Tywin Lannister's solar was warm from the roaring fire, but he felt no heat at all.
He sat behind his desk, green eyes locked on Adam Marbrand like the man had just driven a blade into his chest in front of the entire court.
"So that's what happened," Adam said. His back was straight, but his voice was quieter than usual.
Tywin's jaw tightened. "You came here to tell me that my daughter—the Queen Regent—fabricated a false report so you would march the Gold Cloaks all the way to Stokeworth… just so you could personally watch her fuck someone else?"
The last two words landed like ice.
Adam didn't answer. He knew that whatever he said would be wrong.
He had known Cersei long enough to understand she was exactly the kind of woman who would do something this reckless and vicious. Jaime's childhood playmate. The woman who had always taken whatever she wanted.
The fire popped in the hearth.
"I've already ordered every man under my command to keep their mouths shut," Adam said carefully. "Anyone who speaks of it will be charged with treason."
Tywin didn't look impressed.
"You should have killed every witness on the spot," he said coldly.
Adam swallowed. "There were too many, my lord. My men, the castle servants, villagers nearby. At least twenty civilians. Even if I had wanted to silence them all, it wasn't possible without drawing more attention."
Tywin stared at him for a long moment.
He knew Adam was right. Killing that many people cleanly was impossible. But that didn't make him any less furious.
"You are Commander of the City Watch," Tywin said. "Your job is to guard the Red Keep, control the gates, and keep order in the streets. Yet the Queen Regent rode out of the city in the middle of the night to meet a lover at a castle forty miles away, and not one of your men noticed. Explain that to me, Ser Adam."
Adam dropped to one knee without hesitation.
"It was my failure, my lord. I accept full responsibility."
Tywin studied him. Adam had served him loyally for years. Punishing him too harshly now would only weaken his own position.
"She has always been like this," Tywin said quietly, almost to himself. "Even as a girl. She did whatever she wanted. No one could stop her. I thought marriage and children would teach her restraint." He gave a short, bitter laugh. "I was wrong."
Adam stayed silent. This was family business now.
Tywin's voice turned sharp again. "Who was on guard duty at Maegor's Holdfast that night?"
"Ser Osmund Kettleblack, my lord. He was the Kingsguard on night watch."
Tywin's mouth curved into something cold.
"So the brother on duty conveniently looked the other way while the Queen Regent slipped out to meet her lover. The Kettleblack brothers really do serve my daughter well, don't they?"
He leaned back in his chair.
"Ser Osmund Kettleblack has been rewarded for his loyal service to the crown. As of today, he will take command of a force and ride north to finish clearing out Stannis Baratheon's remaining men."
Adam's eyes widened slightly.
Tywin had not specified where the men would come from. That meant Osmund would have to raise them himself—from his own small house. The Kettleblacks were minor nobility at best. They might scrape together two or three hundred men, most of them poorly armed and unarmored. Sending them against Stannis's hardened remnants—especially with rumors that the Iron Bank was now backing the Mannis—was a death sentence.
Osmund would not return.
Adam bowed his head. "Yes, my lord."
He didn't argue. He knew better.
When Adam left, Tywin sat alone for a long time.
He hadn't even asked about the fire at Stokeworth. In his mind, the Stokeworths were irrelevant. What mattered was containing the damage from Cersei's scandal and figuring out who had set the trap.
He didn't have time.
A knock came at the door.
Ser Talbert Hetherspoon entered, looking uneasy.
"My lord… Lady Olenna Tyrell has sent word. She is calling for a meeting of the Small Council."
Tywin's eyes narrowed.
Of course.
The Tyrells were moving already.
He stood. "Tell everyone to assemble at the Tower of the Hand. As usual."
Talbert hesitated. "My lord… the council is already gathered."
Tywin stopped. "Where?"
Talbert's throat worked. "In the throne room, my lord."
The throne room was vast and empty.
Morning light poured through the high stained-glass windows, painting the ancient stone in fractured colors. The shadows of long-dead Targaryen kings stretched across the floor.
The Iron Throne sat on its dais, ugly and menacing, forged from a thousand surrendered swords. It was empty.
Below it, the long council table had been moved to the center of the hall.
Olenna Tyrell sat in a position where she could see both the throne and the doors. She toyed with the golden rose brooch at her throat, looking perfectly at ease.
Across from her, Kevan Lannister sat rigid, staring at the empty Iron Throne.
Grand Maester Pycelle leaned back in his chair with his eyes half-closed. Varys sat beside him, smiling his soft, unreadable smile.
At the far end of the table, farthest from the throne, sat Vito Corleone. His dark eyes moved calmly over the others, as if he were simply checking whether the fruit in his orchard was ready to pick.
The silence stretched.
Varys was the first to speak.
"It has been a long time since we held council in the presence of the Iron Throne," he said mildly. His voice was smooth, almost pleasant. "When Lord Jon Arryn was Hand, we met here often."
He turned his gaze to Corleone.
"My lord Corleone, forgive me if I overstep. You are new to the Small Council. Perhaps you are not yet familiar with our customs. Traditionally, only the Hand may call a meeting of this council."
He spread his hands in a gesture of polite concern.
"If word spreads that the Master of Coin is summoning the council in the throne room… people might say unfortunate things. Reputation is a fragile thing, my lord. It can take years to build and only a single day to destroy."
Corleone looked at him.
"I don't know all your customs yet, Lord Varys," he said. "But where I come from, when farmers need to build a barn, they don't wait for someone to tell them where to stand. One man cuts the timber. Another saws the planks. Another hammers the nails. They don't ask permission. They just get the barn built so the grain doesn't rot and people don't starve in winter."
He rested his hands on the table.
"I don't force anyone to attend meetings I call. I simply send word. Those who wish to come, come. Those who don't, stay away. So if you feel this meeting is a waste of your time, Lord Varys…" He nodded toward the great doors. "They're open."
Varys's smile faltered.
Before he could reply, a cold, steady voice cut through the hall.
"Lord Varys is the Master of Whisperers," Tywin Lannister said as he entered with twenty red-cloaked Lannister guards behind him. "No one removes him from this council except me."
He walked to the head of the table but did not sit.
Sunlight caught on the golden lion embroidered on his crimson cloak.
"I was told someone called a meeting of the Small Council," he said, voice calm and absolute. "Now I am here."
He placed both hands on the table and looked at each of them in turn.
"The meeting begins."