Chapter 219: Tywin's "Gift"
"Let the music play. Let the dancing continue."
The Prince Regent's voice echoed clearly beneath the vast dome of the Great Sept of Baelor, and as if in perfect response, the two dragons let out a thunderous roar.
The noise, the whispers, the restless chatter of the feast—all of it vanished under that overwhelming pressure.
Countless gazes—awed, fearful, fervent—locked onto the high platform.
Before, Ilion's appearance had been nothing more than a fleeting glimpse.
Now, they could truly see it.
A creature of legend.
A living embodiment of magic.
Some of the weaker-willed lesser nobles could barely stop themselves from dropping to their knees—submitting instinctively to the absolute power that, in time, would crush everything beneath it.
Everyone understood.
House Targaryen was rising again.
Once these dragons matured, Westeros would once more tremble beneath their shadow—just as it had three hundred years ago.
"What's wrong? Cat got your tongues?"
Lance's voice broke the silence. He looked down at the trembling crowd, a faint, amused smile curling at his lips.
"Very well… let's play a little game."
His gaze swept across the hall—before settling on a tall figure draped in crimson.
As one, the entire sept followed his line of sight.
All eyes fell upon the Hand of the King.
Tywin Lannister.
His expression remained utterly calm—like the unyielding walls of Casterly Rock, unchanged for thousands of years.
"Lord Hand."
As expected, Lance called him out directly.
"Before I left, you said you had brought a gift—one that would not disappoint the Iron Throne."
"In that case… present it now."
"Let everyone judge for themselves."
His tone was casual. Calm. Almost light.
Then he paused.
His gaze swept across every lord present, his voice turning colder by the second.
"But let's be clear…"
"If it fails to win the approval of most…"
A faint smile.
"Don't blame me if I lose my temper."
The pressure in the room shifted instantly.
It didn't disappear—
it moved.
Every gaze—anticipation, pity, schadenfreude—fell squarely on Tywin.
Beside him, Mace Tyrell couldn't hide his satisfaction.
After all, he had just offered a gift worth thirty thousand gold dragons—enough to overwhelm the entire realm.
Now Tywin stood in the fire.
Exactly where Mace wanted him.
No matter how rich or powerful House Lannister was—what could he possibly produce that would surpass such a display?
Even if Tywin offered more gold, it would just be the same trick—uninspired, unimpressive.
It wouldn't win the crowd.
Thinking this, Mace subtly adjusted his stance, eager for a better view of the proud Lion's impending humiliation.
And yet—
under pressure that would crush most men—
Tywin remained utterly composed.
Only the faintest twitch at the corner of his eye betrayed anything at all.
He even took the time to smooth the cuff of his expensive crimson velvet sleeve.
Unhurried.
Unshaken.
The sound of his measured footsteps echoed through the silent sept.
Under the gaze of nearly a thousand nobles, Tywin stepped forward.
No grand gestures.
No rush to defend himself.
He simply lifted his head—
and fixed his eyes on the three figures upon the dais.
After a graceful bow, a clear, steady, and supremely confident voice rang out, reaching every corner of the sept.
"I—Hand of the King, Warden of the West, and Lord of Casterly Rock—Tywin Lannister…"
He paused.
Just a brief pause—
yet it was enough to make every heart in the hall hang in suspense.
Especially those Crownlands nobles whose names Tywin had called out earlier. On one hand, they longed to see this domineering Hand humbled… but on the other, they had all benefited from his rule.
Their emotions twisted into something deeply conflicted.
As for Mace Tyrell—his thoughts were far simpler.
Watching Tywin's composure, he was practically about to laugh out loud.
In his eyes, this was nothing but stalling—buying time to justify his earlier "blunder."
"Allow me…"
Tywin didn't even spare him a glance.
Instead, he continued calmly:
"…in the name of His Grace, King Viserys Targaryen the Third—King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms—"
"I present to the Iron Throne…"
And then—
his voice rose sharply.
Like the roar of a lion, crashing through every doubt in the hall—
"The symbol of House Targaryen's spirit—the personal sword of Aegon the Conqueror himself!"
"Blackfyre!!"
The name exploded through the sept like wildfire.
"Blackfyre?!"
"No—impossible!"
"That legendary blade?!"
"Seven hells—it's been lost for nearly a century!"
The entire hall erupted into chaos.
Mace Tyrell's smug expression froze instantly.
Blackfyre?!
How could it be Blackfyre?!
He had imagined every possibility—gold, jewels, rare treasures—
But never—
Not even once—
had he imagined that Tywin would produce the legendary sword itself.
How?
How did he find it?!
Mace stared at Tywin, eyes wide with disbelief.
If this was truly Blackfyre—
then his gold, his jewels, his lavish offerings…
were worth less than dirt in comparison.
No—
less than the cheapest whore on Silk Street.
And he wasn't alone.
The entire hall was stunned.
Elbert Arryn loosened his clenched fists—then tightened them again, eyes locked onto Tywin.
Hoster Tully drew a sharp breath, disbelief flashing across his face.
Even the Queen Regent on the dais instinctively covered her mouth, nearly gasping aloud.
Tywin, however, seemed thoroughly satisfied.
The faintest trace of a smile tugged at his lips.
Then—
he raised his hand.
Clap. Clap.
The crisp sound echoed like a signal.
The great doors of the sept slowly creaked open.
Under the lead of Kevan Lannister, four elite knights in crimson armor entered—bearing a massive chest draped in dark red velvet.
