Littlefinger was dead.
He died standing, red and white leaking from the split in his skull, running down his fine doublet and pooling on the flagstones. Those eyes that had always carried the smug certainty of a man three moves ahead were wide open, refusing to close even in death.
Then the head simply fell apart with a wet thwack, and what was left of Petyr Baelish crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut.
The man who had done it threw his sword to the floor with a clatter and dropped to his knees without hesitation.
"Your Grace, I confess," Brynden Tully said.
Half a dozen Kingsguard swords were at his throat in the next heartbeat.
The great hall of the Eyrie fell so silent that the only sound was the slow drip of blood from the corpse.
Joffrey stood motionless, staring at the twitching body, utterly stunned.
The Tullys really were all the same.
The Blackfish—who had looked the steadiest and most calculating of them all—had watched his niece leap from the Moon Door with her child in her arms. Then, in front of the king, the entire court, and every lord present, he had drawn steel and split Littlefinger's head open like a melon.
Robert's mouth hung open. He pointed a thick finger at the Blackfish, trying to form words and failing.
"You—you—you—"
He never managed the second half.
Joffrey shifted his gaze to the kneeling knight. Brynden's back was ramrod straight, his beard flecked with blood, his face showing not the slightest trace of regret.
The man had claimed his kill with the righteousness of a man collecting a debt.
Joffrey had been turning over several plans for how to deal with Littlefinger once the dust settled. The weasel had played every side, betrayed Lysa at the last moment to save himself, and still hoped to walk away with a pardon and a reward for "opening the gates."
The Blackfish had solved the problem with one clean swing.
Sometimes the simplest tool was the most effective.
"What the hell did you do that for?!" Robert finally roared. "He still had uses, you mad old bastard!"
Blackfish lifted his head, meeting the king's furious gaze without flinching.
"Because you would not have killed him, Your Grace," he said calmly.
Robert blinked.
"I lost one niece," the Blackfish continued, voice steady as iron. "The other is… gone. I required justice."
Robert stared at him, chest heaving.
"I had to see him dead," Brynden finished.
Robert let out a long, theatrical groan and rubbed his face with both hands.
"Seven bloody hells! Nothing but headaches!"
He waved a hand at the Kingsguard.
"Get him up. I'll decide what to do with him later."
Edmure flung himself forward, clutching Robert's leg. "Your Grace, my uncle was overcome with grief! He's an old man, he—"
Robert kicked him off without looking.
The Vale lords who had been held hostage began clamoring for mercy on the Blackfish's behalf. Even some of the Crownlands men muttered approval.
Robert ignored them all, turning instead to bellow at the hall.
"Where are my prisoners?! How long does it take to find two living people in this gods-damned birdcage?!"
As if on cue, the side door opened.
The first man through was a lean, black-haired sellsword with a wolfish face and a lazy, dangerous grin—Bronn. He sauntered in with his arms crossed, looking like he owned the place.
Behind him came Catelyn Tully, pale and unsteady, supported by two men. Tyrion Lannister limped beside her, bearded and filthy but wearing the same sharp, irreverent smile that said I'm still alive, you bastards.
Bringing up the rear was the forgotten master-at-arms of Winterfell.
"Mother!" Robb burst forward and crushed Catelyn in his arms.
"Sister!" Edmure rushed to join them.
Robert waved again and the Kingsguard released the Blackfish.
The Tullys embraced in the center of the hall.
Tyrion, standing off to the side, raised a weak hand. "No one wants to hug the Imp?"
Jaime strode over, checking his brother roughly for missing pieces before pulling him into a brief, fierce embrace.
"Who did this to you?" Jaime growled, barely containing his fury.
Tyrion patted his brother's arm. "The loving couple, of course. I'm parched, dear brother. Any chance of some honeyed water?" He glanced toward Tywin, who stood like a statue of frozen granite. "And if Father isn't dead yet, tell him his son had to mortgage Casterly Rock to keep himself and a rather ungrateful lady alive."
A collective intake of breath swept the hall.
Tywin's eyebrow twitched—the closest thing to emotion he ever showed in public.
Tyrion cleared his throat and beckoned the sellsword forward.
"Bronn, come say hello to the king, my father, and all these fine lords."
Bronn strolled over and gave Robert the smallest nod. "Your Grace."
Robert stared at the sellsword, then at Tyrion, then back again.
"What in the seven hells is going on here?"
Tyrion smiled sweetly. "Our dear former Master of Coin offered Bronn one hundred thousand gold dragons to kill me and the good lady here. And the master-at-arms. I didn't have that kind of coin, and I didn't want to die, so I gave him Casterly Rock instead. I assume Father will honor the debt."
He looked around the hall, still grinning.
"Speaking of which—where is Littlefinger? Petyr? We still have accounts to settle."
The crowd parted, revealing the remains of Petyr Baelish on the floor.
Tyrion crouched beside the corpse, tilting the two halves of the head together to examine them.
"You absolute shit," he muttered. "How the hell did you die?"
He stood up again.
"And his whore? Where's Lysa? She still owes me for all the children and old men she claims I killed."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Tyrion felt the shift in the air and his smile faltered.
"She's dead too, isn't she?"
He looked at the Moon Door, still open, wind howling through the gap.
"Seven hells."