"How are the preparations?" Tywin asked, his voice carrying across the room without so much as a glance toward his brother's call.
"All the houses sworn to you have arrived," Kevan answered, inclining his head slightly. "Every one of them has declared that they are ready to face whatever comes."
As his words faded, another wave struck the sea outside, rolling in with a deep, mournful rumble that filled the room like a distant weeping.
Yet Tywin remained motionless, unblinking, still fixed on the moon above.
The Hall of Heroes seemed to sink deeper into silence, heavy with a sense of solitude.
Kevan felt the weight in his chest grow, an almost suffocating pressure.
But he said nothing more, only stood in quiet patience, listening intently to the low thunder at his ear.
It was impossible to say how long they remained so before Tywin spoke again.
"Brother, our family's words are Hear Me Roar!"
"But the saying that travels farther beyond our halls is this: A Lannister Always Pays His Debts."
"So… in your view, how should we face this crisis? I want to hear your opinion."
He still did not turn to look at Kevan, but the silence had been broken.
The question itself caught Kevan slightly off guard—his brother, Tywin Lannister, asking what should be done.
He paused, then drew a deep breath and walked slowly toward him.
Though it was the dead of night, Kevan wore full armor.
A longsword hung at his hip, his helmet held in one hand, and with each step, the muted chime of metal on metal brought a touch of grim steel to the quiet hall.
"I have not thought about what to do—"
"But I know that we are ready. We have been ready… since the days of the Targaryen dynasty."
He stopped at Tywin's side, speaking his answer.
Then, as Tywin finally turned his gaze toward him, Kevan lowered his head and sank to one knee.
Only then did he notice that his brother was holding a naked longsword in his hand.
He had only been resting it before him like a cane, which was why Kevan hadn't noticed it until now.
Watching the candlelight glint along the bright silver blade, Kevan lowered his gaze a little further.
Hearing his brother's firm reply, Tywin's pale green eyes flickered faintly as he looked at him kneeling in loyalty.
Then, all at once, Tywin shook his head, his face stern.
"No, you're wrong, Kevan. We have never truly been prepared—"
"It was the same when Robert took the Iron Throne, and it's the same now."
Kevan looked up, confusion filling his eyes at those unexpected words.
Seeing his brother's puzzled expression, Tywin went on.
"You know it well, as does everyone, brother—we cannot stand against so many enemies!"
"Those jackals would gladly take this chance to stamp us into the mud, to see us gone forever, nothing more than a passing line in the annals of history."
"They've always been there, just waiting for the moment to strike!"
"But—" Kevan began, alarm rising at such grim words.
Tywin, however, cut him off with a wave of his hand, refusing to let him continue, and instead reached out to pull him back to his feet.
Turning, he strode toward the doors of the Hall of Heroes, longsword still in hand.
And as he walked, he spoke. "That is why we must be all the more careful!
"The blood of House Lannister runs back to the Age of Heroes—we will not allow it to vanish.
"Yes, Jaime and Cersei have been put to death by Robert, but the Lannisters will not collapse because of it. Remember—our aim is to preserve our house, our bloodline."
Tywin reached the great doors.
He grasped the handles and pulled them open in one swift motion, and a rush of wind poured inside.
Then he turned back, pale green eyes with a glint of gold fixed on Kevan Lannister, his voice rising.
"That is why we will not meet defeat here!
"We will carry it forward—even to a dynasty!
"We will not remain silent, to be butchered like prey!
"Remember—we are lions!
"We must make them hear us roar, and know that a Lannister always pays his debts!!!"
'Only this way can we survive!'
These final words, Tywin silently said to himself in his heart.
Hearing the declaration of his elder brother—Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock—Kevan Lannister's eyes reddened.
Already on his feet, Kevan once again dropped to his knees.
"I and my bloodline shall bleed for House Lannister!"
"I swear my life in your service!!!"
In this moment of the family's life and death, he understood as well, and was all the more willing to give his strength for it.
