Chapter 182: My Precious!
The preparation room's door was tightly shut.
Inside, the sounds of drawers being overturned and equipment being tossed around echoed nonstop.
"Where is it... where is it..."
The Hound was sprawled on the floor, practically crawling on all fours like an actual dog as he searched frantically.
His scarred face looked even more twisted than usual.
He had already torn the room apart three times.
The weapon rack had been shoved into a corner, everything on it thrown onto the floor.
He had even picked up the dusty chamber pot sitting in the corner to check underneath it—and nearly suffocated from the smell.
Yet he still couldn't find it.
The booklet was gone.
"That's impossible!"
The Hound dropped to his knees, glaring around the room with eyes as wide as saucers.
"It was right here! I kicked it away myself! It should be somewhere nearby!"
Muttering under his breath, he looked toward the doorway.
Nothing.
Only a few scrape marks on the floor, likely left behind by his own rampage.
The Hound slammed a fist into the ground.
The moment he remembered that kick...
The pride he had felt back then had transformed into unbearable regret.
The image of Lyn Corbray kneeling in the sand replayed again and again inside his head.
Who could've guessed...
Who could've guessed that damned peasant was that strong?
Odin had told him about Gregor's transformation before.
The Hound had assumed it was exaggerated nonsense.
But after witnessing the swordsmanship Odin displayed in the arena...
That man had actually claimed he nearly lost to the transformed Mountain.
Then doesn't that mean I'm completely screwed?!
"Where is it..."
The Hound resumed his desperate search.
This time he even jammed an arm into a rat hole in the wall.
"Where are you, you damned booklet?!"
He cursed himself ten thousand times.
Called himself an idiot.
A moron.
A loudmouthed fool.
A burned-up wreck who deserved every bit of his misery.
"Get out here already!!!"
After another fruitless search, his voice was starting to crack.
...Even though Sandor Clegane never cried.
Then—
Creak.
The door opened.
The Hound snapped around.
Sunlight streamed through the doorway, casting a long shadow across the floor.
A shadow clad in black armor.
Straight-backed.
Holding a sword.
Then he saw Odin's face.
Dark eyes staring directly at him.
Only then did the Hound realize how ridiculous he looked.
One arm stuffed into a rat hole.
The room behind him completely wrecked.
Silence hung in the air for three full seconds.
"What are you looking for?"
Odin's voice was calm.
As if he were asking what was for lunch.
The Hound opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Was he supposed to say:
"Oh, nothing. Just looking for that booklet you gave me—the one I kicked away yesterday because I was showing off and now regret losing with every fiber of my being?"
Too embarrassing.
The Hound normally had very little shame.
But this?
This was on another level.
"N-Nothing."
He forced out an awkward smile.
On his burned face, the expression looked horrifying.
And somehow, incredibly funny.
"You look worse smiling than crying."
Odin raised an eyebrow.
The Hound's smile froze instantly.
Then he stood up, dusted off his knees, and casually leaned against the wall with his arms crossed.
As if he had been relaxing there the whole time.
Unfortunately, his eyes kept darting around the room, still searching for the missing booklet.
"Catch."
Odin suddenly spoke.
Something flew through the air.
The Hound instinctively caught it.
It was surprisingly light.
Cold to the touch.
He looked down.
Then his eyes widened.
A black blade.
Flowing ripple patterns across the steel.
A ruby embedded in the pommel gleamed with a dark crimson light.
Like an open eye.
Lady Forlorn.
The Hound looked up in confusion.
Odin stood in the doorway, sunlight pouring in behind him.
His expression remained indifferent.
Yet there was a carefree ease in those dark eyes.
"I'm lending it to you."
"Return it when you're done."
After saying that, he turned and started walking away.
The Hound stood frozen.
Then Odin suddenly paused.
"Oh, right."
"I think I saw something under that overturned bench over there."
And with that, he continued down the hallway.
His footsteps gradually faded.
The Hound immediately spun around.
The bench he had flipped earlier was lying upside down like a dead turtle.
He lunged toward it.
Lifted it aside—
And there it was.
A leather-bound booklet resting quietly on the floor beneath it.
As if it had been patiently waiting for him.
The Hound's eyes exploded with light.
Like a drowning man spotting a rope.
Like a lost traveler seeing a lantern in the darkness.
Like—
"My precious..."
