Chapter 87 — The Black Hand Offers Its Most Sincere Service
It was common knowledge across the Seven Kingdoms that Tywin Lannister had served the "Mad King," Aerys II Targaryen, as Hand for nearly twenty years, governing the realm with iron order and ruthless efficiency. His ability was beyond question.
His eventual departure had far less to do with incompetence than with Aerys's escalating madness and relentless humiliation.
After Robert Baratheon's Rebellion, House Lannister joined the victors only at the very end. Though they secured their footing by taking King's Landing, political balance demanded restraint. Robert married Cersei, but the office of Hand went instead to his foster father, the venerable Jon Arryn.
Tywin, ever the consummate politician, did not contest the decision. He withdrew to Casterly Rock and lay low—enduring, waiting, stockpiling strength—for more than a decade.
Those years were not retreat so much as patience.
Now, with the War of the Five Kings tearing the realm apart, Tywin had finally returned to the apex of power and reclaimed the seat he believed had always been his by right. This time, he would never again allow anyone to drive him ignominiously from King's Landing.
And yet Lord Gyles Rosby had chosen the one comparison Tywin found utterly intolerable—invoking a dead Hand of the King to question him.
It was tantamount to suicide.
Watching Gyles cry out "By the Seven!" and "Mother have mercy!" again and again, Odin couldn't help frowning slightly.
Was the old man truly that devout—or simply that stupid?
At that moment, Tywin rose slowly to his feet.
His green eyes fixed upon Gyles Rosby, no longer with the irritation one reserved for a buzzing fly, but with the cold appraisal one gave an inanimate object.
"For the misconduct of your kin and the consequences that followed," Tywin said evenly, "you have my condolences, Lord Rosby."
"But the laws of the realm reward and punish with clarity. I advise you to be more cautious in the future when choosing—and disciplining—your family."
He paused, then added calmly:
"Ah. I nearly forgot. You no longer have much family left."
Without waiting for a response, Tywin turned slightly and inclined his head toward the Iron Throne.
"Your Grace."
"Our business for today is concluded. You must be tired. Please retire and rest."
His voice was level, uninflected—but everyone in the hall felt the weight beneath that calm.
The famously smooth-brained Joffrey Baratheon failed to catch the menace entirely, but he was more than happy to escape a meeting he found unbearably dull. He nodded repeatedly and left the Iron Throne under heavy guard.
Just before exiting the hall, he hesitated, turned back, and pointed at Odin.
"You—"
He paused, as if something had almost surfaced in his mind. Then, apparently deciding it wasn't worth the effort, he shook his head and strode out.
Tywin followed shortly after, his back straight and imposing as he crossed the cavernous chamber. When he passed Odin, his steps never slowed.
Yet a low voice reached Odin's ear all the same.
"Wait for me in the Hand's Tower."
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Tywin did not keep Odin waiting long.
Barely half an hour later, a servant led him through layers of guards and into the study overlooking King's Landing once more.
The Hand of the King sat behind his desk. He had already shed the formal robes of court, wearing only a dark crimson tunic—but his authority was undiminished.
Hearing Odin enter, Tywin did not look up at once. He finished signing the last line of a document with a stiff quill, then set it down.
"Sit."
The word was as concise as ever, but compared to their previous meeting, it carried less of a testing edge.
Odin took his seat, respectful but unbowed.
To his mild surprise, Tywin himself reached for the wine.
Amber liquid flowed into the cups with a soft, steady sound. When he was done, the Hand slid one cup across the desk toward Odin and took the other for himself.
There was no toast.
No polite preamble.
Only silence—and intent.
Tywin took a small sip first, then finally looked at Odin.
"I hear you've done a decent job taming Flea Bottom."
Odin answered honestly, without embellishment.
"We're still far from the goal. The streets are cleaner, at least, and public order has improved."
Seeing no trace of pride in him, Tywin nodded with satisfaction. He lifted his cup again, as though recalling old history.
"From Maegor to Aerys, kings have tried more than once to 'fix' that place. Gold dragons were poured in, soldiers dispatched, even fire was used."
"In the end," he continued coolly, "nothing changed—except for a few more rotting corpses hanging from the city walls."
