"How was it? You must be very happy. My plan failed, and in your eyes, it must seem far less brilliant than your tenure as Acting Hand."
Tywin Lannister stood up, a dangerous golden glint flickering in his pale green eyes as he looked down at his son. He stood by the arched window of the Hand's Tower, the sunset casting a long, jagged shadow that seemed to pin Tyrion to his seat.
"Oh, Father, are you praising me? I should mark this day on the calendar," Tyrion replied with a playful, lopsided smile.
He struggled for a moment to settle into the high-backed oak chair. The furniture in this room was designed for men of Tywin's stature - rigid, imposing, and utterly indifferent to the comfort of a dwarf. Tyrion somewhat regretted not having replaced every chair in the tower with something more 'Tyrion-sized' during his brief time in power. It was hard to look dignified when your legs dangled like a toddler's.
Tyrion reached across the table, his fingers finding a clean crystal cup. He poured himself a full glass of Summer Red, the aroma of oak and dark berries filling the small space between them. After taking a long, appreciative sip, he continued, "I also think I did a very good job. How about you give me back that golden chain around your neck? You're an old man, Father. You deserve a rest, and I've already shown I can handle the vultures of the Small Council."
Tywin's jaw tightened. Around his neck hung the chain Tyrion had commissioned - a series of small, interlocking golden hands. It was a symbol of Lannister wealth and arrogance, and at this moment, it felt like a weight of iron.
"Stop making faces," Tywin said, his voice a low, rhythmic grind. "The only reason you handled the Dorne matter was because you were acting in my name. The Tyrells cooperated because you were a Lannister, not because they found your wit charming. Without my shadow to hide in, you wouldn't be able to enter the Red Keep without being interrogated by the kitchen staff."
Tyrion was accustomed to the disapproval. It was the air he breathed. He drank half his wine and shrugged. "Well, I'm not the Hand anymore, am I? The mess at the Twins is officially your problem, old man. Though I hear Petyr Baelish has been whining about his reward. Apparently, 'Lord of Harrenhal' doesn't mean much when the castle is still full of Northmen."
Tywin sat back down, his expression unreadable. Petyr Baelish had indeed returned from his mission to Bitterbridge, having secured the Tyrell alliance. But the tactical landscape had shifted. Tywin's defeat at the Red Fork and the subsequent loss of the Tarly vanguard had left Harrenhal in the hands of Brynden 'the Blackfish' Tully. Littlefinger held the title of Lord Paramount of the Trident, but his 'kingdom' was a smoking ruin he couldn't even set foot in.
"I've already dealt with Baelish," Tywin said dismissively. "He is on his way to the Vale to marry Lysa Arryn. He will bring the Eyrie back into the fold without us losing a single man. It is a compensatory gesture for his... lack of a physical fiefdom."
"Lysa Tully? Gods, he really isn't picky," Tyrion chuckled. "I remember her as a girl, all smiles and soft curves. Now? She's a bloated, pale-faced ghost who talks to her soup. Littlefinger must be desperate for that mountain air."
"He is useful. Which is more than I can say for you at this moment." Tywin leaned forward, his hands interlaced. "So, Tyrion. Why do you think I kept you here? And why did I invite Miss Stark to join us?"
Tyrion's eyes narrowed. "Are you planning to marry her to me? You did say once that the North must be bound to Casterly Rock."
He was talking nonsense, expecting a sharp rebuke. Instead, Tywin raised an eyebrow, his silence more shocking than a shout.
"If my arrangements at the Twins had succeeded," Tywin said slowly, "then yes. That would have been the next step. You would have married Sansa Stark and gained the inheritance rights to Winterfell. Once the Ironborn were driven out by the Northern rebels, you would have been the Regent of the North. Even the Queen of Thorns had the same idea, she wanted to spirit the girl away to marry that crippled bookworm, Willas."
Tywin shook his head, a rare moment of visible regret. "Unfortunately, the plan failed. Eddard Karstark happened. So we must handle the pieces differently."
Tyrion felt a jolt of genuine surprise. The idea of being the Lord of Winterfell was almost intoxicating. But the failure was absolute. "A pity. So, what's the move? Stannis is at our gate, and Robb Stark is holding our general. You have to kill one of them before they combine their strength."
Tywin put down his wine cup. The air in the room grew heavy. "The situation is precarious. Losing Randyll Tarly is a blow we cannot ignore. The Reach is already whispering about our 'ineptitude.' Now, everyone must bear their own responsibilities. Including you."
"Yes, Father," Tyrion said, his voice losing its mocking edge. When Tywin spoke in that measured, gentle tone, it meant the task was both vital and dangerous.
"I need you to go to the Twins," Tywin commanded. "You will talk to this newly minted 'Lord of the Crossing.' See what price he demands for the captured lords and knights. Especially your uncle Kevan."
Tyrion waited, his heart thumping. "And Jaime? What price for my brother?"
