Tywin opened his mouth as if to speak, but only gushes of blood poured out. His body convulsed violently several times, his gaze clouding over before his head slumped to one side. He collapsed onto the cold stone seat.
The lion had fallen—dead in the most wretched and humiliating of places.
Tyrion dropped the crossbow without a glance at his father's final moments and turned to leave the latrine. At the doorway, he gave a silent nod to "Varys," who stood watch.
"Varys" said nothing, immediately leading him back into the castle's shadows. They did not head for the outer walls but instead made their way toward another tower.
Moving with practiced ease, "Varys" guided Tyrion through dark corridors, avoiding guards with uncanny precision. They stopped before a secluded tower chamber. Producing a slender tool, "Varys" deftly picked the lock and pushed the door open.
Inside, a red-haired girl in a plain dress turned sharply, startled like a frightened fawn. It was Sansa Stark. Her blue eyes were filled with fear, but when she saw "Varys" and Tyrion, a flicker of surprise and confusion crossed them.
"Come with me, Lady Sansa, if you wish to live. You must leave this place," "Varys" said quickly.
Sansa looked from Tyrion to "Varys." Memories of King's Landing—of Tyrion's few small acts of protection—flashed through her mind, along with the misery of her current life. She hesitated only a moment before nodding firmly.
Under the cover of night, during the guard's shift change, the three slipped through a hidden drainage outlet in Duskendale's walls. Led by "Varys's" remarkable skill, they disappeared into the vast darkness beyond.
...
Almost at the same moment Tyrion and Sansa vanished into the drain, the real Varys arrived quietly at Duskendale's dungeons. Something felt wrong.
When he saw Tyrion's empty cell and the broken chains scattered on the floor, shock crossed his round, plump face for the first time.
"Damn it," he muttered, a chill running through him. He turned to leave—but it was already too late.
Heavy, hurried footsteps echoed from the corridor's far end, torchlight flickering against the walls.
"Seize him! Don't let the murderer of Lord Tywin escape!"
Lannister soldiers charged forward like wolves. Varys had no chance to speak before being forced to the ground and tightly bound. His plump face twisted into a bitter smile—he knew he had walked straight into a carefully laid trap.
...
The next day, the Small Council in Duskendale met under a suffocating air of dread.
News that the Great Lord Tywin had been slain in his chamber's privy struck like a second thunderclap, leaving the court reeling in horror.
Cersei sat in the high seat, her face deathly pale, her eyes a storm of grief, fury, and near-madness.
Jaime Lannister stood beside her, still dust-covered from travel, freshly "released" by Roose Bolton. Though exhaustion lined his face, all color had drained from it, and disbelief filled his emerald eyes. His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Varys, bound hand and foot, stood in the center of the hall under the watch of Lannister soldiers.
Maester Pycelle trembled as he read the "investigation findings."
"At the scene, we found the crossbow used by Tyrion Lannister… Lady Sansa Stark is missing… and Lord Varys was present in the dungeons at the exact time of Tyrion's escape. The evidence is irrefutable. Varys colluded with Eastern forces to help Tyrion Lannister—who slew both his father and his king—escape custody, assisted in the murder of Great Lord Tywin, and released the crucial hostage, Sansa Stark!"
"I did not!"
Varys's voice remained calm. "This is a setup. The real killer is someone else."
His gaze shifted toward Littlefinger, who stood nearby with a dark expression over Sansa's disappearance. In that instant, all the unanswered questions that had slipped through his grasp fell into place.
"It was Littlefinger!" Varys hissed. "He—"
"Enough!"
Cersei's shrill voice cut him off. She rose abruptly, her fury blazing. "You sewer-dwelling spider! Still trying to wriggle free? Still daring to accuse loyal servants?"
She pointed at Varys, her hand trembling with rage. "You're no different from that dwarf monster—traitors to House Lannister, both of you! Spies conspiring with Easterners to overthrow the realm! Execute him! Execute him now!"
Littlefinger stood silent beside her, fury burning beneath his calm façade. He had long believed that the chaos consuming Westeros had all been Varys's doing—the exposure of Jon's parentage, Robert's sudden discovery of Cersei's scandal, Tywin's timely arrival—every thread leading back to the Spider.
Gripped by anger and alarm, he bowed deeply. "Your Grace, Varys's crimes are unforgivable. Like Tyrion before him, he seeks to turn his guilt upon the loyal. I beg Your Grace to grant him the punishment he deserves."
Under Cersei's wrathful glare and Jaime's cold silence, not a single member of the Small Council dared speak in Varys's defense. The trial ended swiftly.
Varys was dragged into the courtyard of Duskendale. There was no gallows. The executioner raised his greatsword high.
The sunlight was blinding.
Varys looked around at the faces encircling him—some cold, some eager. He saw the mad delight in Cersei's eyes, the bottomless sorrow in Jaime's, and the fleeting smile curling at Littlefinger's lips.
He turned one last time toward the distant horizon across the Narrow Sea. A complex expression flickered across his round, plump face.
The greatsword fell. Blood spattered. A bald head rolled across the cold, muddy ground.
The Spider—the Master of Whisperers—was dead. To his dying breath, he believed Littlefinger was behind it all.
...
The stench of blood still hung in the air when Grand Maester Pycelle, leaning on his cane, shuffled into the tense Small Council chamber. In his hands were two sealed letters, their wax still fresh.
"Your Grace… Ser Jaime… my lords…" Pycelle wheezed. "Reports from the front…"
"Speak," Cersei snapped, impatience and dread twisting her voice. She needed good news to drive away the fear and darkness left by her father's death.
Pycelle opened the first letter. "The first report brings good news. Ser Addam Marbrand and Ser Damion Lannister's surprise assault achieved a decisive victory. Highgarden has fallen. Willas Tyrell was executed. The blacksmith usurper Gendry and Randyll Tarly died amid the chaos. Horn Hill, Goldengrove—every stronghold of the rebellious Reach lords has been taken. The leading nobles of the rebellion, along with their families, have all been executed. The Reach is completely pacified."
A wave of gasps and muted cheers swept through the hall.
Cersei's pale face brightened with a trace of grim satisfaction.
Even Jaime's eyes flickered with faint relief. Though it did nothing to dull the pain of losing his father, at least one threat to the Westerlands had been quelled.
But as Pycelle broke the seal on the second letter, his voice grew dry and heavy. "However, grave news comes from the Stormlands. Viserys Targaryen, son of the Mad King, has led thirty thousand Dothraki screamers ashore in a massive landing. Their advance is relentless."
"Viserys!"
The satisfaction froze on Cersei's face.
She turned sharply to Littlefinger, her voice rising. "Lord Petyr, you will depart for the Eyrie at once. Persuade Lysa Tully to send her knights. The Vale must stand with the Iron Throne!"
Littlefinger bowed elegantly, a faint smile on his lips. "As you command, Your Grace. I leave at once—for the good of the realm."
He turned and walked away, his steps light and unhurried.