Chapter 159
Tywin Lannister did not sit down.
Rainwater dripped steadily from the edges of his crimson cloak, forming a dark puddle upon the stone floor as his green eyes swept across everyone seated at the council table.
Mace Tyrell instinctively shrank back a little, his fat fingers tightening around the arms of his chair.
Grand Maester Pycelle's coughing stopped abruptly. He lowered his gaze and fussed with the ink bottle before him as though it had suddenly become the most fascinating object in the world.
Oberyn Martell still lounged lazily with one leg crossed over the other, though his right hand had quietly moved away from the poisoned dagger hidden at his waist. A faint smile lingered on his lips, but there was no humor whatsoever in his dark eyes.
The moment the eight-year-old king saw his grandfather arrive, his little face turned pale.
His lips parted slightly, yet no sound came out.
He looked at his mother.
Then at his grandfather.
Confusion and fear filled those green eyes.
Cersei Lannister was the only one still standing.
Her back remained perfectly straight, chin slightly raised, but the subtle trembling in her body and the whitened knuckles gripping her wine cup betrayed the truth.
She was nowhere near as calm as she appeared.
Fear slithered up her spine like an icy serpent.
She knew this feeling well.
Ever since childhood, whenever she disappointed her father…
Whenever she challenged his authority…
Whenever she did something he considered foolish…
this fear would emerge.
But this time was different.
Every night these past weeks, the prophecy of that damned frog-witch returned in her dreams.
She saw Joffrey Baratheon dying in her arms over and over again.
Those green eyes identical to her own slowly losing their light.
That handsome face twisting in agony.
Those lips—once so cruel and arrogant—foaming blood and poison.
Her little lion.
Her eldest son.
Her future king.
Dead.
Poisoned.
And the murderer?
That dwarf.
That monster who killed her mother.
That brother she had wanted to strangle since childhood…
was still alive.
Not only alive—
he was free.
Walking openly through King's Landing.
Reporting daily to the City Watch like nothing had happened.
And her father…
Her glorious father.
Great Tywin Lannister.
What had he done?
He spent his time negotiating with that damned peasant.
Appeasing the vermin of Flea Bottom.
Managing the endless crises of the realm.
On the very day Joffrey died, he had stood beside the boy's corpse and begun instructing the next king on how to rule.
As a father.
As Joffrey's grandfather.
Tywin Lannister had never—
never truly done anything to avenge her son.
And then there was Jaime Lannister.
The moment she thought of Jaime, hatred flared inside her again.
A few days ago, he had simply left.
Left behind only a letter claiming he was going to the Wall.
Claiming he intended to relearn swordsmanship with his left hand.
Lies.
Excuses.
He was running away.
Running from Joffrey's death.
Running from Tyrion's trial.
Running from her.
He had abandoned her alone inside this nest of enemies.
Alone with her cold father.
Alone with that surviving dwarf monster.
Alone with the scheming nobles circling like vultures.
He had not even said goodbye.
Not once.
He simply left her behind like a worn-out cloak.
The more she thought about it, the faster her breathing became.
Her cheeks burned hot.
Blood thundered in her ears.
That familiar, nearly hysterical rage was once again breaking through the last restraints of reason.
"Father!"
Unable to endure the silence any longer, Cersei suddenly cried out.
Her voice came out far louder and sharper than she intended.
"We are discussing a matter of justice—an issue vital to the realm!"
Tywin said nothing.
He merely looked at her.
Those eyes were cold and bottomless, reflecting no warmth whatsoever.
"Prince Oberyn has raised a reasonable request."
But Cersei either failed to notice the warning in his gaze—or simply no longer cared.
Her voice climbed higher and higher.
"His sister, Princess Elia Martell, and her children were murdered when King's Landing fell!"
"That was not some tragic consequence of war!"
"That was murder!"
"Brutal, deliberate murder!"
As she spoke, Cersei stepped forward, nearly face-to-face with her father.
"If even the murder of royal blood can be ignored and buried, then what laws does this kingdom truly have?"
"What justice remains?"
"What kind of realm will Tommen inherit?"
"One built on lies and blood?"
Her voice echoed throughout the chamber, filled with near-maniacal obsession.
Mace Tyrell closed his eyes as though physically unable to watch any longer.
Pycelle began coughing again—this time genuinely choking on his own saliva.
Oberyn watched the father and daughter with open amusement, fingers tapping lightly against his knee.
Meanwhile, little Tommen Baratheon stared at his mother in shock.
He had never seen her like this before.
Red-faced.
Eyes blazing.
Voice sharp enough to cut through stone.
This was not the elegant, composed Queen Regent he knew.