Step by step—
they advanced.
And with each step, every gaze followed.
The crowd parted instinctively as they passed, moving straight toward Tywin.
The air itself seemed to freeze.
Even the two dragons lowered their heads slightly—
as if sensing something within the chest that resonated with their very blood.
The knights stopped three paces before Tywin.
In perfect unison, they set the chest down.
No one breathed.
Without hesitation—
Tywin stepped forward.
And with a single motion—
he tore away the velvet covering.
A sword.
A greatsword.
Nearly as tall as a grown man—
its blade a deep, absolute black, as if it devoured all light around it.
This was no ordinary steel.
It bore the unmistakable rippling patterns of Valyrian steel.
The edge gleamed with deadly sharpness under the sunlight.
The crossguard was shaped like twin dragons—
and at its center sat a massive red gemstone,
like the eye of a dragon—
deep, ancient, and terrifying.
Blackfyre.
It truly was Blackfyre.
The sword that once symbolized Targaryen rule.
After the initial shock—
questions surged through every mind.
Everyone knew its history.
After King Aegon IV had gifted it to his bastard son, Daemon Waters—
who then took the name Blackfyre—
the blade became the symbol of rebellion.
The Blackfyre Rebellions.
Not once—
but five times.
And the last of them—
the War of the Ninepenny Kings—
had only ended a little over a decade ago.
Yet the sword itself…
had vanished long ago, after the first rebellion.
Taken by Aegor "Bittersteel" Rivers—
and never seen again.
So how—
how had Tywin found it?
Had Lannister influence already reached across the Narrow Sea?
Even their own ancestral Valyrian blade remained lost—
yet Tywin had recovered this?
Was his loyalty to House Targaryen truly that deep?
Mace Tyrell's eyes burned with naked jealousy.
Why?
Why did every advantage fall to House Lannister?
All his life, he had been told—
that the Tyrells were inferior.
In wealth.
In power.
Even his own mother had said—
he was no match for Tywin.
And now—
even in gift-giving—
he was being crushed.
"Seven hells… how is this fair…"
After a long silence—
Lance spoke.
"That is indeed Blackfyre."
"But where did you find it, Lord Tywin?"
His eyes narrowed, fixed on Tywin.
The sword's appearance reminded him of the man burned alive in the dragonpit earlier.
Was there a connection?
But Tywin remained perfectly calm.
"I came into possession of it by chance, Your Grace."
"Its origins are… somewhat complicated."
"I fear explaining it here would take too long."
"Perhaps, after the ceremony, you might grant me time to recount it properly."
A flawless answer.
Polite.
Measured.
Impossible to fault.
But Lance understood the subtext.
Not here.
Too many ears.
"…Very well."
After a moment's thought, he nodded.
Then—
before everyone—
he stepped down from the dais.
One step at a time.
Until he stood before the legendary blade.
"Your gift carries great weight, Lord Tywin."
"On behalf of King Viserys…"
"I accept it."
He studied the black blade with clear satisfaction.
In terms of quality—
it was no different from his own Valyrian steel sword.
But in meaning—
Blackfyre stood above all others.
Even the famed Dark Sister could not compare.
Because this blade—
was conquest.
Was legacy.
Was the very symbol of Targaryen dominion.
And now—
they had both.
The dragons.
And the sword.
Lance exhaled softly—
then raised his hand, preparing to grasp the hilt.
But just as his fingers were about to touch it—
a voice rang out.
Sharp.
Untimely.
And utterly disruptive.
"A man who slaughters his own vassals without cause… has no right to touch that blade!"
The hall froze.
Every head turned toward the source.
Only Hoster Tully did not.
Because the moment he heard that voice—
he had already closed his eyes.
As if he could already see the outcome.
Some men simply cannot be saved.
Lance's hand paused mid-air.
Slowly—
he turned.
And met a flushed, furious face.
Ah…
I hadn't dealt with you yet—
and you've come forward yourself.
With a faint, cold sneer—
he stepped closer.
His taller frame cast a shadow that nearly swallowed the young man whole.
"What did you just say?"
"Repeat it."
Under his gaze—
Elbert Arryn felt a crushing pressure far greater than before.
His throat went dry.
His fingers trembled beneath his sleeves.
But pride—
and anger—
won out.
He lifted his chin stubbornly.
"I said—"
"A man who kills his vassals without cause…"
"has no right to wield the sword of kings!"
His voice rang loud and clear.
A direct accusation.
An open challenge.
And yet—
Lance did not grow angry.
Only puzzled.
Like a dragon staring at an insect daring to bare its fangs.
One thought crossed his mind.
How dare he?
"Seems you take issue with my rule."
His tone remained calm.
Measured.
"Tell me."
"How, exactly, have I killed my vassals without cause?"
"If more than half the lords here agree with you…"
"I may forgive your offense."
It was meant as an opportunity.
But to Elbert—
it felt like humiliation.
Like his "noble stand" had been reduced to a spectacle begging for royal mercy.
Rage consumed reason.
"Stop pretending to be wise, Lance Lot!"
Elbert stepped forward, ignoring the terrified looks from the Vale nobles.
"Your brutality is known across the realm!"
"You're nothing but an ignorant blacksmith—ruling through violence!"
"You're unfit to govern in the king's name!"
His arm shot up, voice rising with every word:
"Listen well—Lance Lot…"
"You're nothing but a filthy smith!"