Chapter 97: Impious Prayers
"You really think there'll still be a sellsword here to get you out of trouble?"
…
Inside the great hall of Winterfell, the Stark family sat upon the stone seats of the high table, while their household retainers lined both sides of the hall. At the center stood a single figure—a dwarf—enduring the cold stares directed at him from every direction.
"I'd like to think so," Tyrion said, lifting his head toward the red-haired lady seated above him, his tone weary. "But I doubt it. My lady, instead of wasting time on this farce, perhaps you should hurry and ask the wizard to save your son. Of course, it would be even better if you could calm yourself in the meantime."
"Saving Bran is one matter. Punishing the culprit is another," Catelyn replied coolly. "If all goes as it should, your life will be the price paid for his."
"You're that certain I'll fail?"
"This isn't the Eyrie."
…
Lady Stark was firmly convinced that Tyrion was the one who had tried to murder her son Bran. That suspicion—compounded by what had happened to her husband—had long since hardened into prejudice.
So no matter how logically the Lannister dwarf argued his case, he could not win her trust. In the end, Tyrion was forced to propose a trial by combat.
Trial by combat was a customary way of resolving disputes in Westeros. The people believed that in such duels, the gods would side with justice—if the accused emerged victorious, then he must be innocent.
The accused could fight personally, or appoint a champion.
Unfortunately, when Tyrion scanned the hall, he found that not only was no one willing to fight on his behalf, but every face he saw was filled with naked hostility—eyes that looked as though they wanted nothing more than to devour him whole.
If the Hound were still here, Tyrion was certain he'd have taken the job. Lannisters were always generous with gold. But that man had already been sent north, bound for the Wall.
Damn the Starks!
Cursing inwardly, Tyrion's gaze suddenly caught on someone in the crowd, and a spark of hope flickered to life.
"Ser Kranston…"
Noticing the look, Charles merely spread his hands in a helpless gesture. Tyrion's shoulders slumped, and he fell silent.
The wizard's attitude might differ from the others, but expecting him to personally step in and fight was nothing but a fantasy.
After all, many people here were already treating him like a god…
Abandoning that unrealistic hope, Tyrion looked around once more. Not a single soul offered him aid. Despair crept into his heart.
"The dwarf could always choose to fight himself," someone suggested maliciously.
Tyrion clenched his teeth. "I could also choose to take the black."
"Yes, indeed," someone answered promptly. "Provided you confess first."
"I've explained it to you all countless times—I didn't do it! What would I gain from it? I'm not an idiot!"
"Who knows whether you'd gain anything? The Imp is known for his lies."
"That's right! There's not a single good thing about the Lannisters!" someone shouted in agreement.
"You people…" Tyrion laughed bitterly, half in fury.
In truth, the best option would have been to don the black cloak and join the Night's Watch, washing away all accusations. Yet for reasons unknown, even now—cornered as he was—Tyrion still hadn't made up his mind. He spoke of it, but never truly committed.
Did he have another card left to play?
Charles didn't know. But he knew one thing: standing by and watching felt wrong.
No matter what, this man had once "lent him a hand," and Tyrion's current predicament wasn't born of his own scheming or of Lannister malice—but of trying to save lives.
The lives of countless strangers in King's Landing.
A man like that didn't deserve to end up here.
And besides…
He wasn't guilty.
Seeing the standoff drag on, he finally spoke.
"The dwarf has a physical disadvantage. Pitting him against a full-grown man is inherently unfair," he said calmly. "I therefore suggest he be granted some assistance. Lady Catelyn—what do you think?"
At his words, a flicker of hesitation crossed Catelyn's face.
"You make a fair point… but this assistance—"
"I can provide him with a weapon," Charles replied.
The lady of Winterfell nodded decisively.
So long as this man did not step onto the field himself, all was well. Otherwise, no one would dare face him.
As for a weapon—even one bestowed by a so-called god—could that really overturn the dwarf's overwhelming disadvantage?
No matter how one looked at it, the dwarf was as good as dead.
That belief held firm—until she saw the weapon Charles produced.
It was a sword.
A single-handed blade forged by Mikken, Winterfell's master smith.
By itself, that was nothing special. Winterfell's armory held dozens just like it.
But now, it was different.
Charles merely wiped the blade with a sheet of pristine white paper. As a faint, nearly inaudible incantation slipped from his lips, the sword suddenly burst into a plume of orange flame.
