Dusk, the main command tent.
Tyrion had already changed into a coat that was at least marginally clean.
Soren and Bronn stood off to the side of the tent.
The atmosphere inside was icy and tense, completely lacking any joy from having just repelled the enemy.
Lord Tywin stood before a massive map, his hands clasped behind his back.
“We broke them,” Tyrion rasped.
“You merely tied down a force of infantry.” Tywin did not turn around, his voice like cracking glacial ice.
“That was Roose Bolton’s expendable force, while Robb Stark himself and all his cavalry were nowhere near.” Tyrion was slightly taken aback.
Tywin turned around slowly.
“Besides, you may not know yet.
Robert Baratheon is dead.” The mocking smirk on Tyrion’s face froze.
“Robert is dead?” he repeated slowly, as if confirming he hadn’t misheard.
“Then who sits on the Iron Throne?
My dear nephew?” “Joffrey has taken the crown.
Cersei controls the Red Keep,” Tywin said, his tone as calm as if he were discussing a sack of irrelevant wheat.
Tyrion’s expression turned grim.
“Cersei controls the Red Keep.” The corners of his mouth twitched into an ugly smile.
“That sounds thoroughly reassuring.
Father, are you sure The Seven aren’t punishing us?” Tywin ignored his sarcasm.
“Your brother Jaime broke the main Riverlands force at the Golden Tooth and is currently besieging Riverrun.
Jaime uses his sword to win true glory for the family, while you wallow in a mud pit feeling pleased with wildlings.
However, since you’ve proven your head isn’t entirely filled with wine and whores, go to King’s Landing.” Tyrion looked up.
“Go to King’s Landing?” he asked.
“As a prisoner, a pet, or my sister’s new toy—” “As House Lannister’s voice on the Small Council,” Tywin said coldly.
“Joffrey is young, and Cersei is impulsive.
The court needs someone to remind them the war isn’t over.” Tyrion fell silent for a moment, then suddenly chuckled.
“A seat,” he said softly.
“Father, how generous.
You’ve finally granted me a chair to sit beside my sister and watch her set the Seven Kingdoms ablaze.” Ser Kevan frowned slightly.
“You will sit there,” Tywin said without a change in expression.
“You will watch, listen, and write back.
When necessary, you will advise her.
You’re more useful than the fools around her.” Tyrion offered his father an exaggerated bow.
“That is likely the most gentle compliment you’ve paid me in my entire life.” Soren felt a surge of secret delight as well.
If Tyrion became Hand of the King or sat on the Small Council, Soren would become his right-hand man—a prime opportunity to step onto the path toward immense power!
“I’ll need to bring my men.
King’s Landing isn’t a dinner table by a campfire, Father.
Every smile there hides a blade.
I need the mountain clans, as well as Bronn and Soren.” “The mountain clans stay.
They will be incorporated under Ser Addam Marbrand as vanguard scouts.” Tywin cut him off mercilessly, directly dismantling Tyrion’s backing.
Then, his eyes passed over Tyrion and settled coldly on Bronn.
“That sellsword, you may take.” Bronn raised an eyebrow, as if feeling appraised like a decent butter knife.
Tywin’s gaze shifted to Soren.
Those pale green-gold eyes narrowed slightly.
“As for this Ser Soren…” Soren kept his head bowed, remaining silent.
He felt that glare lingering on him for far too long.
Like the spine of a blade pressed against his throat.
Before Tywin could continue— *Bam!* The tent flap was thrown open abruptly.
A bloodstained, windblown messenger tumbled inside and collapsed to the floor, his voice screeching out of pitch.
“My Lord…
disaster!” Tywin’s eyes chilled instantly.
The messenger raised his head, his lips trembling.
“The Young Wolf wasn’t at the Green Fork at all!
He took his cavalry to Riverrun…
the Whispering Wood…
we fell into an ambush!” All sound vanished from the command tent.
The messenger was on the verge of tears.
“Ser Jaime…
Ser Jaime was captured alive by the Stark forces!” Dead silence.
Lord Tywin Lannister’s hands, still clasped behind his back, stiffened ever so slightly.
Across that majestic face that never revealed emotion, a microscopic crack appeared for the very first time.
Jaime.
His proudest son.
The Golden Lion of Lannister.
Captured alive by a fifteen-year-old boy.
“Out,” Tywin said.
The voice was terrifyingly quiet.
The messenger scrambled out on all fours.
Tyrion opened his mouth, but couldn’t bring himself to speak immediately.
The sarcasm on his face had vanished.
His brother captured—this was no absurd news to joke about.
It was a nightmare worse than the sky falling.
It was a blade suddenly plunged deep into the heart of House Lannister.
Soren kept his eyes lowered, but his heart beat wildly.
