The death of Gregor Clegane was brutal and public. What was meant to be a spectacle to get revenge on Oberyn ended up becoming a humiliation for the Lannisters.
The crowd, which had come thirsting for blood, found what it wanted, but did not leave satisfied. The Mountain's death wasn't a display of strength, nor an honorable duel. It was a clinical, deeply disturbing execution. The queen's champion ended as an unrecognizable heap of flesh and bone, and no one present found anything worth celebrating in the scene.
No one except the Martells, the Dornish entourage, and, of course, the mysterious sellsword named Lukard.
Cersei locked herself in her chambers for two days, refusing to receive visitors.
Tywin, meanwhile, wasted no time on mourning. He resumed meetings and tried to maintain the image of order while sending ravens to Dorne with proposals, though no apologies.
Oberyn remained bedridden, but he was improving each day, and Ellaria continued tending to him with the devotion of a loving wife.
Vlad stayed away from the center of power during those days; he wanted to avoid more drama. His plans in King's Landing had reached their end, he would have killed the Mountain one way or another, so with his affairs finished, the time for the true conquest was drawing near.
But before that, he wanted to say goodbye to Oberyn and Ellaria, for during his stay, they had become the closest thing to friends he had, and considering that the next time he saw them they would be his subjects, he chose to end things on good terms.
He found them sitting by a window. The prince barely turned his head when he heard him enter; he wore clean, new clothes, but he was thinner, the poison had left its mark.
—I thought you'd already left, —Oberyn murmured, not taking his eyes off the horizon.
—I will tonight, —Vlad replied calmly.
A long silence followed. Finally, Oberyn looked at him.
—You lifted a weight I didn't know I carried. Thank you for giving me peace… or at least closure —he said with a faint grimace.
—I did what needed to be done —Vlad answered. Then he looked at Ellaria— Take care of him. Above all, protect him from himself.
Ellaria, her eyes red but grateful, nodded with a small smile.
—I know. If I don't, he'll find a way to get himself killed —she said, never missing a chance to tease the prince.
—Take care, both of you, —Vlad said— The next time I see you, I'll be king in Westeros.
—A good king, I hope, —Oberyn replied, almost testing him.
Vlad gave him an ambiguous smile.
—A better king, at least.
He bowed slightly to both of them, then turned to leave without looking back.
-----
Days later, when the uproar began to fade, Tyrion still couldn't sleep. Nights were far worse when lived in uncertainty, and in a cell. No one had accused him again, but if he believed that meant he was safe, he would be a fool.
His sister wanted him dead. His father wanted him dead. His only comfort was Jaime, but Jaime was so easily swayed that Tyrion couldn't rely on him unless it came to a direct attack.
The worst part was the silence. Shortly before the interrogation, he'd tried to speak with his father, to explain that Cersei's delusions were just that, delusions. But Tywin, with the calm voice and cold stare that defined him, replied that Cersei had every right to accuse and condemn whoever she wished; after all, she was the queen mother.
Tyrion had laughed at that. Tywin Lannister, half the realm feared him, the other half worshipped him, pretending to be powerless before his daughter's whims… it was hilarious.
Tyrion wasn't a fool. He understood this was nothing more than an excuse to rid himself of his greatest shame.
Him.
After hours of overthinking and spiraling paranoia, he decided to end the situation. He was certain that if he offered to mediate with Dorne, his father would let him go. Then he could put distance between himself and his family's murder attempts. Perhaps, in time, their desire to kill him would ease. Though the thought made him smile bitterly, he doubted it.
When he couldn't bear it any longer, he rose silently, dressed in the bare essentials, and left.
Unfortunately, neither he nor anyone else noticed the silhouette of a woman standing in a corner of his chamber, nor the red eyes gleaming in the darkness.
He walked slowly through the halls of the Red Keep. The guards didn't stop him: technically, he was going to see his father. He reached Tywin's chambers, knocked twice, then entered when no one answered.
He assumed his father would still be writing letters at that hour, or perhaps he was simply ignoring the door, as he often did.
The room was dimly lit by the embers in the fireplace; everything was tidy, the desk clean, papers stacked, clothes hung neatly beside the Hand's badge. The only sign of life was the shape beneath the blankets of the large bed.
Tyrion was surprised. His father, serious as he was, never kept female company, and Tyrion didn't know of any noblewoman who had been close enough to him to end up in that situation.
He almost smirked, already imagining the jokes he would make to Jaime… but what happened next froze him.
—Tywin?... —a drowsy female voice murmured as she turned over without opening her eyes.
It was Shae.
Tyrion stood frozen, unable to understand. What was she doing here? She should have been in Volantis. He had sent her away for her own safety; he had even lied cruelly about what he felt for her so she would leave.
Had his father forced her? Threatened her? His mind scrambled for any justification, any excuse that could explain why the woman he loved was lying in that bed.
But then she murmured, turning with a sleepy smile:
— Come back to bed, my lion…
And in that instant, everything shattered.
It was her nickname for him, the way she called him in a soft voice while running her fingers through his hair, an intimate phrase that meant she was his, and he was hers.
