The sun had long since passed the horizon, abandoning it to the mercy of the twilight at the very heart of King's Landing. Behind the thick walls of the Red Keep, the last shreds of daylight fell through narrow windows high above the city. The room was spartan, without any of the gilded ornamentation that appeared in profusion on the lower levels, and embraced a utilitarian simplicity redolent of the man who often sat within. This was the sanctum of Lord Tywin Lannister, the King's Hand.
The floor was a cold stone slab unyielding even to the footfall of the most heavily armored guard. A huge wooden desk dominated the space, scarred from countless battles with parchments and ink. A single candle above it threw a feebler light in its losing battle against the encroaching darkness. Dust packed the air, and with it, the faintest hint of leather from the bound scrolls that lined the shelves. Save for the soft crackling of the candle flame, the only sound might have been the infrequent whisper of wind outside the window, carrying murmurs from far-off from the city below.
Lord Tywin sat at his desk, his face as unyielding as the sculptures lining the hallways. His eyes, a piercing shade of green, reflected the dancing light as he read through the latest scrolls from the ravens. News from the realms read like a tale of darkness: unrest in the Riverlands, whispers of rebellion in Dorne, and ever-jeopardy in the North. The hand that held the parchment all but shook, as if his knuckles had turned white from the digestion of those words. That King Aerys was losing his grip was common knowledge but it worsened with each passing day. The realm was a tinderbox, and it was his duty to stop the spark that would set off everything.
He knew full well enough that the Iron Throne was not for a man of his kind-his tastes ran rather to the finer things in life-such subtleties of strategy and diplomacy rather than the brutish rule of a king that had lost touch with his subjects. Yet, he was under an oath, and the weight of it hung around his neck like a heavy, iron chain. The whispers of his own blood did not let him turn a deaf ear to their claim for a more stable future with a Lannister upon the throne. Yet, that was for later-a dream that could be entertained in the shadow of his present duties.
The knock at his door pulled Tywin from his reverie; it was his servant, bearing a fresh bundle from Casterly Rock. The wax seal upon it was embossed with the lion of House Lannister, sigil of his family's power and legacy. He took the bundle with a nod of thanks, feeling the weight inside the letters. Most of them were probably just regular administrative matters from his lands, but there was one, a bit thinner and softer to the touch, that called his attention. Deep red-colored wax, the color of love and passion, carried the imprint of his wife's signet ring.
Trembling, he broke the seal, and forthwith, a sweet scent of lavender and honey came from the page. Her handwriting flowed like the woman herself, fluid looping, and changing direction, a river curling its way through the valleys of the Westerlands. His heart swelled at every word as he read the warm, loving words she wrote to him. Her letters were balm for his soul, soft reminders of love beyond the cruelty of the capital.
The candle gutted lower, its light casting long dancing shadows across the pages as Tywin lost himself in her words. She spoke of the beauty of the sunsets over the rock, the laughter of their people, and the quiet moments they shared. The way she felt for him was palpable, stirring something deep within his chest, a longing for home-the warmth of her embrace, the simple joy of being together. They were newlyweds, but the fire between them was never at rest. Still, there was an underpinning of melancholy to her prose, something that would not be told.
The letters from Joanna had been his only solace within the labyrinth of his duties. They were a private sanctuary, a place where he could set aside the weight of his title and responsibilities, simply to be Tywin—a husband, a man with desires and dreams beyond the Iron Throne. He smiled as he read, the corners of his eyes crinkling—a rare sight in the Red Keep. But as the smile spread, so did the ache within his chest, a poignantly cruel reminder of how far between them.
He let himself be vulnerable in the quiet of his chamber, feeling the depth of his love and the pain of his longing. Long wedded to duty, Joanna had taught him there could be more to life than honor and obligation. She was the cause of warmth in his cheeks, softness in his gaze. Yet behind that softness brewed an ever-ascending conflict, a violence churning at the bottom of his soul. With every word she had written, the line between his duty to the realm and his need for family became increasingly blurred.
