The Black Cat was a relatively new brothel on Silk Street, having opened just two years ago. Its unique feature was that all the prostitutes were from the Summer Isles. Their dark, exotic skin and strong, athletic bodies—so different from the usual soft and delicate courtesans—gave the place an air of raw, primal allure.
Tyrion was a regular at the Black Cat. He was fond of that exotic charm, and even more so of the feeling of being surrounded and embraced by fit, powerful women. It gave him a sense of safety he rarely experienced elsewhere.
For over half a month since returning from the North, he had spent nearly all his time at the Black Cat and had all but made it his home.
Normally, at this hour, he'd be drunk and passed out in the arms of a few girls, only to wake later and keep drinking. But today, he was surprisingly sober. He'd gotten up early, cleaned himself up, put on proper clothes, and was now quietly sitting in the courtyard.
"By the Seven, Tyrion, what's going on with you today? Did you receive some divine revelation and decide to become a penitent Septon?" asked Jenny, the madam of the Black Cat, eyeing him in confusion.
Tyrion smiled. "I'm expecting a friend today. Figured I should clean up a bit so I don't embarrass myself."
"A friend?" Jenny was taken aback. She had known Tyrion long enough to know he didn't really have friends. Even those who spent time drinking and gambling with him only stuck around because of the Lannister gold.
And she also knew how Tyrion viewed those people. No matter how warm and brotherly he acted with them while carousing, she could see in his eyes that he regarded them more like pets than equals. There was no way he'd tidy himself up and wait in the courtyard just for the sake of those so-called companions. Certainly not come out of a pile of women and dress formally for it.
"Man or woman?" she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.
"A man," Tyrion replied. Then, as if remembering something, he added, "Right, he doesn't drink. Prepare some clean water—wait, no. Boiling and cooling it will take too long. He could arrive at any moment. Just juice some fresh fruit instead. Use the new press, not one that's been used before."
Hearing his instructions, Jenny could tell just how seriously Tyrion was taking this guest. Her curiosity grew, but she asked no more questions and went to have the juice prepared.
Not long after, one of her staff reported that someone had come looking for Tyrion. She put down what she was doing and hurried to the courtyard, eager to catch a glimpse of the visitor now being led inside.
Four people entered. The two at the back, clearly guards, weren't Tyrion's type, and the little girl with them wasn't either. That left only the tall, plain-looking nobleman at the front.
When Jenny saw his face, she felt a jolt of recognition, as though she'd seen him before—but couldn't quite place where. It wasn't until her eyes swept across the Seven-pointed star on the wall that it clicked: the statue she'd seen in the Great Sept of Baelor.
"By the Seven—it's him!" she gasped, realizing that Tyrion's guest was none other than Lynd Tarran, the Chosen of the Seven and avatar of the Storm God.
Despite her constant use of "by the Seven," Jenny was in truth a follower of the Storm God.
The Summer Isles had long had their own storm-based beliefs, though not in the form of gods. It wasn't until Lynd appeared that the Temple of the Storm God was founded.
Like many commoners from the Isles, Jenny had only been a casual believer at first. But during her journey to King's Landing, she encountered a violent storm and survived by praying to the Storm God. Since then, her faith had grown devout.
To stay in King's Landing, though, she had always pretended to be a follower of the Seven—this was their territory, after all.
Now, with Lynd Tarran himself walking into her establishment, it felt like an incredible blessing. She immediately arranged for her prettiest, untouched girl to serve as his attendant.
...
Meanwhile, as Lynd entered the Black Cat's courtyard and saw Tyrion dressed in formal attire, he chuckled.
"I thought I'd find you buried beneath a pile of naked women," he said. "Didn't expect you to crawl out on your own and wait for me all dressed up. I'm flattered."
Tyrion shrugged and grinned. "You're half my employer. Even if I won't clean up for you, I'll do it for the gold dragons in your pocket."
Although Tywin hadn't allowed Tyrion to take an official post in Summerhall, Lynd had found another way to bring him on board—by hiring him as an advisor to the Miracle Merchant's Guild in Lannisport.
Tyrion had proven very capable in the role. He was the one who built the Lannisport trade route to Bear Island and had personally overseen the gold trade with the Westerlands.
Over the years, Lynd and Tyrion had maintained frequent correspondence. Their letters weren't limited to business—they shared amusing anecdotes and discussed life in general. The two had become good friends, if not in person, then at least as pen pals.
On top of that, Tyrion was obsessed with dragons. Each year, he would spend a month or two in Miracle Harbor, working with the Septons to help care for the Cannibal. In his mind, he was practically a part-time resident of the place.
"Why are you hanging around with the little wolf girl?" Tyrion glanced at Arya beside Lynd, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.
"Ran into her on the way," Lynd replied simply.
"The City Watch must be full of useless fools if the streets are so bad that mangy dogs dare to make trouble in broad daylight," Tyrion muttered, his brow furrowing in frustration.
It wasn't just indignation over the state of law and order in King's Landing—it was the fear of what could have happened. If something had truly gone wrong with Arya, no one in the city would escape the consequences.
Tyrion turned to Arya and said sincerely, "Lady Arya, I'm sorry for what happened to you in King's Landing."
"It's fine. Honestly, today's been a pretty good adventure," Arya replied with a carefree smile.
At first, Arya hadn't thought much of Tyrion. While she wasn't as concerned with appearances as Sansa was, first impressions still mattered, and his looks hadn't helped.
