They came back to the Rock on the evening of the third day.
Hooves hit the gate stone and a grey steward was already there, blocking the arch.
“Lord Lyonel.
Your father is in the study.” Lyonel dropped from the saddle, tossed the reins to Bronn, and beat the road off his coat.
“How long has he been sitting.” “Since the morning you left.” “…He can sit a little longer.” The steward’s face did not move.
“He said at once.” Lyonel scraped the worst of the mud from his boots and took the corridor.
The study door was ajar.
Tywin sat behind the long table.
Port ledgers open.
A cup of red gone cold at his right hand.
The top sheet was a copy of the Golden Sail grant.
Rock seal and all.
The panel ticked.
[Asset change accessed.
Risk: low.
Tywin fluctuation: ±5%.] Old fox.
“Father.” Tywin did not look up.
“You’re back.” “I am.” “The Tooth was done cleanly.
The books close.
Denys made good fifteen hundred dragons in tax silver.
The apology was adequate.” Lyonel’s mouth started to move.
Three thousand.
Buy-in.
The under-road.
Tywin did not say buy-in.
He turned a page.
A finger stopped on the line.
“The Golden Sail.
Five hundred dragons.
Casterly Rock’s seal on a transfer of management—” He lifted his head.
Pale green.
Flat.
“Who put that seal on the page.” “Blum.” “Dismissed.” “…Fine.” Tywin went back to the sheets.
Five seconds.
The finger held.
“The house you bought.
What for.” Lyonel sat opposite him.
Boots off the floor.
Toes ticking once.
“Eyes.” Tywin’s brow did not move.
“Speak.” “The Golden Sail is the biggest hole in Lannisport.
Merchants.
Captains.
Other men’s stewards.
Fifteen lots a night, give or take.” “What they say with their clothes off is worth more than what they say in this hall.” “Beds hear things towers miss.” Two taps on the wood.
Even.
A clock with no face.
“Five hundred dragons for pillow talk.” “And a person.” “The one called Shae.” Lyonel did not deny it.
Tywin looked at him for three seconds.
“Do you know what your sister wrote when she heard you spent five hundred dragons on a whore.” “What.” “That you shamed the name.” Lyonel said nothing.
Tywin leaned a fraction.
Fingers laced on the table.
“I do not.” Lyonel looked up.
The face was the same face that had sent men to the Wall.
No warmth.
No heat.
Not quite the look he used when he meant to break a thing either.
“The whore.
How do you mean to use her.” “Port work.
Ships.
Names.
Who eats with whom.” “How long.” “Three months.” “Too slow.
Two.” “Two months costs another two hundred.” Tywin’s stare had weight.
Mine-shaft weight.
Quiet.
Everywhere.
“You spend my coin.
You wear my seal.
You buy a brothel and call it a post.” “What do you take me for.” Lyonel slid off the chair and stood.
“The lord of the West.” The fingers stopped.
The room held three seconds of nothing.
Lyonel did not blink.
“Father.
You do not lack gold.” “The mines do not run out.
The harbor does not empty.” “You lack eyes.” Two more taps.
Then a wave of the hand.
“Get out.” Lyonel turned.
At the door Tywin’s voice found his back.
“The five hundred comes out of your allowance next month.” Lyonel stopped, looked over his shoulder, and smiled.
“Then next month I eat in Jaime’s rooms.” Tywin did not answer.
The next sheet was already under his hand.
Before the door shut, Lyonel caught the mouth.
One small move.
Gone.
Impatience.
Or not.
[Family favorability adjusted — Tywin: +5.] [Note: classified as coin spent for an intelligence frame.
Silence is leave to continue.] He closed the door clean.
Jaime was in the corridor, back to the wall, arms folded.
Gold hair taking the lamp.
“Finished?” “Finished.” “He beat you?” “He took five hundred off next month’s purse.” Jaime stared.
Then he laughed hard enough to shake.
“Five hundred.
You get twenty.” “Which is why I live with you.” “…Fuck.” They walked.
Long stride.
Short stride.
Uneven on the stone.
Jaime looked down at the stub of a shadow.
“So you did it.
Five hundred for a girl.” “Mm.” “Pretty?” “Not bad.” “What does that mean.” “It means not bad.” Jaime clicked his tongue and ruined the back of Lyonel’s hair with one hand.
“Five hundred for not bad.
And you threw a whole house in with her.” “If I never find a wife—” “You can keep a room open for me.” Jaime’s laugh ran the corridor and made the lamps jump.
Lyonel kicked him in the calf.
“Go.” Jaime went, still laughing.
Lyonel stood a second and rubbed an ear.
The sound came back around the corner anyway.
The panel wrote in the edge of his sight.
[Westerlands intelligence net: 1%.
Golden Sail held.
Shae bound.] He looked at the one.
“…One.” [The other ninety-nine houses are your problem.] “You’re a bastard.” He pushed into his room and dropped on the bed.
Same ceiling.
Same scrap of moss in the crack, moving in the candle.
He shut his eyes and ran the day once.
Tywin had not said no.
Five hundred gone.
One listener bought.
Draw tomorrow.
Silverhill after that.
He pulled the quilt to his chin.
Wind off the battlements.
Iron from the mines under it.
Jaime’s laugh was gone from the hall.
The echo was not.
“When I have a hundred,” he told the dark, “you get two.” The system did not answer.
The one percent kept a low light in the corner and did not go out.