His voice trembled.
He reached out with shaking hands and picked it up.
Leather cover.
Dark red wine stain.
Slightly worn corners.
But every page was intact.
The Hound hugged it against his chest.
His eyes bulged.
A twisted grin stretched across his face.
"My precious..."
He flipped through page after page.
"My precious..."
Then, when he reached the third page, something slipped out.
A note.
He unfolded it.
Only a single line was written on it.
"Return it after you've finished reading."
---
Back in the arena's VIP section, Tywin Lannister listened to the increasingly thunderous chants of "Ser Odin!"
His eyes narrowed.
Lyn Corbray.
The finest swordsman of the Vale.
Wielder of a Valyrian steel sword.
And yet he had lost so thoroughly.
So completely.
Tywin's mind churned with countless thoughts.
He remembered three days ago, when he had summoned Lyn to the Tower of the Hand.
The confidence in the man's smile.
Confidence so absolute that even Tywin had believed the outcome was certain.
He remembered carefully arranging everything.
Choosing the grand opening of the Ring of Order.
Choosing an audience of twenty-five hundred spectators.
Arranging for Lyn to challenge Odin publicly.
If Odin refused, his prestige would suffer.
If he accepted, Lyn would sever his sword with Lady Forlorn and drag him down from his pedestal.
Either way, Tywin would win.
But he had not anticipated a third outcome.
Odin won.
And he won effortlessly.
Tywin had once been a capable swordsman himself.
He had earned his own reputation during the War of the Ninepenny Kings.
He knew enough about swordsmanship to recognize what he had just witnessed.
This was different.
Different from anything Odin had shown before.
His skill had reached a terrifying level.
Exquisite?
Tywin had once watched Arthur Dayne fight with his own eyes.
Yet even he had to admit—
The legendary Sword of the Morning might not have possessed swordsmanship this...
Perfect.
Angle.
Power.
Timing.
Prediction.
Every element flawless.
This was no longer swordsmanship.
It was art.
Lyn Corbray, armed with Valyrian steel, was among the finest swordsmen in the Seven Kingdoms.
If even he couldn't defeat Odin...
Then who could?
Barristan Selmy?
Too old.
And already turned against them.
Jaime Lannister?
Please.
Leaving aside the missing hand, the boy was practically a married woman now—completely devoted to Odin's side.
No matter how much he thought about it, Tywin could not come up with a single swordsman in Westeros capable of matching Odin in a fair duel.
But that was fine.
If direct confrontation failed...
Then he would use another method.
The Lannister way had never been about fair fights.
Thousands of years ago, their ancestor, Lann the Clever, had taken Casterly Rock without swinging a sword.
A man always had weaknesses.
And Tywin had time.
Plenty of time.
He wasn't even sixty yet.
If necessary, he could wait until he was seventy.
Eighty.
After all, he had outlived Aerys II Targaryen.
Then he had outlived Robert Baratheon.
Both younger than he was.
Yet Tywin Lannister remained.
The last man standing.
That thought steadied him.
"It seems your plan failed, Father."
A voice suddenly pierced his thoughts.
Light.
Amused.
Like a needle.
Tywin turned.
And, as expected, found his daughter—the Queen Regent—standing there.
Sunlight fell across her figure.
The hem of her dark green gown swayed gently in the breeze, while her golden hair cascaded over her shoulders like a waterfall.
A faint smile curved her lips.
In her emerald eyes—identical to his own—glimmered an emotion that was impossible to miss.
It was the unmistakable satisfaction of a daughter watching her father's plan fail.
Tywin stared into her eyes for a long moment without saying a word.
The smile on Cersei's face began to stiffen.
Yet she refused to back down.
Instead, she stepped forward and stood before him, looking down at him from above.
"Lyn Corbray."
She shook her head, her tone dripping with contempt.
"The finest knight in the Vale."
A soft laugh escaped her lips, sharp and unpleasant in the suddenly quiet VIP section.
"You know, Father, I almost laughed out loud just now. Not because of Lyn Corbray."
Her smile widened.
"I was laughing at myself."
"I actually believed he could win. I was naïve enough to think your plan would succeed this time."
After speaking, she stepped back into the sunlight.
The triumph in her green eyes was impossible to conceal.
"Are you happy?"
Tywin suddenly asked.
The icy tone caught her off guard.
