The first light of dawn crept through the windows of the Tower of the Hand. Tywin Lannister was already awake.
He hadn't truly slept.
The man who would be crowned Regent today sat on the edge of his bed, hands braced on his knees, spine straight as a spear. The deep crimson sleeping robe fell to his ankles, its fabric embroidered with the golden lion of House Lannister. Even in his private chambers, Tywin maintained the rigid posture of a lord.
Outside, King's Landing was stirring. Gulls cried over Blackwater Bay. The first voices of the morning markets drifted up from the streets below.
Tywin rose and walked barefoot across the cold stone floor toward the washroom. As he passed the tall silver mirror, his steps slowed.
The man in the glass was broad-shouldered. Even nearing sixty, his body was still straighter and stronger than most young knights. The only flaw was the once-proud golden hair—now gone, leaving a scalp so polished it would have made a eunuch jealous.
He looked, for all the world, like a lion that had just woken from a long rest.
If one ignored the dark circles under his eyes.
Tywin's mouth twitched. He leaned closer to the mirror and pressed a finger beneath one eye. The bruising didn't fade. If anything, the pressure made it stand out more sharply in the morning light.
Damn it.
Another night without proper sleep.
He had been struggling for weeks now. Every evening he lay in his wide bed and listened to the tide against Blackwater Bay, counting his breaths, forcing his eyes closed. Sleep came late, if it came at all. When it did, he often woke in the middle of the night drenched in cold sweat, unable to remember what he had dreamed.
Most nights he simply lay awake until dawn.
And the cause of all this was simple.
Flea Bottom.
More precisely—the man inside Flea Bottom who had done nothing at all.
Tywin scratched his bald head and turned away from the mirror. He walked to the golden chamber pot at the far end of the washroom and sat down.
Half an hour later, nothing had happened.
Same as every morning for the past month.
His old trouble was growing worse.
Grand Maester Pycelle had given him honey water, fig paste, and even a Dornish herbal brew that was supposed to work miracles. Tywin had drunk it all for half a month. The only miracle was how many extra trips to the privy it caused. The real problem remained unsolved.
Two weeks earlier he had ordered two thousand Lannister soldiers into the city. Most of them were now stationed along Pickled Meat Street, sealing off the northern edge of Flea Bottom. Adam Marbrand's best men were camped right on Corleone's doorstep. The pressure was supposed to be unbearable.
All Corleone had to do was strike first. Then Tywin could brand him a traitor trying to disrupt the Regent's coronation. Every noble in the realm would stand with Tywin. No one would defend a man who raised arms on the eve of a king's crowning.
It was a perfect plan.
On paper.
But half a month had passed and Flea Bottom remained as quiet as a still pond. The gray-uniformed community wardens still patrolled. Bread smoke still rose from the bakeries every morning. The fighting pits still blazed with light at night. Even the gamblers kept coming, despite daily searches at the gates. It was as if the Lannister soldiers surrounding them simply did not exist.
Tywin could not understand it.
He had turned every possibility over in his mind countless times. To stop Corleone from interfering with the coronation, he had ordered Varys to send most of his little birds into Flea Bottom. The reports only made him more uneasy.
Corleone was simply going about his business—meeting merchants, reviewing paperwork, occasionally watching a fight at the pits, and at night sitting by the window with a black cat in his lap. He looked as relaxed as Tyrion had been before he ever became Master of Coin.
It was unnatural.
A man surrounded by two thousand armed soldiers could only be this calm for two reasons: he was mad, or he was confident.
Vito Corleone was not mad.
That truth had kept Tywin awake for half a month. Because Corleone had been the one who suggested making him Regent in the first place. He knew exactly what would happen once Tywin wore the crown—Flea Bottom would be brought to heel. Corleone had to have a plan.
Yet he had done nothing.
The longer the silence lasted, the more Tywin felt an invisible blade hanging over his head. The waiting was worse than any open threat. Corleone did nothing, so Tywin could do nothing. He could only wait.
And waiting was the most exhausting thing in the world.
Another quarter hour passed. Tywin stood, adjusted his robe, and gave the golden chamber pot one last frustrated look. The most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms, master of Casterly Rock's gold and tens of thousands of soldiers, could not control when his own bowels moved.
The gods had a cruel sense of humor.
He returned to the mirror. Servants had already laid out the coronation robes. Deep crimson velvet trimmed with gold lions, a black sable cloak, and a ceremonial sword whose scabbard was set with seven pigeon-egg rubies that caught the morning light like drops of blood.
He had never drawn this sword in battle. Today it would serve as part of the Regent's regalia.
Tywin studied his reflection. He looked every inch a king.
No—more than a king. His eight-year-old grandson—possibly his son—had never carried himself with this kind of presence.
He lifted his chin slightly, satisfied.
Everything was perfect.
Except for the dark circles beneath his eyes.
He snorted, picked up a small porcelain box from the silver tray, and carefully applied the thick concealer Pycelle had prepared. It helped. The bruising faded. But anyone looking closely would still see it.
Tywin stared at his reflection for a long moment.
It didn't matter. Today no one would dare meet the Regent's eyes. They would look at his boots and nothing else.
He adjusted the clasp of his cloak and walked to the door.
Tywin never rode in carriages. Carriages were for women and old men. He was neither.
By the time he reached the courtyard, a pure black Dornish stallion stood waiting. Its mane and tail had been braided with golden ribbons that caught the light like a lion's mane. Tywin swung into the saddle with practiced ease and nudged the horse forward. Twenty red-cloaked Lannister knights fell in behind him.
The gates of the Red Keep opened.