Odin took a sip of wine as well.
He swore silently that it was the finest wine he had ever tasted—better even than a fifteen-year Dornish Summer Red. Still, he set the cup down without lingering, a faint smile touching his lips.
"It wasn't a lack of ability, my lord," he said.
"They simply never truly cared."
Tywin raised an eyebrow, motioning for him to continue.
"The kings saw Flea Bottom as filth to be purged," Odin went on evenly, "never as living people."
"In truth, I did very little. Flea Bottom became what it was because the people living there had no hope. Without hope, they cannot respect rules—chaos becomes their default."
"All I offered was a simple path," Odin said calmly. "Obey my rules, and in return receive the bare minimum: food, shelter, and safety."
"Of course," he added, "necessary violence is indispensable. Everyone must understand where the line lies—and the price of crossing it."
Tywin listened in silence for a long moment before finally speaking, his voice carrying an uncharacteristic trace of reflection.
"You have the makings of a competent ruler, Odin."
"Feed the people. Make them feel safe. They will accept order. Defend that order with absolute force, and it will endure."
He leaned forward slightly, candlelight flickering in the deep hollows of his eyes.
"These principles sound simple, yet even I was forced to truly understand them only after I turned twenty."
"And tragically," Tywin continued, his tone turning colder, "many people spend their entire lives unable to comprehend anything beyond the limits of their own understanding."
"They are trapped in old illusions, hollow dogma, or self-righteous notions of 'justice,' blind to the iron laws that govern reality."
Odin immediately understood the target of those words.
Gyles Rosby.
"Your wisdom and methods require no validation from ordinary men, my lord," Odin said with a slight bow, his respect measured and precise.
"The lion stands at the summit, its vision encompassing all. Why would it care whether the sheep below look up—or close their eyes?"
Tywin's lips twitched faintly. The words had struck exactly where intended.
"The lion indeed does not care how sheep look at it," he echoed.
"But it does care that the flock remains quiet, stays within its pasture, and delivers its wool and flesh on time."
"If sheep begin to disobey," he continued, eyes sharpening, "or bleat too loudly—then they must be silenced."
"Permanently, if necessary."
His gaze cut into Odin like a blade.
"'Hands in the dark.' That was the phrase you used when you made your proposal."
"Now," Tywin said, voice devoid of warmth, "prove it to me."
So that was it.
No more dancing around the issue.
Gyles Rosby had effectively been sentenced already.
And no—Tywin Lannister was not narrow-minded.
Among the great lords of the Seven Kingdoms, his political tolerance and capacity for restraint were, in fact, exceptional.
He had endured nearly twenty years under Aerys II Targaryen, swallowing insult after insult, madness after madness, holding the realm together by sheer force of will and professionalism.
Even when Aerys took perverse pleasure in humiliating him, Tywin remained—until the king finally "granted" his resignation.
Later, when Aerys was captured at Duskendale, Tywin had calmly remarked that the realm might be better off if the king died and Rhaegar Targaryen ascended instead.
That was simply Tywin Lannister's nature: interests first, sentiment never.
The annihilation of House Reyne and House Tarbeck had followed the same logic—betrayal and disorder met with absolute destruction, a warning etched into the memory of the Seven Kingdoms for generations.
Tywin's mercy was reserved for loyalty and order.
His iron hand was reserved for chaos.
And Gyles Rosby had crossed two unforgivable lines.
First—publicly accusing Jaime Lannister, the sole heir Tywin had ever acknowledged in his heart.
Second—and far more foolish—daring to compare Tywin to the late Jon Arryn before the Iron Throne, implying that the dead man had been more "just."
That was worse than a slap to the face.
It questioned the legitimacy of Tywin's return to power itself.
And so, Tywin could not act personally.
This was a test.
Odin met the Hand's unwavering gaze and understood—the first real trial had arrived.
He straightened, his expression turning solemn. Lifting the wine, he drained it in a single swallow.
"The Black Hand will serve you with absolute loyalty, my lord."
"I guarantee that the sheep which bleated at the wrong time, in the wrong place, will never see another sunrise."