"What?"
"I asked if you're happy."
He repeated the question.
"You seemed very pleased watching my plan fail."
His voice was quiet.
Almost emotionless.
But the smile on Cersei's face froze.
Because she heard what lay beneath those words.
Not anger.
Not frustration.
Disappointment.
Disappointment directed at her.
And somehow, that was far more terrifying than any rage.
"Father, I..."
She opened her mouth to explain.
Tywin didn't give her the chance.
"Do you know why I would rather force Jaime to remove his white cloak than allow you to inherit Casterly Rock?"
Cersei froze.
She had asked herself that question countless times.
Since childhood.
She was House Lannister's eldest child.
The most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms.
Smarter than Jaime.
More ambitious than Jaime.
Far more suited to rule than Jaime.
Yet her father had never truly looked at her.
His eyes had always been fixed on Jaime.
Even though Jaime cared nothing for power.
Even though he preferred wearing a white cloak and guarding a drunken whoremonger king rather than returning to Casterly Rock.
"Because I'm a woman!"
The words burst from her mouth.
Years of bitterness surged into her voice.
It was the only answer she had ever been able to find.
The only explanation that made the pain bearable.
She was overlooked because she was a woman.
Ignored because she was a woman.
She could be Queen Regent.
But never Lady of Casterly Rock.
Yet to her surprise, Tywin shook his head.
"No."
"In my eyes, it makes no difference whether Casterly Rock is ruled by a man or a woman."
Cersei stared at him.
"Then why...?"
"Because it cannot be ruled by a fool."
Tywin's voice cracked like a whip.
The color drained from Cersei's face.
"You're calling me... a fool?"
Her voice trembled with fury.
She was Cersei Lannister.
Queen Regent of the Seven Kingdoms.
Daughter of House Lannister.
How could she possibly be a fool?
Tywin ignored the question.
Instead, he continued speaking.
"My father, Tytos Lannister, was a good man."
"Kind. Gentle. Generous."
"Everyone liked him."
"But he was also a useless fool."
A cold smile touched Tywin's lips.
"During his years ruling Casterly Rock, House Lannister became a joke."
"The bannermen showed him respect to his face while mocking him behind his back."
"They called him the Laughing Lion because he smiled at everything. Even when insulted, he never became angry."
"The people he trusted betrayed him."
"The men he promoted stole his gold right under his nose."
"The friends he drank with were secretly plotting with rival houses to carve up Lannister lands."
His gaze settled on Cersei.
"You remind me of him."
"No!"
Cersei immediately snapped back.
"I am nothing like him. I've never been weak."
"Yes."
Tywin nodded.
"You certainly aren't weak."
Then his voice turned cold again.
"But you are every bit as foolish."
The words struck her like a physical blow.
Her body trembled.
Yet Tywin showed no sign of stopping.
"You sit in the position of Queen Regent."
"You've done countless things."
"How many of them were actually for House Lannister?"
His stare was merciless.
"You married Robert Baratheon, yet all three of your children carried a secret that endangered our bloodline."
"And you allowed Jon Arryn to discover it."
"Then you stood by and watched your idiot son execute Eddard Stark, igniting a war that could have been avoided."
"You stand here mocking the failure of my plan not because it benefits House Lannister."
"But because you're pleased to see me fail."
By the time he finished, Cersei's face was white as paper.
She wanted to argue.
She wanted to deny it.
But she couldn't.
Because every word was true.
She had been pleased.
"You learned how to enjoy power."
"But never how to use it."
"You learned how to make others fear you."
"But never how to control them."
"You learned how to take what you wanted."
"But never how to give up what you wanted for the sake of your family."
Each sentence landed like a lash across her face.
Cersei clenched her fists.
Silent.
Tywin noticed the resentment still lingering in her eyes.
But he didn't bother pursuing the matter further.
After all, when it came to disappointing him, his three children had never failed.
Not once.
"From today onward, speak less."
His tone softened only slightly.
"If you wish to prove you aren't a fool, then watch."
"Watch carefully."
"Listen carefully."
"Watch how that peasant-born knight reached this point."
"Watch how he earns loyalty."
"Watch how he wins people's hearts."
"Watch how he takes control of this place."
Tywin paused.
Then delivered the final blow.
"Watch how he has become..."
"More of a Lannister than you are."
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