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Chapter 73: Tyrion
The torchlight barely reached them here, deep beneath the Red Keep. The stone passageways were cold, older than memory, and they swallowed sound like a tomb. Tyrion moved carefully behind Varys, the Spider gliding through the darkness like a wraith born of silk and secrets.
The soft whisper of robes was all Tyrion could hear besides his own breathing — rough, uneven. His legs ached from crouching through tight passages, the damp air clinging to him like cobwebs.
They had been walking for what felt like an eternity. Every turn, every hidden stairwell, deepened the gnawing pit in his stomach. He was not a brave man by nature — he preferred wine, sharp words, and well-paid swords to do his fighting for him.
But tonight? Tonight, none of those things could save him.
Ahead of him, Varys paused near a narrow slit in the wall. The Spider raised a finger, wordless.
Tyrion moved up beside him and peered through the gap.
They were near the royal bedchambers.
He could see the heavy oak door leading to Tommen and Myrcella's room, guarded by two Lannister men — red cloaks, gold armor. Familiar faces from his sister's court. Loyal to House Lannister. Loyal to Cersei.
Tyrion's heart sank.
"How?" he whispered.
Varys raised a single finger again — patience.
Moments later, footsteps echoed softly in the corridor. Two Gold Cloaks approached, their steps calm, unhurried.
They are here to relieve the Lannister guards, the Gold Cloaks have never guarded the Red Keep but with Renly at their door Cersei must have called them to reinforce the Lannister guards.
This is just like Cersei, even after the riots to leave the city to fend for themselves while protecting herself.
The Gold Cloaks exchanged quiet words with the Lannister guards — routine — before taking their place. The two red-cloaked lions departed, leaving the gold-cloaked watchmen behind.
But just as quickly, the Gold Cloaks turned and walked away, their boots fading down the corridor.
Varys had thought of everything.
Varys turned to Tyrion. "You only have a short while to get the children," he whispered. "No more."
Tyrion nodded, swallowing hard.
He emerged from the hidden passage, his feet almost betraying him as he padded across the cold stone floor. The door loomed ahead of him like the gate to some ancient crypt.
He pushed it open, wincing at the slight creak.
Inside, the room was dark save for the faint flickers of candles and moonlight spilling through the narrow window.
On the bed, small forms stirred beneath the covers — Tommen and Myrcella.
Children.
Innocents.
His blood.
They deserved better than this den of vipers.
Tyrion took a careful step forward.
But that was when he saw her.
His heart turned to ice.
Cersei.
Curled protectively between them, her golden hair splayed like a lion's mane across the pillow, the very image of motherly devotion — if you could forget what monster lurked beneath that skin.
Trion cursed Varys a thousand times in his mind.
Tyrion's mind raced.
He began to back away — slowly, silently — trying not to rouse her.
But as fate would have it — cursed, bitter fate — her green eyes snapped open.
And fixed upon him.
They burned with hatred.
"You!" Cersei spat, her voice raw with fury and madness.
Tyrion froze.
"You killed him! You killed my Joffrey! And now you come for my other children?"
She moved with frightening speed, snatching a dagger from beneath her pillow — gods, how long had it been there? — and lunged at him with a shriek of pure hatred.
The world blurred.
Tyrion stumbled backward, the glint of steel flashing toward him.
The dagger missed — barely — as Cersei's rage overtook her sense. She stumbled, crashing into a small table near the bed.
But even as she fell, she twisted to strike again.
And Tyrion knew — in that moment, clear as daylight — if he hesitated, he would die here.
He lunged and kicked the dagger from Cersei's hand with swiftness and strength that even surprised himself.
Then his small, calloused hands found her throat. He drove her down to the ground, pinning her beneath his weight.
Her nails raked across his face — drawing blood — but Tyrion squeezed.
He squeezed with every ounce of hatred, pain, and fury he had buried inside him for years.
Cersei bucked and writhed beneath him like a beast caught in a trap. Her eyes bulged, those lion-green eyes that had scorned him since he was born.
Tears streamed down her face — or were they his?
He couldn't tell anymore.
He thought of Cersei's cruelty.
He thought of Joffrey's sneers.
He thought of every vile word she had ever spat in his face.
And he squeezed.
Her hands grew weaker.
The fight bled from her limbs.
Then she was still.
Tyrion Lannister knelt there for a long moment, his breathing ragged, the dead weight of his sister beneath his shaking hands.
His sister.
His blood.
Dead by his hand.
What had he become? A Kinslayer that's what.
A vile cursed Kinslayer.
Behind him, the soft sounds of sleep from Tommen and Myrcella continued unbroken — innocent, blissfully unaware.
He looked to them — small, vulnerable — and a cold shiver of horror passed through him.
The truth hit him like a hammer.
The children had not woken.
Even with the shouting. Even with the struggle.
They must have been given dreamwine in their food, their milk — or some sleeping draught from the east, no doubt.
The children must have had difficulty sleeping, after all their brother just died a few days ago.
Tyrion thanks the gods for this small mercy, at least his niece and nephew didn't have to witness the horror of their mother dying by his hands.
Slowly, he released Cersei's throat.
Her lifeless face stared back at him — still beautiful in its way, twisted by rage even in death.
A lioness brought low.
He staggered back, wiping the sweat from his brow — hands trembling with shock and disgust.
The deed was done.
There was no going back now.
Tyrion stared at his sister's corpse for one final moment.
Then he turned.
Behind him, Cersei Lannister — Queen Regent, Lioness of House Lannister — lay dead.
The game of thrones never ended.
It only devoured.