Chapter 451: The Death of The Lion

Tyrion Lannister climbed the iron rungs embedded in the wall, one after another, ascending into the darkness. After a while, his arms began to ache, and he was forced to pause and rest.

Looking down, he could see only a faint ring of light far below.

After catching his breath, Tyrion resumed his climb. After what felt like two hundred rungs, he sensed warm air blowing from the left, like the breath of a great beast.

He cautiously felt his way into a narrow tunnel.

The passage was so tight that a full-grown man would have to crawl on all fours to move forward. But for a dwarf like Tyrion, it was a snug but manageable fit.

This place seemed almost tailor-made for someone his size—or, more likely, for children.

Varys's "little birds." Of course.

Tyrion chuckled at the thought as he pressed onward.

Soon, faint voices began to echo through the dark tunnel. At first, they were muffled and distant, but they grew clearer with each step.

So this is how Varys hears all the secrets of the Red Keep, Tyrion mused.

He forced himself to ignore the murmurs and continued crawling until he reached the third exit Varys had mentioned.

Fumbling around the stone wall, Tyrion found a small iron latch. He twisted it firmly, and a faint grinding noise echoed through the passage.

Suddenly, a square opening appeared to his left, glowing with a warm orange light.

A fireplace.

Tyrion carefully climbed into the hearth, avoiding the smoldering embers below. The warmth of the ashes crunched softly underfoot.

This was indeed the Hand's private chambers.

Tyrion held his breath, scanning the room.

But Tywin Lannister was nowhere to be seen.

Where is he? What is his plan for me? And how do I make him confess about Tysha?

The closer Tyrion came to confronting his father, the more uncertain he felt.

But retreating now wasn't an option.

If he turned back, he would forever carry the burden of patricide while on the run in Essos.

No. Even if he had to flee, he needed answers first.

Spotting a dagger by the bedside, Tyrion took it and tucked it into his belt. His gaze then fell on a crossbow mounted on the wall. He grabbed it, loaded it with a bolt, and held it ready.

Moving quietly through the room, he eventually found his father in the privy.

Tywin looked up sharply at the sound of approaching footsteps.

Tyrion stepped into view, his lips curling into a mocking smile as he gave a half-bow.

"Good evening, Father."

"Tyrion?" Tywin's gaze shifted to the crossbow in his son's hands, but his expression remained calm. "Who let you out?"

"You're so clever, Father. Surely you can guess?"

"Varys," Tywin said with certainty. "I should've had him executed long ago! What do you plan to do with that crossbow? Put it down."

"And if I refuse? What will you do about it?"

"Escaping from prison is utterly foolish. Think of what happened to the Red Viper." Tywin's tone was almost conversational. "I'll tell you plainly, Tyrion—I had no intention of truly punishing you. Blaming you in the throne room was a temporary measure, a necessary gesture to placate the northern lords."

"Oh, how merciful of you," Tyrion sneered. "Should I fall to my knees and thank you for sparing my life?"

"Put down the crossbow. Let's talk in the bedroom."

"I prefer to talk here," Tyrion said, relishing the sight of his father in such a compromising position.

"Very well. Let's talk." Tywin's voice remained steady. "Tyrion, I've always valued your intellect and counsel. Wasn't it you who suggested negotiating with Caesar? I've already begun taking steps in that direction."

"What, am I to be your envoy?" Tyrion asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "If you're going to lie to me, Father, at least put some effort into it."

"I've chosen someone better suited as an envoy. I've already summoned him. If you don't believe me, wait a moment, and you'll see that I'm not lying."

"Who is this paragon of diplomacy?"

"Loras Tyrell."

"Him?" Tyrion raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, Caesar's brother-in-law," Tywin explained. "When he defected to us, claiming enmity with Caesar, it was clear he wasn't telling the whole truth. I could see through his lies immediately..."

"Ah, you're the true master of deceit," Tyrion said with a whistle. "But even if Loras is a spy, what can he accomplish?"

"I don't expect him to achieve peace with Caesar," Tywin admitted. "In the current situation, Caesar won't negotiate. Sending Loras is merely a stalling tactic."

"And your real plan?"

"I intend to retreat to the Westerlands," Tywin said. "Let Caesar take King's Landing, along with the headaches of ruling and placating the northern lords."

"And you think Caesar will leave the Westerlands untouched?"

"Winter is coming, and with it, a formidable threat in the North. Caesar will be too preoccupied to concern himself with us."

Tyrion's brow furrowed. "I recall you once said the White Walkers were a tale to scare children."

Tywin hesitated. "From certain reports I've received, there may indeed be... unnatural phenomena beyond the Wall."

"Then why not make this information public?"

"Why spread panic?"

"This is a matter of life and death!" Tyrion shouted. "And yet you kept it hidden while waging a senseless war against Caesar!"

"This war was Caesar's doing."

"You disgust me."

"Politics is a dirty game, Tyrion. Surely you've realized that by now," Tywin said matter-of-factly. "Now, put down the crossbow, and we'll talk further in the bedroom."

"No," Tyrion said firmly. "I've had enough of your callousness. Answer me one last question, and I'll leave. You can continue playing your filthy games without me."

"What's your question?"

Tyrion took a deep breath, steadying himself before asking the question that had haunted him for years.

"Was Tysha a crofter's daughter, or a hired whore?"

"Tysha? Who's that?"

Tyrion almost laughed. Of course his father wouldn't remember.

"My wife!"

"Oh, her." Tywin's expression betrayed no emotion. "She was a lowborn crofter's daughter. I wanted to teach you a lesson."

"So, she wasn't a whore," Tyrion murmured, his teeth clenched so tightly they hurt.

"What difference does it make? I recall she earned quite a bit that night. Perhaps she should've thanked me..."

"Shut up!" Tyrion roared. "One more word about her, and I'll kill you!"

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me!" Tyrion raised the crossbow. "What did you do with her?"

"I don't recall."

"Think harder!"

"Where do whores go?"

It was, perhaps, the most foolish thing Tywin Lannister had ever said.

The words had barely left his lips when Tyrion pulled the trigger.

The bolt shot forward, embedding itself in Tywin's abdomen.

The great lion let out a grunt, his face twisting in disbelief. "You... actually shot me..."

"Indeed. You always taught me a threat means nothing unless you can back it up."

Blood poured from the wound, pooling on the floor. Tywin's once-brilliant golden eyes dimmed as he gasped, "You... are no son of mine..."

"You're wrong. I'm exactly like you, just a small version." Tyrion said, his voice eerily calm. "Have some mercy, Father. Die quickly—I have a ship to catch."

Knock, knock, knock.

A sudden knock at the door shattered the tense silence.

"Lord Tywin," came the steward's voice from outside. "Ser Loras Tyrell has arrived."

(End of Chapter)