The night had passed, and Tyrion had no idea how late he'd kept drinking. By morning, his eyes were bloodshot, and he couldn't stop yawning.
What did his father want this time? To scold him? To humiliate him? Either way, he no longer cared.
Tywin sat across from him, pale green eyes fixed on his son. After a long silence, he slid a sheet of parchment across the table.
Still rubbing his eyes, Tyrion picked it up and read carefully.
It was an official decree naming him heir to Casterly Rock.
"This..." Tyrion was too stunned to finish the sentence.
"What is it?" Tywin asked evenly. "Is this not what you wanted? Or did you think I would go back on my word?"
"A Lannister always pays his debts," Tywin said with a faint, humorless smile. "That isn't a phrase only you can use. You got engaged, I confirmed the succession. Our bargain—fulfilled. Two copies were made. I've already ordered Pycelle to send the other to Casterly Rock."
"I thought... you might reconsider after the Freys..."
"Punish my son for the Weasels' behavior?" Tywin snorted. "Unnecessary. But those words you spoke in public—you should have kept them to yourself. And don't make threats you can't deliver on. An empty threat makes you harmless."
"They were mocking my wife."
"Which is why I'm willing to forgive you." Tywin's eyes narrowed. "But I doubt Walder Frey would risk his own blood to defend the Lannister name."
"You mean..."
"In your wife's family words—winter is coming." Tywin drew out another document and pushed it forward. "Varys and Baelish have both vanished. Not a trace. I don't believe this war is truly over."
Tyrion unfolded the paper, eyes widening. "Why..."
"As for Littlefinger," Tywin continued, "I trust your judgment. I've already sent word to the Eyrie stripping him of the title of Warden of the Vale."
"And you're giving me Harrenhal?" Tyrion held the letter, suspicious. "Lord of Harrenhal? Warden of the Riverlands?" The words sounded absurd paired with the Lannister name.
"Sansa carries Tully blood," Tywin said. "And she is the heir to the North. Since you're betrothed, it's time you bore your share of duty. You'll keep order in the Riverlands. I'll focus on the South."
"Fine. How many men?"
"Five hundred."
"How generous of you, Father." Tyrion leaned back. "And I'm to hold the Riverlands with that? Do you take the Freys, the Tullys, and the Brotherhood Without Banners for shy maidens? Am I supposed to make them yield with my cock?"
"You are the Warden of the Riverlands," Tywin replied coldly. "You can command the Riverland lords—Pinkmaiden, Seagard, Raventree Hall—they will obey your summons. If you can persuade Riverrun to support you, even better."
"Then I really will need my cock," Tyrion muttered. "Maybe I'll strangle Sansa right now and marry Walda. Would that please you?"
"That's your affair," Tywin said without expression. "Do as you will—kill whom you wish, reward whom you wish. The castles and lands of the Riverlands are yours to divide."
"And the Westerlands?" Tyrion asked. "I am still heir to Casterly Rock."
"You have no authority over its vassals, soldiers, or revenues," Tywin replied. "As for those two ruined keeps—your savages rebuilt them. They're yours to handle."
He meant Tarbeck Hall and Castamere.
"Those prisoners are mine as well." Tyrion ran his fingers over the two sheets of parchment. "I want every captive the Freys brought. They all answer to me."
"No problem," Tywin replied. "You'll have five hundred men and the Frey prisoners. As for supplies, you'll handle that yourself. The current castellan of Harrenhal is Amory Lorch. I'll recall him."
"If the Mountain could be placed under my command—"
"No. You can't control that beast," Tywin cut him off sharply. "And I need him."
"Enough, Father. That will do." Tyrion carefully tucked the two papers into his breast pocket. The thin sheets felt heavier than gold. "Then await my good news."
Outside the study, Jaime was waiting. His beard had grown thick—ever since his capture, he'd stopped shaving, much like Daven. Tyrion couldn't help wondering if there was some hidden advantage to having a beard in battle.
"Brother, will you come with me?" Tyrion asked with a grin. "To Harrenhal? You know what they say—a thousand soldiers are easy to find, a good commander isn't."
"No, I don't intend to go back there," Jaime said with a faint smile. "Come with me. I've something to show you."
He led Tyrion to a heavily guarded armory. The sentries stepped aside as they entered. Inside, the walls glittered with weapons of every kind, yet the most striking thing was the wooden table in the center, covered with a crimson cloth.
"Take a look at this." Jaime pulled the cloth away, revealing a massive sword. The blade was broader than a hand, nearly as tall as a man, its steel dark as shadowed smoke.
A Valyrian steel greatsword.
"Ice," Tyrion said quietly. "The Starks' blade."
"Exactly," Jaime nodded.
Valyrian steel swords were priceless rarities. Only a few thousand survived, about two hundred of them in Westeros—and not one belonged to House Lannister, a fact that had always gnawed at their father.
The ancient Kings of the Rock had once wielded a Valyrian greatsword called Brightroar, but King Tommen II took it with him on that doomed voyage to Valyria. Both sword and king were lost.
Their uncle Gerion—cheerful, reckless Gerion—had vanished eight years ago on his own quest to find the family blade.
Lord Tywin had tried at least three times to buy one from destitute noble houses, offering gold beyond measure. Each time, he'd been refused. Noble houses might gladly marry their daughters into House Lannister, but their ancestral swords were never for sale.
"Father should have had it reforged into two swords," Tyrion said. "One for you, one for Joff."
"He thought of that," Jaime replied. "He said you didn't need a sword, but I stopped him. This is a Stark blade—your betrothed's family sword. If you ever go to Winterfell, you'll need it."
"He agreed to that?"
"Of course not." Jaime began wrapping the sword in the red cloth again. "But why should we care? I'm his son, you're his son. What's his is ours, so long as we both agree."
"Thank you, brother." Tyrion's voice softened. He knew well what a Valyrian steel sword meant to a Lannister.
"Take it. It's heavy—be careful," Jaime said, handing it to him. "If it's too much, have a squire carry it."
Tyrion took it with both hands. Even through the cloth, the sword wasn't as heavy as he expected, but the cold bit through to his palms—just like its name, Ice.
Still, for the first time in a long while, his heart felt warm.