Chapter 156
Time dragged on in suffocating silence.
Only when the slanted beam of sunlight creeping into the study nearly reached the dwarf's toes did the quill—scratching endlessly across parchment for who knew how long—finally come to an abrupt halt.
The figure in the shadows stopped writing.
Then, at last, a voice broke the stillness.
"I thought sending you to King's Landing would allow me some peace of mind…"
Tywin Lannister spoke slowly, each word measured.
"But it seems you are only slightly better than Cersei… and not by much. Because you are just as foolish."
"To be honest… you have disappointed me, Tyrion."
His tone was calm—too calm—like the dry, lifeless chill of an autumn wind.
Tyrion Lannister felt his heart tighten.
He opened his mouth, wanting to respond—
But no words came.
His silence stretched, and so did the quiet in the room.
Tywin tapped the quill lightly against the desk before setting it back into its stand.
Then he folded his hands beneath his chin, lifting his gaze to stare straight at Tyrion.
"Do you even understand… what we have lost because of you?"
The invisible wind seemed to grow colder.
"If you don't, I'd be more than happy to remind you."
"Because of you, we have not only lost the chance to peacefully exchange for your brother Jaime Lannister…"
"But also your sister Cersei Lannister—and an entire capital."
"Oh, and let's not forget—a rightful king…"
"…and his noble betrothed."
"I had such high expectations for your arrival," Tywin continued, his voice growing colder.
"I thought you would set things back on the proper course."
"But this…"
"This is the result you present to me."
"You lost the war… and with it, everything."
Facing his father's cold condemnation, Tyrion stood there in silence, lips pressed tight.
He knew.
He knew exactly what losing the war meant.
He knew what the fall of King's Landing meant for House Lannister.
And more than that—
He understood what it meant to lose Cersei… Joffrey… Sansa Stark… Myrcella… Tommen…
But none of this had been what he wanted.
And he could never have imagined the story would end like this.
The weight of it all pressed down on him.
His head lowered.
There was nothing left to argue.
Nothing left to fight with.
During his time in Rosby, he had thought of countless ways to salvage the situation—
Yet until his father arrived, he had found none.
Now, with no army, no gold, no food—
There was nothing he could do.
No matter how sharp his tongue was, before absolute power, it meant nothing.
Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—Tywin seemed unwilling to dwell further on the matter.
From the darkness, his gaze remained fixed on his dwarf son.
His fingers began tapping lightly against the desk, slow and irregular, as if he had sunk into deep thought once more.
Silence returned to the study.
Time passed.
The sun sank.
Night fell.
Darkness crept across Tyrion's shoulders far faster than the fading light had.
And in that pitch-black room—
The steady tapping of Tywin's fingers grew louder and louder.
Each tap—
Like a hammer striking directly against the heart.
Tyrion felt suffocated by the silence.
He raised his head, instinctively wanting to say something—
But the moment he opened his mouth, he was cut off mercilessly.
"I have no interest in what you think."
Tywin Lannister remained as domineering as ever.
"What you need to do now is simple. I speak, you listen, and then you obey. Do you understand?"
As his words fell, the sound of fabric shifting came from the darkness.
A moment later—
Fwoosh.
A fire striker sparked to life.
The faint glow illuminated half of Tywin's face.
His bald head reflected the firelight, while his thick golden sideburns cast heavy shadows, making his face look like the gaping maw of some beast ready to devour.
---
"What… do you want me to do?"
Tyrion Lannister asked, tension tightening his throat.
He had thought of solutions. Of course he had.
But without men, without gold, without supplies—no plan could be executed. Every step was like wading through mud.
So Tywin's sudden shift in tone only made him more cautious.
Tywin didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he used the flame to light the candle on his desk.
The dim light spread, carrying with it a faint scent—like night-blooming lotus.
The room brightened slightly.
Tywin's face became clearer, less monstrous… though behind him, his shadow loomed like a giant, flickering with the candlelight.
He extinguished the striker.
Still, he did not answer.
Instead, he pressed a hand against the parchment he had just finished writing and slowly pushed it toward Tyrion.
"I want you to take this letter… to the Eyrie in the Vale, and carry out a task for me."
His voice seemed to come from the shadow itself—cold and distant.
His pale green eyes, flecked with gold, locked onto Tyrion.
So it is as I thought…
Tyrion's mind tightened.
But when he glanced at the letter, confusion crept in.
"The Eyrie…? You mean House Arryn's Eyrie?!"
His voice rose in disbelief.
Did his father not remember?
That place had nearly killed him.
The Tully sisters had come within a breath—a breath—of sending him plunging to his death.
Only by the grace of the gods had he survived, winning his trial by combat, escaping the Mountains of the Moon… and even gaining three hundred fierce clansmen in the process.
Recovering slightly, Tyrion spoke again, his tone edged with resentment.
"Father, I don't think sending me to the Vale is a good idea."
"That place nearly killed your son—me."
"Though I'd be happy to act as your flightless, crippled raven… I would at least like to know—what exactly do you intend me to do there?"
He smirked faintly.
"Surely you're not asking me to propose to Lysa Arryn?"
