Morning sunlight slanted through the high windows of the Tower of the Hand, painting golden patches across the stone floor.
Lord Tywin Lannister sat on his golden toilet.
It was probably the strangest piece of furniture in the entire Red Keep. Solid gold, with a deep crimson velvet seat, armrests carved like lion claws, and a cushioned back embroidered with the Lannister lion. A gift from his late wife's brother, Stafford Lannister, back when Tywin first became Hand under the Mad King. The man had been a notorious sycophant, but this particular piece of flattery had been comfortable enough to keep for over a decade.
After Corleone's single-handed audience, Tywin had suddenly remembered the thing was still in Casterly Rock and had it brought to King's Landing at speed. Gold wasn't the best conductor of heat, and the seat was cold in late autumn, but Tywin didn't care. This was the only place in the entire Red Keep where no one dared disturb him. No council meetings. No tiresome lords. No mad daughter. No sullen son who had run off to the Wall without a word.
And no—
Tywin's brow furrowed.
Damn it.
He had almost thought the name.
Vito Corleone.
He closed his eyes and took a slow breath, trying to relax.
It didn't work.
He had been sitting here for nearly half an hour and still nothing had happened.
Constipation.
The word didn't exist in Tywin Lannister's vocabulary. He was the Lord of Casterly Rock, Hand of the King, the man who made half of Westeros tremble. How could something this trivial be beyond his control?
And yet here he was.
"Damn it," he muttered.
Perhaps it was age. He was nearly sixty. His body no longer obeyed the way it once had, and these days the burdens were endless— the North, the Iron Islands, the Narrow Sea. Every problem landed on his desk.
And then there was that damned peasant.
Ever since Corleone appeared in King's Landing, every one of Tywin's plans had been disrupted. He had only wanted to use the man as a pair of hands in the dark, someone to handle the dirty work the Lannisters couldn't be seen doing themselves. Instead, those hands had wrapped around his own throat.
The image of Corleone standing in his bedchamber in white Kingsguard armor, sword tip at his neck, still sat like a splinter in Tywin's mind. Not because he feared death—he had never feared any man—but because he still couldn't understand how an ordinary blade had failed to pierce an ordinary throat.
He had spent too many nights turning the problem over. Corleone was a riddle he hadn't solved yet. For now, the only option was to keep the man close and watch.
Tywin exhaled again, pushing.
Still nothing.
Irritated, he opened his eyes and stared at the huge mirror on the opposite wall. The reflection showed the same imposing Tywin Lannister—golden hair perfectly combed, green eyes sharp, spine straight even while seated on a toilet. Only he knew how little the calm exterior matched what was happening inside.
"What the hell do you actually want?" he muttered at the empty air.
Power? He had already given it. Corleone was now Master of Coin, a member of the small council, one of the most influential men in King's Landing.
Wealth? The Hall of Order was printing money daily. The flea bottom businesses were spreading across the city. Corleone had more gold than he could count.
Then what else was there?
Tywin couldn't figure it out.
What he did know was that yesterday's small council meeting had left a sour taste in his mouth. The way Corleone had spoken—"The next meeting will be held in the throne room"—as if he were already the master of the Red Keep.
Tywin hadn't exploded. He needed Corleone to deal with the Iron Bank's debt. One and a half million gold dragons. The Iron Throne couldn't pay it. Let the new Master of Coin sweat over that particular problem.
The thought brought a faint, cold satisfaction.
The Iron Bank's envoy should arrive at the Hall of Order today. Tywin had met Nahor Dmitis once before—an arrogant Braavosi who carried himself like he owned the city and barely bothered to hide his contempt even for the Hand of the King. Corleone was about to learn just how unpleasant that particular conversation could be.
Tywin allowed himself a small, private smirk.
Let the upstart feel a little pain for once.
He shifted his weight, preparing to try again.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Urgent pounding shook the door of the privy.
Tywin's face twisted into a scowl.
"Who is it?"
"My lord!" came the voice of Ser Taubert Hetherspoon, captain of the guard, sounding strained. "Lord Vito Corleone requests an audience. He says it is extremely urgent!"
Tywin froze, hands tightening on the golden armrests.
Corleone?
Now?
The first thought that flashed through his mind was the Iron Bank debt. Corleone had only taken the assignment yesterday morning. If he was already here at first light, things must have gone badly.
Perhaps Nahor Dmitis was even more difficult than expected. Maybe even Corleone had no idea how to handle a hundred and fifty thousand dragons.
Tywin's mouth curved upward, just slightly.
Good.
Let the arrogant bastard taste a little frustration.
"Tell him to wait," Tywin said, voice regaining its usual iron calm. "I will be there shortly."
"Yes, my lord."
Footsteps faded.
Tywin looked down, sighed, and finished as quickly as dignity allowed. He stood, straightened his robes, and gave the golden toilet one last glance.
"Next time," he muttered, like a promise to himself, then pushed the door open and strode out.
Corleone was already seated in the Hand's solar when Tywin entered. He wore a simple dark gray tunic today, no badges or chains, looking like any other minor official come to deliver a report.
When Tywin appeared, Corleone rose politely and inclined his head.
"Lord Tywin."
Tywin gave a short nod and took his seat behind the desk. He winced slightly as he sat, then masked it.
