TYWIN
"You have done very well, Lord Velaryon."
Tywin Lannister's voice was flat, nearly swallowed by the roar of the salty wind and the frenetic bustle of Blackwater Bay. They walked along the wet, moss-slicked wooden docks, Tywin's footsteps maintaining a steady rhythm amidst the organized chaos surrounding them.
Everywhere, men moved like insects whose hive had just been kicked. Sailors scrambled up thick rigging, shouting coarse orders to stevedores whose backs bowed under the weight of supply crates. Salt pork, barrels of cheap ale, and sacks of grain were rolled into the gaping maws of transport ships. Amidst them, soldiers stood tall, overseeing the loading of weapons.
Lord Lucerys Velaryon, the Master of Ships, walked beside him with a gait that was slightly limping as he tried to match Tywin's long strides. The man wore a proud smile—a wide, wet smile that did not reach his eyes.
"There are a few ships currently inoperable, Lord Hand," Lucerys reported, his voice carrying an annoying, high-pitched timbre. "Six at the moment; it seems their hulls suffered minor leaks during last week's storm. They should be repaired quickly, mere basic damage. My carpenters are working day and night. They may not depart at our designated time, but they will catch up swiftly. I guarantee it."
Lucerys replied with a feigned enthusiasm, his face beaming as he reported the minor failure as if it were an achievement. Tywin did not stop walking, offering only a flat, unblinking side-glance in return.
Tywin knew exactly who this man beside him was. Lucerys was Aerys's most loyal lackey, the kind of spineless creature who would laugh the loudest at the King's witless jokes, and nod the fastest at Aerys's whims. Tywin knew that Lucerys Velaryon often insulted him behind his back, whispering in Aerys's ear about the 'Lion who had grown too large for his cage' or how Tywin had forgotten his place.
Yet, Tywin harbored little grudge... at least not for this man. Hatred required energy, and Lucerys Velaryon was not worth that energy. Tywin's hatred was a deep, cold ocean, reserved entirely for Aerys. The man before him was but an ant compared to the King. House Velaryon, who once rode dragons and wed Targaryens, had lost its glory long ago. They were merely a dim shadow of past power, rotting on their damp island. Later, when the dust settled and the new order was established, Tywin could easily flick this louse from the Small Council with a snap of his fingers.
"As long as they catch up within the expected timeframe, it matters not," Tywin finally said. His green eyes fixed on the shapes of the royal ships bobbing in the water.
The timber was good, he had to admit. Pitch-black hulls, their upper decks gleaming under the sunlight. They were well-maintained, at least on the surface.
"We are not sailing there to fight a great naval battle, Lord Velaryon," Tywin continued. "We are going there to catch a mouse that thinks it is a cat."
The sentence carried a dual meaning, a double layer Tywin often employed.
The first meaning, which the shrimp-brained Lucerys likely understood, was a calming message: 'No need to rush, we have plenty of time. Lord Darklyn in Duskendale isn't going anywhere. This is a standard siege, not open warfare.'
The second meaning, understood only by Tywin himself, was far darker: 'Bring however many ships you have, I do not care. Six, sixty, it is irrelevant. The naval blockade is a formality. All of this is merely a cover for what I will do on land.'
"Ah, yes, of course, Lord Hand! The poor mouse," Lucerys chuckled, agreeing too quickly, his nervous laugh sounding like a choked seagull. "Lord Darklyn must have gone mad. We shall show him the Dragon's fangs... and the Lion's claws, of course!"
Tywin stopped walking. He turned his body slowly and looked Lucerys dead in the eye. The gaze was void of emotion, yet it held a crushing weight. Lucerys's laughter died instantly in his throat, freezing into an awkward grimace.
"Just ensure those ships are ready," Tywin said softly, yet every syllable was distinct. "I want no further distractions. No excuses. No further delays."
"Yes, Lord Hand. Of course. I will oversee the repairs myself."
They parted ways at the end of the pier. Lucerys hurried back toward the shipyard, starting to shout orders at his subordinates with a voice raised louder than before, attempting to project the authority that had just been stripped away.
Tywin did not look back. He walked toward his waiting horse, a black destrier guarded by four Lannister household guards. He mounted the saddle with efficient movement.