King's Landing had been waiting. Crowds lined both sides of the street, held back by a wall of linked Gold Cloaks. Men, women, children, sailors, and dockworkers all craned their necks for a glimpse of the man who would soon be Regent.
Tywin paid them no mind. The opinion of sheep had never concerned the lion. He only required their obedience.
Today, once the crown sat on his head, every sheep in the Seven Kingdoms would learn to obey.
He rode at an easy pace, the steady rhythm of hooves on stone strangely comforting. He had ridden for more than forty years. A good horse was more comfortable than most chairs.
At least for the first quarter hour.
Then the familiar ache began low in his back.
Damn hemorrhoids.
He shifted slightly in the saddle, trying to ease the pressure. The saddle had been made to his exact measurements. No matter how he moved, the pain returned to the same spot.
Tywin's expression never changed. Back straight, eyes forward. He would not let the smallfolk see him in discomfort.
To distract himself, he turned his thoughts to other matters.
Ten days ago a Lannister patrol captain named Rav and a dozen of his men had been found dead in a tavern on Pickled Meat Street. Adam Marbrand's investigation had gone nowhere. The tavern keeper was an honest man with no motive or means. The only suspicious person was his daughter, who worked as a laundress in Flea Bottom.
The case remained unsolved.
What happened afterward was stranger still.
A man calling himself Whitebeard had begun hunting Lannister soldiers across the city. He wore a gray cloak with the hood pulled low. No one had seen his face. He only struck when soldiers were abusing smallfolk—extorting merchants, harassing women, or smashing shops while drunk.
Every soldier he killed was found with an empty purse. The coins always reappeared at the door of the poorest family nearby. And every person Whitebeard helped heard the same words:
"If you don't want to be bullied again, go to Flea Bottom. The Black Hand will protect you."
It was brazen.
The moment Tywin heard the reports he assumed Corleone was behind it. He ordered a full investigation. Varys's little birds had dug deep.
The results were surprising.
Whitebeard had no connection to the Black Hand at all. His only contact with Flea Bottom was a single fight at the Ring of Order, where he had beaten the champion called Ironhammer. After that he had never returned.
He simply wandered the streets of King's Landing like some storybook hedge knight, killing abusive soldiers and telling people to seek protection in Flea Bottom.
Tywin had used every intelligence asset he possessed and still could not learn the man's real name. In the end he had been forced to accept an absurd conclusion.
Whitebeard was simply a fanatical admirer of Vito Corleone.
He had heard stories of what Corleone had done for the smallfolk and decided to take up the sword in his own way. Corleone himself probably didn't even know the man existed.
The people Whitebeard helped had become the Black Hand's most loyal supporters. They spread the stories, growing wilder with each telling. Some said Whitebeard was a fallen knight redeemed by Corleone. Others claimed he was a messenger sent by the Seven to aid the Black Hand.
A few even whispered that he was Barristan Selmy himself.
Tywin's mouth had twitched for an entire morning when he heard that one.
Barristan Selmy? The old fool was across the Narrow Sea helping Daenerys Targaryen plot her return. He had no time to play vigilante in King's Landing.
The sound of hooves changed as the Great Sept of Baelor came into view. Its dome gleamed in the morning light. The square in front of it was packed with onlookers.
Tywin's gaze sharpened on the dome.
After today he would be Regent of the Seven Kingdoms. Corleone, Whitebeard, everyone—they would all kneel beneath his crown.
The sleepless nights, the constipation, the constant pressure would end. He would place the golden circlet on his head, sit the Iron Throne, and hold the realm in his fist.
No one would stop him.
No one.
He urged his horse faster. The black stallion snorted and broke into a canter toward the Sept.
Then a new set of hooves approached from behind.
Tywin glanced back. His captain of the guard rode up beside him.
"My lord," the man said quietly, voice low enough that only Tywin could hear. "Word from the city gates. Ser Osmund Kettleblack is requesting entry."
He watched Tywin's face carefully before continuing. "He was supposed to march north a month ago to hunt Stannis's remnants. Instead he's lingered on his lands and now chooses today to arrive, claiming he has a gift for the Regent. Should I turn him away?"
Tywin was silent for several heartbeats.
"Let him come," he said at last.
The captain looked surprised but nodded. "Yes, my lord."
He wheeled his horse and rode back toward the gates.
Tywin's eyes returned to the dome of the Great Sept.
He had known Osmund would come eventually.
A month ago Tywin had ordered him north with a hundred ill-equipped, poorly trained men scraped together from House Kettleblack's lands. It was meant to be a suicide mission. Osmund had clearly decided he preferred to live.
He had delayed with every excuse—short on grain, short on weapons, soldiers injured in training. A month later he still had not left King's Landing's shadow.
Tywin had let him stall. He wanted to see what his mad, foolish daughter would do.
Today was a good day for gifts.
A faint smile touched Tywin's lips as he spurred his horse forward. The black stallion surged ahead, carrying him toward the wide stone steps of the Great Sept.
Hundreds of nobles already waited in the square, dressed in their finest colors. They parted silently as Tywin approached, creating a path of deep red carpet that ran like a river of blood up to the Sept's great doors.
The High Septon and several red-robed septons stood waiting at the top of the steps. When they saw Tywin riding straight toward them, their polite smiles faltered.
The leading septon stepped forward, hands clasped, and began to speak.
"Lord Tywin Lannister, the Seven bless your—"
Tywin drove his heels into the stallion's flanks.
The great black horse leapt onto the first stone step and began climbing toward the doors of the Great Sept, straight at the High Septon.