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Chapter 63: The Lion in Chains
The cold stone of Harrenhal's dungeons was unforgiving against Tywin's back as he sat slumped against the wall, chained like a common criminal. His once-pristine golden armor had been stripped from him, leaving him in little more than a torn and dirtied tunic. His wrists bore the angry red marks of the iron shackles that bound him, the metal biting into his flesh.
He had not slept.
He had not eaten.
But Aerys's laughter was still there, slithering in his mind like a viper.
Tywin clenched his jaw, his emerald eyes staring blankly at the damp stone wall across from him.
How had it come to this?
This was supposed to be his moment of triumph.
His grandson sat the Iron Throne. His house ruled the Seven Kingdoms. He had spent a lifetime forging the power of House Lannister, making it the greatest family in Westeros. And yet, in the span of mere months, it was all crumbling before his eyes.
The boy king—Daeron Targaryen—had outmaneuvered him at every turn. His armies were scattered. His daughter and grandson sat defenseless in King's Landing. His legacy, the great golden empire he had built, was teetering on the edge of ruin.
And he was chained to a dungeon wall like a beaten dog.
The bitter taste of failure burned on his tongue.
For all his careful planning, for all his ruthlessness, he had still lost to a bastard dragon whelp.
Tywin exhaled slowly.
He would not beg. He would not grovel.
He was Tywin Lannister.
And even in chains, he would remain Tywin Lannister.
Suddenly, the heavy iron door creaked open.
Tywin's gaze flickered upward, and Rhaella Targaryen stepped into the cell, her long silver-gold hair cascading over her shoulders, her violet eyes cold and unforgiving.
Beside her, the white direwolf padded silently into the room, the direwolf's red eyes gleaming in the dim torchlight.
Tywin tensed.
The beast was enormous, easily the size of a warhorse. Its white fur was stained with blood, and its breath was hot against the stale dungeon air.
But Tywin did not look away.
He met Rhaella's gaze with his own, refusing to show weakness.
For a long moment, she simply looked at him.
Then she spoke.
"I suppose this is what happens when the 'great' Tywin Lannister faces grown men instead of slaughtering little children."
Her voice was soft, almost gentle. But the words were a dagger buried deep in his pride.
Tywin's jaw tightened, but he did not rise to the bait.
Not yet.
Rhaella's eyes were sharp, cruel. She was enjoying this.
And why wouldn't she?
He had once mocked her, scorned her weakness, turned his back on her when she had pleaded for his help during Aerys's madness.
Now, she stood before him, free, powerful, and victorious—while he rotted in chains.
After a long moment, he exhaled slowly and spoke, his voice calm and measured.
"What happened to Elia, Aegon, and Rhaenys is on Ser Gregor Clegane and Ser Amory Lorch. I never gave the order."
A lie.
A calculated lie.
But Rhaella only smiled.
It was a cruel, knowing smile.
"I spent years in exile, Tywin," she murmured. "I met all sorts of men. Cowards, murderers, thieves. And do you know what I learned?"
She took a step closer, her eyes never leaving his.
"Only weak men use cruelty and fear to make themselves seem strong."
Tywin's fingers twitched.
"You have always been a weak man, Tywin Lannister."
That—that—struck deeper than any sword ever could.
Weak.
No one had ever called Tywin Lannister weak.
He was the lion, the ruler, the true power behind the Iron Throne.
Rhaella continued. "You hid behind the Rock while Rhaegar lived. You only acted once the war was already won, that too to go after little children and their sickly frail mother."
His fingers curled into fists. His pride demanded he strike her down.
With a snarl, he lunged forward.
Or at least, he tried to.
And before he could even take another breath, the direwolf moved.
The direwolf lunged, slamming its massive body into Tywin's chest, shoving him back against the wall.
For the first time in his life, Tywin Lannister felt fear.
The beast's muzzle was inches from his face, its hot breath washing over him, its blood-stained fangs bared.
It could have ripped his throat out in an instant.
But it didn't.
Instead, Rhaella chuckled.
She reached out and ran a hand through Ghost's white fur, a picture of calm as if she weren't standing beside a beast that could tear a man in half.
Then she looked back at Tywin.
"You are going to die tomorrow."
The words were said so simply, so casually, that they might as well have been a statement of fact.
Tywin did not react.
He would not react.
Not in front of her.
"Daeron has decided that you will burn." Rhaella continued. "By dragonfire."
The words settled heavily in the air.
Tywin kept his expression blank.
Burned.
Like Aerys would have done.
The irony was almost laughable.
But Rhaella was not finished.
She took a step back, her smile turning sharper.
"But don't worry," she murmured. "Your last night won't be a dull one."
Tywin frowned.
"Prince Oberyn is going to 'entertain' you."
A cold chill ran down Tywin's spine.
Oberyn Martell.
The Red Viper of Dorne.
Elia's brother.
Rhaella's smile widened at the look on Tywin's face.
"Daeron told him he's not allowed to kill you." She tilted her head. "But everything else? Well…"
She turned without another word, moving toward the door.
Ghost lingered a moment longer, its red eyes watching Tywin, as if daring him to move.
Then it turned and padded after Rhaella.
The door slammed shut.
Tywin was alone again.
For a moment.
Then the door opened once more.
And Prince Oberyn Martell stepped inside.
His dark eyes burned with hatred.
His smile was slow and cruel.
He closed the door behind him.
Tywin swallowed.
For the first time since his capture, he wondered if death by dragonfire might have been the merciful option.