Chapter 106 — The Cliff of Power
The study in the Tower of the Hand smelled of aged parchment, sealing wax, and ink.
It was the scent of power.
Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, sat behind a massive oak desk.
Behind him stood a tall window where the morning light filtered through leaded glass, splitting into long strips of pale illumination that fell across the documents before him.
A quill scratched softly against parchment.
A knock sounded at the door.
A knight in crimson armor stepped inside and spoke quietly.
"My lord, Lord Petyr Baelish requests an audience."
"Let him wait."
Tywin did not even lift his head. He continued writing until the final word was complete.
Only then did he set the quill aside.
He picked up a small silver bell on the desk and rang it lightly.
A servant immediately entered and replaced his cup with freshly brewed bitterleaf tea, grown in the hills near Casterly Rock—extremely bitter, but excellent for sharpening the mind.
Soon after, Petyr Baelish was ushered in.
"Lord Hand," he said with a polite bow, the familiar elegant smile resting on his lips.
"Sit."
Tywin's response was curt.
It sounded less like an invitation and more like an order.
Once Baelish sat down, Tywin leaned back in his chair.
His green eyes fixed steadily on the Lord of Harrenhal, but he said nothing.
The study fell silent.
The only sound was the occasional crackle from the fireplace.
Baelish's smile began to stiffen slightly.
But he quickly adjusted his posture and cleared his throat.
"Since Ser Gregor has retaken Harrenhal," he began smoothly,
"as its lord, I've already drafted plans for spring planting in the region. I've had the distribution of seeds and farming tools recalculated…"
"And regarding taxes, I intend to double the levies around Harrenhal. That should increase the tribute sent to the Iron Throne…"
He continued presenting his governance plans in neat, orderly detail.
Tywin listened quietly the entire time.
He neither interrupted nor offered a single comment.
Eventually Baelish ran out of things to say and simply sat there looking at him.
Only then did Tywin finally speak.
"You are the Lord of Harrenhal, Lord Baelish. These matters concern your own lands."
"There is no need to report them to me."
"If you have nothing else to discuss, I still have work to do."
"My lord."
Seeing that Tywin intended to dismiss him, Baelish hurriedly spoke again.
"I heard that King's Landing was rather lively today."
"Apparently the king's procession encountered a riot on Salted Meat Street."
As Tywin's gaze turned colder, Baelish quickly added in a casual tone,
"Oh, you know how King's Landing is. Trouble here today, a brawl somewhere else tomorrow."
"Your information is always remarkably swift, Lord Baelish."
Tywin interrupted calmly.
"I myself only just received a report from Ser Addam Marbrand."
"The incident occurred less than two hours ago."
He reached out and placed a scroll on the desk.
The parchment still smelled of fresh ink.
"People always need to visit prostitutes," Baelish said with a small smile.
"And when they do, they tend to chat about trivial things."
"I happened to overhear the news on Silk Street."
"Within a single year, the king has now suffered two attacks by mobs."
"I thought it necessary to consult with you about the security of King's Landing."
"The city's population is enormous—full of all sorts of unsavory elements."
"We may need stronger patrols by the Gold Cloaks… perhaps even drive out the useless poor—"
"Is that so?"
Tywin leaned forward slightly, his fingers interlaced.
"Just as you 'happened to hear' that Loras Tyrell planned to marry Sansa Stark?"
Baelish's fingers tightened slightly inside his sleeve.
But his smile did not fade—in fact, it widened.
"I merely fulfilled my duty, my lord."
"When I first heard the rumor, I worried that an alliance between the Tyrells and the Starks might undermine your rule."
"I told you out of loyalty to the Iron Throne."
"Your loyalty has already been displayed quite thoroughly," Tywin said with a faint sneer.
"Yet after I arranged the marriage between Loras Tyrell and Cersei, the young knight conveniently disappeared on the very day of his betrothal."
"And I hear the squire named Aiden had long lived on Silk Street."
"Ha… what a coincidence," Baelish chuckled awkwardly.
In truth, he had known that Aiden had been summoned from Silk Street.
But he had chosen to let events unfold.
For Baelish, the more chaotic King's Landing became, the better.
If the alliance between the Tyrells and Lannisters grew too stable, there would be little opportunity for him to profit.
Still, he hadn't expected Tywin to bring up the matter now.
"I recall that half a month ago," Tywin continued, rising to his feet,
"the Small Council decided to send you to the Eyrie to marry Lysa Tully."
His tall frame cast a looming presence.
"Why, then, are you still in King's Landing, Lord Baelish?"
"And why are you so… interested in the city's security?"
The air instantly froze.
The fire still burned in the hearth, yet the temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Baelish could hear his own heartbeat.
Ever since his earlier experience with Cersei, he had grown suspicious of everything.
For a brief moment he feared that the door might burst open and two hundred guards would storm in to cut him down.
But he quickly forced himself to calm down.
Tywin was not his mad daughter.
Killing Baelish would serve the Hand of the King no purpose.
With that thought, Baelish took a slow breath and changed tactics.
If subtlety failed—
then strike directly at the heart.
"Lord Hand," he said quietly, leaning forward as if speaking in confidence.
"Forgive my boldness, but Odin has been in King's Landing for less than a month."
"In that time he has risen from a commoner to Chief Royal Intelligence Envoy."
"You have shown him extraordinary favor and tolerance."
"But now he is maneuvering to obtain a knighthood as well."
