Trial by combat?
He froze where he stood, as if some unseen force had bound him in place. The vast, somber hall flickered with candlelight, shadows stretching high across the cold stone walls. Each shifting glow seemed to whisper his own doubts back at him.
So the timeline had closed in after all?
He could tell the others in the hall were just as bewildered.
"Lady Catelyn Stark, I am the accused. Why is it you who calls for trial by combat?" Tyrion fixed his gaze on her, his eyes flicking briefly to the Blackfish.
Brynden's expression was grim, as though he longed to stop his niece, but Lady Stark never looked his way.
"The gods above will judge me. I place my fate in their hands, not in mortal ones. I demand trial by combat."
Her voice was ironclad, and Tyrion knew she was stubborn as a mule—once she dug in her heels, not even a team of oxen could drag her back.
After all, she was the woman who had dared release Jaime in secret.
"My lady, you demand trial by combat..." Tyrion smirked. "Do you mean to don armor yourself? I've met a few female knights, but you hardly strike me as one who knows a blade."
"Do I have the right?" Lady Stark asked her sister.
Lysa Arryn's wide blue eyes swam with confusion. Her sister's boldness had clearly caught her off guard. "Of course you have the right."
"In that case, I name my champion." Only then did Catelyn turn to her uncle.
The Blackfish's blue eyes gleamed, but before he could speak, Lysa cut him off.
"Ser Brynden Tully is Knight of the Bloody Gate, a knight of the Vale, appointed by my late husband."
Yes—after the War of the Usurper, he had accompanied Lysa Tully and Jon Arryn to the Vale, and Jon himself had named him Knight of the Bloody Gate. Tyrion knew that much.
"But he is also a Tully. He is family," Catelyn said firmly. "Family, duty, honor."
"But I am no longer a trout," Lysa replied, pointing to the crescent falcon embroidered on her breast. "And you are no longer a Tully."
"Ser Brynden, I forbid you to stand as Lady Stark's champion." Her command was final.
The Blackfish gave a curt nod and sank to one knee.
Tyrion felt a rush of satisfaction. Without a champion, they'd have no choice but to let him go.
"My lady, I will be your champion."
The voice jolted Tyrion. He turned to see Ser Rodrik Cassel, the short, stout master-at-arms of Winterfell.
Rodrik tugged at his thick white beard. "My lady, I will fight for you. I am willing to serve as your knight."
"Old man, your hair and beard are already white!" Tyrion scoffed. "You're still nursing wounds from that Mountain clan raid. How much is House Stark paying you? Is it worth your life? I, a Lannister, will pay double."
But Rodrik didn't even glance at him. His eyes remained fixed on Catelyn Stark and Lysa Tully.
The two ladies nodded. Then Lysa turned her gaze on Tyrion.
"Then Ser Rodrik shall stand as Lady Catelyn Stark's champion."
"Wait—then I should have a champion of my own, shouldn't I? As far as I know, my brother Jaime would be more than happy to fight in my place," Tyrion said.
"Your great Kingslayer is hundreds of leagues from here," Catelyn Stark snapped.
"Send a raven. I'll happily wait for him."
"You'll face Ser Rodrik tomorrow morning," Catelyn said. "You're a sound man. Why do you need a champion?"
"I nearly froze to death last night. If luck hadn't been with me, I wouldn't even be standing here," Tyrion answered.
Though in truth, his life was already forfeit, he thought grimly.
"Ser Rodrik is wounded," Catelyn pressed, turning toward her sister. "I won't allow him a champion."
The other knights began to mutter, and Tyrion caught Ser Vardis curling his lip in disdain.
"Tyrion Lannister, you must fight for yourself," Lysa declared, her tone brooking no dissent.
"No objection, my lady, I'll abide by your ruling," Tyrion said, eyes glinting as he added, "but I do have a proposal. I wonder if Lady Stark would care to hear it."
"What trick are you scheming now, Lust Demon?" Catelyn asked coldly.
"I don't think it fitting we fight with real steel." Tyrion gestured toward Ser Rodrik. "After all, I'm every bit as skilled with a sword as my brother. There's no honor in cutting down an injured old man."
"Then what do you suggest?" Catelyn demanded.
"I suggest we settle it barehanded." Tyrion raised a fist. "Boxing. You understand? Boxing."
Catelyn narrowed her eyes, uncertain of his game, and was about to refuse when Tyrion hurried on.
"Unarmed combat is safer. And even if I lose, I'll still submit to judgment." His mismatched green and violet eyes locked on hers.
"Besides, I doubt you'd risk a Northman's life over this."
Catelyn hesitated. The Lust Demon's words rang with a twisted logic, enough to stir unease. She sensed a trap, but she was already too deep to retreat.
His voice seemed to whisper in her ear, every phrase a polished lie, laced with cunning and the kind of reason that pulled at her despite herself—like a lure from the abyss, promising both dread and inevitability.
"Very well. I accept," Lady Catelyn said at last. "But mark me—no tricks."
"What tricks could I possibly play? A Lannister always keeps his word." Tyrion turned to Lady Lysa. "My lady, I request to return to that room until the trial begins."
He meant the chamber filled with plaster statues.
Lysa nodded, and Ser Vardis was ordered to escort him back.
"Don't worry, my lady, all will be well," Ser Rodrik murmured to Catelyn as Tyrion's figure disappeared through the doors. "Look at his arms—thin as reeds."
"Age hasn't robbed me of my strength. I'll show him the old wolf still has teeth."
Catelyn gave a firm nod, the crescent falcon banners of House Arryn swaying high above.