's shoulders trembled slightly, but he said nothing. He simply bowed his head lower.
Tywin didn't notice. He waved a hand.
"Go. I want the first units inside the city before dawn."
"Yes, my lord."
Talbert bowed again and left.
His footsteps faded down the corridor.
Tywin stood beside his desk, staring at the closed door. His fingers tapped lightly against the wood.
Cersei.
What was that girl doing now?
Tywin took a slow breath and exhaled.
It didn't matter.
Once the coronation was over, everything would fall into place.
He would be Regent. The true ruler of the Seven Kingdoms.
No one would be able to change that.
---
At the same time, in his office on the third floor of the Hall of Order, Corleone sat with Balerion curled on his lap.
The black cat, missing half an ear, purred contentedly as Corleone absently stroked its back.
Outside, the streets of Flea Bottom were quiet under the moonlight. The evenly spaced streetlamps stretched into the distance like a sleeping dragon's spine. Farther away, the lights of the Ring of Order still burned bright, and the distant roar of gamblers could be faintly heard.
Even farther, the towers of the Red Keep rose like a dark island floating in the night.
Corleone looked toward those towers, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
"My lord!"
Rolje's voice came from the doorway, carrying a note of urgency.
"Come in."
Rolje entered quickly, his noseless face grim.
"What is it?" Corleone asked without looking up.
"There's movement outside the city," Rolje said, lowering his voice. "Lannister troops are gathering."
Corleone's hand paused for a moment on the cat's back.
"How many?"
"We're not sure yet, but at least a thousand. Ser Adam Marbrand is personally commanding them. They're forming up in the camp outside the walls."
"Our people inside Gold Cloak headquarters say the Hand has ordered troops into the city. He claims it's to strengthen security around the Red Keep for the Regent's coronation."
"Strengthen security…" Corleone gave a short, humorless laugh. "Even Tywin Lannister is starting to lose patience now that the prize of Regent is within reach. Pity for him…"
The office fell quiet for a few seconds, broken only by Balerion's purring and the distant sounds from the casino.
"How many men can we field?" Corleone asked suddenly.
Rolje blinked, then pulled a small notebook from his coat and flipped through it.
"Trained and ready to fight in armor… roughly eight hundred."
"Eight hundred," Corleone repeated. A gleam appeared in his dark eyes.
A very auspicious number.
He remembered old stories from another life—Huo Qubing charging into the desert with eight hundred cavalry, Li Shimin seizing power with eight hundred men at Xuanwu Gate, Yue Fei's eight hundred elite guards sweeping through Jin forces.
Eight hundred men. Not many. Not few.
But sometimes, eight hundred was enough to change everything.
"It will do," Corleone murmured.
Rolje didn't catch it. "My lord?"
"Nothing." Corleone looked up. "Where are these eight hundred men deployed right now?"
"Most of them in Flea Bottom," Rolje answered. "The rest are at the docks and along Steel Street. As you ordered, we haven't placed too many of our own people inside the Gold Cloaks. We've only…"
"Only made sure they owe me favors," Corleone finished. "That's enough."
He stood and walked to the window. Moonlight outlined his figure in silver.
"The Hand wants to bring troops into the city. That is his right. We won't stop him. We don't need to."
"But we will make sure he understands that King's Landing is not his alone."
Rolje frowned. "What do you want to do?"
"Where is the Hound?"
"At the fighting pits. He has a match tonight."
"And Irgo?"
"Downstairs. He just finished eating and said he was heading to Silk Street for some entertainment. He even asked if I wanted to come along."
"What about Bronn?"
Rolje's expression turned slightly strange. "At Stokeworth… overseeing the repairs."
"Though from what I hear, he spends most of his time drinking. The workers are ones he picked himself. The materials are good, but without proper supervision some of them are slacking. When it's finished, the quality might be… questionable."
"My lord, Stokeworth is a castle you personally promised to help rebuild. If it collapses later, it might damage our reputation…"
Corleone's mouth twitched. "Let him do as he likes. It's his castle. If it falls down, that's his problem."
"Send word to the Hound and Irgo. Starting tomorrow, increase patrols in Flea Bottom, but do not provoke the Lannister troops."
"Tell the Gold Cloaks who took our money to keep their heads down for now. I don't want to give Tywin any excuse to act."
"Understood."
"One more thing." Corleone paused. "Is Barristan Selmy still in the city?"
Rolje looked surprised for a second. "Yes. Our people saw him yesterday. He's staying at a small inn near the docks."
"Good." Corleone's mouth curved. "Have someone keep an eye on him. Don't approach him directly. If he comes looking for me, bring him straight up."
"Yes, my lord."
Rolje turned to leave. At the door, he stopped and looked back.
"My lord… do you think Tywin will use this opportunity to move against us?"
Corleone was silent for a moment. Then he shook his head.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because he is Tywin Lannister." Corleone turned back to the window, gazing at the distant towers of the Red Keep. "He never fights a battle he isn't sure he can win. Bringing troops into the city is preparation for the coronation, not an attack on us."
"But he will move eventually."
"Eventually," Corleone agreed. "Just not yet."
He looked out at the night.
"For Tywin right now, nothing is more important than becoming Regent."
Rolje didn't ask anything else. He simply nodded and left, closing the door behind him.
The office grew quiet again.
Balerion jumped down from Corleone's lap and curled up on the windowsill, returning to sleep.
Corleone remained by the window, staring at the distant silhouette of the Red Keep under the moonlight.
Regent.
Tywin Lannister had waited years for this moment.
But was that seat truly as comfortable as he believed?
After all, the last man to hold the position of Regent had been Eddard Stark.
Corleone reached out and gently stroked Balerion's back. The black cat rolled over, exposing its soft belly.
A small smile touched Corleone's lips as he looked out at the night.
The lion…
was finally walking into the cage.