The opportunity had arrived.
Originally, Tywin only intended to give Tyrion a seat on the Small Council.
A position where he could watch, listen, and report, but not necessarily take real action.
Now, that wasn’t enough.
Far from enough.
Soren stepped forward half a pace.
His boot struck the carpet, making a soft, muted sound.
Tywin’s gaze snapped onto him instantly.
Cold, sharp, and laced with displeasure.
Yet Soren did not retreat.
Under the crushing pressure of Tywin’s terrifying rage, Soren spoke up on his own initiative.
He didn’t lay everything bare, but rather threw out a blood-stained key.
“Lord Tywin,” Soren said, his voice as steady as it was cold.
“Ser Jaime is still alive.” Several men in the tent turned to look at him simultaneously.
Soren continued, “If the Northerners only wanted a victory, there would be a golden-haired corpse in the Whispering Wood.
They kept Ser Jaime alive because they want to sit at the gambling table.” Tyrion’s mismatched eyes narrowed slightly, as if waiting for him to go on.
Soren raised his eyes, dropping his voice lower.
“The question is, do we have enough heavy bargaining chips to make House Stark willing to negotiate?” Tyrion realized something and turned abruptly toward his father.
“Where is Eddard Stark?” he asked.
“Robert is dead, Cersei controls the Red Keep—so where is Eddard Stark, Hand of the King?” Ser Kevan said gravely, “Thrown into the Black Cells on charges of treason.
His eldest daughter, Sansa, is in the Red Keep, while his second daughter, Arya, is currently missing.” The color drained from Tyrion’s face.
“Cersei threw the Lord of the North into the Black Cells and lost one of his daughters?” he whispered.
“By the gods, I’ve only been gone a few days, and King’s Landing has already become this foolish?” Tywin warned coldly, “Watch your words.” “My words?” Tyrion scoffed, his voice sharp like steel scraping a silver plate.
“Father, Jaime is in Northern hands right now.
Eddard Stark and his daughters are our only bargaining chips to exchange for Jaime.” He turned sharply to Kevan.
“If that little lunatic Joffrey, or Cersei—that fool of a woman who acts purely on instinct—decapitates Eddard Stark just to vent her anger…” Tyrion looked back at Tywin, his voice turning completely cold.
“…then the Northerners will hang Jaime’s head from their battlements the very next day.” Dead silence filled the tent.
Ser Kevan’s face turned pale as well.
“Tyrion is right, Tywin,” Kevan said slowly.
“Cersei might not be able to restrain Joffrey.
The boy just took the crown and is eager to prove he is no child.” Tyrion sneered.
“And his way of proving it will likely be cutting off the head of a man far more honorable than his father.” Tywin did not answer right away.
His gaze shifted away from Tyrion and fell back onto Soren’s face.
It was a deep, penetrating look.
Soren lowered his head, as though he had merely asked an ordinary question.
But Tywin knew better.
This young man hadn’t said “Eddard must live,” nor had he said “Joffrey will kill him.” He had simply offered a thread, allowing Tyrion to pull out the entire net on his own.
A moment later, Tywin finally spoke.
“You leave for King’s Landing tomorrow morning.” Tyrion raised his head.
Tywin continued, “You will carry my command as Acting Hand of the King to keep your sister in line and hold down Joffrey.
Until the Starks return Jaime, I want Eddard Stark breathing safely in the Red Keep.” Tyrion slowly let out a long breath.
He had won.
At least at this moment, he had won.
Soren felt a massive relief in his heart as well.
Tyrion had secured the position of Acting Hand of the King.
This meant a crack had been pried open in the heavy gates of King’s Landing.
As long as he could follow Tyrion, he could enter the center of power, stepping into the densest, richest, and most dangerous snake pit of the main storyline.
Tyrion clearly thought of this too.
“Ser Soren.” Tywin’s pale gold eyes locked onto Soren, devoid of any readable emotion.
He deliberately placed heavy emphasis on the word “Ser.” “For a clever man, serving as a mere bodyguard is a terrible waste.” Tywin’s gaze dropped back onto the battle map, as though deciding the ownership of a tool.
“You managed those beasts well, and you proved in the mud that you possess some vision.
Starting tomorrow, you will take command of the First Supply Patrol Battalion, responsible for the security of transport routes in the war zone.
You are granted one hundred Gold Dragons.” Tyrion grew anxious.
“Father, Soren saved my life!
He is my right hand!
Just now, he was the one who saw Jaime’s way out—” “Which is precisely why he cannot go with you.” Tywin looked at Soren, his expression even colder than before.
“A blade that is too sharp, if wielded improperly, cuts its master first.
In King’s Landing, you only need an obedient dog.”