A flaming sword.
Silence fell over the hall.
Anyone could tell at a glance how dangerous it was. Even in a dwarf's hands, such a weapon could be lethal.
And this blade had been provided by Charles.
Tyrion himself had no complicated thoughts about it. Seeing the sorcerer willing to help, he broke into a grin and hurried forward.
As he reached out—still offering his thanks—to accept the heat-wreathed sword, Charles suddenly placed a hand on his head.
"If your conscience is clear," Charles said quietly, "then you will prevail."
A cool sensation swept across Tyrion's forehead. He stood there dazed for a moment, only snapping back to awareness after he had already returned to the center of the hall.
"If even this doesn't let you win," Charles muttered under his breath, watching the dwarf's small figure and the smoking blade, then glancing at the golden scales slowly forming in the air above the arena, "then I'll have to question your ghost instead."
That touch had not been a simple pat.
It was the blessing of the Warrior—one of the Seven.
As time passed, abilities that once required the staff could now be invoked bare-handed. Their strength might be slightly diminished, but not by much.
Tyrion had not prayed to him. But if Charles wished, this so-called god could grant blessings of his own accord.
Of course, such blessings were still limited to followers of the Seven. And though the little demon seemed anything but devout, he did, in fact, believe in them.
The Warrior governed battle. Such a blessing sharpened the mind in combat. Combined with the Father's Judgment—its suppressive effect on the enemy's will—and the flaming sword, Charles felt that even a dwarf could handle an ordinary knight.
Yet something felt off.
The staff's power, once smooth and effortless, now carried a strange resistance when he invoked it.
Is it because so few in the North worship the Seven?
"Your spell can actually set weapons on fire?"
A curious voice interrupted his thoughts.
Charles looked down. As expected—it was his little shadow.
Ever since arriving at Winterfell, Arya had followed him everywhere, showing none of the fear or reverence a normal child might feel. Unlike her mother, she didn't treat him like a sacred guest either.
Strangely enough, Charles found this comforting. Being treated like a god sounded impressive, but having everyone speak to you as if walking on eggshells got old fast.
"I can do more than just light weapons on fire," he said casually.
As the priests began announcing the trial's formal opening, Charles and the girl whispered in a corner.
"More? Like what?"
Instead of answering, Charles plucked a strand of her hair and smiled.
"Watch closely."
He clasped the hair between his hands, murmuring a few fragmented spells.
A few seconds later, wisps of smoke curled out from between his fingers. When he opened his hands, Arya stared in disbelief.
The once straight, brown lock had turned into a tight curl.
"My hair—!" Her eyes widened.
"Curly hair looks nice. And it's just one strand," Charles coughed lightly, straightening up and pretending to watch the duel, completely ignoring the furious glare burning into his back.
He'd done it on purpose.
Chatting with a kid now and then was fine—but having one constantly glued to his side was another matter. This should buy him some peace for a while.
Flame Enchantment. Burning Hands. Smothering Furnace.
These three spells were things Charles had "borrowed" back in the main world from that unreliable, red-nosed mayor.
Flame Enchantment allowed fire to be bound to any weapon—swords, arrows, anything.
Burning Hands was a close-range attack spell. Charles had always found it underwhelming. As a caster, he didn't plan on wrestling enemies barehanded. Still, boredom during travel had eventually driven him to master it.
As for Smothering Furnace… that one was just garbage.
It sounded impressive, but its effect was simple: heating anything you touched—food, clothes, tools—without burning it.
Useless.
At least for now.
Unless, of course, you planned to use it to curl someone's hair.
While his thoughts wandered, the duel progressed just as he expected.
Tyrion swung the flaming sword wildly, harassing his opponent. His footwork was clumsy, and more than once the flames licked back at him, sending him scrambling in panic. Yet somehow—for reasons unknown—his opponent fared even worse, shrinking back with more fear than skill.
The outcome was becoming clear.
But before Charles could see the end, a sudden, powerful prayer seized his attention.
He had heard prayers like this many times before. Sometimes he answered. Sometimes he ignored them.
Normally, it was nothing special.
This time was different.
Not only was the voice unusually loud—the content was baffling.
"Horse God, Many-Faced God, Seven Gods, R'hllor—any god will do! Please, save poor Doria! She's suffered enough already! Please, stop tormenting her…"