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Chapter 71: Tyrion
The Queen's wails echoed through the throne room, sharp and raw, a mother's grief turned to fury. Tyrion Lannister stood frozen, his mismatched eyes fixed upon the crumpled form of Joffrey Baratheon, sprawled lifeless at the foot of the Iron Throne. The boy king — cruel, petulant, and now very, very dead.
Cersei's sobs faltered, strangled by a rising tide of rage. Slowly, she lifted her tear-streaked face. Her emerald eyes, bloodshot and wild, found Tyrion standing apart from the rest of the mostly empty throne room.
"You!" she spat the word like venom. Her finger rose, trembling with fury, pointing straight at her brother. "You killed him! You killed my son!"
Tyrion's heart clenched in his chest — not with fear, though fear was surely present — but with grim inevitability. Of course it would come to this.
"My lady sister always said I was a monster," Tyrion muttered under his breath. "Now here stands proof before all."
But Cersei was beyond hearing reason or wit. Her face twisted in madness and grief.
"This little demon killed the king!" she shrieked. "Arrest him!"
For a heartbeat, the room hesitated. Ser Jacelyn Bywater, hard-eyed and dutiful, did not move. His Gold Cloaks stood rooted in place, their discipline warring with the Queen's command. But the Lannister guards — Cersei's men, loyal to her over any crown — surged forward like hounds unleashed.
Rough hands seized Tyrion's arms. He offered no resistance. Resistance would be futile, and worse — undignified.
"Throw that little demon in the dungeons!" Cersei cried, her voice cracking with grief and fury. "I don't want to see him anymore!"
As they dragged him away, Tyrion's gaze lingered on the sight of his sister collapsing over Joffrey's body. She clutched the corpse to her breast, rocking back and forth like a madwoman. The Iron Throne loomed above them both, sharp and cold.
A fitting backdrop for the tragedy of House Lannister.
Several Days Later...
The chill of the dungeons seeped into Tyrion's bones. The cell was small, damp, and utterly devoid of comfort. Moss clung to the stones, and water dripped somewhere beyond the bars in a slow, maddening rhythm.
He sat cross-legged on the hard floor, staring at the wall, lost in bitter thought.
"So much for the Hand of the King," Tyrion murmured to himself.
He had played the game of thrones with skill — or so he thought. His father had sent him to King's Landing to act in his stead, to hold the city and the court together until Tywin could ride south. And gods, he had tried.
He had allied with Varys, the Spider with his web of whispers. He had outmaneuvered Janos Slynt, stripping the corrupt fool of his command and sending him off to the Wall with his cronies. Slynt had been Cersei's creature — and Littlefinger's, too.
Tyrion's lips curled in faint amusement at the memory. Slynt had cursed him all the way to the docks.
He had uncovered Pycelle's treachery as well, finding the Grand Maester to be little more than Cersei's spy. Into the black cells Pycelle went — a toothless old man.
Yet here Tyrion sat, a prisoner all the same.
He sighed heavily. "What is power worth," he whispered, "if the game ends with you rotting in a cell?"
His thoughts turned darker still.
Riots did not just happen. He had learned enough from Varys and Littlefinger to know that much. A mob does not materialize out of thin air, not without warning. There were always whispers, always signs.
Varys knows everything or so he likes everyone to believe, both Varys and Littlefinger must have agents all across the city.
And yet neither Varys nor Littlefinger had warned him.
Neither had warned Cersei either — unless they had chosen not to.
Tyrion frowned. Both of them had been absent from the royal party that day. That in itself was... convenient.
He chewed on the inside of his cheek.
Could Littlefinger have orchestrated the riot? It would be in character. Petyr Baelish thrived in chaos. He is always looking for opportunities, after all.
But what of Varys?
Tyrion's frown deepened. The Spider prized stability — yet he also served the realm as he saw fit. If removing Joffrey brought peace, would Varys hesitate?
And yet... could even Cersei be mad enough to risk her own son's life merely to destroy Tyrion? The thought chilled him.
"No," Tyrion muttered aloud, shaking his head. "Even Cersei isn't that blind. Is she?"
But the idea gnawed at him nonetheless.
Perhaps the riot had been orchestrated. Perhaps not. But there was no doubt in his mind that someone had taken advantage of it — to rid themselves of both Joffrey and Tyrion Lannister in one stroke.
He leaned back against the damp stone wall, closing his eyes.
"This is what I get," he whispered bitterly, "for trying to save this wretched city from itself."
Footsteps echoed down the corridor.
Tyrion's eyes snapped open.
A soft shuffling, measured and deliberate. He recognized that tread. The faint swish of silk robes over stone. The faint scent of sweet perfumes.
The door to his cell creaked open.
And there stood Varys.
His round face was placid as ever, serene — yet somehow more unsettling in this place of darkness and despair.
"Lord Tyrion," Varys said softly, inclining his bald head. "We need to talk."