"To seize control of the Vale through marriage?"
"Last I saw her, the widow of Jon Arryn was surrounded by men sniffing after her like wolves… like a mare in heat."
"And I doubt she needs another dwarf groveling at her gate. Perhaps you should consider sending someone else?"
His barbed words could have been aimed at Lysa—
Or at his father.
But Tywin remained unmoved.
He simply tapped the letter on the desk.
"This task requires you."
"You will go personally."
"I want you to deliver this letter to Lysa Tully—Lysa Arryn, whatever she calls herself now—"
For a brief moment, irritation flickered across Tywin's face.
He leaned forward slightly, the candlelight sharpening his gaze.
His voice turned icy.
"You will place this letter in her hands. Personally. And preferably… in front of all the Vale's lords."
The more detailed the instructions became—
The less Tyrion understood.
"Requires me?"
He frowned, mind racing.
His eyes dropped back to the letter.
Then—
Understanding dawned.
A mocking smile curled at his lips.
"If you're trying to form an alliance with House Arryn… I suggest you abandon the idea."
He stepped forward, picking up the letter as he spoke.
"Lysa Tully hates us. I'd wager she wishes every Lannister dead."
"As for her son, Robin Arryn—he doesn't hate me. He simply wants to see me fly like a kite."
He continued speaking—
But as his eyes scanned the letter, his voice abruptly died.
It was as if someone had stuffed sand down his throat.
He froze.
Then slowly looked up at Tywin, who had leaned back in his chair, expression cold and unreadable.
"You wrote… that you intend to marry her?!"
Outside, the night had fully fallen, rain beginning to patter softly.
But in Tyrion's mind—
It was as if lightning had struck.
He stared, wide-eyed, trying to determine whether the man before him was truly his father—
Tywin Lannister—the proud lion of the West, former Hand of the King, a man who never let emotion show.
And yet—
That very man was now proposing marriage to a widowed, unstable, aging woman.
From the shadows, Tywin responded with a low grunt.
"Yes. I intend to marry her."
"And I see no reason she would refuse."
Tyrion stood there, stunned into silence.
Then, suddenly—
A strange sense of humiliation rose within him.
"…Have you considered," he said slowly, "that this would be an insult to our mother?"
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
And the moment they did—
He knew he had made a mistake.
After a long silence, Tywin spoke again.
"You-a dwarf is the insult."
The words struck harder than any blade.
Tyrion lowered his head.
The parchment in his hands crumpled under his grip.
Tywin simply watched him, his green eyes utterly devoid of warmth.
After a moment, Tyrion raised his head again, forcing his emotions down.
"You said Lysa Arryn has no reason to refuse you."
His voice steadied.
"But have you considered… that instead of accepting or refusing…"
"She might simply have your son's head cut off—"
"And then call her lords to march down from the mountains?"
"That seems far simpler than marrying you."
Even now, Tyrion's tongue remained sharp.
Or perhaps—he simply no longer cared.
"So, Father… you don't need to do this."
"I suggest you throw that letter into the fire… and go to bed."
"You might even get a good night's sleep."
Tywin didn't react.
He only looked at Tyrion with cold indifference.
"Fool. My purpose is not merely an alliance with the Vale."
Tyrion laughed—short and bitter.
"Then what? A sudden whim? Or do you simply want me dead so you don't have to dirty your own hands?"
"Afraid dwarf blood might stain you?"
Tywin didn't even bother to respond to the accusation.
Instead, he asked:
"Where is Petyr Baelish?"
The sudden shift caught Tyrion off guard.
But after a moment, he answered:
"Probably still in the dungeons of King's Landing… or perhaps released by Randyll Tarly."
"He's not in my hands."
The fall of the city had been too chaotic.
Remembering to escape with Cersei and Joffrey had already been enough—how could he have remembered Littlefinger as well?
Tywin's expression darkened further.
"So you lost another valuable piece."
"You let your squire chase power and glory… and ignored what truly mattered."
That was Cersei, Tyrion thought.
Or rather—Podrick, acting under her influence.
But aloud, he only replied coldly:
"That was Cersei. Don't place the blame on me."
"She seduced my squire. And not just her—even our cousin—"
"Enough!"
Tywin slammed his hand onto the desk.
The candlelight flared, reflecting the fury in his eyes.
"Do not compare your sister to a whore! She is the Queen Regent!"
"Isn't she?" Tyrion shot back. "Or does that title make her pure?"
"By that logic, I'm the most chaste man in the world."
Silence fell again.
Then Tywin spoke, dismissive.
"I will deal with Littlefinger myself."
"Take the letter. Go to the Eyrie. Deliver it."
"To Lysa Arryn—personally."
"If she threatens you… tell her this—"
"If I hear of any harm coming to you, I will reveal the truth of Jon Arryn's death to the world."
"And if she agrees—"
"Tell her that after marriage, I will not share her bed."
"I will have no contact with her."
"What she does otherwise, I will ignore."
"As for Petyr Baelish—"
"He will be her gift."
Tywin's gaze locked onto Tyrion.
"Do you understand?"