The last paragraph held a tender subject-one weighing heavier than any crown. Joanna spoke of a child, of an heir left behind them, a continuation of their line, a new life bringing gladness into their union. Her gentle prodding did not go without its notice. The line of Lannister was strong, yet still untainted even by the promise of an heir. A bitter sensation-a gnawing at his pride-he knew succession, the assurance of House Lannister's continued mastery. Yet most of all, he wanted to give Joanna her rightful joy, to see her cradle a child of their own flesh and blood.
Sighing, he folded the letter up and set it amongst its brethren. Shadows danced upon the wall, the candle flame furling this way and that, as they had done for two and a half decades, playing tricks upon his mind. Tywin Lannister, a man ever stern, forever in control, shivered very slightly in his façade. His mind ran on with ideas of the future and what decisions he would soon have to make: duty, calling him to serve the king, to keep the peace in the realm; desire, whispering of home, of the love which waited for him at Casterly Rock, of the sons they could get and the house they could build together.
And then came the tension-the silent battle between his heart and his honor. Torn between the love that would soften him and the duty hardening his resolution, he did not know how to navigate these waters. One thing was clear, though: he couldn't long shut his ears against the whispers of his heart. Soon, he would have to make a decision, and that would resound in the hallways of the Red Keep and throughout the Seven Kingdoms.
The following morning, Tywin armored himself, piece by shining piece, as if for a fitting to his very soul. That blinding gold and crimson caught the morning sun, a jarring contrast with the yet-to-settle darkness of his thoughts. He made his way to the throne room, the clank of his boots upon the stone floor echoing down the corridors. Magnificence meant little or nothing to him; his mind was fixed upon the paranoid king who waited for him.
King Aerys Targaryen sat upon the Iron Throne, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow, as if in the blink of an eye he might find any assassin appearing out of the darkness. Once handsome, his face was the mask of fear and suspicion; the weight of his crown weighed more than his slight shoulders were able to bear. The atmosphere was heavy with parchment and ink smells-the evidence of endless scrolls of decrees and orders, which came out in a torrent from his quill during dead night.
Aerys's eyes flashed, and he straightened in his seat, the strain crackling in the air. "You are late, Tywin," he snarled; his voice all reedy, taut with apprehension. "I am a busy man, and I brook no disrespect to my time."
"My apologies, Your Grace," returned Tywin coolly, deliberately measured. "I was seeing to the security of Your Grace's realm."
The king's eyes flickered for a moment, and Tywin knew the seed of doubt was sown. Aerys's paranoia was a thing to be treated with care. Trust in the king was as fragile as a house of cards; one wrong whisper sent it tumbling down.
"Your Grace," Tywin began with respectful tones, as his voice was soft, but his eyes as hard as stone. "The realm now requires stability, a strong hand that will be able to guide us across these stormy waters."
Aerys leaned forward, interest piqued. "And what do you suggest, my Hand?"
Tywin paused, his words measured and as carefully chosen as an expert archer choosing his arrows: "Your council is full of men that would seek to use you, to play you against each other, and against the realm. It is past time that you are surrounded by men that will serve your interests and not whisper lies in your ear."
The king's eyes narrowed further, his grip on the arms of the throne tightening. "You speak of treason, Tywin?"
"Only of loyalty, Your Grace," Tywin said smoothly. "I have identified a few courtiers who I believe would serve you well-men and women of proven loyalty and unwavering dedication."
Aerys nodded slowly, his suspicion giving way to curiosity. "Very well. Bring them to me, and we shall see."
The doors to the throne room swung open, and Tywin motioned for two figures to enter. First was his own brother, Kevan Lannister, clad in his crimson armor with the lion of House Lannister emblazoned on the chest. His face was as stoic as that of the statue of a warrior god, his posture erect and proud. Behind him came a tall lean figure in mourning robes of pale green and gold, her every step stately as the breeze that stirs the grasses in the gardens of gods: Lady Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, her bright eyes glinting like diamonds in candlelight, her face sharp with years.
Kevan marched forward with a rhythmic clinking of boots on stone floor and went to his knees before the throne, moving with the practiced ease of a soldier and a Lannister. "Your Grace," he said clear and loud. "I am at your service."
Olenna, by contrast, was in no hurry, a knowing smile dancing upon her lips. She curtsied with an elegance that might shame any court lady. "Your Grace," she said, her voice sweet as honey. "It is a privilege to serve House Targaryen."