Seeing Kevan in this state, the stern-faced Lord Tywin merely gave a silent nod.
He then turned his head, glancing at the suits of armor in the Hall of Heroes, their gleaming surfaces reflecting the brilliance of the firelight, his eyes growing ever more profound.
"We must prepare for the worst, Kevan!"
"And so, we must also make the necessary preparations!"
Tywin's voice rang out firm and forceful, each word striking the ground like a hammer.
Turning back, he looked down at his brother kneeling on the floor and gazing up at him.
"Tell Genna that I will entrust the Lannister fleet to her."
"She will know what must be done."
"After that, I'll need you, as secretly and as swiftly as possible, to lead a portion of the Lannister soldiers, together with the Clegane, Loch, and Swyft houses, and take King's Landing for me!"
"Remember—this must be done, no matter the cost!"
"As for within King's Landing, I have already made arrangements. There will be men ready to receive you when the time comes."
Tywin's expression was ice-cold, his tone utterly unshaken as he issued this death order to his brother.
Hearing the command, Kevan looked up at him, his brow furrowing slightly.
"Take King's Landing? If we strike now, the opportunity is there, but… and you?"
"War is inevitable—we must show our strength!"
Seeing Kevan raise this critical question, the look on Tywin's face grew even colder.
"This is also our final chance."
...
King's Landing.
An emergency meeting of the Small Council—without the king, the Hand, or the Master of Ships—had been called together at Grand Maester Pycelle's summons.
Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin known as Littlefinger, cradled a dark brown leather-bound book in his arms as he walked unhurriedly into the council chamber where they usually held their meetings.
The chamber's furnishings were lavish.
The floor was covered with carpets from Myr, and in one corner stood a wooden screen from the Summer Isles, carved with over a hundred lifelike, vividly painted exotic birds and beasts.
The walls were hung with fine tapestries from Norvos, Qohor, and Lys.
Even on either side of the door stood a pair of sphinx statues said to have come from Valyria, their rounded red-garnet eyes gleaming brightly against their black marble faces.
The moment Littlefinger stepped into the room, he saw the few scattered figures seated at the long table. With the corner of his mouth curling upward, he gave a slight shrug and said, "This place is growing ever more deserted. I wonder when we'll start to think it too empty."
"If anyone else has the same idea, I'd appreciate it if they told me in advance,"
"In that case, I might rent it out. After all, everyone knows our finances aren't nearly as sound as outsiders think."
Littlefinger spoke while tossing out a dull, sardonic joke, his eyes drifting over the lavish décor of the chamber as he strolled to his seat and sat down.
"The Crown has no need of such income, Lord Baelish—perhaps you should work harder to think of something else,"
Varys, the eunuch, adjusted his collar with his powder-covered fingers, his face wearing that cloyingly sweet smile as he chuckled in agreement.
"Should we start wondering if he's planning to sell everything in this room for gold dragons?" Renly, who had only just arrived himself, interjected sharply from the side. "And then slip them into his own pocket?"
The edge in his tone was obvious.
Hearing their jibes, Petyr Baelish calmly set down the hefty tome he carried.
Only after smoothing the creases from his tunic did he look at the two of them and reply, "My lords, I don't think you should be questioning my loyalty."
"Believe me, every gold dragon I've handled has gone out from the realm's coffers, not my own—"
"For example, the ten thousand gold dragons awarded to a certain bastard over an aurochs—oh, pardon me, I should say to Ser Kal Stone."
"After all, what I do, and can do—and the only reason His Grace so mercifully allows me to sit here among you—is because I can make the coins in his hand multiply."
With a look of mock innocence, Littlefinger gave a shrug, then turned toward the end of the table, where an elderly man seemed on the verge of dozing off.
"Speaking of which—would some kind soul tell me what this meeting is about?"
"Because I'm rather troubled over where I'm supposed to find the extra gold dragons we'll need, especially since, as it turns out, we're about to face a war."
"Seven save me, will no one take pity on me?"
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