A considerable amount of time had passed since the king's triumphant return to King's Landing.
In that span, the capital had transformed into a place of constant activity and celebration. The most prominent event was the grand martial games held in honor of the king's victory. Knights from every corner of the realm arrived in waves, eager to prove themselves in contests of skill and honor.
But it was not only knights who flocked to the city.
Free riders, craftsmen, merchants, soldiers, gamblers, prostitutes, and thieves—all were drawn to King's Landing like moths to flame. The streets bustled day and night, overflowing with noise, color, and opportunity.
It was a time of prosperity and spectacle.
Yet for one man—
None of it mattered.
Tywin Lannister.
Once the mighty Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and Shield of Lannisport…
Now a prisoner.
While the city reveled in celebration, Tywin spent his days confined within the Red Keep's dungeons.
Though the second level of the dungeons provided relatively decent conditions for noble captives—small, individual cells rather than chains and filth—it was still a prison.
And for a man like Tywin—
It was a humiliation beyond measure.
The heat in King's Landing was oppressive. Nobles and wealthy merchants dressed in fine silk to escape the summer's suffocating warmth. Even the king's officials wore specially tailored garments to maintain both comfort and dignity.
But Tywin—
Stood in the throne room wearing nothing more than coarse linen.
The fabric clung to his body, damp with sweat, carrying a faint sour odor.
It was a stark contrast.
A brutal contrast.
Tyrion Lannister stood among the assembled nobles.
When he saw his father brought before the Iron Throne—
He couldn't help but tighten his lips.
A complicated expression flickered in his eyes.
He had never seen Tywin like this before.
Never imagined it.
To Tyrion, Tywin had always been an unshakable figure—a towering presence clad in crimson armor, adorned with golden lions, riding a white warhorse into battle like a living symbol of Lannister power.
Even in ordinary attire, Tywin exuded authority.
Dignity.
Control.
But now—
That image was gone.
Stripped away.
The man standing before the throne still held himself upright. His back remained straight, his expression calm, his pride unbroken.
Yet everything else—
Was gone.
He no longer resembled the lord Tyrion had known.
Only the shadow of a lion remained.
"…Father."
The word slipped from Tyrion's lips almost unconsciously.
The hall was silent.
The sound carried clearly.
Tywin heard it.
Of course he did.
He turned his head slightly.
Their eyes met—
For only a moment.
Then—
Tywin looked away.
As if Tyrion were nothing more than air.
His gaze shifted instead to the Iron Throne.
To King Robert Baratheon.
Tyrion lowered his head.
The bitterness in his chest deepened.
"Tywin Lannister."
Robert leaned back in his throne, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"How have you been? I trust the rats of the Red Keep haven't troubled you too much?"
His tone was thick with mockery.
But Tywin—
Remained unmoved.
"This has been, perhaps, the most restful period of my life, Your Majesty," he replied calmly.
"As for rats… they do not disturb a lion's sleep."
Robert's smile stiffened.
His sarcasm had failed to provoke any reaction.
"…You'll have plenty of time to rest in the future," Robert snapped.
"Perhaps I'll have your head removed—and let the rats make their home inside it!"
Before the tension could escalate further—
"Your Majesty," Eddard Stark said quietly.
A warning.
A reminder.
Robert shot him an irritated glance but held his tongue.
"I am a defeated man," Tywin said evenly.
"A criminal."
"The victor writes history."
His tone remained steady, neither defensive nor remorseful.
It was unclear whether he spoke to Robert—
Or to Ned Stark.
Ned stepped forward, his expression stern.
"Tywin Lannister, your crimes go far beyond defeat."
"You attempted to seize the throne."
"You waged war, causing suffering across the realm."
"And you sought to use the lives of hundreds of thousands in King's Landing as leverage."
Each accusation fell like a hammer.
"Your actions cannot be excused as mere ambition."
Ned's gaze was unwavering.