The king cut his eyes at them both, letting them rest on Olenna. "Lady Tyrell, your beauty is as renowned as your wit. I find myself wondering what would bring a lady such as yourself before me."
Olenna's smile broadened; her eyes glinted with amusement. "To lend my experience to your council-as it is my duty to House Tyrell and House Targaryen, Your Grace. Perhaps a dollop of wisdom to go along with the brawn that seems to dominate your council."
Aerys's gaze shifted to Tywin, inscrutable as the Sphinx. "And you, Kevan," the king said in a voice a shade darker. "What does House Lannister offer in this union?"
Kevan's eyes never left the throne. "Loyalty, Your Grace. We stand with you as we always have, prepared and dutiful to serve and defend."
The room had gone silent as a tomb as the king digested their words, his eyes drifting between them both, the shades dancing across his face like so many flickering candlelights. Finally, he nodded-a slight gesture that might have passed by one less observant. "Rise," he said. "You shall both be welcome additions to my council."
Kevan stood. Olenna remained standing, a vision of courtesy. "Your Grace," she took the opportunity to say, her voice slick as silk. "Allow me to propose a toast to new alliances?
Aerys's eyes lit up, momentarily forgetting his fear. "An excellent idea, Lady Tyrell." He clapped his hands, and a servant came running with a decanter of the finest Dornish red and three goblets. "To the prosperity of our houses," he declared, pouring the wine.
They drank, the red liquid glinting in the candlelight. The air grew thick with the promise of a new chapter in the story of the realm. Tywin felt the weight of his decision settle upon him; the fate of his house and the Seven Kingdoms lay in the balance. The king's trust was a precarious thing, but he had the pieces on the board he needed to make his next move.
* * *
The meeting of the Small Council was in full swing, and this time with its new members Olenna Tyrell and Kevan Lannister. The room was thick with tension, mixed equally with anticipation. The usual suspects were there to give weight: there was Pycelle, the obsequious Grand Maester whose loyalties were known to Tywin; Queen Rhaella; and this time Aerys himself was there.
"Your Grace," Tywin began, his eyes sweeping over the assembly. "It has come to my attention that the Gold Cloaks are no longer as reliable as they once were. Their loyalty to the crown is… questionable."
Aerys' hand had tightened around his scepter as he sat at the head of the table; Tywin was to his right. "What do you imply, Tywin?" His voice was like a knife that could cut through steel.
"Only that the city watch is more gang than bastion of law," Tywin replied evenly. "They have been seen accepting bribes, turning a blind eye to the chaos that festers in the streets."
Rhaella spoke up, her voice as soft as the silk of her gown. This was something she could get behind on. "The common folk fear them more than they respect them."
Aerys banged his fist on the table, jolting the inkwells. "It is fear that keeps the peace! They must know their place!"
Olenna's gaze never wavered. "Fear engenders resentment, Your Grace. Resentment begets rebellion. If the Gold Cloaks serve no useful purpose but to terrorize…"
Tywin nodded in agreement. "The City Watch must be an instrument of order, not a symbol of corruption. I propose we replace them with a force more loyal to the crown—our own Lannister men as Gold Cloaks."
Rhaella was surprised that Tywin could even suggest an idea like that. Blatant display of replacing men with men loyal to Tywin Lannister, but when she turned her gaze across the council, she realized they were all on board with this. Even King Aerys was considering this idea, her gaze finally met Tywin Lannister's, who had been staring at her the entire time. That was when she knew Tywin Lannister ruled The Seven Kingdoms.
Tywin Lannister had done all the work, and that included replacing Small Council men with people loyal to him but can also pretend to be loyal to the King. Pycelle and Tywin's brother Kevan was the most loyal to Tywin.
"Your Grace," Pycelle spoke, his voice wheezing like a bellows, "perhaps Lady Olenna and Lord Tywin speak wisdom. The people's trust in the Gold Cloaks is… waning."
The king's eyes slitted, his fingers beginning to drum in a staccato rhythm on the arm of his chair. "Replace them, you say? With your own men?"