Damn hemorrhoids. Ever since the Battle of the Blackwater they had been an occasional nuisance. Maester Pycelle had suggested more movement. Tywin had ignored him. He had no time for exercise.
He glanced at Corleone. The man was supposed to be an excellent healer, according to Pycelle. For half a second Tywin considered asking him to take a look, then immediately discarded the idea. He didn't trust Corleone enough to let the man put hands anywhere near his ass.
He shifted once more until he was comfortable, then lifted his gaze.
"Lord Corleone. You came at first light. It must be important."
He paused, allowing a rare note of dry amusement into his voice. "The Iron Bank debt, I assume?"
"I know it is a large sum. One and a half million gold dragons is no small matter. But you are Master of Coin. This is your responsibility. The Iron Throne cannot pay it outright. You will have to find a way—"
"Lord Tywin."
Corleone cut him off.
It was rude, but the look in those dark eyes made something cold stir in Tywin's chest.
"The Iron Bank's envoy… is dead."
Tywin stared at him, green eyes blank for the first time in years.
"What did you say?"
Corleone repeated it calmly. "Last night. Nahor Dmitis, senior steward of the Iron Bank, was killed."
Silence filled the solar.
Tywin's fingers tightened on the armrests.
Dead?
That arrogant Braavosi who had strutted through King's Landing only yesterday was dead? And it had happened right after Tywin handed the debt problem to Corleone?
Seven hells. Had Corleone's idea of "solving" the debt been to solve the man demanding it?
That was insane. The Iron Bank did not forgive. If word reached Braavos that their envoy had been murdered in King's Landing, the consequences could be worse than Joffrey executing Ned Stark.
"What exactly happened?" Tywin's voice had gone dangerously quiet.
Corleone didn't waste time. He laid out the facts in a flat, efficient tone. Nahor had left the Hall of Order, taken a carriage toward the Street of Silk, been abducted halfway there, and had been "unfortunately killed" during Corleone's rescue attempt.
When he finished, Tywin was silent for several seconds.
He didn't believe for a second that a senior Iron Bank official would travel through King's Landing with only a single servant. Either the man had been recklessly arrogant, or—
"Please tell me, Lord Corleone," Tywin said slowly, eyes locked on the younger man, "that you had nothing to do with this."
"Of course not, Lord Tywin."
Corleone placed his right hand over his heart. "I swear on the Seven. I did not order Nahor's death. It was an accident."
Tywin studied him for a long moment. Then he believed him. Corleone was many things, but he was not the sort to lie about something this obvious when denial would be pointless. Besides, killing Nahor gained him nothing.
The how no longer mattered. What mattered was what came next.
"Nahor is dead," Tywin said. "That is the fact. What we do now is delay the news reaching Braavos for as long as possible."
His voice turned sharp. "As Master of Coin, you are responsible for cleaning this up. I want every person Nahor brought with him—his servants, his ship, every man who traveled with him—eliminated. No survivors."
Corleone looked at him, and for a brief moment something like approval flickered in his dark eyes.
"On this matter, my lord," he said with a small, knowing smile, "we are of one mind."
"I already sent men last night. As soon as Nahor was killed, I had the Black Hand move on the Blackwater Bay docks. Not only did we remove every trace, I also turned one of Nahor's assistants. The man has worked with him for over a decade. He knows the Iron Bank's procedures and can imitate Nahor's handwriting perfectly."
"Under the Black Hand's… gentle persuasion, he agreed to cooperate. From now on he will send regular letters to Braavos reporting that Steward Nahor is still in King's Landing, negotiations are proceeding smoothly, and progress is being made."
"By the time the Iron Bank realizes something is wrong…"
"At least several months will have passed."
Tywin stared at him.
Even after everything he had seen, the sheer speed and thoroughness still caught him off guard. Every step had already been taken before Tywin even knew there was a problem.
For a fleeting second he remembered what it had felt like to be young and newly made Hand—always three moves ahead of everyone else.
If this man were my son—
He killed the thought immediately.
If Corleone were his son, Tywin would have been forced to step down the moment the boy came of age.
"You did well," Tywin said at last, voice carefully neutral.
Corleone inclined his head modestly. "It is every small council member's duty to ease the burdens of the Iron Throne."
Tywin almost laughed at the polite lie, but let it pass. There were still matters to settle.
"What are your plans going forward?" he asked.
Corleone spread his hands. "None yet."
"None?" Tywin's brow creased.
"None," Corleone repeated. "We are facing a debt of one and a half million gold dragons, Lord Tywin. Everyone knows the treasury is bleeding. This is not a problem that can be solved in a single day. For now, the best I can do is stall them. Buy as much time as possible. As for what comes after…"
He met Tywin's eyes, the corner of his mouth lifting. "We'll see."
Tywin was silent. The answer should have irritated him, yet something in Corleone's calm made it feel less like evasion and more like quiet confidence.
"However…"
Corleone's expression shifted into something almost playful. Tywin felt his stomach tighten. He had seen that same look right before the news about Nahor's death.
"There is one piece of good news."
Tywin's eyes narrowed. "Good news?"
Corleone smiled like spring sunshine, but those dark eyes glittered with something that made Tywin's instincts scream.
"Indeed, my lord. The good news is…"
"I caught the man who killed Nahor."