Chapter 454: Enlightenment

Tyrion Lannister stood beside Tywin's coffin, his short fingers clenched into a fist.

It was early morning, and the Hand's Tower was dim and silent. Pale dawn light streamed in through the high windows, casting a heavy, blood-red hue on the dark walls, as though the room itself bled.

Candle flames flickered atop the table, throwing restless shadows across the walls.

The Silent Sisters had dressed Tywin for what appeared to be a battle. He wore his finest gilded armor, with two golden lions perched on his shoulders. His hands were folded over a gilded sword resting on his chest. Yet the golden eyes that once shone so brightly were forever closed.

Tyrion couldn't help but feel that, in death, his father seemed much smaller than he remembered.

The once-mighty Lion of the West, who had loomed over the Seven Kingdoms, now resembled a frail, hunched old man.

It must be because those eyes were gone.

Tywin's eyes had always been the essence of his power—pure golden irises that could pierce into any soul, laying bare weakness, incompetence, and ugliness. They were mesmerizing, even terrifying.

Tyrion had often tremble under that gaze, but now, having shot an arrow into his father's belly and extinguished those piercing eyes forever, he realized something unexpected: Tywin wasn't as fearsome as everyone believed.

He was just a man in his fifties.

An old man who couldn't even shit gold.

Of that, Tyrion was especially sure.

Stripped of his golden veneer, Tywin Lannister was as fragile, ugly, and foul-smelling as anyone else. Just like the stench emanating from his corpse now.

"What is that smell?" the boy king Tommen asked, wrinkling his nose.

"The smell of death," Queen Cersei replied coldly, silently cursing the Silent Sisters for failing to properly treat her father's body.

But every time she thought about how Tywin had died—on a toilet—she was left speechless. The smell of decay in her nostrils became unbearable.

She turned to her brother, Tyrion, who stood as still as a stone statue, his face unreadable.

"Have you found the murderer yet?" Cersei demanded.

The murderer is standing right here. Tyrion glanced at his sister and said, "We found a secret passage in Father's chambers. It seems Loras Tyrell used it to escape…"

"Escaped?" Cersei's voice rose sharply. "The Hand of the King, killed in the Hand's Tower, and you let the assassin escape?"

"The soldiers are still searching the passage. Perhaps they'll have good news soon."

"I don't want 'perhaps!' You will find the murderer!" Cersei barked, her tone brooking no argument. "Varys knows those tunnels better than anyone. Where is he? You should be questioning him!"

Tyrion had no intention of indulging his sister further. But he did want to speak with Varys.

Noticing the eunuch lurking near the doorway, Tyrion seized the opportunity to leave Cersei behind and approached him.

Varys gestured subtly and slipped out of the room.

Tyrion followed.

The two walked down a corridor bathed in the golden light of morning. The rising sun cast its glow over all of King's Landing, painting the city in hues of gold and amber.

"Caesar has sent an emissary," Varys said softly, stopping beneath a hanging lantern.

"Oh? What terms?"

"Surrender within three days, and Caesar will pardon everyone for their crimes."

"And titles? Lands?"

"There were no guarantees."

Tyrion shrugged. "That's not going to satisfy many people."

"Indeed not," Varys replied. "But Caesar holds all the cards. He has no reason to offer concessions."

"I understand that. But some people might refuse to accept reality and stubbornly resist."

Varys chuckled. "That's where your opportunity lies."

"Me?" Tyrion blinked. "What opportunity?"

"During the War of the Usurper, how did your father demonstrate his loyalty to the new king, Robert Baratheon?"

"He marched on King's Landing, presented the corpses of the Mad King and his grandchildren as offerings of fealty." Tyrion rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Are you suggesting I should prepare a similar gift for Caesar?"

"Precisely." Varys's tone carried a weight of hidden meaning. "You'll need to offer gifts if you want to secure Caesar's favor in the future."

Tyrion understood that Varys's suggestion was more than just advice—it was a warning.

Although Loras Tyrell had been blamed for Tywin's death, Varys knew the truth. Caesar likely did too.

With the crime of Kinslaying hanging over his head, Tyrion knew his fate was already in Caesar's hands.

But that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

If the roles were reversed, Tyrion thought, he'd prefer to put someone he could control in charge of the Westerlands.

So long as he played the obedient servant, he might even win Caesar's trust.

Tywin had never truly accepted him as a son and would rather die than hand over Casterly Rock.

But Tyrion was determined to become Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and perhaps… even Hand of the King!

Ambition flared in his chest like wildfire. In that moment, Tyrion made up his mind.

"If we want the northern lords to accept reality, we must take decisive action."

Varys smiled approvingly. "What kind of action?"

"Target the most vocal opponent. Remove them, and the rest will fall in line."

"Who do you have in mind?"

After a moment of deliberation, Tyrion said, "Roose Bolton."

"Why him?"

"Right now, the leadership among the northern lords is divided between three houses: the Freys in the Riverlands, the Waynwoods in the Vale, and the Boltons in the North. These three replaced the Tullys, Arryns, and Starks as my father's chosen allies.

"That means they're the ones most opposed to Caesar entering King's Landing.

"Among them, the Freys are opportunists. Walder Frey isn't even in the city, and Stevron Frey alone isn't a threat.

"Anya Waynwood has some sway as the Vale's Warden, but she's not widely respected among the Vale lords.

"Roose Bolton, on the other hand, is the most dangerous—both the strongest and the hardest to control.

"If we're going to send a message, he's the perfect target. Of course, we'll need a good reason to kill him…"

Varys interjected, "I might have just the reason you need."

"What is it?"

"You're engaged to Sansa Stark, aren't you? Roose Bolton committed countless atrocities in Winterfell and forced Eddard Stark into the Night's Watch. You could frame it as avenging your fiancée."

"That'll do," Tyrion said indifferently. He understood that by choosing to act as Caesar's enforcer, he had to accept the consequences—dirtying his hands, tarnishing his reputation, and making enemies.

But none of that mattered.

Varys studied Tyrion for a moment, then gave a cryptic smile.

"If you're set on killing Roose Bolton, there are two people who might help you."

"Who?"

"Sansa and Arya Stark."

Tyrion's eyes widened. "You're not talking about the 'Sansa' my father arranged for me to marry, are you?"

"No. I'm talking about the real Sansa Stark," Varys said. "The one who can help you win the northern lords' loyalty."

(End of Chapter)