Chapter 157 — A Complete Reversal!
Inside the Tower of the Hand at the Red Keep, the chill of late autumn had already seeped deep into the stone walls.
The cold rising from the waters of the Blackwater crept through every crack in the castle.
Even with fine oak logs burning brightly inside the fireplace, Tywin Lannister could still feel the frost sinking into his bones.
He sat behind his desk, holding a freshly delivered letter in one hand.
Its contents were so brief they bordered on arrogance.
Petyr Baelish had politely declined the order to return to King's Landing for questioning.
His reasons?
"Lady Arryn's poor health."
"And the heavy burdens of governance in the Vale."
Politely declined.
Tywin let out a cold laugh.
Since becoming Hand of the King—
whether serving the Mad King Aerys II Targaryen or effectively ruling the Seven Kingdoms himself—
no one had ever dared answer one of his direct commands with refusal.
What gave Petyr Baelish the confidence?
Because he had married that madwoman Lysa Arryn?
Because he hid behind the Bloody Gate and believed mountains could shield him from Lannister authority?
Tywin tossed the letter onto the desk.
The study fell silent once more.
Only the occasional crackling of burning wood echoed from the hearth.
Outside the windows, the sky was dark and heavy.
Lead-gray clouds hung low above the city, as though they intended to crush the chaotic sprawl of King's Landing beneath their weight.
From this height, the district of Flea Bottom stood out unpleasantly.
At some point, its streets had become noticeably more orderly than the rest of the city.
Even the rising smoke from cooking fires seemed strangely disciplined instead of the usual chaotic mess.
Just then, a soft knock sounded at the study door.
"Enter."
Tywin's voice was calm and emotionless.
The door opened.
Ser Tybolt Hetherspoon stepped inside.
He wore the crimson armor of the Lannister household guard, a golden lion embroidered across his cloak, a longsword hanging from his waist.
The old knight had served Tywin loyally for over twenty years.
He knew every one of Tywin's habits.
He knew when to speak.
And more importantly—
when not to.
Yet today, Tybolt's expression looked oddly strained.
The corners of his mouth twitched faintly.
Finally, he stopped five paces before the desk, pressed a fist to his chest, and bowed slightly.
"My lord."
"This afternoon, news spread from the 'Hall of Order' in Flea Bottom…"
He hesitated.
Then forced the words out.
"Lady Sansa Stark and Lord Tyrion Lannister have formally dissolved their marriage under the supervision of Septon Reynard."
The moment he finished speaking, Tybolt instinctively swallowed hard and fell silent, once more becoming the quiet and loyal knight he had always been.
BANG!
Tywin's fist slammed heavily against the desk.
The sharp sound echoed throughout the study.
For a brief moment, the mask of absolute composure cracked.
Tybolt remained perfectly still.
He understood very clearly that at times like this, saying anything at all was a mistake.
Knights existed to wait for orders.
Nothing more.
"Tyrion…"
After a long silence, Tywin slowly regained control of himself.
His voice steadied once more.
"He simply agreed to it?"
"Yes, my lord."
Tybolt paused before carefully adding:
"According to reliable reports… Lord Tyrion not only agreed, but personally requested that the ceremony be made public."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop instantly.
Tywin leaned slowly back into his chair.
Afternoon sunlight illuminated half his face while the other remained buried in shadow.
His green eyes looked darker than ever.
Even someone unfamiliar with him could easily tell—
the Hand of the King was furious.
A rare sight indeed.
"Heh…"
And yet, somehow, Tywin still managed to laugh.
Though the sound carried nothing but icy mockery.
"Tyrion…"
"That dwarf always possesses an extraordinary talent for reminding me of his existence at the worst possible moments."
"It is almost as though the gods themselves are determined to place a permanent stain upon my life."
The coldness in those words sent a chill down Tybolt's spine.
But Tybolt's expression did not change in the slightest.
He simply stood there silently, waiting for the next order.
After leaning back in his chair and thinking for a moment, Tywin Lannister slowly lifted his gaze from the report and fixed it on Tybolt's face.
Those eyes were terrifyingly sharp.