She looked more like…
a shrieking fishwife.
After a moment of silence, Tywin finally let out a contemptuous chuckle.
"Justice."
He repeated the word calmly, as though discussing the weather.
"Then tell me, Cersei…"
"What sort of justice do you actually want?"
Cersei froze.
"I…"
"You wish to reopen a case from seventeen years ago."
Tywin did not give her time to think.
"You wish to establish a Regency Committee while your son—the king—has only been on the throne for a month following the murder of his predecessor."
Then he took one step forward.
A small step.
Yet Cersei instinctively stepped back.
"Joffrey's murder remains unresolved."
"The treasury nears collapse."
"The North remains unstable."
"Stannis Baratheon is still at large."
"And across the Narrow Sea, the Targaryen girl continues to grow stronger."
"And yet you…"
He stared directly at her.
"As Queen Regent. As the king's mother."
"Choose to support a Dornish prince reopening a seventeen-year-old wound during a Small Council meeting held without the Hand of the King present…"
"…while simultaneously proposing a so-called Regency Committee."
He paused again.
This time his gaze swept across everyone seated at the table.
Mace lowered his head.
Pycelle suddenly became deeply interested in polishing his spectacles.
Oberyn still smiled faintly, though amusement now gleamed in his eyes.
Cersei's face had gone deathly pale.
She wanted to argue.
Wanted to deny him.
But nothing came out.
"You do not care about justice," Tywin said for her.
"You care about revenge."
"I care!" Cersei screamed.
Completely losing control.
"Of course I care!"
"I lost my son! I understand what it means to lose family! I—"
"No."
Tywin cut her off.
His voice remained perfectly calm.
Yet it landed like a slap across her face.
"You understand only the pain of Cersei Lannister losing a son."
"You understand your own rage."
"Your own fear."
"Your own resentment."
"You have never truly understood what this kingdom needs."
"What this family needs."
"Or even what your younger son sitting there upon the throne needs."
He pointed toward Tommen.
The boy flinched violently, nearly falling out of his chair.
"Look at him," Tywin continued mercilessly.
"You dragged him here to watch adults scream at one another and play games of power."
"He is king, Cersei."
"Yes, he is only eight."
"But he should be learning how to rule."
"Not learning from his mother how to reopen old grudges and manipulate politics in order to undermine her own Hand of the King…"
"…and grandfather."
Cersei opened her mouth again, but no sound emerged.
Her face had turned crimson.
Tears gathered in her eyes.
Not tears of sadness.
Tears born from humiliation, fury, and madness.
"As for this justice you speak of…"
Tywin turned toward Oberyn.
The Dornish prince met his gaze without losing his smile.
"Prince Oberyn, I respect the affection you held for Princess Elia."
"But I must remind you…"
"Seventeen years have passed."
"Most witnesses are dead."
"The scene itself vanished long ago."
"And the only surviving suspect, Ser Gregor Clegane…"
"…lies mutilated in a Red Keep infirmary, tongueless and barely sane."
Tywin's tone hardened further.
"You possess no evidence."
"No eyewitnesses."
"No written testimony."
"No physical proof."
"All you possess are stories told in Dorne…"
"…and a heart full of vengeance."
Then he looked back toward the others.
"And yet all of you…"
"Members of the Small Council…"
"support this baseless spectacle?"
"A trial that can only destabilize the realm?"
Finally, his gaze settled upon Mace Tyrell.
The pressure in those green eyes was suffocating.
The old lion in full.
Mace swallowed hard.
Sweat beaded upon his fat face.
"Lord Tyrell."
"What is your opinion?"
Mace inhaled deeply.
He understood now.
This was the moment to choose sides.
"The Hand speaks wisely," he said hoarsely.
"But firmly."
"This is not the time to reopen old wounds."
"The realm faces too many dangers already."
"We should focus on stabilizing the treasury…"
"Monitoring Stannis…"
"And preparing for threats beyond the Narrow Sea."
He hesitated briefly before glancing toward Cersei.
Then quickly looked away.
"As for the Regency Committee…"
"His Grace already has the guidance of the Small Council."
"And Lord Tywin himself."
"I see no need whatsoever for such a thing."
The moment he finished, he lowered his head, unwilling to meet anyone's eyes.
Pycelle immediately followed.
"The histories of the Citadel indicate that kingdoms facing crisis require concentrated authority…"
"…not divided governance."
"Regency councils often lead to…"
"…ah…"
"…inefficiency and power struggles."
His voice dwindled into a mumble by the end.
Silence filled the chamber once more.
Cersei remained standing there.
The madness had faded from her eyes.
Only emptiness remained.
She had lost.
