Tyrion stayed in the pitch-dark chamber, surrounded by plaster statues.
High above was a small hole, like a vent, leading out of the castle.
He felt his way toward it, measuring with his hands—it was far too small for him to squeeze through.
For a fleeting moment, he almost envied the dwarf.
Then his foot struck something. He bent down and found several sacks piled in the corner. Pinching some of the powder between his fingers, he realized it was plaster dust.
Hardly surprising, given the room was filled with plaster statues.
He hadn't been waiting long when footsteps echoed outside.
"Is he still here?" came Ser Vardis's voice.
"No one has entered, and no one has left," said the Blackfish.
"Lord Tyrion, step back from the door. We're opening it," Ser Vardis called.
"Don't worry, I'm well away from it!" Tyrion shouted back. "I'm not foolish enough to ambush four knights in full armor!"
The door swung open, and four men entered single file, Ser Vardis at the front with a cloak in hand.
"It seems Lady Arryn has found a touch of mercy, granting me some measure of dignity." Tyrion pushed himself up against the wall, took the cloak, and draped its trailing end over his right shoulder. For the first time in days, he felt warmth.
"Lead the way, Ser Vardis."
...
The hall of House Arryn blazed with light, fifty torches flaring from the sconces along the walls. Lady Lysa sat high upon her seat, dressed in black silk, the crescent falcon worked in pearls upon her chest.
Still in mourning, Tyrion thought. Though the moment Littlefinger returned to the Vale, no doubt she would trade mourning clothes for a bride's gown.
Her red-brown hair was braided intricately, falling across her left shoulder. The taller throne beside her stood empty—the young lord of the Eyrie was likely trembling in his bedchamber. All the better without him here.
At her side stood a woman with auburn hair, blue eyes, and long, graceful fingers. She bore a resemblance to Lysa—six or seven parts alike—but was far more pleasant to look upon.
Lady Catelyn Stark. Tyrion could see that in her youth she must have been a great beauty.
He bowed deeply, using the chance to study those gathered.
Lysa had not summoned many. Likely she feared her connection with Littlefinger might be exposed.
He spotted the weathered features of Ser Brynden Tully. The Blackfish, knight of the Bloody Gate, was the Vale's answer to the Kingsguard—his presence was expected.
The rest of the familiar faces were mostly companions who had come with him.
Ser Rodrik Cassel, Winterfell's master-at-arms, still pale from his wounds. A bard tuned a wooden harp.
Tyrion smiled faintly. Whatever might happen tonight, he preferred it not be behind closed doors. And if the tale was to spread, who better than a bard to carry it?
At the back of the hall, a hedge knight lounged lazily against a pillar, his dark eyes fixed on Tyrion, one hand resting lightly on his sword hilt.
Catelyn Stark spoke first. "Tyrion Lannister, do you confess your crimes?"
"Confess?" Tyrion scratched at his chin. "To what, exactly?"
"To being too handsome for your eyes to bear? Or to keeping too many lovers, making the Seven jealous?"
"I've been less than kind to servants at times. I've gambled, and—shame of shames—I've even cheated. I've spoken ill of the great lords and ladies of the realm and told more than a few lewd jests at their expense."
A few chuckles stirred, and whispers began rippling through the hall.
"No more prattle!" Lady Lysa shot to her feet from the weirwood throne. "I brought you here today to face a fair trial."
"A joy and a privilege," Tyrion replied. "I've been waiting eagerly."
"Remember—As High as Honor." Lady Lysa sat back down. At the sound of House Arryn's words, the knights of the Vale straightened at once.
"Sister, begin." Lysa turned to Lady Stark.
Catelyn Stark stepped forward. "You are accused of sending men to kill my bedridden son Bran, and of conspiring in the murder of the King's Hand, Lord Jon Arryn."
"I deny it," Tyrion said, shaking his head. His filthy, mud-caked hair fell across his eyes, and he brushed it aside with his hand.
"I cannot admit to such charges. I know nothing of killing. I swear it on my honor..."
"Lannister honor," Catelyn cut in, raising her hand for all to see. "This scar was left by his dagger. He sent men to cut my son's throat with it."
"That is not mine," Tyrion snapped. "How many times must I swear before you'll believe me? Lady Stark, whether you believe me or not, I'm no fool. Only an idiot arms a common thief with his own weapon."
Foolish woman, he thought bitterly. Even if she saw the truth with her own eyes, he could never convince her.
"Someone told me that dagger was yours..." Catelyn turned toward her sister, as if asking whether to bring Littlefinger into it.
But Lysa shook her head almost imperceptibly.
Idiot, Tyrion cursed inwardly. She doesn't even know her own sister, yet she trusts Littlefinger so blindly?
"Lady Stark, accusations require evidence—real proof," Tyrion pressed. "Has the Vale lost all sense of justice? Has every shred of honor vanished within the Bloody Gate? You accuse, I deny, and your answer is to throw me into a sky cell to starve and freeze?"
As he spoke, his eyes swept the hall. The bard was scribbling intently, no doubt gathering verses for a new song.
"Where is the King's justice? This is meant to be a fair trial! Give me the chance to defend myself. I am of the royal bloodline, heir to House Lannister."
"Lady Arryn, Lady Stark—should anything happen to me, my father and my brother will be more than glad to see to it personally."
Lysa was already wavering. Catelyn Stark had no proof, and no one wished to feel the vengeance of House Lannister—vengeance as merciless as the rains of Castamere.
Victory is mine, Tyrion thought, elated. Mentioning Littlefinger had done its work. With the Lady of the Vale unsure, his safety was all but secured.
"Ser Vardis, take him to the guest chambers," Lady Lysa ordered.
Vardis Egen rose, glancing first at Lady Stark, then giving a nod to Lady Lysa before turning to Tyrion. "Come with me, Lust Demon."
Tyrion arched a brow at Catelyn Stark, then turned to leave the hall.
He was already dreaming of wine, women, and luxury across Westeros.
"I demand trial by combat!"
Catelyn's voice rang out behind him.