Tywin's eyes blinked once - a cold, mechanical motion. "I do not want to ransom any Kingsguard."
The silence that followed was deafening. Tyrion felt a storm of fury and confusion raging in his mind. He's abandoning him, Tyrion realized. He's going to ransom every minor knight and cousin, but leave his own son to rot in a Northern dungeon.
"Why?" Tyrion rasped, his hand gripping the armrest so hard his knuckles turned white. "Why would you leave him there?"
"Because Jaime is a Kingsguard. He has no inheritance. He is a hostage that Robb Stark will never release for mere gold," Tywin said, though Tyrion could see the lie in his father's rigidity. Tywin wasn't abandoning Jaime; he was playing a much deeper game.
"Tell the Karstark boy that we offer Sansa Stark," Tywin continued, ignoring Tyrion's distress. "We offer the ancestral sword Ice. We offer gold, grain, and the release of all Northern prisoners currently in our cells. Use that clever mind of yours to get us the best possible price."
He paused, then added a condition so absurd it made Tyrion gasp. "Oh, and ask if Eddard Karstark is interested in a royal marriage. Ask if he would marry the Queen Mother and become a son-in-law of House Lannister."
Tyrion stared at his father. "Are you insane? Karstark is a Stark in everything but name. He's the reason Robb is still alive. Why would he betray his King for Cersei? My sister is... well, she's Cersei. And he's a giant from the frozen woods who kills Mountains for sport."
"How will you know if you don't try?" Tywin sneered. "If he marries Cersei, the North and the Riverlands are severed. Robb Stark would be isolated, trapped in his own blizzards. It is a long shot, but it is a probe. Do it."
"Fine," Tyrion sighed, raising his hands in surrender. "And my reward? If I survive this trip to a fortress full of men who want to flay me, what do I get? Negotiating a peace is reputation-suicide, Father. I'll be the dwarf who begged for mercy."
"Your reputation? You spend your nights in gutters and your days with whores. You have no reputation to ruin," Tywin snapped. "Speak. What do you want?"
"I want what is mine by law," Tyrion said, his voice steady. "The inheritance of Casterly Rock."
The atmosphere in the room turned from cold to arctic. Tywin stood up, looming over the table like a vengeful god. "NEVER."
"Why not? Jaime is gone. You won't ransom him. A Kingsguard cannot inherit. That leaves me," Tyrion pressed on, his own bitterness bubbling to the surface. "Are you going to let Uncle Kevan have it? Or perhaps one of Lancel's brothers?"
Tywin's face was a mask of pure, distilled hatred. "The laws of men allow you to bear my name and wear my colors, Tyrion. But neither gods nor men will force me to hand Casterly Rock to a creature who would turn it into a brothel."
"A brothel?" Tyrion felt the sting. "Did Cersei tell you that? My sister sees a whore behind every curtain."
"That is none of your concern!" Tywin shouted, his voice finally breaking its calm. "Get out of my sight. Go to the Twins. Do your duty. And Tyrion? Get rid of that girl you're hiding. If I find her in the city when you return, I will hang her from the battlements myself. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Tyrion whispered, his heart cold. He bowed his head, already thinking of how to hide Shae better, perhaps marrying her to a landless knight to give her a 'shield' of respectability.
He shuffled toward the door, but stopped at the threshold. "One thing, Father. You aren't giving up on Jaime. I know you. You have a plan you aren't telling me. If you're sending me to the Twins to be a distraction while you do something else, I'd like to know."
Tywin's expression flickered, a micro-second of surprise. He realized then that Tyrion had been testing him.
"Just do your job, you unfilial fool," Tywin spat. "Send Miss Stark in on your way out."
Tyrion shrugged, hummed a discordant tune, and walked out into the hall. He had lost the Rock, but he had won a small, psychological victory. His father was desperate.
A few moments later, Sansa Stark walked in, her head bowed.
"Great Hand, you sent for me?"
Tywin looked at the girl. She was the key to everything, the bridge to the North he hadn't yet burned.
"Yes. I have good news, Miss Stark," Tywin said, his voice returning to its smooth, professional cadence. "You are going home. But first, I have a message for you to deliver. When you see Jaime Lannister in the North, tell him this: A Kingsguard is cared for by no one, but a Lannister always pays his debts. Can you remember those words?"
Sansa's eyes filled with a sudden, sharp hope. "I will remember them, My Lord. I will tell him exactly that."
"Good. Now leave. I have a war to win."
Tywin watched the girl depart, the silence of the study returning. He reached for a fresh piece of parchment and began to write. The "Winter Wizard" thought he had won the Crossing, but Tywin Lannister was just beginning to play.
[System Notification: Narrative Pivot: The Great Negotiation begins.]
[Target Influence: Tyrion Lannister (Master of Coin).]
[Hidden Objective: The Fate of Sansa Stark.]
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