Completely.
Her father had stripped apart every excuse she possessed and exposed her ugliest motivations before the entire council.
Mace had abandoned her.
Pycelle had never truly stood with her to begin with.
And Oberyn…
She looked toward the Dornish prince.
He still lounged there smiling lazily, saying absolutely nothing.
Damn you.
Wasn't this entire thing your idea?!
Say something, Red Viper!
Seeing no objections, Tywin slowly walked toward the king's seat at the head of the table.
But he still did not sit.
Both hands rested against the table as he leaned slightly forward.
"Then unless anyone disagrees…"
"I believe this farce should end here."
But then—
"I disagree."
A voice echoed through the chamber.
Not Cersei.
Not Mace.
Not Pycelle.
Not even Oberyn Martell.
Every head turned toward the doorway.
The council chamber doors swung open once more.
A familiar figure stepped inside.
Simple dark clothing.
An ordinary longsword hanging at his waist.
Rainwater soaked his hair and shoulders.
Yet he walked with the same calm ease as though strolling through his own courtyard.
And the instant he appeared—
Tywin Lannister clenched his fist.
Again?
Why is it always you?
Odin stepped into the room.
"Lord Tywin is correct," Odin said calmly while walking forward.
"Seventeen years have passed."
"Most witnesses are dead."
"And Ser Gregor Clegane can no longer speak."
"But fortunately…"
"…we found someone else."
As he spoke, Odin shifted slightly aside, revealing the man standing behind him.
The man wore filthy, tattered clothes.
His exposed skin was covered in overlapping scars.
Whip marks.
Burn scars.
Knife wounds.
Some long healed.
Others still bleeding.
His hair hung in greasy clumps, and grime obscured most of his face.
Only his eyes remained visible.
Eyes filled with animalistic terror.
He walked strangely.
One leg dragged behind him as though crippled.
Or perhaps simply too broken to flee anymore.
Odin held him firmly by the arm, making sure he would not collapse.
And the moment Tywin saw the man—
his pupils contracted almost imperceptibly.
He recognized him.
Despite the filth.
Despite the ruined appearance.
Despite how utterly different he looked from the man in Tywin's memories.
He still recognized him instantly.
Amory Lorch.
Seventeen years earlier, Tywin had sent him alongside the Mountain with a squad of Lannister soldiers to "cleanse" the Red Keep after King's Landing fell.
To ensure no Targaryen bloodline remained capable of threatening Robert Baratheon's throne.
And they had carried out those orders…
very thoroughly.
Far too thoroughly.
Tywin still remembered Gregor's own description of that night.
Princess Elia raped before being strangled.
Princess Rhaenys dragged from beneath her bed and stabbed dozens of times.
Prince Aegon seized by the ankles and smashed against a wall until his skull burst apart.
The cleansing had gone far beyond what was "necessary."
Then it ceased to be war.
It became atrocity.
And Amory Lorch was the man who had dragged Princess Rhaenys out from beneath the bed.
The man who stabbed the little girl dozens of times.
Afterward, Tywin had once asked him why he needed so many stabs to kill a child.
Lorch had answered that the girl would not stop screaming.
Tywin, however, had coldly told him that if the gods had blessed him with even a trace of intelligence, he should have soothed the child first… and then used a silk pillow.
It would have been cleaner.
More dignified.
Later, during the War of the Five Kings, Tywin sent him into the Riverlands alongside Gregor Clegane to "collect provisions."
After Tywin departed Harrenhal, he even entrusted Lorch with managing the castle in his stead.
Then came betrayal.
Roose Bolton convinced Vargo Hoat to turn cloak.
Harrenhal fell.
And from that moment onward, Amory Lorch vanished.
Tywin had assumed he was dead.
Killed by Bolton.
Or butchered by the Brave Companions.
But now…
Here he was.
Dragged into Maegor's Holdfast by Odin himself.
Brought before the Small Council.
Brought before Oberyn Martell.
Tywin's gaze slowly shifted away from Lorch and settled upon Odin.
The peasant-knight was already watching him.
Their eyes met in silence.
That same calm sense of control.
As though every step unfolding tonight had already been anticipated.
Already calculated.
For the first time in many years, Tywin Lannister felt a chill creep into his heart.
How had Odin found Lorch?
The man should have been imprisoned by Bolton.
Or dead somewhere in the wilderness.
Even Tywin himself had quietly sent men searching for him over the years, yet they had uncovered nothing.
So how had Odin located him so quickly?
And not only found him—
but brought him all the way back to King's Landing?
Unless…
his network stretched far deeper and wider than Tywin imagined.
Or perhaps this had all been arranged long ago.