It felt as though they could pierce through flesh and stare directly into the deepest corners of a man's soul.
Tybolt met that gaze calmly.
His expression remained composed, his eyes steady.
Twenty years as a household guard had taught him how to endure scrutiny like this.
"Tybolt."
"My lord."
Tybolt stepped forward and pressed a fist to his chest in a flawless knight's salute.
"The matter I ordered you to investigate," Tywin said slowly. "Any progress?"
He did not specify what matter.
He did not need to.
For days now, the entire Tower of the Hand had been suffocating beneath an invisible pressure.
Everyone knew what Tywin was searching for.
The mole.
The people leaking information from the Tower of the Hand to Flea Bottom—
to Odin.
"The investigation is ongoing, my lord."
"I have personally questioned all forty-seven servants, attendants, clerks, and guards assigned to the Tower. I also reviewed everyone's movements and contacts over the past month."
He paused briefly.
"However… no definitive suspect has emerged yet."
Then he lowered his head slightly.
"There are only three individuals whose activities contain minor irregularities."
"A kitchen assistant named Marlin left the Red Keep twice outside normal purchasing hours."
"Clerk Garth appeared near the Tower of the Hand on three separate occasions shortly before or after your meetings with Ser Odin."
"And one young guard has a sister married to a fisherman in Flea Bottom."
Tywin listened quietly.
His fingers tapped softly against the desk.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Each tap felt like it landed directly on Tybolt's heart.
"What did you do with them?"
"Marlin has been reassigned from the kitchens to stable-cleaning duty."
"Garth has been temporarily suspended."
"As for the guard…"
Tybolt hesitated slightly.
"I placed him under Ser Herland's 'special training.' From dawn until midnight. No rest."
Both men understood exactly what "special training" meant.
Endless physical torment until the victim broke.
The punishments sounded severe.
But in truth, they still left room for reversal.
No one had been formally condemned.
Given Tybolt's authority, it was already close to the limit of what he could legally do.
Perfectly handled.
Almost too perfectly.
Tywin studied Tybolt's weathered face.
Everything about it radiated loyalty and competence.
The gray eyes met his directly without the slightest flicker of fear.
And yet—
that perfection itself stirred something unsettling in Tywin's heart.
Too clean.
Like a shield polished so brightly that the glare prevented one from seeing the markings beneath.
"Throw all three into the Red Keep's black cells," Tywin suddenly ordered.
"Have Rorger interrogate them personally."
"Ah… yes, my lord!"
Tybolt visibly startled for a split second before immediately accepting the order without hesitation.
That swift response caused Tywin's suspicions to ease ever so slightly.
"You believe the mole is limited to these three insignificant people?" Tywin asked coldly.
His sharp eyes never left Tybolt's face.
Tybolt remained silent for several seconds before answering.
"Based on current evidence… yes, my lord."
"But I will continue investigating."
"It remains possible there are more concealed methods of communication. Or perhaps someone is exploiting the fact that people naturally overlook individuals of low status."
The answer was cautious.
Reasonable.
Yet it clearly failed to satisfy the Hand of the King.
Tywin leaned back slowly into his chair.
And for the first time in many years, an uncomfortable sensation rose inside him.
Something subtle.
Something wrong.
For forty years he had ruled the Westerlands.
For more than twenty years he had served as Hand of the King.
Tywin Lannister was accustomed to understanding people.
He weighed every man's greed, fear, and ambition like coins on a scale.
Then he assigned the exact price required to move them.
But now…
he felt imbalance.
As though one piece on the chessboard had suddenly slipped beyond his control and begun moving according to its own rules.
"Odin."
Tywin abruptly spoke the name.
"What new discoveries has your investigation uncovered about this man?"
"Very little, my lord."
Tybolt's expression turned grim.
"Regarding the ability you described… that strange resistance to blades…"
"I consulted every maester and physician within the Red Keep."
"No one can provide a reasonable explanation."
"Some speculate it may be an eastern form of magic."
"Others suggest illusion or trickery."
"But no one has ever witnessed anything similar firsthand."
"Heh…"
Tywin let out another cold laugh.