The ride back to the Red Keep was a journey through the belly of a sick dragon. King's Landing smelled as it always did—a mixture of human waste, woodsmoke, and rotting fish—but today there was an additional scent: fear. The common folk scattered from his path as if he were a plague. Their eyes were cast down, but Tywin could feel their stares. He ignored them.
Upon arriving at the Red Keep courtyard, he handed his horse to a stable boy and headed straight for the Tower of the Hand. He passed lesser lords trying to catch his attention, dismissing their greetings with cold silence.
Inside his solar, silence finally greeted him. The room was spacious, dominated by dark wood and tapestries. Tywin sat, feeling the stiffness in his back ease slightly. With the King taken hostage, Tywin had been increasingly busy of late. He was practically the King in all but name. He arranged troop movements, ensured grain supplies were sufficient for a winter that might come at any moment, and kept the Seven Kingdoms from collapsing due to Aerys's folly. This was the price of power.
However, amidst the pile of royal duties, Tywin never forgot his primary purpose in King's Landing: the glory of House Lannister.
His large hand picked up a neatly wrapped letter sealed with the wax of Casterly Rock. It was from Kevan.
He broke the seal and began to read. The letter was written in Kevan's hand. Tywin skipped the opening, the formal pleasantries, the condolences for the King's situation—which Tywin knew Kevan wrote just in case the letter was intercepted—the harvest reports, and minor complaints about dissatisfied bannermen.
Tywin's eyes stopped at the final section, the most critical paragraph.
"...It is unfortunate that just as our paper enterprise has begun to flourish, the realm faces such trouble. The crisis in Duskendale was certainly unforeseen, and with this, perhaps some trade routes to the Crownlands will be temporarily hampered. However, Gerion has done his task well in Essos. What we possess now has spread by word of mouth further than we anticipated.
"Thanks to his promotion, there are more merchants from the Free Cities, Braavos, Pentos, even Myr, continuing to visit Lannisport. They no longer come just for gold, but for paper. They favor its texture and practicality. It seems we did not waste our coin 'squandering money' to build those mills. The schools we established are also constantly full; for now, they can accept no more students and must wait until next year. Or we must accelerate the construction of others.
"This signifies that behind all the flaws and massive initial costs, this project is succeeding. Little by little, we are shifting the dependency on learning away from Oldtown. We will reap the true benefits, not just in coin, but in control."
Tywin nodded slowly, a rare satisfaction touching his heart. A knock at the door broke his concentration. Three times. Firm, but polite.
Tywin folded the letter and stored it in a locked drawer. "Enter."
The door opened. A man stepped in with calm but wary movements. He had red hair and a beard that was beginning to whiten, a face forged by sea wind and sun. His clothes were of good quality, made of fine wool but unobtrusive. He looked like a successful middle-class merchant, the type one would see a thousand times in the market and forget in a second.
Luke. A fish merchant from the Westerlands, or so his cover went.
"Good afternoon, Lord Hand." The man bowed, a friendly smile etched onto his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, yet his movements were still agile. "An honor to see you again."
"Sit," Tywin said, wasting no pleasantries. He pointed to a hard wooden chair across his desk. Tywin disliked wasting time in situations like this, especially with hired men.
Luke's eyes practically sparkled. Of course. Tywin was the man who had saved him from ruin ten years ago. Luke was just a poor fisherman with mounting debts when Tywin saw potential in his cunning and his network of contacts in the Lannisport harbor. Tywin paid his debts, gave him ships, and invested. In return, Luke gave his soul.
"How do you fare?" Tywin asked, his tone flat, though the question itself was a boon for a man of Luke's station.
"My business has flourished since last time, My Lord. Truly flourished," Luke answered enthusiastically, sitting on the edge of the chair. "This time I am not only shipping salt fish and shellfish to Oldtown or Dorne, but also Gulltown, Duskendale, Maidenpool, and of course, King's Landing. My merchant fleet grows larger thanks to your aid. And naturally, I have capable crews... men willing to do hard work and ask few questions."
He clasped his hands together at the end of the sentence, his rough fingers interlocking. He fell silent, his eyes on Tywin, waiting for instructions. He knew he wasn't summoned to the Tower of the Hand just to discuss fish prices.
