Petyr Baelish, who had thought he might live by covering for Kal Stone and serving his interests, was now utterly in despair.
"No, no, Lord Kal, believe me, I am absolutely not the murderer of Lord Jon—I am being slandered by Varys, slandered!"
"No, that's not right—I know who killed Lord Jon, I know who it was!"
"The one who murdered Lord Jon was in fact his own wife, Lysa Tully. It was her, she killed Lord Jon Arryn, she mixed poison into the cup of water he drank!"
"And Pycelle, yes, Grand Maester Pycelle—originally, Maester Coleman's treatment of Jon Arryn's poisoning had already begun to show effect."
"But at the crucial moment he drove him away. That too was the reason that led to Arryn's final death!"
Faced with the threat of death, in his desperation to survive, Petyr Baelish began to babble without care.
Seeing the blade at his body, all the truth of the matter burst from his mouth without passing through his mind, the entire conspiracy laid bare in full.
Yet as he spoke it all, even the mocking smile on Kal's face faded, no longer worth the effort to maintain.
His eyes and expression turned cold then, like the ice beyond the Wall.
"Littlefinger, do not try to exonerate yourself. It is useless.
"Did you think I would truly come here idly to toy with you, without evidence?"
As Kal spoke, he once more raised his hand and gently rested it on Littlefinger's already pale shoulder.
"Unfortunate for you—at the Eyrie in the Vale, in Lady Lysa's chamber, there remain several letters you wrote her. Though in them you urged her to burn them after reading."
"But for some reason, Lady Lysa snuffed out the flames before they were consumed."
"Fortunate for me, for they allowed me to see the truth clearly."
Kal looked down upon Littlefinger, his voice frigid and stern as it left his lips.
And with it, he shattered Petyr Baelish's final hope.
Petyr Baelish gazed at Kal in despair, his lips trembling, unable to utter a single word more.
Then his knees gave way, and he was about to collapse to the ground.
But Kal's left hand, resting upon his shoulder, suddenly clamped down like an eagle's talon, seizing him the instant he was about to fall.
This time, however, Kal did not restrain his strength as before.
His long, powerful fingers, like five bendable iron spears, instantly drove into Petyr Baelish's collarbone.
And that immense, uncontrolled force simply and directly crushed his shoulder.
Littlefinger's shoulder was mercilessly crushed into a mangled mess, muscle, bone, and sinew all blended together.
Feeling the searing pain in his shoulder, Petyr Baelish, unable to collapse, let out an unconscious scream.
Yet immediately he was yanked forward by Kal, lifted as if he were a chick, dangling with only one foot barely touching the ground.
Faced with Littlefinger's wretched cries of pain and pleas for mercy, Kal ignored him entirely.
His gaze, brimming with killing intent and cold as ice, locked straight onto those gray-green eyes.
"Do not beg, Littlefinger. You know well what you have done."
"And if I am not mistaken, some matters in the Vale of late seem to bear your mark as well."
"Ser Kevan spoke truly—every man has his ambition, only yours runs deeper and crueler than any other."
"So then, go and die—Pycelle was split in two vertically by the Mountain."
"For fairness' sake, you shall be cut across."
Having spoken, Kal had no desire to continue conversing with a dead man.
He gave a slight push with the hand gripping Littlefinger's shoulder, and Petyr, screaming in pain and despair, was hurled forward, crashing onto the stone floor of the throne room.
Yet though fallen to the ground, Petyr seemed unwilling to die so easily.
Forcing his body to move, he twisted over to crawl upon the floor, his only remaining strength in his left hand clawing desperately at the cracks between the stone tiles, writhing as if trying to escape this place of sevenfold hell.
But Timett behind him was faster.
As Littlefinger writhed upon the ground, Timett raised his curved blade high overhead, then brought it down across Petyr Baelish's middle in a cleaving stroke.
And so, before the very Iron Throne, Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin, member of the King's Small Council, was sliced clean in half at the waist.
Littlefinger, in his frantic bid to escape, felt a searing pain at his waist—and then a sudden lightness.
With a final, instinctive, shrill scream, his whole body went rigid, his hands frozen in place.
As the agony at his waist consumed him, his face turned ashen, his hollow eyes straining to look back.
But all he saw was a pool of his own glaring scarlet blood—and the lower half of his body departing from him.
For a man cut in half does not die at once, and Petyr Baelish's screams and curses echoed through the entire hall.
Kal calmly turned his head, stepping over to stand before Varys, whose neck was still pressed under the longsword.
"Does Lord Varys feel any displeasure at me using private justice?"
A relaxed smile spread across Kal's face, his voice no longer so steeped in killing intent.
