Tyrian was there, when his father received the message that a prisoner had escaped. He rode with his brother and the guard to Castamere Hall, and wondered that she would again return there.
The great doors opened with a crash that was swallowed by the silence overwhelming the massive hall. His eyes did not catch her the first two times he scanned the silent expanse. It was not until the slow, musical slide of a whetstone on a blade broke the stillness that he noticed her.
She sat upon the throne, dressed in an outdated crimson gown, her black hair pulled back into a simple braid, her head bent to her task.
They waited. They waited until she set the stone aside and placed the sword carefully across her lap. They waited until those steely grey eyes rose to meet Tywin Lannister's. They waited until she, ever so slightly, nodded. Then, the archers unleashed their arrows, pinning her to the throne in a dozen places. The whirring, clattering sound faded back into the serene silence, and Tywin approached. A sad, slight half-smile played across her lips as she looked at him.
"I decided," Her hand stirred feebly, "There had been enough blood spilled on the floor." With those words, she died.
Tywin Lannister turned his horse and rode from Castamere Hall. His guard followed, but his sons did not.
It was Lannister hands that dug her grave, Lannister money that paid for her headstone, and the only attendees to her funeral were Lannister sons. It was Lannister voices who swore, in the name of Levail Reyne, to never allow another massacre.