The scent of parchment, ink, and perfume hung heavy in the Small Council chamber, mingling with the scented tang of polished wood. At the head of table sat Lord Tywin Lannister, the Lion of Casterly Rock. Age had dusted his golden hair with baldness, but his presence remained a commanding force, capable of silencing the scrape of chairs and the shuffling of boots.
To his right, Queen Regent Cersei lounged in her seat, her green eyes glittering with impatience. Beside her, Jaime sat in his gilded armor, his expression unreadable save for the faint, ever-present smirk that clung to his lips. Across from them, Tyrion Lannister had already poured himself a goblet of wine, which he now sipped slowly, his eyes darting like cat's, always calculating.
Varys, plump and powdered, folded his hands within his sleeves, a picture of quiet deference. Littlefinger leaned back with the faintest of smiles, his fingers drumming a quiet rhythm on the table as if counting coins that no one else could see. At the far end, Lady Olenna Tyrell's sharp eyes peered out from beneath her headdress, her mouth set in a perpetual line of disapproval. Nearby sat Lord Gulian Swann, now styled as Lord Paramount of the Stormlands after Renly's capture. A smug expression on his face made him seem least mature among all present despite his age closing to Tywin's. Oberyn Martell, Dorne's Prince, recently arrived, sat apart from them all, his serpentine grace a striking contrast to the others and his gaze never left Tywin's.
The silence grew thick, suffocating. At last, Tywin broke it. "We will begin now. Varys—what word of Ser Barristan Selmy?"
The eunuch lowered his head respectfully. "None, my lord. Ser Barristan slipped away from King's Landing, the day His Grace dismissed him. My birds have searched from Gulltown to Oldtown, yet he leaves no trace." Varys's soft voice filled the chamber, heavy with lament.
Tywin's voice turned cold. "Barristan the Bold was the image of honor in the Seven Kingdoms. Casting him aside, so quickly was folly and insult both. It weakens the crown's standing among lords and smallfolk alike. They remember their heroes, if not their kings."
Cersei bristled, lips parting to object, but Tywin looked at her and raised a single finger and the she stilled. "Enough. His removal is done, and cannot be undone. Our concern now is not the bruised pride of an old knight, but the stability of the realm."
He turned his gaze back to the eunuch. "Other matters. What else do your birds sing of?"
Varys bowed his head slightly, his powdered lips curving into a faint smile. "News from the Riverlands and the North. The lords and army gathers, as Riverrun swells with banners: Tully, Mallister, Piper, Bracken, and above them all the direwolf of Stark. They whisper about boy king riding south to protect his father and sisters."
A ripple passed through the chamber. Lord Swann snorted, breaking into a laugh. "Let them march! Fools and green boys every one of them. We hold their Lord and his family in the capital. What King will fight to the death when his sire sits in our dungeons?"
His laughter rang out, but no one joined him. Littlefinger merely smirked and sipped from his cup. Tyrion arched a brow, his expression half-amused.
Tywin ignored them both. His pale green eyes fixed upon Swann until the man's smile withered. The Hand's voice was calm and measured, but cold. "You are too quick to dismiss them, lord Swann. Hostages weaken resolve, true—but grief has its own fury."
Cersei leaned forward, bristling. "You think the Stark boy will defy us? His father is our prisoner, his sisters as well. He'll come crawling like a beaten pup."
Olenna's dry chuckle cut her off. "Perhaps, my sweet, but perhaps not. Northerners are more dangerous when they're cornered. You'd do well to remember Robert's Rebellion and 8000 year reign of Stark Kings, before you dismiss them."
Tywin said nothing at first, merely studying his daughter with a long, hard look that made her sit back in her chair. His gaze drifted to Jaime briefly, his son and heir, golden and smiling in his armor—then back to the table.
"Hoster Tully lies bedridden," Tywin said at last, his voice a deliberate blade. "And it seems none of his brood inherited his caution or sense. Just as in many other houses," his eyes slid briefly to Cersei and Jaime, "where beauty and boldness do not always yield wisdom."
Cersei's cheeks flushed with anger, but she bit her tongue. Jaime only smirked wider, though there was little mirth in his eyes.
Olenna tilted her head, catching Tywin's meaning with ease. "A fair assessment. Sons and daughters rarely live up to their sires. Gods know I've seen enough of that with my own boy."
The Hand inclined his head once, as if Olenna's agreement had been inevitable. Then he turned to the Grand Maester, who had been quietly waiting with quill and parchment.
"You will prepare a raven for the Starks," Tywin commanded. "The terms will be clear: they kneel, they swear fealty to King Joffrey Baratheon, and Eddard Stark is spared the sword. He will take the black and live out his days upon the Wall. That mercy is the last the crown will offer."
Grand Maester Pycelle nodded eagerly, scratching at his beard. "Yes, my lord, yes… wise indeed, very wise."
Tywin's attention moved to Jaime. "You will ride for Harrenhal at once. Circle the rebels in the Riverlands. Cut them from supply, bleed them, starve them if you must."
Then his gaze fell upon Lady Olenna. "Your men will march with him. The Tyrell host must be seen supporting the crown. Do this, and your House's loyalty will not go unrewarded."
Olenna pursed her lips, her eyes as sharp as needles. "Oh, I'm sure it won't, Lord Hand. Loyalty has its price, after all."
Then Tywin leaned back, fingers steepled, his expression unreadable. "Then let us hope," he said, his voice steady, "that the crown has enough coin to purchase loyalty… and enough steel to enforce it where coin fails."
The Small Council chamber fell silent , every man and woman within measuring the weight of those words—and the shadow of war that crept closer with each passing hour.