But back in Darry, when Tyrion had mocked Prince Joffrey's cowardice during the trial, condemned the injustice of the proceedings, and stood up for Arya—later even speaking out for the innocent Lady, though it hadn't saved the direwolf—it had shifted Arya's opinion of him.
"Here, have a glass of juice to calm your nerves. Just squeezed, with a touch of honey," Tyrion said, pouring a glass from the pitcher on the table and handing it to her. Then he turned to Lynd. "Honestly, I didn't expect you to show up for the Hand's Tourney. I thought you'd turn down the invitation like you always do."
"I felt this one was worth attending," Lynd said as he sat down and poured himself a glass of juice. He took a sip, found it too sweet, and set it aside. Then he looked back at Tyrion. "As always, I'm here to invite you to come work at Summerhall."
Tyrion paused, then chuckled. "Don't tell me you came all the way from Summerhall to King's Landing just for that?"
"You're only one of the reasons," Lynd said with a nod.
Tyrion gave a regretful smile. "Sorry to disappoint you again, but I'm heading back to Casterly Rock after the tourney."
"To resume your duties as Master of the Sewers?" Lynd asked.
"Of course not." Tyrion shook his head. "I'll be serving as my father's steward."
Lynd blinked in surprise, unable to hide his reaction.
He knew all too well how much Lord Tywin loathed Tyrion—loathed him with an intensity that bordered on hatred. The more Tywin had loved his wife, the more deeply he hated the son who had taken her from him. That was why, even when Lynd had offered outrageously generous terms, Tywin still refused to let Tyrion go to Summerhall. Officially, it was because Tyrion was the heir to Casterly Rock, but in truth, it was nothing more than personal disgust and a refusal to give Tyrion any chance to prove himself.
And now Tywin had appointed him steward? That was hard to believe. A steward wasn't some token position—it meant being constantly by the lord's side, helping manage daily affairs. Just like how Jon spent most of his time in the castle's study with Lynd, working through matters of state.
So what was this? Tywin voluntarily choosing to spend his days with the son he so despised? Masochism?
"Yes, that's exactly the expression I had," Tyrion said with a laugh, pointing at Lynd's stunned face. "When I heard the news, I thought my father had gone mad."
Lynd raised an eyebrow. "Maybe he finally recognized your talents and realized you could be useful to Casterly Rock…"
"Do you even believe that yourself?" Tyrion interrupted before Lynd could finish.
Lynd chuckled and shook his head. "So, do you know why he suddenly changed his mind?"
Tyrion didn't reply—he just looked at Lynd.
Lynd caught the hint. "The Miracle Merchant's Guild in Lannisport?"
"That's the only explanation I can think of." Tyrion nodded. "He probably sees the value in the fur trade and doesn't want Lannisport to be just a transit hub anymore—he wants to take control of the business himself."
At that moment, Arya, sipping her juice nearby, suddenly interjected, "Couldn't it just be that a father loves his son and wants him nearby?"
Both Lynd and Tyrion were stunned for a second—then burst out laughing.
"What's so funny? Am I wrong?" Arya pouted, clearly annoyed.
Tyrion composed himself and looked at her. "Tell me, Lady Arya—would Lady Catelyn ever let Jon Snow leave the stables and come serve as Lord Eddard's steward?"
Arya hesitated, thought about it, and shook her head. "No, she wouldn't."
"Exactly. And my father feels the same way about me." Tyrion sighed. "In his eyes, I'm no different from the bastard in Lady Catelyn's eyes. The grave might be the only place people like us are truly meant to be."
As his words faded, a heavy silence settled over the courtyard.
Perhaps realizing he'd darkened the mood too much, Tyrion quickly changed the subject. "Anyway, even without my father's appointment, I wouldn't have gone to your Summerhall."
"Why not?" Lynd asked, puzzled.
"Because your system isn't for me," Tyrion said, pouring himself a glass of wine. After a sip, he continued, "In your system, collective power is everything. Individual ability gets smaller and smaller until it disappears. Anyone who joins it just becomes another cog in the machine, completely erased from sight."
Lynd shook his head. "Says who? Look at Balin, Lothor, Mus, Asha—they all rose through the ranks on their own merit. Aren't they proof that individual ability still matters?"
"They are," Tyrion agreed, finishing his drink. "And they're also the best examples of my point. Tell me, if anything happened to one of them, wouldn't you already have a perfect replacement ready? Probably more than one?"
Lynd fell silent.
Tyrion was right. Within Summerhall's territory, every post had multiple successors lined up. If something happened to one official, another could step in immediately without disruption. What had started as redundancy planning for junior roles had now expanded into every part of the bureaucracy—even someone like Asha, ruler of the Iron Islands, had at least two viable successors ready to take her place.
Lynd finally nodded. "You're right. Even if you came to Summerhall, your talents wouldn't have a place to shine."
Tyrion smiled, poured himself another glass, and raised it. "To the system!"
Lynd didn't lift his glass, but Arya, standing nearby, grinned and clinked hers with Tyrion's enthusiastically.
Having understood Tyrion's decision, Lynd didn't press the invitation any further. From there, their conversation shifted to lighter topics—local gossip, good places to eat and drink in King's Landing, and which noble gatherings were worth attending.
By evening, Lynd stood up to leave, taking Arya with him. Just before they left the Black Cat, he reminded Tyrion once more to return to Casterly Rock soon—but Tyrion was already thoroughly drunk, nestled between two women from the Summer Isles, completely ignoring the advice.