Perhaps Odin had been laying foundations for this very moment from the beginning.
A terrifying opponent.
"Prince Oberyn mentioned he lacked a witness."
Odin finally broke the silence.
He gave Lorch a slight shove forward.
The battered knight staggered several steps, nearly collapsing.
"I thought this man might provide something useful."
At those words, Oberyn Martell slowly rose to his feet.
He did not look at Odin.
Nor at Tywin.
His eyes locked completely onto Lorch.
Hatred burned there.
Seventeen years of grief, rage, and vengeance compressed into a single stare so intense it almost felt physical.
"Ser Amory Lorch."
Every word emerged through clenched teeth.
"Do you recognize me?"
Lorch slowly lifted his head.
His filthy eyes lingered on Oberyn's face for only a second before darting away as though burned.
Then he saw Tywin.
For an instant, hope flickered in his eyes.
A drowning man glimpsing salvation.
But that light vanished just as quickly.
Because he saw Tywin's expression.
Cold.
Indifferent.
The look one gives an object.
"Answer him," Odin said quietly from behind.
The voice was soft.
Yet Lorch visibly trembled, as though a knife had been pressed against his spine.
"I… I…"
"I know you, Prince Oberyn."
"Good."
Oberyn stepped around the council table and slowly approached him.
"Then you also know why I sought you out."
Lorch began shaking uncontrollably.
His injured leg barely supported him.
Without Odin's grip, he likely would have collapsed entirely.
"Seventeen years ago," Oberyn said slowly.
"When King's Landing fell and the Red Keep was seized by Lannister forces…"
"…my sister, Princess Elia Martell…"
"…and her children, Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon…"
"…died that very day."
Then his voice suddenly sharpened.
"How did they die, Ser Lorch?"
Lorch's lips trembled violently.
Again his eyes drifted toward Tywin.
Pleading.
Begging.
But Tywin gave no response whatsoever.
He merely stood there with hands clasped behind his back, expression utterly emotionless.
Like none of this concerned him in the slightest.
"I… I don't know…" Lorch muttered weakly.
"Don't know?"
Oberyn smiled.
A smile colder than ice.
"Then tell me where you were that day."
"Were you inside the Red Keep?"
"What were you doing?"
"…following orders."
"What orders?"
Silence.
Lorch trembled harder than before.
Sweat mixed with grime and ran down his face.
Behind him, Odin murmured something softly.
No one caught the words.
But Lorch reacted as though struck by lightning.
He jerked his head upward, eyes wide with primal terror, as though recalling something unspeakable.
"Cleaning…" he whispered.
"Cleaning the Red Keep…"
"Making sure… making sure no Targaryens remained alive…"
"Whose orders?" Oberyn pressed immediately.
His voice now urgent.
Once more, Lorch looked toward Tywin.
This time the stare lingered several long seconds.
Tywin met it directly.
His green eyes revealed nothing.
Only endless, frozen indifference.
Lorch swallowed hard.
"It was… it was…"
He stammered helplessly.
Unable to force the name out.
Oberyn waited.
Then laughed softly.
"You dare not say it."
"You dare not speak his name while he stands before you."
Lorch lowered his head completely, curling inward like a beaten animal.
Silence swallowed the chamber once again.
Outside, rain battered the windows.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Like a countdown.
Little Tommen Baratheon watched everything with wide eyes, fingers clutching his seven-pointed-star pendant so tightly his knuckles turned white.
His lips moved soundlessly in prayer.
Cersei Lannister had already collapsed back into her chair.
Pale.
Empty-eyed.
As though her soul had been hollowed out.
Mace Tyrell and Pycelle both kept their heads lowered, unwilling to meet anyone's gaze.
Tywin alone remained standing.
Straight-backed.
Immovable.
Like a statue carved from stone.
Realizing no further answers would come from Lorch, Oberyn finally turned toward Tywin.
"You heard him, Lord Tywin."
Tywin remained silent.
Instead, his gaze shifted once more toward Odin.
Their eyes met again.
And this time—
the corner of Odin's mouth lifted ever so slightly.
A smile so faint it was nearly invisible.
Yet it caused Tywin's heart to sink completely.
"However…"
At that exact moment, Oberyn abruptly changed direction.
"Ser Lorch was only an executioner."
"Perhaps his memory has become unreliable."
He paused, sweeping his gaze across the entire chamber.
"Which is why I believe we require another witness."
"A more direct one."
Then Oberyn slowly turned toward Tywin and deliberately spoke a single name.
"The Mountain."
"Gregor Clegane."
Want faster updates? Send those stones my way—the more, the merrier. Read early at [email protected]/A_divin5