Ever since Odin entered King's Landing, he had probably laughed more bitterly than during the rest of his life combined.
This time, however, irritation crept into the sound.
"So what you are telling me…"
"We are facing a peasant with unknown powers…"
"A man who, in merely three months, seized control of Flea Bottom…"
"And somehow managed to hide Sansa Stark beneath my very nose?"
Tybolt wisely remained silent.
The study sank into stillness once more.
Only the rhythmic tapping of Tywin's fingers continued, like the tightening beat of a noose.
"Magic…"
At last, Tywin clenched his fist and exhaled slowly.
He had never believed in magic.
Magic was an excuse used by weak men.
A fantasy invented by failures to comfort themselves.
True power came from gold, steel, and willpower.
From carefully woven alliances.
From punishment enforced without mercy.
Magic?
That was the madness of House Targaryen.
The fire that consumed Summerhall.
The final insanity of the Mad King Aerys II Targaryen.
And yet…
the memory of that night remained painfully vivid.
The feeling of a sword pressed against Odin's throat.
The impossible sensation of resistance.
The frustration of being utterly unable to pierce even a fraction deeper no matter how much force he used.
Tywin closed his eyes.
The memory replayed itself clearly.
The sword-tip pressed into flesh.
The skin visibly dented inward—
but refused to break.
As though he were thrusting against solid steel.
Or an invisible wall.
That moment had cracked something inside the worldview Tywin Lannister had built over sixty years.
"Continue the investigation."
He opened his eyes again, voice hardening.
"Use every resource available."
"Send men to the Citadel."
"Search every text concerning supernatural phenomena."
"And if necessary…"
"Contact the Iron Bank of Braavos. Their intelligence network across the Free Cities is unmatched."
"Yes, my lord."
Tybolt bowed.
Then suddenly, Tywin asked a seemingly unrelated question.
"How many years have you served House Lannister, Ser Tybolt?"
"Twenty-two years, three months, and five days, my lord."
"You remember precisely."
"My father and grandfather both served at Casterly Rock. It is my family's honor."
"Honor."
Tywin's expression did not soften at all.
"Tell me, Ser Tybolt."
"Which matters more?"
"Honor… or loyalty?"
The room seemed to freeze.
The flames in the fireplace flickered.
Shadows shifted uneasily across the walls.
Tybolt fell silent for several seconds—
an unusually long pause for him.
"My lord… I believe…"
"For a knight, honor is the foundation of his existence."
"But for a guard…"
"Loyalty is the only law."
A nearly perfect answer.
One that clearly declared where his allegiance stood.
Yet just as Tybolt almost felt relieved by his own response, Tywin suddenly said:
"I remember Melara."
!!!
Tybolt's body trembled uncontrollably for the briefest instant.
He immediately lowered his eyes.
Tywin appeared not to notice.
Instead, he continued in a reflective tone.
"She was a pretty little girl."
"Brown hair. Brown eyes."
"She resembled her mother very much."
"She loved singing."
"In summer, she would sing in the courtyards of Casterly Rock."
"Her voice was very clear."
"I once heard her from the balcony and ordered a servant to give her lemon cakes."
"I… never imagined you still remembered…"
Tybolt swallowed hard.
For the first time, genuine emotion flickered across his face.
"I remember everyone who serves House Lannister."
"Their contributions."
"And their losses."
The words sounded like reassurance.
But they were also a warning.
Tybolt inhaled deeply and straightened his back once more.
"Thank you for remembering her, my lord."
"It was a long time ago."
"Some things never truly pass," Tywin replied quietly.
"Just as some loyalties, once shaken, can never return to what they once were."
Silence lingered again.
Then vanished.
"My lord."
Tybolt's voice regained its steadiness.
"My loyalty has never wavered."
"I serve House Lannister now."
"And I always will."
"Good."
Tywin stared at him for several long seconds before speaking again.
"Then continue investigating the mole… and continue uncovering Odin's secrets."
"Yes, my lord."
"And as for Petyr Baelish…"
Tywin's gaze returned to the letter on the desk.
