The banquet hall in the Tower of the Hand had become Joffrey Baratheon's private execution ground.
Tywin wanted to punish his insolent grandson immediately.
He could not even wait until they reached Joffrey's bedchamber.
He would do it now, this instant, without another moment's delay!
The boy was going to be the death of him!
Ser Trant and Ser Oakheart stood on either side, pinning the king of the Seven Kingdoms firmly to a bench.
Joffrey's sumptuous trousers, embroidered with golden thread and lions, had been roughly dragged down to his ankles, along with the last of his dignity.
The servants and guards around them kept their heads bowed, but their shoulders twitched uncontrollably.
They dared not look.
But those muffled chuckles, squeezed from deep in their throats, were sharper than any blade, slicing away at Joffrey's nerves inch by inch!
Tywin Lannister rolled up his sleeves, a thick leather belt in his hand.
He said nothing, his impassive face betraying no emotion.
Crack!
The first blow rang out, sharp and clear.
Joffrey shuddered from head to toe.
Then searing pain erupted behind him, instantly spreading through every limb.
He wanted to scream, to curse, to order the Kingsguard to drag the old bastard outside and behead him!
But he could not make a sound.
Ser Trant's hand clamped over his mouth like an iron vise, forcing every roar back down his throat.
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
Every swing of Tywin's arm was precise and forceful.
He looked less like a man disciplining his grandson than a craftsman refining an unruly tool.
Joffrey clenched his teeth, the taste of blood already filling his mouth.
The pain grew worse.
But worse than the pain was the humiliation that seeped into every corner of him!
He heard it.
He heard a guard fail