Tyrion felt an urge to vomit. A dry, sharp pain burst in his chest and spread like wildfire, burning him from the inside. It was a repulsive feeling that left him paralyzed.
But all that pain, all that sorrow, gave way to a single, primal emotion. Rage. Murderous rage, the most primitive, devastating feeling he had ever known carved its way through everything else, leaving nothing but itself behind.
It felt as if something inside him disconnected. His legs nearly buckled as he took a step forward. He looked at her for one more second, recognizing the silver pendant hanging from her neck.
The gift he had given her. Vlad, the King of Meereen, had sent presents to his family in what he assumed was a gesture of goodwill, and when Tyrion noticed that the pendant paired with his bracelet had gone unnoticed by the rest of the Lannisters, he thought it safe to give it to Shae.
He remembered even feeling fortunate when he read the inscription: "For the one beloved."
At the time, Tyrion had felt as if fate were smiling upon him.
Now it felt like a cruel joke.
Then she turned toward him, opening her eyes, expecting to see his father. Her expression shifted to shock, and for a brief, fleeting instant Tyrion thought he saw something in her eyes… shame? Pain? He didn't know. Because that look lasted no more than a heartbeat. It was replaced by an icy coldness as the woman he loved lunged for the fruit knife on the table, ready to kill him.
Tyrion reacted first. He caught her wrists, struggling until he managed to fling the weapon aside. A slap threw him off the bed, but not before his fingers found the silver chain around the neck he had kissed so many times.
He pulled.
He pulled with both hands, with rage, with shame, with hatred.
Until she stopped moving.
When he released the pendant, Shae was no longer breathing.
— I'm sorry… I'm sorry… —he sobbed, still clutching the chain tightly around her neck.
And he meant it.
He was sorry for involving her with his family. He knew that if not for him, she wouldn't be lying dead in his hands.
He was sorry for having loved her.
Sorry for being born a dwarf.
Sorry for being unable to be anything more.
But even as he cried beside the corpse of the woman he had loved… he felt nothing but rage.
He remained sitting beside the body, staring into the void, waiting… for something. Some change.
But the world stayed the same.
He rose like an automaton and walked to a low shelf where he recognized a familiar object.
The crossbow Vlad had gifted his father, engraved with delicate letters across the wooden bow: "May your hand stay steady."
Now it sounded almost like an invitation.
He picked it up, it weighed less than he remembered.
He left the room and descended with steady steps toward his father's private latrine, walking calmly, as if taking a stroll. When he arrived, he opened the door without knocking.
Tywin was seated, composed, looking at him with an expression caught between annoyance and surprise.
— Tyrion —he said, unshaken— Lower the crossbow. —then asked, more exasperated than concerned— What are you doing in the Hand's Tower at this hour?
He made a motion to stand.
— Come. We'll go to my chambers. We'll talk.
Tyrion raised the weapon without answering, signaling him not to move. Tywin let out a tired sigh.
— Is this how you want to speak to me? Shaming your father… it has always pleased you.
— All my life you've wanted me dead, —Tyrion whispered, tightening his grip on the crossbow.
Tywin looked at him with that emotionless expression he had always reserved for him.
— Yes —he admitted without shame— But you refused to die, and I respect that. I even admire it. You fight for what is yours.
At any other moment, those words from his father might have moved him. Here, in this instant, they only made him sick.
— I would never have allowed them to accuse you. Is that what you fear? —Tywin continued, as if nothing— You are a Lannister. You are my son.
— I loved her —Tyrion said hoarsely.
— Whom? —Tywin asked, confused.
— Shae, —Tyrion spat the name like a curse.
Tywin lifted an eyebrow and let out a dry, mocking smile.
— Oh, Tyrion… —he murmured with barely contained disdain— Lower that crossbow.
— I killed her. With my own hands.
Tywin seemed surprised, weighed the situation, but didn't dwell on it for more than a second.
— It doesn't matter —he said, as if commenting on the weather.
— It doesn't matter? —Tyrion repeated, incredulous.
— She was a whore —he said, utterly unmoved by the death of the woman he had just bedded.
Tyrion's finger tightened on the trigger.
— Repeat that word…
— And what then? You'll kill your father on the privy? —Tywin scoffed— No. You are my son. Enough of this nonsense.
Tyrion cut him off:
— I am your son. And you always wanted me dead. You knew I didn't poison Joffrey, but you never defended me. You wanted me to take the fall. Why?
— Enough —Tywin commanded firmly— We will return to my chambers and speak with dignity.
— I can't go back there. She's in that room.
— Are you afraid of a dead whore?
Tyrion pulled the trigger almost without realizing it.
The shot was quick and silent. He thought he would feel relief, or rage, or sorrow… but he felt nothing when he shot his father.
Tywin clutched his chest in disbelief, staring at his son, aghast.
— You shot me… —he growled, face contorted— You are not my son.
Tyrion loaded another bolt, never looking away, even taking his time.
— I am your son—he said calmly— I always have been. This proves it.
And he pulled the trigger again.
----
Well, what the heck happened, guys? You've reached over 200 in less than a day. Jesus. I hope you enjoy the chapter; you've surprised me, and above all, you've earned it.