"Good," Tywin said, leaning forward slightly. The afternoon sunlight cast sharp shadows across his face. "I need your men in Duskendale. Not for trade."
Luke's face turned serious in an instant. The mask of the friendly merchant cracked. "Duskendale is in trouble, My Lord. Lord Darklyn has closed his gates."
"Gates are closed for armies, not for food merchants bringing supplies in a time of crisis," Tywin interrupted. "Make sure to choose the men you can control most. Those who have something they value that we can hold as collateral... or simply, those who desire gold the most and do not fear blood."
The Tower of the Hand was Tywin's absolute domain. These walls were thick, and the guards outside were deaf to anything but his commands. There was no need for him to use excessive metaphors. He had to be careful, yes, but being paranoid was not Tywin's nature.
"I have many such men, My Lord," Luke said quietly. His fingers began tapping his knee, an old habit. "They are loyal as mongrels fed meat. They will listen to whatever I desire, and they have never disappointed so far. They know who truly feeds their families."
Luke paused, weighing how far he could ask. "If I may know, My Lord... what is it you want with them inside?"
Tywin did not answer immediately. He stared at Luke, measuring the man once more.
"I need someone to slip in there. As you already know, we will lay siege. We will cut off their access from land and sea. The city will go hungry. And when a city hungers, the people become restless."
"So..." Luke smiled crookedly, a guess forming in his head. "You want my men to sneak in, find where the King is held, and rescue him? To be heroes in the shadows?"
Tywin suppressed a harsh scoff. He leaned back in his chair, shadows obscuring his eyes.
"Do not jest," Tywin's voice was ice cold. "Aerys is surely guarded heavily by Darklyn's best soldiers. It would be difficult, even impossible, to rescue him in such a manner. The risk of failure is too high."
Tywin stared straight into Luke's eyes. "Furthermore, this is not a rescue mission. Quite the opposite."
Luke's fingers stopped tapping his knee instantly.
His eyes widened slightly, his pupils contracting. He stared at Tywin rigidly. Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Luke was a smart man; he understood the implications of those words. Quite the opposite.
This was high treason. This was kingslaying, even if done with a passive hand.
But Tywin was his master. Tywin was the god who plucked him from the mud. And more importantly, Tywin was the man who could crush him back into dust before the sun set.
Luke's lips twitched. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. Slowly, his large fingers began to play again, kneading the fabric of his trousers. He exhaled a long breath.
"You shall have exactly what you desire, My Lord," he whispered, his voice slightly hoarse but firm. "I will ensure it is provided."
Tywin nodded, satisfied. No hesitation, no moral questions. Only business.
"I want you in the vicinity of Duskendale. Use your identity as a merchant trapped or trying to profit from the war. Send your three best men to sneak into the city, through the sewers, through the sea wall, I do not care how."
Tywin picked up a blank piece of paper, as if inspecting its quality, but his eyes remained on Luke.
"Their task is not to approach the King. Their task is to hear everything. And then... to speak." Tywin set the paper down. "I want them to spread fear."
"You want to corner Darklyn," Luke concluded.
"I want to create chaos," Tywin corrected. "I want the situation inside to be so heated, so desperate, that Darklyn makes a fatal error. Or better yet... in the midst of that chaos, if the King's guards panic, or if a riot reaches the holding cells..."
Tywin let the sentence hang. 'If Aerys is killed in that chaos, then it is a regrettable tragedy. A tragedy that puts Rhaegar on the throne and puts me back in full control without the interference of a madman.'
"We will squeeze them little by little, for as long as possible," Tywin continued. "Until we find an opening to end it all. Do you understand, Luke?"
Luke stood, bowing deeply. His merchant's smile had returned, but now there was a dangerous glint within it.
"Yes, yes. Of course, My Lord. Chaos and despair. That is an expensive commodity, but I can deliver it."
"Go," Tywin commanded. "Do not disappoint me."
As the door closed behind Luke, Tywin Lannister picked up his quill once more. He pulled a fresh sheet of paper, paper made in Lannisport, and began to write orders for the vanguard.
Outside the window, the sun began to set on King's Landing, casting a blood-red shadow over the entire city. The Siege of Duskendale had only just begun, and Tywin intended to win it, without a living King at the story's end.
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