He deliberately avoided mentioning the matter of incest—the scandal involving Cersei and Jaime.
That truth, though damning, was not something to be paraded before the entire court.
But even without it—
Tywin's crimes were unforgivable.
Any one of them was enough to warrant death.
Yet Tywin showed no reaction.
"Eddard Stark," he said calmly.
"The war is over."
"The Lannisters have lost everything—wealth, honor, power."
"You may execute me."
"It would be… merciful."
There was no fear in his voice.
No pleading.
Only acceptance.
Robert narrowed his eyes.
"…No."
"Killing you would be too easy."
He leaned forward.
"You value your family above all else, don't you?"
"Then you will serve the realm instead."
"You will take the black."
"You will spend the rest of your life at the Wall—repenting."
The verdict echoed through the hall.
A murmur spread among the nobles.
Exile.
Not execution.
This decision had not been made lightly.
After the battle at Harrenhal, Robert and Ned had already discussed Tywin's fate.
At first, Robert had wanted him dead.
But—
Killing Tywin would only end things quickly.
Too quickly.
Exile to the Night's Watch was worse.
It stripped him of everything.
His title.
His wealth.
His legacy.
And forced him to live out his days in cold obscurity.
For a man like Tywin—
It was a fate more cruel than death.
Tywin's expression did not change.
But for the briefest moment—
The corner of his mouth twitched.
A suppressed reaction.
Then it was gone.
His gaze moved across the hall.
From Robert—
To Ned Stark.
There was a hint of disdain in his eyes.
Then—
To Karl Stone.
The man seated beside the Hand.
Tall.
Imposing.
Even while seated, he radiated presence.
Tywin's green eyes darkened slightly.
Pain flickered within them—
Quickly hidden.
He turned away.
His gaze fell upon the Stark family.
Sansa glared at him with undisguised anger.
Arya looked at him briefly—then turned away with cold indifference.
But Bran—
Bran reacted differently.
The moment Tywin's eyes met his—
The boy gasped.
Fear gripped him.
He stumbled backward and hid behind his mother.
"Bran?"
Catelyn frowned, immediately concerned.
"What's wrong?"
Bran clutched her tightly.
His body trembled.
"I'm scared…"
"There's blood…"
"Robb… Robb is bleeding…"
Catelyn's heart skipped a beat.
"Grey Wind… his head…"
"…it's on Robb…"
"He's… a monster…"
"Winterfell… it's full of blood…"
His voice shook with terror.
Catelyn froze.
These weren't the first strange words Bran had spoken.
Since his fall from the tower—
Though he had miraculously survived—
Something had changed.
He spoke of crows.
Of crypts.
Of bones.
Of dreams that made no sense.
Maester Luwin had examined him, but found nothing physically wrong.
"Just nightmares," he had said.
"The result of fear… and imagination."
But Catelyn wasn't convinced.
So she brought him south.
Hoping a change of environment would help.
But instead—
The dreams had worsened.
In recent days, Bran had spoken of Robb.
Of death.
Of horror.
He described seeing his brother's body—
Hanging.
Mutilated.
Grey Wind's head sewn onto his shoulders.
The image was grotesque.
Unnatural.
Terrifying.
He spoke of bodies piled beneath him.
Of blood soaking the ground.
Of snow falling silently over everything.
Freezing it in time.
And in the shadows—
Something else.
Something ancient.
In the halls of Winterfell—
A faint golden light flickered.
Like a wounded beast—
Roaring in pain.
Bran didn't understand it.
He only knew—
It was terrifying.
And above it all—
The crow.
The three-eyed crow.
Watching.
Always watching.
Silent.
Unmoving.
Its gaze—
Fixed on him.
Catelyn held her son tighter.
Her heart filled with unease.
These were not ordinary dreams.
Not anymore.
Something was coming.
Something dark.
And far away—
In the cold North—
Fate had already begun to move.
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