"With your men, Your Grace," Tywin corrected, as smooth as the fine-grained wood of the table. "Loyal men who will serve the realm and the Iron Throne."
Aerys's eyes darted from Tywin to Kevan, finally coming to rest on Olenna. The Queen of Thorns returned his regard with one equally as sharp. "Very well," he said slowly, his suspicion not entirely gone. "We shall see how your new… initiative fares. But do not think to overstep, Tywin. The Iron Throne does not take kindly to those who seek to wield its power from the shadows."
The council members nodded, and there was finally a sense of grimness settling into their minds. The meeting concluded, and the room began to clear out, leaving Tywin and Aerys in solitude. Rhaella looked at Tywin once more before realizing that her presence here wasn't wanted by Aerys and Tywin either. The king's eyes shone with a flicker of uncertainty, his grip on the throne more precarious than ever.
"You are unsure," said Tywin, after long silence. "But you have no need to doubt, Your Grace. This will be for the best. The realm requires order, and it shall have it. Have faith in me."
Aerys searched Tywin for a long moment, his eyes seeking out some sign of betrayal, only to find the set and unyielding determination of a man who had once watched wars rise and rebellions fall before his very eyes. Sighing, he nodded his head. "Very well, Tywin. See to your enterprise." It was then that Aerys finally realized why Tywin had kept himself in armor.
The following days were all a rush. Tywin had sent word to Casterly Rock to call for his most trusted soldiers to come to the capital. And soon the Red Keep was abuzz with the hive of Lannister men, thickening the air heavy with smells of leather and metal, murmurs of strategy down shadowed corridors.
In his chamber, Tywin brooded on what was to be. The corrupted Gold Cloaks were in dire need of purging-quickly and surely. A meeting was arranged in the bowels of the Red Keep, wherein Lannister soldiers congregated in secret. Faces shone with excitement and trepidation, knowing full well the gravity of the task ahead.
The room was dark, save for the flickering shadows of candles dancing across the faces of the men, all eyes and ears for Tywin. Standing tall, his hands clasped behind his back, the crimson cloak of his house billowed behind him like a field of roses soaked in blood. "Our city is plagued," he started, in a deep, commanding voice. "The watch has become a mockery of justice, a blight upon the very fabric of our realm." His eyes swept the room, ensnaring each man's gaze. "It falls to us to cut out this cancer before it spreads."
The Lannister soldiers nodded grimly, their eyes serious with the realization of what they were about to do. They were not fighting for the house or their pride but for that, which essentially made Westeros a place where their children could grow and thrive.
"We strike under the cover of night," Tywin finally said, his voice fading to a conspiratorial whisper. "When the cloaks will be at their most complacent, their greed most evident, we show no mercy because they have shown none to the people we are sworn to protect."
The men muttered their assent, the air in the chamber electric with anticipation. It was simple, and it would work: a series of coordinated raids on Gold Cloaks' barracks and patrol routes that would wipe out their leadership and demoralize the rank and file. The city would be waking to a new dawn, one in which the lion's roar could be heard from all corners-a message of justice restored.
"Any questions?" Tywin asked, his voice slicing through murmurs like a blade through silk. Some of the men stirred uncomfortably, yet not one dared speak. The silence was full of their appreciation for how dead serious it was at hand.
"Well," said Tywin, nodding curtly. "We ride tonight. May the old gods and the new baptized our swords and sharpen our wits in darkness." Then he gave leave for the assembly to be dismissed, his voice ringing around the room as the soldiers went out in rhythmic march to their actions.
The moon was low in the sky, and the city had an argent glow to it as the Lannister men trotted up the street. Shadows themselves, their armor muffled with rags to kill the telltale clank of steel, eyes keen and watchful, they came to a stop before the first barracks, a formidable keep of stone and iron manned by the thieving Gold Cloaks.
The raid was swift and silent. Lannister men were trained to perfection; their movements were the model of a well-oiled machine. The guards at the gate fell before they could raise the alarm, their throats slit with swift motions-a brutal efficiency talking. The men inside were roused from their slumber by the thud of boots and the clang of steel, but it was too late. They could not resist the discipline and ferocity of their attackers.