"If he refuses to come to King's Landing…"
"Then make him understand the consequences of refusing."
"Send messages to the Vale lords."
"Especially those displeased with Lysa Arryn marrying Baelish."
"Remind them…"
"That they still have friends in King's Landing."
"Understood."
Tybolt bowed once more before turning and leaving the study with steady footsteps.
The door closed softly behind him.
Tywin remained alone.
He sat motionless in his chair, staring at the closed door.
Outside, the sky had grown even darker.
Storm clouds gathered overhead.
Across King's Landing, scattered lanterns began lighting the streets like broken stars buried in filth.
The lights of Flea Bottom appeared denser than elsewhere.
More organized.
The "Hall of Order" at its center shone brightest of all—
like a glowing heart pumping invisible power through the city.
Tywin remembered the day Odin entered the Great Sept of Baelor during the trial.
Simple clothes.
A common sword at his waist.
He had looked like a peasant returning from the fields.
And yet—
his posture…
the way he looked at people…
the tone in which he spoke…
none of it belonged to a peasant.
That composure belonged to a man who had known power.
A man who had decided life and death before.
A man who had witnessed things far beyond ordinary understanding.
And then there was Sansa Stark.
The timid, naive girl who once dreamed only of knights and romance had changed so completely that even Tywin barely recognized her.
And clearly—
that transformation was connected to Odin.
He rescued her.
Hid her.
Trained her.
Now he was even supporting her divorce.
Why?
Unless…
this peasant-turned-knight desired far more than Flea Bottom.
Far more than King's Landing.
He wanted more.
And somehow—
Tywin himself had unknowingly paved the road for him.
He tried reclaiming Flea Bottom's authority, only to spark riots that won Odin the people's loyalty.
He arranged Tyrion's public trial, only to give Sansa the perfect stage to reappear and give Odin influence.
He sought to pull Baelish closer, only for the man to hide in the Vale and openly defy him.
Every decision had seemed logical at the time.
So why had every result slipped beyond control?
Had his judgment been wrong?
Should he have destroyed Odin from the very beginning instead of trying to control him?
No.
Tywin clenched his fist tightly.
Stubborn determination filled his eyes.
He was Tywin Lannister.
He had ruled the Westerlands since the age of nineteen.
He crushed the rebellions of Houses Reyne and Tarbeck.
He filled the vaults of Casterly Rock until they overflowed with gold.
He governed beside the Mad King for twenty years.
Then secured House Lannister's dominance under Robert Baratheon.
He had never made a truly catastrophic mistake.
Not once.
Well—
aside from fathering Tyrion.
As for Odin?
Nothing more than a lucky peasant.
A schemer with some skill in medicine and swordsmanship.
Perhaps he possessed strange tricks.
Perhaps he knew how to manipulate hearts.
But before true power—
those tricks meant nothing.
All bubbles.
One poke and they would burst.
Tywin Lannister would never fear bubbles.
He rose from his chair and walked toward the window.
Night had fully fallen over King's Landing.
Only scattered lights flickered in the darkness.
Far away, the waves of Blackwater Bay crashed faintly against the shore like the breathing of the city itself.
He was Tywin Lannister.
He would regain control.
He had to.
And then—
urgent knocking suddenly exploded against the study door.
Tywin frowned.
"Enter."
The door swung open.
It was Kevan Lannister, his younger brother and Master of Laws.
Normally calm, disciplined, almost rigid—
yet now Kevan's face carried unmistakable unease.
His brows were tightly furrowed.
His breathing slightly hurried.
One hand gripped a scroll so tightly the parchment had wrinkled.
"Tywin."
"What is it?"
Kevan inhaled deeply, walked to the desk, and placed the document down.
"Just now…"
"Prince Oberyn Martell of Dorne formally submitted a request before King Tommen Baratheon."
"He demands…"
Kevan clenched his jaw before forcing out the words.
"He demands a formal retrial regarding the murder of Princess Elia Martell and her children."
"He directly accuses Ser Gregor Clegane as the killer…"
"And furthermore…"
"He demands that Ser Gregor identify the man who gave the order."
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