"How long have you been listening outside?"
It took Tyrion a while to recover after Arianne left the study. When he finally pushed open the door, he saw Bronn leaning lazily against the wall.
"Probably since she yelled something like, 'Your dragon's breathing fire and burning me!'" Bronn said with a wicked grin. "I was about to breathe fire myself. Why did Podrick drag me out here this late?"
"First, forget what you just heard. Second, find the eunuch. Don't let him escape," Tyrion whispered. "You know who I mean—Varys, that eunuch."
"The fat bald one?" Bronn asked, nodding. "Finding him in the Red Keep will take quite a few men."
"No. Not now, at least," Tyrion said, shaking his head. "Pick a few reliable ones. Quietly. No one must hear a word. Go find Podrick. Take him with you—he knows where the eunuch lives."
"No matter the cost?"
"No matter the cost."
Bronn nodded once, then strode off.
Tyrion hurried down the corridor and knocked softly on a nearby door. "Brienne. Brienne," he called, keeping his voice low so as not to wake anyone.
The knight was a light sleeper, ever alert. She cracked open the door, and soon her familiar, earnest face appeared. "What is it, my lord?"
"Are the ladies all right?"
"Very well. They went to bed early," she replied, wide awake as ever. "What do you need, my lord?"
"Go check again. Make sure they're all in bed."
Brienne disappeared briefly, then returned. "All accounted for, my lord. No need to worry. Arya may be mischievous, but she follows the rules at night."
"Thank you, Brienne." Tyrion exhaled in relief. "Whatever happens, don't open this door unless it's me. Understood? Oh—and Shae?"
"She vanished after supper," Brienne said. "It's been happening often lately."
"I see. Just remember—don't open the door."
Tyrion left the Tower of the Hand at once, unease churning in his chest. In the shadowed barracks below the tower, he wasted no time, summoning four guards loyal to House Lannister. Clad in polished armor and gripping sharp blades, they gathered around him at his command and marched straight for the dungeons.
The dungeons were even more menacing at night. Every cold, damp wall seemed to whisper the despair of the condemned. The lowest level—where Qyburn worked—was thick with darkness and something far more sinister.
In the dead of night, dark magic flourished.
"Qyburn! Qyburn!" Tyrion's voice echoed off the stone. "Are you awake? I have urgent business!"
After a short delay, the maester appeared from one of the many dim corridors. Qyburn knew every passage and turn down here as well as he knew his own hands—far better than Tyrion ever could.
"My lord, I'm here," Qyburn said. He was dressed in a plain nightrobe, his expression calm and alert. Years of mercenary work had taught him to wake at a moment's notice.
"Where is Littlefinger?" Tyrion demanded, his impatience cutting through his voice. "Which cell?"
"My lord," Qyburn said, looking mildly surprised, "I thought you forbade us from addressing prisoners by name."
"That doesn't matter now. He dies tonight."
"But, my lord," Qyburn reminded him, "we haven't yet extracted all the vital information from him..."
"We'll deal with that after he's dead," Tyrion snapped. "Loose ends always leave a trail."
Qyburn inclined his head slightly, gesturing for Tyrion and the guards to follow. They moved deeper into the dungeons, the flickering torches casting long, twisted shadows that danced across the floor.
They passed through gate after gate of iron bars and heavy stone doors. From the dark corners came faint moans and rasping breaths—the dying echoes of broken souls imprisoned here, a chorus of misery cutting through the silence.
Finally, after winding through a narrow, crooked passage, Qyburn stopped. His gaze settled on an iron door that looked no different from the rest, save for the intricate runes and sigils carved into its surface.
"This door is the safest." Qyburn drew a key from his sleeve and unlocked it. "He's inside."
Tyrion motioned for his guards to go in and drag the prisoner out.
Littlefinger collapsed limply before him, his clothes torn and filthy, all traces of his former refinement gone. His eyes were vacant, his body slack like a puppet with its strings cut. Several teeth were missing, and he no longer had the strength to speak.
Tyrion studied his face carefully—that familiar, sly expression. "Do it."
The guards showed no hesitation. Their spears drove clean through the schemer's chest. Littlefinger convulsed once, then fell still. Tyrion stood by and watched, silent, until the blood drained away and the body turned pale.
"Strip him. The body's yours to handle," Tyrion said. Qyburn stepped forward to carry out the order.
As Tyrion turned to leave, something caught the edge of his vision. He stopped, turned back, and crouched beside Qyburn. "Maester, turn him over. I want to see his chest."
Qyburn nodded and rolled the corpse onto its back. Only a few neat puncture wounds marred the chest—nothing more. A chill prickled down Tyrion's spine.
Littlefinger should have had a scar there.
"Damn it. A body double?" Tyrion hissed under his breath. This likely wasn't Qyburn's doing. More likely Varys's handiwork again.
Littlefinger had nothing but schemes to his name. Even if he'd escaped, he was no great threat. Tyrion forced himself to believe that and turned toward the thought of his father.
As he ascended from the dungeons, the noise above grew louder—footsteps, shouting, and the clamor of chaos.
When he finally stepped through the dungeon gates, he saw servants rushing frantically back and forth through the Red Keep.
"What's happening?" he demanded, grabbing one of them by the arm.
"Lord…" The servant recognized him at once—the Master of Coin, the Lord's son. "The stables by the Tower of the Hand are on fire."
Damn it!
Tyrion spun around and raced back toward the tower with his men in tow.
The stables blazed in the darkness, the fire roaring skyward and devouring the night itself. Flames lashed and danced like wild beasts, consuming everything they touched. The air crackled with heat and the sound of burning wood. Thick smoke billowed upward, blotting out the stars.
The fire spread fast, swallowing the entire stable as if it meant to turn the world to ash. In the distance, people shouted and ran, trying desperately to fight the blaze—but it had already grown beyond control.
"Lust Demon!"
Tyrion turned. It was Bronn, returning with his men, Podrick trailing behind.
"Are you all right, my lord?"
...
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