It was a battle that was over almost before it had begun. The cobblestone streets ran red with the blood of proud Gold Cloaks, lifeless in the light of the moon above. Tywin looked about him critically, making sure no single man was allowed to slip away to tell the tale of their defeat. His heart cold as ice, his face a mask of calm as he watched his men round up the survivors for questioning.
The next morning brought into view a city in shock. The normal hustle and bustle of the marketplaces, the rowdiness of taverns, all hushed by the mutterings of what had happened. It was as if a crippling blow had been dealt to the Gold Cloaks-as if a frail vase had been hurled to the ground. People watched the new crimson watchmen, with fear and hope combined, unsure of what changes this change would bring about.
The Lannister troops moved two by two through the cobblestone streets; their red cloaks maintained a vivid contrast to the gold that had passed before them. An air of tension was heavy, almost palpable, as a feeling of anticipation hung over the city's reaction. Yet the people stayed indoors, peeking from their windows with cautious curiosity.
In the Red Keep, word reached Tywin of the successful operation. His eyes scanned the parchments as his mind whirred with the implication of what he had done. The king would be watching him closely now, suspicion finally well and truly piqued. Yet, Tywin felt a strange sense of satisfaction. He had done what was necessary for the realm, even if it meant playing a dangerous game of thrones.
The following evening Tywin called upon the king. His heels clattered off walls as he strode down the corridors in armor still, the crimson of cloak and mantle a loud proclamation of the Lannister presence that was taking root in the capital. In the throne room, Aerys looked up from his maps and scrolls, his eyes wary.
"Your Grace," Tywin began, formal, yet with a hint of urgency to his tone. "The Gold Cloaks have been taken care of. The city is now watched over by good loyal men."
King Aerys looked up from his throne and into Tywin's eyes very sharply. "And who might these 'loyal men' happen to be, Tywin?" There was even a hint of skepticism lacing his tone.
"They are your men, sire," replied Tywin, his voice unshakeable as the stones of the castle. "Men sworn to the crown, yet loyal to the realm. Men who will not be swayed by gold nor whispers."
Aerys watched Tywin, his eyes seeking any sign of duplicity within his gaze. But all he saw was the same stoic determination that had made Tywin one of the most feared and respected leaders in all the Seven Kingdoms. "And who leads these… loyal men?"
"You do." Tywin lied, but there was nothing for it. "They are Lannisters, Your Grace. They serve House Lannister, which in turn serves House Targaryen. The gold cloaks are now a bastion of loyalty, purged of the corruption that once plagued them."
Aerys nodded, his face unreadable. "Good. The realm must be strong. The Iron Throne cannot be weak."
"Indeed, Your Grace," said Tywin, his voice even. "But we must also be wise in our strength. The people need to see justice, not just fear."
Next, Tywin would nod to bring in the survivors of the previous Gold Cloak. They were each bruised, beaten, and bloodied, with fear and confusion in their eyes. Each one of them was brought in singly and made to kneel before the king. "These men," Tywin decreed, "have been found guilty of treasonous acts against the crown and the realm. They have taken bribes, turned a blind eye to the sufferings of the common folk, and allowed the city to fall into disarray."
The first survivor was shaking so hard that his chains rattled against the stone floor. His eyes darted at Tywin, then at the king, searching for mercy he did not find. "Confess your crimes," commanded Tywin Lannister, voice like a whip crack in the silent chamber.
The man's head jerked up; his gaze flickered between the two powerful figures that towered over him. "I-I took gold," he stammered. "But I had to! My family… they were starving."
Aerys' face did not change, his eyes as cold as the ice that once ruled his ancestors' lands. "Your family's fate is no concern of mine," he spat. "You swore an oath to the crown. You betrayed it for a few coins. For that, you shall die."
They were taken before King Aerys, whereupon Tywin held their fates. Each of them blamed themselves for their sins in front of the king, pleading for a shred of mercy from Mad King Aerys, which he never gave. They were condemned to die, the screams of torture still echoing around the castle as they were dragged out to be killed. The air thickened with the smells of fear and blood.
All of The Gold Cloaks were not really that corrupted; some of them were corrupted out of necessity. Yet, one less Gold Cloak equaled one more Loyalist to Tywin Lannister.