"How was it? You must be very pleased—my plan failed, far less brilliant than when you were Acting Hand of the King," Tyrion's father, Tywin, remarked with a thinly veiled smirk, golden light glinting in his pale green eyes as he looked down at his son.
"Oh, Father, are you praising me?" Tyrion asked, walking forward with a playful smile, attempting to sit on one of the chairs in the Hand's Tower. The chairs were far too tall for someone of his stature, and he often regretted not replacing them when he had the power. Struggling to adjust himself, he finally settled in, picked a clean cup from the table, poured himself a generous glass of Summer Red, and took a sip.
"I also think I did a good job. Now, how about you return that golden chain to me? You, old man, can rest afterward."
Normally, the Hand of the King had the privilege to design their own symbol. Eddard Stark, for example, had a silver, hand-shaped clasp fastening his cloak. When Tyrion had served as Acting Hand, he had commissioned a pure gold chain for himself, each link shaped like a tiny hand, proudly displaying the Lannisters' wealth. Now, that very chain hung around Tywin's neck.
Tywin's burly figure loomed over Tyrion, his eyes narrowing. "Stop making faces. The only reason you handled the Dorne affair so well was because I made you Acting Hand of the King. House Tyrell cooperated only because you acted in my name, as a Lannister. That's why the other members of the Small Council obeyed you, ultimately making success possible."
Tyrion chuckled, unbothered. "By myself? You know I couldn't even enter the Red Keep—or even King's Landing—without guards stopping me and interrogating me endlessly."
"Moreover," Tywin continued, his tone sharp, "you start things but rarely finish them. Petyr Baelish has complained more than once that you didn't honor your agreements."
Tyrion, now used to his father's constant disapproval, smiled, drinking half his Summer Red before replying, "I'm no longer Hand, Father. The remaining matters are yours to manage."
Petyr Baelish, the former Master of Coin, had recently returned as an envoy. He had successfully negotiated the marriage alliance between House Tyrell and the Iron Throne. A major motivator had been Tyrion's promise that upon settling the matter, Petyr would become Duke of Harrenhal and Governor of the Riverlands. However, the situation shifted rapidly.
Who could have predicted that Tywin would be defeated by Robb Stark near the Red Fork, fleeing King's Landing in disarray with half his forces? Harrenhal remained in the hands of the "Blackfish," with at least five thousand soldiers stationed within, making it impossible to reclaim for now. Littlefinger, despite gaining no real fief, went to the Vale with the title of Duke of Harrenhal, preparing to marry Lysa Tully. Tywin hoped to regain control of the Vale without deploying a single soldier, planning to bring House Arryn under Iron Throne rule while granting Robert Arryn the title of Warden of the East.
Tywin leaned back and remarked, "I've already cleaned up your mess."
"Oh, that's good," Tyrion replied with a grin. "So, Father, why keep me here, and why invite Sansa Stark? Are you planning to marry her to me?"
Tyrion laughed softly, dismissing the idea.
Tywin's eyes narrowed, and he spoke in a measured tone. "Had my plans in Twin River City succeeded, then yes, you could have married Sansa Stark and gained Winterfell's inheritance. After the coming winter, the Ironborn who only know plunder would be driven away by the Northern forces. You and Sansa could have had a child and ruled the North as regents." He shook his head, recalling the other schemes. "Even the old woman from House Tyrell intended to abduct her to Highgarden, marrying her grandson, Willas—he's said to be a crippled scholar."
Tyrion blinked in surprise. His father had indeed crafted an ambitious plan—one that would have placed Tyrion in Winterfell as regent. But failure was failure, and Tyrion shrugged it off cheerfully.
"Then what now?" he asked. "Stannis Baratheon and Robb Stark surround King's Landing. Which threat do you deal with first?"
The situation on the continent was tense. With Tyrell support, King's Landing remained strong but beset by enemies: the North and Riverlands to the west and north, Dragonstone at sea, the Stormlands to the south, and the Vale closed off at the Bloody Gate. Dorne offered little more than token support, and Highgarden contributed but faced resistance from a third of its lords. The recent loss of seven to eight thousand soldiers, including the Earl of Horn Hill and his son, was a significant blow. The game of thrones required utmost vigilance.
