The sound of the blade piercing his chest was duller than expected.
Tywin Lannister's body stiffened.
He lowered his head and stared at the sword that had pierced his chest, his green-gold eyes blank with bewilderment.
At least his end was... simpler than expected.
Tyrion's grip on the hilt was steady.
He could feel the resistance against the blade, the sticky heat of the blood.
He looked into his father's eyes.
The eyes that had terrified him all his life were rapidly losing their light.
No last words.
No curses.
Tywin Lannister, the lion of the Westerlands, simply toppled slowly forward.
Like a stone statue knocked from its pedestal, he crashed to the floor, stirring up dust.
Dead.
Tyrion pulled out the longsword and flicked the blood from its blade.
He stood beside his father's corpse, motionless for a long time.
He had thought he would feel satisfaction, relief, that he would burst out laughing.
But he felt none of it.
Only emptiness.
As though, with Tywin's fall, the man he had spent his life pursuing, defying, and even hating had vanished too.
He had won, yet it felt as though he had lost everything.
"Tyrion."
Mance Rayder's voice came from outside the door.
He did not come in. He merely waited quietly.
Tyrion drew a deep breath and pushed that emptiness back into the depths of his heart.
He knew the old Tyrion had died in this study alongside Tywin.
The man who survived was an enforcer of Lynn's new order.
He pushed open the door, and the firelight outside lit his bloodstained face.
"Clean him up. Make him presentable," Mance told the Wildlings beside him.
"Bury him beneath the Lion's Rock."
The Wildlings nodded.
"The nobles and prisoners in the city have all been gathered in the Main