Varys's throat gave a hard swallow as he slowly drew his gaze away from Littlefinger—who, with only one hand left, dragged his upper body across the hall, wailing as he crawled.
Considering Kal's question, Varys answered with a solemn expression: "He got what he deserved. And if matters truly are as you say, Lord Kal, then everything before our eyes stems from him."
"All the lives lost to war will stain his soul with a mark of guilt."
Seeing that Varys did not accuse him, only spoke plainly of what he saw, Kal's lips curved faintly in a smile.
"I do not deny I have selfish motives, Lord Varys. I grew up in the Eyrie, and Lord Jon Arryn gave me enough kindness."
"For his death, I feel regret."
"And this is the only thing I could do for him."
Hearing this, and looking at Kal's expression, which showed no hint of lying, Varys pressed his lips together, choosing not to pursue the topic further.
As Littlefinger's shrill wails echoed in his ears, Varys's gaze once more fell upon the hellish tableau painted across the throne room.
"Will you kill me?"
"It seems I am the only one left who knows—and the only irrelevant outsider."
"If you tell the King and the Hand that Gregor Clegane slew all the King's council, I believe they will accept your word."
Faced with Varys's probing, Kal shook his head.
He raised his hand, gently guiding Bronn's sword away from the eunuch's neck.
"I am but a bastard who hates evil as an enemy. If Lord Varys wishes to be my foe, I think you should consider that more seriously."
"This bastard already has a dwarf friend—but he would not mind another eunuch joining him at the wine table."
"But a eunuch can hardly go whoring with a bastard and a dwarf, my lord."
"If need be, he can only stand by cheering you on."
Feeling Kal draw the cold iron sword away from his neck and once more realizing how beautiful life was, Varys swallowed hard and slowly eased his taut nerves.
Sensing the goodwill released by Kal Stone, who could be said to be the true master of King's Landing now, Varys's lips trembled slightly upward in a small jest.
Even so, his back was soaked with cold sweat, looking utterly wretched.
"Though I don't know what the dwarf might think, as for myself, I would not like a man watching while I'm at work—especially not if that man is a eunuch."
Kal was very pleased with Varys's reply, and at once, with a faintly stern look, gave his assent.
Having just walked the edge of death, Varys could only force an awkward smile.
But Kal did not dwell on the subject, lest some divine hand descend to blot it out.
So he quickly composed his expression and looked at the tactful eunuch before him, the corner of his mouth tilting slightly.
"I like making friends with clever men."
"You see, we reach accord instead of scheming and plotting against others, always thinking how to stab each other in the back."
As he spoke, Kal gestured toward the peacefully resting two halves of Grand Maester Pycelle, and the half that was still "singing"—Littlefinger.
Seeming to grasp the unspoken meaning in Kal Stone's words, Varys hurriedly bowed and agreed, "I should say I feel fortunate, my lord."
"My faith has ever been loyal to the Iron Throne."
Kal paid little mind to this, only shrugging his shoulders.
If need be, he did not mind sending Varys to join Pycelle and Littlefinger.
After all, they were colleagues, and no one who sat in such positions could truly be pure.
As for the one who really was pure, it was no injustice that he lost his head.
But regrettably, King's Landing truly did still need this eunuch.
And Kal had no solid reason to kill Varys—
at least not now.
As for what schemes might be brewing across the Narrow Sea, Kal certainly would not believe none existed.
So he chose, since he could not yet make Varys an enemy and kill him, to let him be a "friend" for now.
"Well then, my friend, let us first deal with the problem before us."
"I imagine before the king returns and selects new members for his council, the burden upon us will be heavy. On this, does Lord Varys have any counsel?"
Facing Varys, who knew how to bow to the times, Kal no longer bothered with meaningless chatter, but turned directly serious, speaking of the matters facing King's Landing.
Though with Littlefinger's wails echoing, the words sounded all the stranger.
But regrettably, none present, including Varys who had just become Kal Stone's new friend, would think there was anything wrong in a mere knight, bearing only the so-called title of Warden of the East, saying such words.
And Varys was clearly far cleverer than the two lying on the ground.
He first raised a hand to wipe the cold sweat from his brow, then spread both hands with a look of helpless distress.
"I am only a eunuch, Lord Kal. I know nothing of ruling a realm—otherwise the king would not have traveled all the way to the North.
"But if we must speak of King's Landing's most urgent matter now, I would say it is order. From my observations of late, King's Landing longs for peace and stability."
Varys began with a jest to ease the tense air.
But he was no fool; he understood the meaning behind Kal's words, so he smoothly steered the topic that way.
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