Tywin interlaced his fingers under his chin, studying Tyrion. "The situation is perilous. Losing Earl Randyll Tarly is especially grievous. Everyone must assume responsibility—including you."
"Yes, Father," Tyrion said, his face growing serious. Tywin's rare calm only signaled a matter of grave importance.
"Now," Tywin continued, "you must rush to Twin River City and negotiate with the newly appointed Lord of River Crossing. Determine the ransom for the captured lords and knights—especially your uncle. And I do not wish to ransom any Kingsguard."
Tyrion's mind whirled. Leave his elder brother Jaime to rot in a Northern dungeon while ransoming others? The thought struck him with cold horror. He drained his wine, letting its sweet fruitiness suppress the turmoil inside. After composing himself, he asked quietly, "What terms can I offer the other party?"
He hoped to reach his brother, persuading him that if given the chance, Jaime should take the black and join the Night's Watch. Perhaps later, he could ransom Jaime with a small force.
Tywin's cold eyes pierced him. "Sansa Stark, ice, gold, grain, and those locked in the Northern dungeons. Use your clever mind to secure the best possible deal."
He paused, adding, "And see if Eddard Karstark is willing to marry the Queen Mother and become a Lannister son-in-law."
Tyrion's jaw dropped. "Are you serious?"
"Karstark is a Stark ally. Robb trusted him with Twin River City because he could not betray him," Tywin explained. "If successful, the North and Riverlands will be divided. Robb will struggle to unite the Northern lords for future campaigns. It's advantageous to us."
Tyrion raised his hands in feigned surrender. "Understood." His father's ruthlessness left no room for compromise.
He paused, a thought striking him. "So after completing this task, what reward awaits me? Negotiating peace is treacherous work—it could destroy my reputation in King's Landing, which I've just begun to build."
Tywin's face stiffened. "Your reputation? What reputation?" His tone chilled the air. "Speak—what do you want?"
"I want what is mine: Casterly Rock," Tyrion said casually.
Silence fell. Tywin's golden eyes gleamed, molten with fury. "Never."
Tyrion had expected this, though disappointment still pricked at him. "You won't ransom my elder brother, leaving him to rot. A Kingsguard cannot marry, inherit land, or have children. I am your only legitimate heir—why can't you acknowledge that before the lords?"
Tywin's expression darkened. "What nonsense! You may bear my name, wear my clothes, and flaunt the Lannister sigil, but neither gods nor men compel me to hand Casterly Rock to you and turn it into a brothel."
"A brothel?" Tyrion asked, realizing why Tywin's anger had flared. He wondered briefly if Cersei had complained.
"That is none of your concern," Tywin said, rising to his full height. "Never mention Casterly Rock again. After this succeeds, you'll receive rewards and positions matching your merit. And that whore you hide—consider this your final warning. I will personally hang her if it happens again. Understood?"
"I understand," Tyrion replied, nodding, already plotting how to hide Shae more securely. Perhaps a disgraced knight could serve as a cover, turning the affair into nothing more than scandalous gossip rather than prostitution.
Before leaving, he cautiously asked, "You do not plan to let Uncle Kevan or his sons inherit, nor acknowledge me. You still want my elder brother to return. Can you clarify your plans?"
Tywin raised an eyebrow, realizing Tyrion's question had merely tested him. "That is none of your business. Just do your job. Now leave. Send Miss Sansa Stark in. Quickly, get out, you disobedient fool!"
"Alright, alright," Tyrion said, shrugging, humming softly as he exited. Though rejected explicitly, he had gained a minor victory against his father. Compared to a lifetime of insults, today's scolding was almost painless.
The wooden door closed, leaving the room in silence. Soon, a slender girl entered cautiously.
"Great Hand, I heard you were looking for me?"
"Yes," Tywin replied. "I have good news and a task for you."
"Respected lord, please speak. I will do my utmost."
"Miss Stark, if all goes well, you will soon return to the North. Deliver a message to Jaime Lannister: a Kingsguard is cared for by no one, but the Lannisters always repay their debts. Can you do that?"
"Of course! I will deliver that message," Sansa exclaimed, determination in her eyes.
"Good. That is all. You may leave; I have work to do."
The wooden door closed once more, and silence returned to the study, leaving Tywin alone with his plans and schemes.
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