"I swear by the Seven Gods and the honor of House Lannister, from this day forward, no matter what terrible prophecy The Witch reveals, I will never harm her, I will only be grateful."
Tywin's oath was as solemn and commanding as if he were issuing a battle order. His face and tone were cold, showing no trace of gratitude.
The Witch nodded, revealing teeth that gleamed black like polished obsidian. Her smile was eerie, shadowed with darkness. She regarded Tywin with the air of a god, utterly sovereign. No matter how imposing Tywin's demeanor, her gaze looked down on him as if he were but a mortal.
Tywin didn't mind her dominance; his stern expression remained like iron.
Was Tywin's oath sincere?
No one could say, not even Tywin himself. When circumstances shift, an oath can vanish like smoke.
A true master of intrigue and iron will, Tywin's momentary humility was strategic. He was thinking far ahead, his vision piercing deep.
The Witch's remarkable gift of prophecy was utterly indispensable to him and entirely under his control.
During the old Targaryen dynasty, two successive kings appointed 'Brynden the Thousand-Eyed' as Hand of the Realm, second only to the king himself. Why? Because such talent was rare and precious.
Brynden was a bastard, later legitimized by the king, but still, a mere soldier. From soldier to Hand, all because he unexpectedly gained the power of shapeshifting and the "Thousand and One Eyes", a possession ability unlike any other.
With this sudden gift, Brynden rose to become the kingdom's chief advisor, rooting out traitors, crushing rebellions, defeating enemies, and outmaneuvering political rivals at every turn, an unbeatable force.
Tywin naturally longed to have such a "Thousand-Eyed" superhuman by his side. The validation of The Witch's prophecy already stirred something within him, but his desire was as cold and ruthless as steel, nothing like ordinary emotion.
If The Witch could be the superhuman Tywin hoped for, like Brynden, he would feel far more secure.
Would she meet his expectations?
Tywin's sharp eyes and keen judgment remained unmatched.
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"My lord, Bran Stark, is an expert climber. He's only seven but has spent two years scaling the Broken Tower. He knows every crevice, every patch of wild grass, which floors the crows inhabit, which floors the snowbirds nest, he's intimately familiar with the tower. Climbing the Broken Tower is a habit of his."
"I'm listening." Tywin straightened his back and neck like a rigid spear.
"He was pushed from the top floor by a lion. The lion didn't want to merely cripple him, it wanted to kill him."
"Who?"
"Jaime Lannister."
Tywin's breathing darkened slightly, nearly imperceptible, but The Witch saw it clearly.
"Why?" Tywin's voice remained steady.
"Jaime was at the top of the Broken Tower, discussing court secrets with Cersei, when the boy overheard them."
Silence.
Dead silence.
"That's impossible," Tywin said, his face unmoved but veins bulging at his neck.
"I know what you're thinking. The king and Lord Stark took a large hunting party to the Wolfswood, they won't return for at least half a month. That place is the safest in Winterfell. No one climbs the Broken Tower anymore, it's been abandoned for years, especially the highest floor."
Tywin fixed The Witch with a stare as calm as a nail driven into wood. The Witch met his gaze softly. The Lord's unyielding eyes had no effect on her.
"Seeress, I have another question."
Tywin's words weren't a request, they were a command, leaving no room for argument.
"If I know, I will tell you."
"Lady Witch, how long have Jaime and Cersei…" For the first time, Tywin used the respectful "Lady" to address her.
"All I can say is, it's been a long time."
Tywin was not satisfied with her answer.
"I will pay you another hundred gold dragons for this answer," he said, his expression hardening, eyes icy cold.
It was clear the Lord harbored this suspicion, but kept it buried deep, too dangerous to confront openly.
If the volatile king found out, he would immediately behead Jaime and Cersei. The forces of House Baratheon at Storm's End and the realm's nobles would turn against the Westerland.
And with the North, the Riverlands, the Vale, and bitter enemies in Dorne joining forces, the Westerland would be utterly destroyed.
The king must remain in the dark, just as he was now. Even if the truth were exposed, there must be a plausible denial. The safest solution? Kill King Robert, place the naive Prince Joffrey on the throne, and keep him under control, thus erasing the risk of annihilation.
Then Cersei would stay at court, Jaime would inherit Casterly Rock, and all would go according to Tywin's plan.
"Lady Witch, tell me the truth, and I will appoint you High Priestess of the Westerlands, with a monthly salary of ten gold dragons, overseeing all priests and temples in the Westerlands. Generals and knights will be required to show you respect."
Tywin's words were no idle promise. He was resolved to make use of The Witch. He did not want the West destroyed, or House Lannister wiped out. Now that The Witch knew this dangerous secret, if she refused to join him, would he have her executed?
But the matter was too grave. The Witch chose a delicate way to speak, she would never be foolish enough to say it outright.
"My lord, what you suspect may well be the truth."
Tywin's heart thundered.
His suspicions were true: Prince Joffrey, Prince Tommen, and Princess Myrcella.
Though she didn't say it outright, Tywin understood. If The Witch's words were true, King Robert would kill Jaime and Cersei at once, display their heads on pikes, raise the realm's armies, and utterly destroy the West and all of House Lannister's kin.
Cold sweat soaked Tywin's underclothes. The question he had buried for years was finally answered today.
Yet his face betrayed nothing.
"Lady Witch, is there a way to avert this crisis?" Tywin asked, his voice sharp with urgency.
"There is."
One simple word, the most beautiful Tywin had heard in decades.
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