"Isn't that rise… a little too fast?"
Tywin said nothing.
He simply watched.
Baelish pressed on.
"You must see that Odin's ambitions are considerable."
"Flea Bottom has been completely transformed."
"Several gambling houses have opened under his control."
"His operations already cover five or six nearby districts."
"The businesses around Fishmonger's Square and the docks have fallen into his hands as well."
"I've even heard that several brothel owners on Silk Street have signed private agreements with him."
"They're planning to open new branches under his protection."
"And most importantly…"
Baelish paused for emphasis.
"When his fighting arena opens—"
"Prince Oberyn Martell himself will attend to perform the opening exhibition."
Baelish paused deliberately, then continued in a guiding tone.
"When that time comes, the House of Order will become the most profitable enterprise in all of King's Landing."
"And every bit of it will be in Odin's hands."
"If that man becomes a knight… what comes next?"
"A lord?"
"And once that happens, how far will his ambition grow?"
"Will he truly remain content to be nothing more than… a hand working in the shadows?"
Having said everything he intended, Baelish leaned back in his chair.
The familiar elegant smile returned to his lips as he calmly waited for Tywin's judgment.
Based on his understanding of the old lion, Tywin would never allow someone so ambitious to grow unchecked beneath his very eyes.
Yet Tywin did not respond immediately.
Instead, he slowly walked toward the fireplace.
The flames flickered across his face, casting harsh shadows that deepened the lines carved into it.
He picked up the fire tongs and adjusted a log.
Sparks crackled and leapt into the air.
After a moment, he turned around.
"Do you know why I tolerate you, Baelish?"
"It is not because you are clever. Clever men are plentiful."
"Nor is it because you are capable. Capable men are also plentiful."
"Even Tyrion, as Master of Coin, has not performed poorly."
Tywin returned to the desk but did not sit.
Instead, he stood over Baelish, looking down at him.
"I tolerate you because you understand limits."
"You know which lines may be crossed… and which must never be touched."
"You play at politics, but you remain within the rules."
"You pursue profit, but not so greedily as to become intolerable."
His voice gradually grew colder.
"But now—you have crossed the line."
"Odin is my man."
"I selected him personally."
"I appointed him Chief Royal Intelligence Envoy."
"Every fragment of power he possesses comes from me."
"And if I can grant him that power…"
"…then I can take it away just as easily."
Tywin's green eyes hardened.
"And yet you come here to suggest that my piece is slipping beyond my control."
"Why?"
"Because his gambling houses have affected your business?"
"Or because you covet Flea Bottom, a district that everyone once avoided like plague?"
Each word struck Baelish like a hammer against his chest.
He opened his mouth to respond—
but Tywin raised a hand, silencing him.
"You promised to go to the Eyrie."
Tywin spoke slowly, leaving no room for negotiation.
"You will go now."
"I give you one week to prepare."
"Before Roose Bolton and his army return to the North, I want to hear news that you have married Lysa Tully."
He paused before delivering the final line.
"This is the decision of the Small Council."
"It is not a suggestion."
"And it is not open for discussion."
---
The study fell silent again.
After a long moment, Baelish slowly rose from his chair.
His movements were steady.
The smile returned to his face.
Though slightly stiff—
like a mask that didn't quite fit.
"As you wish, Lord Hand."
He bowed deeply, his posture impeccable.
"I will arrange matters in King's Landing and depart within a week."
"Before Roose Bolton returns to the North, you will hear the news that I have become the lord of the Eyrie."
"You have my word."
Tywin did not respond.
He simply returned to his seat, picked up his quill, and resumed reviewing documents.
The gesture made one thing perfectly clear.
The conversation was over.
---
Baelish turned and left.
His steps were calm.
His back straight.
Like a nobleman serenely accepting his fate.
But the moment he stepped out of the study and the door closed behind him—
the smile at the corner of his mouth shifted.
It became… slightly triumphant.
The seed of suspicion had been planted.
Even if Tywin had used this opportunity to warn him—
the farmer had climbed too quickly.
Quickly enough to draw the lion's attention.
Trust, after all, was like a sheet of ice.
Thin.
Fragile.
Ready to shatter at any moment.
Descending the spiral staircase of the Tower of the Hand, Baelish's steps were almost light enough to resemble dancing.
One week?
That was more than enough.
Enough to meet the people he needed to meet.
Enough to say the things that needed to be said.
Enough to plant one final seed.
---
Inside the study, Tywin set down his quill.
He walked to the window and watched Baelish cross the courtyard of the Red Keep, disappearing beneath an archway.
The direction of the Master of Laws' residence.
Soon after, Ser Addam Marbrand, commander of the City Watch, appeared at the door.
"Keep an eye on him," Tywin ordered without turning.
"For the next week, I want to know every person he meets."
"And every word he says."
"Yes, my lord."
Addam hesitated slightly.
"And Odin…?"
Tywin remained silent for a moment.
"Watch him as well."
Addam bowed and departed.
Tywin continued standing by the window, watching the people moving through the courtyard below.
Knights.
Servants.
Officials.
Nobles.
Everyone was searching for their own path within this labyrinth of power.
Some found it.
Some lost themselves.
And others believed they had found it—
when in truth they were walking straight toward a cliff.
Tywin turned back to his desk and resumed reviewing the endless stack of documents.
Sunlight streamed through the high window above him.
The light gathered over his head like a halo.
Almost like a crown.